Soapbox

Mid-term. Hawk. Saber rattling. To drag one's feet on something.

These are a few of the terms my ESOL class asked about in our discussion of an op-ed last night. The article was about whether Obama's reluctance to rush into yet another war in the Middle East indicates weakness or a strategy of calculated delay. The author drew no firm conclusions, and we decided his aim was merely to bring up the idea for consideration.

Once the article's fodder for discussion was exhausted, we turned to the upcoming election. My husband, Dave, joined us to help outline an overview of the political parties and how our election system works.

I knew I wouldn't be able to keep my personal opinions out of a conversation about political parties for long, and I wanted this to be as unbiased as possible. One of my students is a new citizen, two are visiting students, and one has been a citizen for twenty years. So their experience and attitudes about the American political system were varied. I didn't want to stand up there and spew my left-leaning propaganda all over them.

Dave was to be my logical center and safety valve.

I had already sent them a link to a website the League of Women Voters sponsors that offers non-partisan information about the issues and candidates on the ballot in all counties and states across the country. And, of course, all of them had already been exposed to political ads on TV, the Internet, lawn signage, and mountains of mailers for weeks. The point of yesterday's discussion was to clarify a distinction between the two major parties, illuminate the basics of how campaigns and elections work in this country, and underscore the importance of getting involved and voting.

I'm not entirely certain how we did.

I tried to let Dave do most of the talking when it came to illustrating the difference between Republican and Democrat positions. While he explained, I wrote key phrases on the white board in a loose, two-columned tally. Democrat side: pro-labor, government=good, social freedoms, progressive. Republicans: pro-business, government=bad, religion, conservative.

Luz Alba brought up the idea of the Religious Right.

"I don't understand why," she said, "they are so for religion, and yet they are also for the guns. Why is that?"

"Yes," I said. "That's a contradiction, right? But there are contradictions on both sides. Democrats want lots of government regulations, but also lots of personal freedom. Republicans want no government regulations of businesses, but policing of whom you can marry. See? Contradictions on both sides."

Then I shut up again and let Dave explain how the three branches of government interact.

I did get back on my soapbox a little bit at the end, when Yuwei asked about what it takes for someone to run for office.

"Can anyone run?" he asked. "How are they in a position to run for a government office?"

This brought us to Political Action Campaigns and the idea of needing to raise a lot of money for the ads needed to win an election.

"This makes me think about Arnold Schwarzenegger, and how he just change his career," Van said.

So we talked about the link between celebrity and politics, the misleading character of most political ads, and the role of corporations in politics.

"This is why I think it's so important to take your right to vote seriously," I said. "So many people feel their vote doesn't count, that they can't make a difference in all of this. So they just stay home and don't vote at all."

Here I looked pointedly at Van who is 33, has been a citizen since she was a child, and says she rarely votes.

"Your vote is the only say you have in our government. We built this country some two hundred and fifty years ago to have a government that really is made and run by the people, so that we, the people, could have a say in how we are governed. When you stay home on Election Day, you're just giving your vote to those big corporations. Do you really want them to be able to decide everything for you? This is why it's so important to vote, to take it seriously."

"Yes," Luz Alba added. "And to study it and be informed. To vote for the right things."

Yes. So I encouraged them all one more time to look into the candidates and issues, to go to vote411.org and read some non-partisan information, and then to cast an informed vote on Tuesday. Because we can't just give away what so many people have worked so hard for and died for, just because it's easier to stay home and watch TV.

I gleaned my political leanings from my dad, who was a die-hard, old-school, labor union, tax-and-spend Democrat. I was indoctrinated into the Blue Party as a child, decorating bulletin boards at the union hall, singing union songs at summer camp, plastering "buy American" bumper stickers on our many domestic vehicles. Over the years, my politics have drifted even further to the left, as I wrote literary analysis through a Marxist lens in grad school and embraced a feminist stance against the ubiquitous rape culture—and lost friends over both. I may drive a Honda now, but I could never skip an election. That would be metaphorically spitting in my dad's face.

This year, I may deviate from the blue ticket I usually follow; there's a Green party candidate for governor who looks quite promising against her two old-guard opponents. But I will always be on the left, whether on social issues, foreign policy, or the need for tax and campaign reform. For all the many things my dad and I disagreed on through my adolescence, empathy and allegiance with the working class was always common ground for us.

