tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3639677511496764622024-03-13T21:33:53.978-07:00justdoingmything.comSweet, bitter, sugary and salty stories. Welcome to my world, past and present.Eranahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18073421800261470647noreply@blogger.comBlogger91125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363967751149676462.post-89876018815952583892012-07-07T00:54:00.000-07:002012-07-07T00:54:04.423-07:00Hong Kong Files #3 & 4 by Brian Leiken, guest blogger<div class="title"><strong>Hong Kong Files #3</strong></div><div class="copy"><div class="MsoNormal" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m6ax2n0XhR1r2505z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m6ax2n0XhR1r2505z.jpg" width="149" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">Today I decide to meet up with Kevin and take the ferry across Victoria Harbor to Central Hong Kong, the business district spurting with skyscrapers. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">On the way I’m accosted by more Indians and Burmese attempting to sell me purses, suits, and drugs, but by this point, I barely acknowledge them – to make eye contact requires a more persistent NO!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Please sir, would you like to try a suit?”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“No, sorry.” I glance up to see it’s the same Burmese man who led me to his shop yesterday. “I already am having a suit made. With you in fact. "</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He recognizes me, a second later he looks embarrassed. “Oh, so sorry sir. I will see you later, yes?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I nod, and move on. The two Burmese men beside him redouble their efforts to get my attention. If I bought one suit from their friend, maybe I want another? No, sorry. Moving on, it’s 9:30 AM, and I’m already sweating. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m6ax99vzb61r2505z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m6ax99vzb61r2505z.jpg" width="149" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">I pass by a Holiday Inn. Curious, I walk inside and am surprised to see marble floors and counters</span>.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It looks like a 4 star hotel with valet and small men in red coats dashing back and forth to help customers. It’s nicer than my hotel, filled with Europeans sipping drinks, like something from an earlier century. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Holiday Inn? Really? Makes you wonder what the YMCA is like. (I’ll pass by it later, it’s one of the best hotels in the city.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I meet up with Kevin and we walk down to the pier. For about 50 cents you can climb aboard a ferry which leaves every ten minutes. Using my Octopus pass, I scan it across the turnstile and I see 3.8 Hong Kong dollars are automatically deducted. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We climb on board and are greeted to an amazing view of the city, our boat circled by birds as we traverse choppy blue water. The ride is over quickly, maybe five minutes. Kevin wants to go to a hat shop and I’m just happy to tag along. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Darting across lanes of traffic, we weave through a series of mini malls, and more shopping. There is no end to the sheer variety of stores here; and in Kowloon, the three most popular appearing to be skin cream stores like the Body Shop, jewelry stores all with Rolex signs, and a never ending parade of 7-11’s.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">I’ve never seen more 7-11’s per square mile; every convenience store appears to be a 7-11 and they are on every block.</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I walked into one to check out prices and noticed that a tiny bag of M&M’s, barely more than a mouthful, was selling for about $1.10. Just like back home! Didn’t buy the M&M’s.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We begin to hike up hill. Central is quiet, reserved, it’s Sunday and most of the businesses are empty. It’s not a place people live so much as a place for them to do business. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">For the first time, I’m no longer surrounded by people, my new companions are the buildings, skyscrapers built on every available inch of land.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I point out that the skyscrapers look strange to me, and Kevin informs me that I think they look strange because they are unusually thin, built as high as possible on as little land as possible because space is at such a premium. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m6ax46CIVc1r2505z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m6ax46CIVc1r2505z.jpg" width="149" /></a>We stop at a 7-11 and Kevin gets a beer. A group of men sit about outside, drinking. Kevin tells me this is a Hong Kong tradition.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><em><strong>People typically just gather round outside 7-11’s to drink. </strong></em></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">They all appear to be working class people, smoking cigarettes; none of them speak much, too busy nursing their beers. </div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal">Further up into the city, we stop by a boutique hat shop. Kevin wants to try on hats, none of which fit his small head. There are a lot of fedora’s with bows, Newsie caps, and American sports team ball caps, including one for the Chicago Cubs. