The little Italian boy sat next to me at lunch everyday. I was the only American kid there and the only person in the entire building who spoke English, otherwise I would have been able to tell my preschool teachers why I cried every afternoon and wanted to go home to my mom.
Because my mom doesn't take her plastic lunchtime fork and jab it into my leg and drag it up and down until my tights are completely destroyed.
I didn't know my family was poor. I only knew my family couldn't afford to buy me a new pair of tights after every mid-afternoon assault. It was frustrating, being there in that school, with such wonderful, loving, dark-haired Italian women who obviously cared about me. It was frustrating because, even though I could point at things and demonstrate with my hands and tell a story with my body language and facial expressions, my teachers and I just couldn't talk to each other.
I eventually learned Italian and became quite fluent. I did so well in my language class, in fact, that my teacher selected me to learn American Sign Language, too. Boy, oh boy, did I ever think I was the bee's knees. Living in Italy came with some perks. The DoD school I attended even thought I was pretty damn special. They invited me to join the Talented and Gifted program. TAG, we called it. It was like being in a club. A special club.
I moved back to the states and had myself set up to test into the district's TAG program in my new school. Oh, wait until they hear my resume! I'll tell them about the time I visited a nursing home at Christmas time and sang "Buon Natale" at the top of my lungs while signing in ASL for those who couldn't hear me singing at the top of my lungs. They were probably the lucky ones that night.
To make a long story short, I failed. I failed the test. I wasn't considered Talented and Gifted enough for the United States. The cultural differences made no difference to them at all.
What cultural differences, exactly? Well, for example, school buses are blue and fire hydrants are brown. And cheese comes from goats. Right?
No. Not right!
This story reminds me of the time I took my daughter to a speech therapy consultation. She was three-years old at the time and it was in the middle of a scorching hot summer. To get a starting point to measure her developmental progress, the therapist showed her a series of pictures and asked her to name each one.
(picture of a dog) = Puppy!
(picture of an apple) = Apple!
(picture of a bed) = Night Night!
And so on...
(picture of a house) = House!
(picture of a book) = Story!
(picture of a cow) = Moo!
Until we hit a few roadblocks...
(picture of a knife) = ......uh, I can't play with those.
(picture of a winter coat) = ....Mommy, what is that?
(picture of mittens) = ....ugh, forget it.
Therapist: "You can't help her."
Me: "But she's never even seen one of those before. This is Florida."
Therapist (to Elle): "What do you wear when it's cold outside?"
Elle: "A sweater."
Me: "*snort* Well, Therapist, what did you expect? Good job, Elle. We're all done here."
Ha. Another Talented and Gifted flunkie is in our midst.
Showing posts with label America. Show all posts
Showing posts with label America. Show all posts
Friday, October 9, 2009
Friday, September 11, 2009
Imagine
It's still hard to turn away from the television.
Eight years later, I'm sitting on my couch watching the same scenes playing over and over and over again. I'm listening to the same voices from the ground screaming in disbelief at the bodies coming toward them from above. I'm witnessing the same firefighters solemnly walking into the South Tower with a uniform expression on their faces, the look of knowing they are going to die.
I watched a home video that was recorded by someone who lived just a few blocks from the twin towers. The one thing I noticed in the moments after the second tower collapsed was how quiet the city had become. Gusts of wind, but no birds. Near silence. A cough here and there. But otherwise, nothing.
It wasn't that quiet where I was.
Eight years ago, I huddled with a group of strangers in the lobby of my hotel where I worked as a sales rep. Our hotel guests looked to us, the staff, for comfort. While at the time I found this odd, I can now go back to that morning and understand that we were the closest thing they had to familiarity. Some of them had been regular guests for years and felt like our hotel was their second home. Others were visiting with us for the first time and needed someone they knew, even if only since checking into their rooms the night before. We all found each other in the lobby and became the family we all so desperately needed. The world stopped turning, in a sense, and we did what we could to keep each other standing, even if our whole bodies were trembling.