Mid-terms are not very sexy elections. But they are important. Judges decide who goes to jail and who doesn't, and governors set policies about income tax and property taxes—both of which have much more of a direct impact on my everyday life than the president's speeches and photo ops. No matter where you fall on the political spectrum, take the time this Tuesday to exercise your right and be a well-informed, responsible citizen.

An Indecent Preposition

"Distinguish between the preposition to and the infinitive marker to. If to is a preposition, it should be followed by a noun or a gerund."

This appeared as part of a chapter in Diana Hacker's A Writer's Reference, Sixth Edition, the textbook I was using to help my ESOL students tackle preposition use. The chapter was aimed specifically at ESOL learners and had much helpful information.

Prepositions—words that have to do with spatial relationships, like with, from, by, at, for and on—pose particular difficulties for new learners of English. There are few hard-and-fast rules for prepositions in English, but using the wrong one can vastly change the meaning of a sentence. My favorite example of this malleability is the verb to get, which drastically changes meaning depending on which preposition one adds to it. One can get up in the morning, get in a car, get on board with an idea, get over something or someone, get out of a responsibility, get on with one's life, get along alright, get past a disagreement, get it together, get ready for an occasion, get with the program, get under the covers, and get it on. Use any of those in the wrong context, and one will get into trouble.

All of those get phrases are idiomatic; their meanings are not apparent from the definitions of the words in them. Their meanings are dependent on the phrases being used in their entirety, and arise from cultural factors, rather than grammatical placement or semantics. Think about how many times you use the phrase "get over it," without indicating some physical barrier that someone must literally climb over. That phrase is idiomatic.

When I introduced this lesson to the two women who showed up for my class last night, the expressions on their faces clearly indicated mixed emotions. I could tell they were both equally frustrated and terrified of the topic, but also eager to have some concrete help with it.

That quoted passage from Hacker's book turned out to be a gem. It harkened back to a question Van had asked many weeks earlier.

Van had been preparing resumes and cover letters in her quest for a full-time job. She has been in the US for more than twenty years, has an advanced degree and teaches math part-time at the university. Her English is quite good, but the few stumbling blocks she still encounters with details like preposition use make her feel it isn't.

After sending her draft of a cover letter to the Career Center for some revision feedback, she became perplexed by the phrase "looking forward to." As in, "I am looking forward to hearing from you about this exciting opportunity."

Like most ESOL students, Van had been taught that to always indicates an infinitive, and therefore must be followed by the unconjugated form of a verb: to be, to say, to hear. She had also been taught that all prepositions must be followed by a noun: at a place, with a person, from a time, etc.

But no one had ever explained that sometimes a preposition does not function as a preposition. That tiny, two-letter word was causing her more confusion than the most complicated of mathematical formulae. Once its dual functions, as both a preposition and an infinitive marker, became clear, some of the furrows in Van's brow relaxed.

They soon reappeared.

"So, what is a gerund?" she asked.

Ah, the gerund! How do I love thee? Let me count the ways! Sitting on my sofa, drinking a fresh cup of coffee, thinking about grammar, watching my cat groom himself, teaching a smaller than usual class: these are just some of the ways that using gerunds makes my life better!

"A gerund is just the i-n-g form of a verb," I said.

My two students remained silent for a moment. I could almost see their brains working this one out. I let it sink in, then sallied forth.

"So, we use the i-n-g form in the past and present progressive, right?" I wrote We are talking in class and He was walking down the street on the board and underlined the verbs. "So, in these cases, the i-n-g form is a verb. It indicates an on-going action; right?"

They both nodded. This was clearly well-covered ground. Then I wrote two more sentences.

"But what about these? The i-n-g words function differently here; right?"

Talking is an essential part of writing. He enjoyed walking in the park.

Again, I underlined the i-n-g words. 

"In these cases," I said, "the i-n-g words are nouns. They no longer function as verbs here. So an i-n-g word used as a noun instead of a verb is called a gerund."

Van's brow once again un-furrowed. She smiled widely and wrote down some notes. Luz Alba asked again how to pronounce gerund, and we continued with the lesson, using i-n-gwords as objects of several prepositions: She is addicted to reading; he looks forward to seeing his girlfriend; they are obsessed with cleaning; we objected to being left out.