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Yes, even here, I can buy American sports paraphernalia but the jokes on the Chinese – <em><strong>only they could possible think wearing a Cubs' hat would be cool.</strong></em></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We walk through the botanical gardens, a free zoo with simians kept behind sturdy black cages. Mostly monkeys and other tiny orange haired critters, but one little fellow looks Chinese with whiskers that resemble a Fu Manchu moustache. I try to take some photos but the distance and the bars prevent it </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We cross into Hong Kong park, which is filled with Filipino women enjoying their day off as they share food and chat. Most of them are maids; they are to Hong Kong what many Mexicans are to the United States, low-end labor the city imports to do the jobs Hong Kongers don’t want to do. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There appears to be some sort of beauty contest going on, and I note the lack of men. I ask Kevin why there aren’t that many Filipino men in Hong Kong, but he doesn’t know.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That’s when I take note of something else. <em><strong>There are no homeless people in Hong Kong. Three days now, and I haven’t spotted one in a city of 7 million.</strong></em></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Where are they? Does the city sweep them up and push them into China, or offer them some sort of job and place to live, or do the locals simply look out for each other? I don’t know, but it’s the first time I’ve been in a city and not ever seen a homeless person.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We pass by a wedding couple standing on a street corner having photos taken, the bride in a beautiful white dress, her husband in a black tux. Western style weddings have surpassed more traditional style Chinese weddings, and having unique wedding photos are an important status symbol among upper middle class Chinese couples.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve read that Chinese will often rent out parts of a beach, or an entire building just to get that special photo. If I hadn’t read that, I would have the thought the bride and groom were just models; but something about the way he nuzzles her tells me otherwise.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We take the subway back to Kowloon. Using the Octopus pass, I wave it like a wand and the money is magically deducted from the card. No need for exact fare, the pass takes care of everything. The subways are clean and efficient. Hong Kong may have the best public transportation in the world.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We hit a local Chinese restaurant, and I order the Sweet and Sour pork which tastes just like something I could order back home. I’m just happy to see that many of the Chinese dishes I love aren’t like Tex Mex and are authentically enjoyed by the Chinese. Kevin and I agree to meet for dinner tomorrow and I head home.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Later I’ll go back to the tailor for a second fitting. This time it’s a Cantonese man who measures me. The clothes are half finished; the coat only has one sleeve, the pants no pockets, buttons or zipper.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I put them on and he takes new measurements, asking if I want my sleeves or pants shortened, or my coat further taken in. It takes about ten minutes, and I agree to come back tomorrow to pick up the finished product.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I head back to the Night Market and pass by the Jockey Club. About fifty men stare silently at teleprompters flashing numbers, silently praying their horse will win. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">They have no interest in watching the race, or any race, as every big screen TV in the room flashes endless arrays of numbers. The gamblers here are only interested in covering their bets. The greed is palatable, for these men a way of life.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">I stop by a foot massage parlor, filled with locals busy getting their feet massaged</span>. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m6ax5taENL1r2505z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m6ax5taENL1r2505z.jpg" width="149" /></a>When I don’t know where to go in a foreign city, I have one simple rule: do what the locals do. Like all foot massage parlors in Hong Kong, a glowing neon sign with a raised foot stands outside, a happy face smiling from its sole.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I walk in and sink into a chair. A heavy woman with an iron grip boils my feet in a tub of water, then goes to work on my calves, shins, and ankles before working her way to the bottom of my feet.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s heavenly, and only about $15 American. Not cheap by Filipino prices, but that’s reasonable by LA prices. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The TV is turned to a local channel. I watch a cooking show and although I can’t understand what is being said, I can follow the images. This episode the chef is showing the audience<em><strong> how to make lobster flavored ice cream</strong></em>, which judging by her facial expression is supposed to be delicious.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The next show is titled in English and Cantonese: <em>Battle of the Senses.</em> The premise is simple; two teams attempt to be the first to discover answers by being deprived a “sense.