I thought long and hard today about whether or not I would post something about 9/11. Earlier I decided that I would not. But my father said something to me tonight that made me reconsider. When I told my father to pay attention to how quiet New York City had become once the second tower had fallen, he replied, "Imagine how quiet the entire nation was at that moment."
So I tried. It's not easy. I still can't do it.
Eight years later, I'm sitting on my couch watching the same scenes playing over and over and over again. I'm listening to the same voices from the ground screaming in disbelief at the bodies coming toward them from above. I'm witnessing the same firefighters solemnly walking into the South Tower with a uniform expression on their faces, the look of knowing they are going to die.
I watched a home video that was recorded by someone who lived just a few blocks from the twin towers. The one thing I noticed in the moments after the second tower collapsed was how quiet the city had become. Gusts of wind, but no birds. Near silence. A cough here and there. But otherwise, nothing.
It wasn't that quiet where I was.
Eight years ago, I huddled with a group of strangers in the lobby of my hotel where I worked as a sales rep. Our hotel guests looked to us, the staff, for comfort. While at the time I found this odd, I can now go back to that morning and understand that we were the closest thing they had to familiarity. Some of them had been regular guests for years and felt like our hotel was their second home. Others were visiting with us for the first time and needed someone they knew, even if only since checking into their rooms the night before. We all found each other in the lobby and became the family we all so desperately needed. The world stopped turning, in a sense, and we did what we could to keep each other standing, even if our whole bodies were trembling.
I thought long and hard today about whether or not I would post something about 9/11. Earlier I decided that I would not. But my father said something to me tonight that made me reconsider. When I told my father to pay attention to how quiet New York City had become once the second tower had fallen, he replied, "Imagine how quiet the entire nation was at that moment."
So I tried. It's not easy. I still can't do it.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Hello, could-be Senator Art Graham! Let me introduce you to my door. SLAM!
You know that T-Mobile commercial? The one that shows the executives attempting to make contact with their customers only to have their customers turn on them by spraying them with the gardening hose or hiding in the dark corners of their own homes? It's been like that around here but with politicians instead of...well, anyone else, really.
Things have been so crazy here in Florida with this campaign to fill the Senate seat (and oodles of thanks goes out to Mel Martinez for leaving his position in the middle of what could have been considered a campaign-free and enjoyably quiet summer after the mayhem of Obamafying everything last year). Our craziness includes political mailbox stuffers, door hangers, newspaper inserts, and our family's unfortunate verbal attacks on the poor souls who decide to call our house during the last 10 minutes of Top Chef or Hell's Kitchen, which means to say our phone rings incessantly between 8:30-9:00 at night.
My father has decided to answer the phone and make funny noises, like the loolooloolooloolooloolooloo salute that Spongebob Squarepants sometimes gives. Brian, my oldest brother, was visiting from South Carolina when he answered our phone and told the caller that the person he wished to speak with "is no longer with us." My mother and I have decided to just be rude. It's part of my character, anyway, so it's not like having fun with the telephone campaigners takes too much out of my creativity pool. After two late night phone calls last night, I decided I'd had it. The next campaigner was going to pay for all the grief my family has put up with over the last few weeks.
My morning started off with a request for my yummy chocolate & powdered sugar french toast and after eating breakfast, I immediately jumped in the shower. I might have been out of the shower for 10 minutes when the knock on the door prompted my dachsund to bark himself senseless and ignore threats of "pulling your tongue out through your ass if you don't shut up!". It's a favorite of my father's. Anyway, I quieted the dog (very nicely, I promise) and opened the door. On the other side was a man and a woman holding campaign cards and eyeing the "No Solicitors" sign located just above the doorknocker.
Strange man at my door: "Hi! My name is (blah blah blah, I wasn't listening) and I'm running for (blah blah blah, I'm still not listening). I'd like to encourage you to go to the polls and vote for me."
Me: "Yeah, thanks. It's kind of early."
Door: SLAM!!!!