I am always happiest when I can give my ESOL students a grammar rule to follow. The problem is that there are so many exceptions to the rules of English, they become easily overwhelmed and frustrated. This one little clarification gave Van and me both a bit of concrete gratification.

We then moved on to an exercise on homonyms, choosing between two choices to fill in blanks in sentences:

Jack wanted his friend to _________ him on what to do. (advice / advise)

Van had some trouble distinguishing the noun from the verb in this case, as well as pronouncing the two differently. But with a little repetition, she got it.

I was most overjoyed that both my students had no trouble differentiating there/their/they're, your/you're, and to/too/two. If only the college students I tutor could do as much.

Poetry, Perhaps

I leaned back and gazed up at pinpoints of white against a velvety azure sky. Constellations rotated slowly, almost imperceptibly, above a baroque edifice ensconced with alabaster sculptures. The seat under me creaked, reminding me that this nighttime scene was an illusion, a theatrical imitation of a Moorish castle on a Mediterranean coast.  

Forgive me if I wax poetic today. I spent yesterday evening at the Akron Civic Theater with my ESOL students and a crowd of other teachers, students, administrators, and supporters of Project Learn of Summit County. Rita Dove—Akron native, Poet Laureate, and natural storyteller—entertained us for almost two hours with the story of her life punctuated by her poetry.

How can one woman, standing alone in front of a black curtain and behind a simple music stand, keep over a hundred people rapt in silence, but for the occasional gasp or reflexive laugh or burst of applause, for such a period of time? I'll tell you how:

On that plain black curtain behind her, Rita Dove evoked images of oat silos and summer nights, of family reunions and cheesy grits, of dancing and traveling and loving and exploring, of a little black girl with a library card and unfettered access to the world of books. She wove a tale of growing up in the Midwest as if it were the most perfect place to begin a life of magic and wonder and words. As if the fireflies and oats and rubber and canals were the stuff of fairy tales. She spoke of gratitude and an unending sense of awe. She spoke of an insatiable desire to learn, even now when her youth is a memory and her right knee is a constant reminder of the insistence of age. She spoke of the mysteries of the heart and of love. She spoke of loss and forgiveness, of family in all its many variations, of dark skin and bright colors, of fear and joy and pain and the uncountable pleasures of being alive.

Her words still ring in my ears this morning. But more than that, the images she painted with those words still hang before my eyes. They skipped and whirled through my dreams last night, leaving me breathless and disoriented today. I feel as though I've been on a long trip, and now my hometown—the same Midwestern town I've lived in for twenty-five years—is new and shining and full of history and mysteries just waiting to be discovered. The town is the same, but my eyes are different. They are different because of Rita Dove's words.

I've long believed in the power of words to change the world. Rarely, though, have someone else's words changed my inner world. Shakespeare, Poe, Twain, Malamud: these men's words changed the way I think of storytelling. Ms. Dove has changed the way I think of words in composition, words as creative exploration, words as powerful signifiers of complex emotion.

Anyone who knew me in grad school knows that I am not a huge fan of poetry. I have a stubborn fixation on Nonfiction, an intractable adherence to corroborative fact, and little patience for indulgent romanticism. Poetry always seemed like a way to avoid the rules of grammar, a way to seem profound without really saying much, a way to trick readers into feeling stupider than they are, so the poet can remain superior.

Rita Dove destroyed those prejudices of mine last night. Her clarity and simplicity of thought, coupled with her astonishing and deft use of imagery, showed me how poetry can elevate grammar, can solidify ephemera, can illuminate truth.

Perhaps I will write a poem today. 

Scavenger Hunt

For my sweet sixteenth birthday, a handful of friends came to my house and went on a scavenger hunt. One of those friends was Simon, a 17-year-old on whom I had a wicked crush. When we all dispersed to hunt for our list of items, Simon suggested we get in his car and go to another neighborhood to have a better chance of finding more items on the list. I hadn't ridden in many cars with boys that I liked, so I was thrilled to go with him. We were gone less than half an hour, but when we returned my father was furious with me. Dad had always been defined by his fears, and not knowing where his kids were or what they were doing was one of his biggest. He told me I had ruined the event by turning it into a joyride, instead of the innocent game it was supposed to be. Nevermind the fact that Simon and I hadn't so much as held hands yet.