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">For example, one of the team members might have to sing through a mike underwater while his teammates attempt to figure out what he is singing. Another game involves blindfolding the entire team and then giving them something to touch, which they then have to identify what it is. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This episode takes place at the Chinese version of Universal Studios and is essentially an advertisement for the theme park. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The teams are blindfolded as three “famous” characters are brought out for them to touch and figure out who they are: Woody Woodpecker, Frankenstein, and the Gingerbread Man. Both teams figure out who all three are in under two minutes. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I have to say I’m impressed, I’m not sure my students would get Woody Woodpecker. Then again they might not get Frankenstein or the Gingerbread Man either.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m6axeg87ry1r2505z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m6axeg87ry1r2505z.jpg" width="200" /></a>Back at my hotel there is a huge wedding taking place in the ballroom. I sneak a peek inside and see a drunk bride surrounded by a half dozen of her friends, all drinking from glasses of wine. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The people are all Cantonese; but outside of their language and facial features, it could be an American wedding, down to the one lone rebel girl who has refused to dress up by wearing jeans with a spiked belt and a Led Zeppelin T-Shirt.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There’s some sort of story there, but I’m not about to crash a Chinese wedding.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="title"><strong>Hong Kong Files #4 </strong><strong>Victoria’s Peak</strong></div><div class="title"></div><div class="copy"><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img height="150" src="http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m6jpl8XIgP1r2505z.jpg" width="200" /></span>Today it’s off to Victoria’s Peak, or the “Peak,” the highest point in Hong Kong. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">By the 1880s, Hong Kong was getting overcrowded, but the British colonials were hemmed in by the mountains; and short of being transported by “coolies,” had no way to traverse them – at least until the cable car was invented. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Suddenly, the entire mountain was traversable; using a pulley system, steam pumps and steel cables, it was possible to move up the mountain quickly and efficiently.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">To this day the mountains surrounding Victoria’s Peak are some of the most highly priced real estate in the world. The average home here goes for about $260 million dollars (post bubble), and rent is upwards of $200,000 a month. (That’s American dollars, not Hong Kong dollars.) </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Big corporations have bought up the land and now use it for corporate retreats. The real estate is Hong Kong’s secret weapon and one of the methods by which the city generates revenue. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img height="200" src="http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m6jpomtFVx1r2505z.jpg" width="149" /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The peak's tram is a red cable car with forward facing seats. For about $2, I wave my Octopus pass and take a seat by the window.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As the pulley goes to work, I can feel gravity pushing against my back; it’s like being on a roller coaster before it plunges down the other side. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">If the cable breaks, the entire car would abruptly reverse course and scream down the hill – I calculate odds of survival from slim to nil. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At the top is a shopping mall and terrace that offers one an amazing view of the city. The air is cooler up here; there is a pleasant breeze, and for the first time in days I feel like I can really enjoy being outside. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">There’s even a McDonalds! (The Chinese call them McCafe’s.) And yes, there is also a 7-11, and a New York Fries, and a Hard Rock Café. Once again, America wins!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The view is dizzying. I can look out into the harbor where huge barges resemble toy boats as the bay turns into a magnificent river that divides the city in half.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">If the Grand Canyon is the most amazing natural phenomenon I’ve observed, then Hong Kong is the most amazing city view I’ve seen. Most people mistakenly believe that humans can’t improve upon nature, that they only take away from natural beauty; but I don’t believe that is the case with Hong Kong. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The buildings accentuate the land's uniqueness; even the forests on the mountain were built by design – the trees and topsoil were planted 130 years ago by appraising developers. There’s a reason why the land up here is expensive. The view is unique.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Back inside I pay about $20 to take a tour of Madame Tussaud’s wax museum. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><em><strong>Outside a group of Indonesian women take photos with a wax doll of Pierce Brosnan dressed as James Bond. </strong></em></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><em><strong>There is also a wax doll of Michelle Yeoh, a Hong Kong actress from an earlier Bond film with Brosnan, but that’s not who people are interested in – they want to take photos with Bond, James Bond. Chinese, Europeans, South East Asians – Bond is Bond.