Then I looked at the flyer. That was Art Graham at my front door. Ah...dammit. I just slammed my front door in the face of a could-be Senator. One of the front-runners, for that matter. And my father admitted to me that he is voting for him. This made me want to run down the street and apologize to the guy. Or at least bring him back to my house so my dad could meet him and explain to him that I'm not grouchy 24/7 and if he'd brought some Starbucks for me, I'd listen to anything he had to say. But I didn't.
Instead, I took it out on the next campaigner who came knocking on my door not even a half-hour later!
Strange woman at my door: "Hi! I hope I'm not considered a solicitor (giggle!)."
Me: "Yeah, you are (giggle!)."
Door: SLAM!!!!
Things have been so crazy here in Florida with this campaign to fill the Senate seat (and oodles of thanks goes out to Mel Martinez for leaving his position in the middle of what could have been considered a campaign-free and enjoyably quiet summer after the mayhem of Obamafying everything last year). Our craziness includes political mailbox stuffers, door hangers, newspaper inserts, and our family's unfortunate verbal attacks on the poor souls who decide to call our house during the last 10 minutes of Top Chef or Hell's Kitchen, which means to say our phone rings incessantly between 8:30-9:00 at night.
My father has decided to answer the phone and make funny noises, like the loolooloolooloolooloolooloo salute that Spongebob Squarepants sometimes gives. Brian, my oldest brother, was visiting from South Carolina when he answered our phone and told the caller that the person he wished to speak with "is no longer with us." My mother and I have decided to just be rude. It's part of my character, anyway, so it's not like having fun with the telephone campaigners takes too much out of my creativity pool. After two late night phone calls last night, I decided I'd had it. The next campaigner was going to pay for all the grief my family has put up with over the last few weeks.
My morning started off with a request for my yummy chocolate & powdered sugar french toast and after eating breakfast, I immediately jumped in the shower. I might have been out of the shower for 10 minutes when the knock on the door prompted my dachsund to bark himself senseless and ignore threats of "pulling your tongue out through your ass if you don't shut up!". It's a favorite of my father's. Anyway, I quieted the dog (very nicely, I promise) and opened the door. On the other side was a man and a woman holding campaign cards and eyeing the "No Solicitors" sign located just above the doorknocker.
Strange man at my door: "Hi! My name is (blah blah blah, I wasn't listening) and I'm running for (blah blah blah, I'm still not listening). I'd like to encourage you to go to the polls and vote for me."
Me: "Yeah, thanks. It's kind of early."
Door: SLAM!!!!
Then I looked at the flyer. That was Art Graham at my front door. Ah...dammit. I just slammed my front door in the face of a could-be Senator. One of the front-runners, for that matter. And my father admitted to me that he is voting for him. This made me want to run down the street and apologize to the guy. Or at least bring him back to my house so my dad could meet him and explain to him that I'm not grouchy 24/7 and if he'd brought some Starbucks for me, I'd listen to anything he had to say. But I didn't.
Instead, I took it out on the next campaigner who came knocking on my door not even a half-hour later!
Strange woman at my door: "Hi! I hope I'm not considered a solicitor (giggle!)."
Me: "Yeah, you are (giggle!)."
Door: SLAM!!!!
Monday, July 6, 2009
Brunswick
Back in January, Elle and I visited a quaint little hell-on-Earth called Woodbine (and you can read all about that creepy little adventure here). Woodbine is ass-backwards redneckery filled with Ebenezer Church-stalkin' cops and is also not too far from Brunswick, my newest town that I love to hate. I have driven thousands of miles between Jacksonville, Florida and Emporia, Virginia, over the last 8 years or so only to find myself trapped in a sea of orange cones and construction zone signs beginning south of Brunswick, Georgia, and finally ending somewhere near...oh, the South Carolina state line.