When I suggested to my Advanced Conversation class that we do a scavenger hunt at the library, they mostly laughed nervously. Yuwei's eyes grew quite large, and Luz Alba nodded noncommittally. The word scavenge had come up in a discussion of how and why Americans have such a penchant for sweet foods. I was explaining one of the theories about human evolution, positing that early human ancestors scavenged food from carcasses left behind by more skilled predators. This idea, when combined with the theory that early human ancestors were arboreal fruit eaters, helps explain our cravings for fatty, sugary, high-calorie foods—cravings our minds may understand as no longer beneficial, but which our bodies have not yet outgrown.

Naturally, this led to my suggestion of a scavenger hunt.

All four of my students expressed trepidation. Van is intrinsically shy, even though she teaches math at the university. Yuwei isn't so much shy, though he lacks confidence in his ability to communicate with spoken English. Ying and Luz Alba are more gregarious than the other two, but even they were hesitant. Mentioning that a diaper might be on the list of items to ask people for only deepened this hesitation, especially for Yuwei, the only male in our class.

I crafted the scavenging list carefully through the week leading up to class. I wanted to be sure my students a) would have to talk to a variety of people to glean the desired items; b) would have to actually converse, not just point and say please; c) would not have such a difficult time as to become completely and quickly discouraged; and, most importantly d) wouldn't have to leave the library—especially to go for a joyride with a cute boy.

Here's what I came up with:

1. a diaper

2. a pen with any color ink OTHER THAN blue or black

3. an un-chewed stick/piece of chewing gum

4. a safety pin

5. a blank sheet of paper that is NOT white (any other color is fine)

6. written directions to the nearest gas station (NOTE: these may be written by you, but they must be dictated/given by someone else)

7. a library book about Ohio history or geography, OR a library book by an Ohio author

8. a quarter, dime, or nickel

9. a photograph of someone smiling (NOT someone from our class)

10. any part of any newspaper

Thursday evening, as I waited in the tiny conference room where our class usually meets, I wondered if anyone would show up. I had sent an email the day before reminding everyone to come prepared to talk to strangers. 5:30 approached, and I began to worry. What if they all just didn't come? What if they all simply decided it was easier to stay home, that it wasn't worth the possible embarrassment and public humiliation to humor their teacher and her silly little game?

I started to understand a little bit of my dad's anxiety on my sixteenth birthday.

Then Van showed up. She said she didn't know why she came, that she had thought about just staying home, but somehow decided to come anyway. She laughed nervously when she said it, but I know she really meant it. I showered her with praise and gratitude.

Luz Alba, Ying, and Yuwei arrived shortly after Van. They all echoed Van's sentiments in some way, surprised at their own courage to come and risk embarrassment. We spent a few minutes discussing the list; I wanted to make sure everyone recognized all of the items and understood how they were to go about finding them. I had to show them a safety pin, but other than that the items were clear. Then I turned them loose in the library.

I have rarely been so impressed. I hovered near the steps on the first floor, keeping time and watching the various methodologies employed by my resourceful students. Luz Alba immediately took the elevator to the second floor, her face a steely mask of determination. She works in a lawyer's office as a Spanish interpreter and paralegal, so she may have more experience approaching strangers than her colleagues here. She also clearly possesses a competitive drive the others lack. Yuwei approached the librarian's desk in the Science and Technology area with only the slightest of hesitation. I easily overheard the enthusiastic responses from the two women working there; one of them even went into the break room to get something from her purse for Yuwei. He was definitely charming them. I had suggested that a smile often goes a long way when talking to strangers; he had clearly taken this to heart.

Ying and Van took a bit longer to get started. I saw Ying wander for a while, seemingly trying to screw up enough courage to approach someone. Eventually, she went up to a squirrelly-looking older man working at a computer and showed him her list. My heart sank when I saw him shake his head no. But she persevered and seemed to have better luck with a burly security guard.