God, does Brunswick really have to exist? I mean, can't you just blow up the paper mill that smells up the joint and the surrounding 30-mile area and be done with it? Then there will be no need for those orange cones that have been plowed over by speeding drivers, lane shifts that freak out the vacationers driving on I-95 South for the first time ever, or squeezing three lanes into one. Because even though the guy directing traffic is probably laughing his ass off at all the road ragers who are screaming obscenities at him when they finally pass, it's not really a grand idea on a holiday weekend to add another hour to one's commute. I think the Brunswickians put him up to it. And they probably pay him generously. It's their way of subjecting the rest of the road-trippin' country to that stench they call oxygen.
I had no way around Brunswick last week when I decided to meet up with some South Carolina-based friends of mine in Savannah, Georgia (one of my favorite cities ever, by the way!). What should have been a 90-minute trip was delayed by a massive interstate project in...you guessed it, Brunswick. In the middle of navigating this highway overhaul, the storm of the century was unleashed upon all the unsuspecting travelers in my cluster of vehicles. This 15-minute lightning/thunder/DEATH-IS-NEAR storm stole from us our ability to see, to hear, and to hold one's bladder due to being overcome with fear and concern for nearly hitting all those dumbasses who like to drive with their flashers on. And because I was on vacation (albeit only 1 hour into my vacation), I had brought a change of pants but never had to use it. Phew!
This all happened before I even reached mile marker 49. I had sixty miles to go to get to my friends and my hotel and my hot tub. Sixty miles of uneventful highway travel. Until I headed home...ugh.
This Wednesday I will be heading back up I-95 North on my way to Ridgeland, South Carolina to stop overnight, only to wake up and drive some more until I reach Asheville. If Atlanta wasn't rumored to be an even bigger nightmare than Brunswick, I'd actually consider the two hours that would be added to my drive. Yes, I hate Brunswick that much but not enough to fight with Atlanta.
God, does Brunswick really have to exist? I mean, can't you just blow up the paper mill that smells up the joint and the surrounding 30-mile area and be done with it? Then there will be no need for those orange cones that have been plowed over by speeding drivers, lane shifts that freak out the vacationers driving on I-95 South for the first time ever, or squeezing three lanes into one. Because even though the guy directing traffic is probably laughing his ass off at all the road ragers who are screaming obscenities at him when they finally pass, it's not really a grand idea on a holiday weekend to add another hour to one's commute. I think the Brunswickians put him up to it. And they probably pay him generously. It's their way of subjecting the rest of the road-trippin' country to that stench they call oxygen.
I had no way around Brunswick last week when I decided to meet up with some South Carolina-based friends of mine in Savannah, Georgia (one of my favorite cities ever, by the way!). What should have been a 90-minute trip was delayed by a massive interstate project in...you guessed it, Brunswick. In the middle of navigating this highway overhaul, the storm of the century was unleashed upon all the unsuspecting travelers in my cluster of vehicles. This 15-minute lightning/thunder/DEATH-IS-NEAR storm stole from us our ability to see, to hear, and to hold one's bladder due to being overcome with fear and concern for nearly hitting all those dumbasses who like to drive with their flashers on. And because I was on vacation (albeit only 1 hour into my vacation), I had brought a change of pants but never had to use it. Phew!
This all happened before I even reached mile marker 49. I had sixty miles to go to get to my friends and my hotel and my hot tub. Sixty miles of uneventful highway travel. Until I headed home...ugh.
This Wednesday I will be heading back up I-95 North on my way to Ridgeland, South Carolina to stop overnight, only to wake up and drive some more until I reach Asheville. If Atlanta wasn't rumored to be an even bigger nightmare than Brunswick, I'd actually consider the two hours that would be added to my drive. Yes, I hate Brunswick that much but not enough to fight with Atlanta.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Explorer
This kid loves adventures on I-95. Elle loves the scenery that flies by her window in a blur and gets excited when the highway dips up and down. Her right arm starts flailing when we pass a trucker who probably has a doozy of a horn. Oh, you should see her face when that 18-wheeler belches out a special one just for her! You'd think it was Christmas. She practices her addition and subtraction on the road by reading out the mile markers and reporting to me how far we are from our destination. She reads the signs that give the names of upcoming cities and decides, on the spot, if it's a pretty enough name to make her want to live there. Pooler, Georgia? Nope. How about Dumfries, Virginia? Mommy, that name sounds dumb. Well, how does Rocky Mount, North Carolina, sound? Oooh, that's pretty. This is how Elle thinks. It's actually kind of fun to be in her head for awhile, I might add.
My poor child hasn't been outside the state of Florida in over two months. The saddest part about that is we only live 18 miles south of the Georgia state line! So, after I took my car in for a $34 oil change and walked out after having paid for a $286 coolant leak repair, I'm almost afraid to take her anywhere. For now, at least. But we have some traveling to do. And we're not gonna let some mishap on the road stop us from getting the hell out of here whenever we feel the desperate need. (This desperate need arises often since we currently live with my parents.)
We didn't get to do much traveling in 2008 so we made sure that the trips we took were worth taking! A few jaunts northward to Charlotte, North Carolina and York, South Carolina, another northbound trip to Byron, Georgia. We also had the unfortunate task of heading to Fort Myers, Florida to say our final goodbyes to one of the most awesomest grandmothers ever. But Elle and I are ready for some new adventures, in new cities...
On the list for 2009:
Key West, Florida (for the six-toed cats - I have one, pictured above! - and, of course, Hemingway.)
Helen, Georgia (because I like mountains and cheesy tourist traps, especially when they're a package deal!)
Washington, D.C. (I used to live there and never took advantage of that. Dammit. Plus, Elle wants to see the "Big Lincoln" and O'Rock's new house.)
Charlotte, North Carolina (my brother's wedding reception following the Carribbean wedding itself.)
Lexington, Kentucky (Horsies. And grass.)
So - there it is. I figure only two of those will actually happen and only after I know for sure that my car is in tip-top shape. I am in no hurry to have a state trooper escort me off the highway after a massive tire blowout. AGAIN. And I'm pretty sure Elle is in no hurry to be blown over face-first into the median after an 18-wheeler flies by her for the umpteenth time. AGAIN. Without blowing his horn especially for her.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
America
One word. Change. I did.
Two months ago, I accepted Barack Obama to be one of the most impressive men in the world. It had nothing to do with his race, his exotic island connections, or his youth. It had everything to do with his charisma, his energy, and his sincere belief that he could lead us to change ourselves, which would lead the American people to change the nation, which would lead the nation to get back on the rest of the world's good side. I sincerely believed in his sincere belief in me.
So yesterday, I voted for John McCain knowing that Barack Obama would win.
As I watched the electoral map light up the New England states in blue, I already knew I was witnessing a historic moment. Obama took the electoral votes from states that long ago had accepted the national concept of moving forward. McCain held strong in the center of the country, an area that has a death grip on traditional values and, sometimes, old-fashioned crock-o'-shit ideals. Which probably explains why McCain won Florida, too.
By the way, Floridians - congratulations on passing Amendment 2. This is quite possibly one of the most ridiculously ignorant moves ever. WAY TO GO! Morons.
So, back to my point (yes, there is a point!).
I admit I voted for John McCain. I voted for a military leader, a former POW who's had his ass kicked (I'm sure very literally) for years by a war-weary enemy, a man who publicly said, "Hell yeah, Bush f**ked it up but give me the chance to fix it!". (Okay, so he didn't say it that way, necessarily. But he wanted to say it that way. I'm pretty sure. Yeah, pretty sure.). I voted for a Vice President who had more political experience than Barack Obama. Limited, yes. But still, more. I voted for a woman who talks like some of my best friends' mothers from my childhood days in Michigan. I love that accent, you betcha!
I voted for McCain/Palin and I almost wish I hadn't. It's not that I wanted my vote to be counted towards Obama. I really, truly wish (and don't laugh) that I would have voted for Obama so that I could have really experienced the excitement of last night's election results (the same kooky way I experienced real fear from "Blair Witch Project" because I was dumb enough to believe it was real!). Despite his inexperience and his obvious desire to quickly end the war with seemingly no regard for the tragic consequences, (believe it or not) I was really excited that Obama won!