Van circled the floor once or twice, went upstairs and came back down. She returned to me several times throughout the half hour of the game, laughing nervously and claiming to just give up. I encouraged her to keep at it, giving her hints about where I had seen a stray newspaper lying on a table. When new people entered the library, I practically pushed her at them, telling her to ask them for a stick of gum. Eventually, Ying joined Van and me near the stairs, equally discouraged and running out of time. I told them I thought Luz Alba might be winning and that they still had five minutes to try and find their remaining items. Ying found a burst of courage still within her and said to Van, "Come on! Let's try again!"

My chest swelled with pride.

When it was all said and done, Luz Alba won the game. She was the first to come back and tell me she had completed her list. Upon inspection by the group, however, one item raised concern and had to be evaluated. The diaper. It seems no one in the library this evening had had a diaper. Yuwei said he just completely skipped that item, didn’t ask anyone for it. But Luz Alba is nothing if not resourceful. After asking four different women if they had one, to no avail, she had Googled "diaper" on a computer and printed a picture of one. We decided collectively that it counted. She had earned her $5.00 grand prize.

"Did anyone have trouble understanding you?" I asked the class after all the lists were verified and prizes awarded.

No, they all said, though they had had some difficulty getting the directions to a gas station.

"People talk so fast," Luz Alba said, as her classmates nodded in agreement. "I have to say 'wait, wait! Please! Slowly!'"

Several people had drawn very detailed little maps for the students. I asked them if they had had fun or if the entire experience was too frightening.

"Scary at first," Yuwei said. "But then better. Everyone is so nice here."

The others echoed his sentiment; the staff and patrons of the library had been very helpful and kind. I was immeasurably proud, not only of my students, but of my fellow Akronites. I had worried that the game would fall flat, that my students would end up totally frustrated and discouraged, that some crazy homeless person would cause a scene, or that one of my students would get assaulted or yelled at by an angry stranger.

But no one yelled or cried, no one suffered undue embarrassment, and no one left the library to go off somewhere in a car with a cute boy, leaving me with the kind of anxiety and apoplexy my dad suffered so long ago.

Furthermore, I believe my students were proud of themselves. They seemed surprised at their own abilities to communicate, once their jitters subsided. They could understand what people said to them, and others could understand them. I call that a total success.

A Friendly Warning

I have made a new friend. I'll call her Ruth. She is from Nigeria, here in Akron to study engineering and get her college degree. We connected right away when she came to the writing lab for some help with her English and Public Speaking assignments. She has poise and calmness that make her seem older than her 26 years, but smooth, chocolaty skin that makes her look very young.

Yesterday I took Ruth shopping at the Goodwill store. Thrifting is my favorite kind of shopping; it feels like a treasure hunt, yet maintains a reasonable budget. Ruth's host mother had taken her to a Target store a couple of weeks earlier to get black pants and shoes for Ruth's on-campus job with catering services. For nearly the same amount of money she paid for one pair of pants and one pair of shoes at Target, Ruth purchased three large bags full of tops, pants, jeans, dresses and sweaters.

While we worked our way through rack after rack of clothes, Ruth asked me about Halloween. Scattered throughout the large store on Waterloo Avenue were headless manikins in costumes: a sexy cop in shorts with high-heeled black boots; a sexy witch in a ragged miniskirt with high-heeled black boots; a cheerleader's outfit; an OSHA-bright, skin-tight yellow jumpsuit with the Kill Bill logo at the plunging neckline. Wigs of every imaginable hue and texture transformed a wire rack into a hoary monster; crazy hats in the shape of chickens and food items perched on another rack in a disorienting jumble.

"What is this with Halloween?" Ruth asked me. "Why do you want to be scared?"

 I did my best to explain the holiday that only Americans seem to really understand. I told her how it used to be a Pagan celebration of the dead, and at some point in the Middle Ages, pagan rituals got all mixed up with Christianity, so All Hollow's Eve became associated with All Saint's Day.

"For me," I said, "it's really about acknowledging the presence of death in everyday life.'Even in life, we are in death;' that sort of thing."

Ruth nodded and seemed fairly satisfied with that, until we both noticed the slutty cop costume.

"It's also a chance for adults to dress up and pretend to be someone else for a night," I said. "And for women to dress like whores."