But I feel like I cheated John McCain. Or worse, I feel like I cheated on John McCain. I told the world, albeit via an anonymously cast ballot, that I wanted him to be the next President. Then I went home and turned into some kind of Republicrat and had butterflies in my stomach as I watched the blue states light up all over the map....bling (Wisconsin!), bling (Ohio!), bling (Florida!). My excitement wasn't valid, though. At least that's how I felt last night. And now. So I'm voting for Barack Obama today! Well...kinda.
I hope this country will continue to give Barack Obama the opportunity to show us what he can do. I do have faith that great things will happen. But I also worry that there are too many non-Obama-believers. Obama is such an influential figure in the country, in the world, right now, that I feel Americans owe it to this man to let him turn his speaking abilities into actual progress. Let him show us what he can do. Please don't end his chance before it's over.
I hope Obama doesn't foolishly begin bringing back our troops too early. I hope he doesn't tax the hell out of what very little I own. I hope he does well. And I can't wait to see how this ends.
Two months ago, I accepted Barack Obama to be one of the most impressive men in the world. It had nothing to do with his race, his exotic island connections, or his youth. It had everything to do with his charisma, his energy, and his sincere belief that he could lead us to change ourselves, which would lead the American people to change the nation, which would lead the nation to get back on the rest of the world's good side. I sincerely believed in his sincere belief in me.
So yesterday, I voted for John McCain knowing that Barack Obama would win.
As I watched the electoral map light up the New England states in blue, I already knew I was witnessing a historic moment. Obama took the electoral votes from states that long ago had accepted the national concept of moving forward. McCain held strong in the center of the country, an area that has a death grip on traditional values and, sometimes, old-fashioned crock-o'-shit ideals. Which probably explains why McCain won Florida, too.
By the way, Floridians - congratulations on passing Amendment 2. This is quite possibly one of the most ridiculously ignorant moves ever. WAY TO GO! Morons.
So, back to my point (yes, there is a point!).
I admit I voted for John McCain. I voted for a military leader, a former POW who's had his ass kicked (I'm sure very literally) for years by a war-weary enemy, a man who publicly said, "Hell yeah, Bush f**ked it up but give me the chance to fix it!". (Okay, so he didn't say it that way, necessarily. But he wanted to say it that way. I'm pretty sure. Yeah, pretty sure.). I voted for a Vice President who had more political experience than Barack Obama. Limited, yes. But still, more. I voted for a woman who talks like some of my best friends' mothers from my childhood days in Michigan. I love that accent, you betcha!
I voted for McCain/Palin and I almost wish I hadn't. It's not that I wanted my vote to be counted towards Obama. I really, truly wish (and don't laugh) that I would have voted for Obama so that I could have really experienced the excitement of last night's election results (the same kooky way I experienced real fear from "Blair Witch Project" because I was dumb enough to believe it was real!). Despite his inexperience and his obvious desire to quickly end the war with seemingly no regard for the tragic consequences, (believe it or not) I was really excited that Obama won!
But I feel like I cheated John McCain. Or worse, I feel like I cheated on John McCain. I told the world, albeit via an anonymously cast ballot, that I wanted him to be the next President. Then I went home and turned into some kind of Republicrat and had butterflies in my stomach as I watched the blue states light up all over the map....bling (Wisconsin!), bling (Ohio!), bling (Florida!). My excitement wasn't valid, though. At least that's how I felt last night. And now. So I'm voting for Barack Obama today! Well...kinda.
I hope this country will continue to give Barack Obama the opportunity to show us what he can do. I do have faith that great things will happen. But I also worry that there are too many non-Obama-believers. Obama is such an influential figure in the country, in the world, right now, that I feel Americans owe it to this man to let him turn his speaking abilities into actual progress. Let him show us what he can do. Please don't end his chance before it's over.
I hope Obama doesn't foolishly begin bringing back our troops too early. I hope he doesn't tax the hell out of what very little I own. I hope he does well. And I can't wait to see how this ends.
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