We both laughed, even as I defended this observation as being absolutely true. I, myself, have donned fishnet stockings and a micro-mini on more than one Halloween, simply because I could. Nowadays, I prefer to go the other way and dress in a man's tuxedo and fake mustache. But I completely understand the impulse to explore taboos on Halloween.

I just wish those taboos didn't always involve women being slutty.

After a full day of hunting for treasure and trying on clothes, I took Ruth back to her apartment near campus. We sat in my car in the parking lot for a few minutes and chatted. That's when Ruth told me about a very disturbing incident.

Just recently, she said, Ruth left her apartment in the early morning to walk the two blocks or so to campus. She was walking on the sidewalk when she noticed a man standing a few yards in front of, looking at her. He was fairly well-dressed and "normal" looking, but he was staring at her.

"I had this feeling that I should cross to the other side of the street," Ruth said. "But I also thought to myself, 'why do I have to cross the street? I am just walking to school.' So I just kept walking. And just as I got in front of him, the man opened his trousers and took out his…"

She stopped and laughed nervously.

"Oh my god, Ruth! That's horrible!" I said, putting my hand on her arm.

"I know!" she said. "I was so scared! But I just kept walking and after a few feet, I just turned to see if he was walking, too. But he was just standing there."

I was glad the man didn't follow her, but I feel so bad that this happened to her. We talked about listening to that inner voice that tells you something isn't right, about following the instincts that often sense things way before our perception picks up on them.

"Why do people do that?" Ruth asked, referring to the man exposing himself to her.

I hardly knew how to answer her. The best I could do was tell her about a similar incident that happened to me a few years ago.

I was at a bar in downtown Akron—a bar that no longer exists, though it has been reinvented several times as different kinds of watering holes and continues as a restaurant today—with my husband and two male friends. The place was crowded and noisy. As my friends and I talked, I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. A man at an adjacent table seemed to be moving his one hand up and down rhythmically just above his tabletop. When I finally turned my gaze directly upon him, I saw that he had his penis out and was stroking it while he stared at me.

I was so shocked I didn't know how to alert the rest of my group right away. I remember feeling embarrassed, even though I had done nothing wrong. I also felt uncertain, as if I couldn't really believe what I was seeing. Could someone really be doing that here? Inside a crowded bar? Right there at his table?

I finally leaned over and whispered into my husband's ear that I wanted to move to a different table. When he asked why, I told him, "that sick f*#k has his dick out," and I got up and walked away.

My husband and our friends told the owner, who proceeded to eject the man from the establishment, amid his protests that he had merely been fondling the string on his sweatpants.

The most shocking part of my incident, still to this day, was how frightened and embarrassed I felt. I wish I had stood right up, pointed at the man, and yelled, "That man has his dick out!" I wish I had made more of a scene, called him out on his unacceptable behavior, embarrassed him. Instead, I demurred, whispered, walked away, as if I had done something wrong by noticing him. It is one of few regrets still nagging at my subconscious.

I told Ruth all of this, and we talked a little more about how difficult it is to be a woman in this world, how crazy people are, and how we have to be constantly vigilant about our surroundings. Then we hugged and I went home.

I am saddened and disappointed in my hometown over Ruth's run-in with a pervert. She has come half-way around the world to get an education and better herself, to try and lift her family out of poverty and create a better life for her as-yet unborn children. And what greets her in this land of opportunity, this new world of technology and civilization? Some jerk who can't keep it in his pants on a Monday morning. I had expected more from my city.

The behavior of both of these men has nothing to do with me and nothing to do with Ruth. Their behavior has everything to do with a culture that still sees women as little more than sex objects, as reflections of men, as things onto which men can ejaculate. Until all of us, men and women alike, stop enabling this behavior by saying things like, "oh , they're just crazy," the harassment and humiliation will continue. What these men displayed wasn't craziness but hostility.

Well, I'm not going to take it anymore. I could barely find my voice all those years ago in that noisy bar, but you can be sure I have found it now. And I will never allow anyone to humiliate me or any of my friends like that again. We should not have to fear for our safety when we walk to school or take the bus or simply exist in the world. 

So, look out, all you "crazy" men loitering downtown or around campus, looking for young girls to catcall or expose yourselves to or stalk or humiliate or embarrass with your aggressive sexuality.

The next time you pull that thing out, it may just be the last time. Ever.