</strong></em> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m6jqjk5QIP1r2505z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m6jqjk5QIP1r2505z.jpg" width="149" /></a>Inside are a variety of figures and a handful of Hong Kong movie celebrities, including Jackie Chan and Jet Li. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There is also a wax figure of Chairman Mao and Yao Ming; a normal Chinese man stands next to Yao Ming’s statue and looks like a hobbit. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">For the most part, however, it’s American and British celebrities. Crowds flock to take their photo with Johnny Depp, Brad Pitt, Angelina Jolie, Madonna, Lady Gaga, Elvis, The Beatles, Einstein, Shakespeare, Spider-Man, Michael Jackson and Her Majesty, the Queen of England. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There are even several dictators present: Saddam Hussein and Adolf Hitler and statues of Obama and George Bush.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal">A special photographer is set up to let people take photos with Obama in his oval office. I don’t see anyone opt for a photo with George Bush.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m6jpzibKM31r2505z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m6jpzibKM31r2505z.jpg" width="149" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">Taking the trolley back down, I notice now why all the seats face upward in one direction. If anyone was to sit facing downward, gravity would pull them out of their seat and send them tumbling down onto the floor.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I decide to hike through Hong Kong Central and spend the rest of the day walking up and down Hong Kong’s streets.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Central is where the foreigners gather, in bars with leather seats, serving burgers and pints of Guinness, offering mueslix and yogurt. British and Australians mostly, but I also overhear a number of American accents, including American sounding Asians. </div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A crowd of people surround a tea vendor, offering up 7 Hong Kong dollars for a plastic cup of sweetened tea. I buy one; it’s good.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I find myself on Hollywood Boulevard (the irony of this is not lost on me) and begin peeking in antique shops. Jade figurines, ivory combs, metal lanterns, exquisite model ships, dragon masks, dusty cabinets and chairs; is it authentic? No idea, but it looks old. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I stop by the Ho Man temple, a small Buddha shrine where people pray to the twin gods of martial skill and education. Dark, red walls, incense curled into lamp shades that slowly burn above, small boxes with mysterious Chinese characters embedded into the wall, statues of serene Chinese with legs folded, palms praying. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Unlike Christian churches, there is nothing awe inspiring about it; the point of the temple is to allow people to pray, not to frighten them into submission.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A handful of people come in and light incense. Crouching onto their knees, they pray, bowing, incense held to their forehead before rising to place the incense into sandy canisters. I don’t take any photos and I’m ignored. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m6jq3uN2Q41r2505z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m6jq3uN2Q41r2505z.jpg" width="149" /></a>Being Buddhists, I doubt they care what I do one-way or the other so long as I’m quiet and respectful. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A second room has more statues of serene looking Chinese, but this one has offerings of fruit placed before them: one bowl with a pineapple, another with bananas, a third with grapes, a fourth with dragon fruit.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I have no idea what it means, but my guidebook states that people come here to pray when they need help with exams.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal">I walk back up the hill to the Sun Yat Sen museum, a colonial mansion near the top of Hong Kong island hill. Who is Sun Yat Sen you ask? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m6jqegelKx1r2505z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m6jqegelKx1r2505z.jpg" width="149" /></a>Well he’s important, important enough to appear in the 7<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup> edition of the McGraw Hill 10<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup> grade world history textbook. If you can make it into a “standardized” world history text book, consider yourself a historical VIP, an icon that will be remembered for generations. The museum’s practially empty.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Sun Yat Sen was an impoverished cobbler’s son who became educated, converted to Christianity, and later a revolutionary in an attempt to modernize China. Hong Kong is where he agitated against the evils of the Chinese government until he was eventually banished and forced to flee to London. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Traveling around the world, he raised money for the Chinese revolution, but eventually realized that money alone wouldn’t be enough to force change.</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Befriending the Japanese, Sun Yat Sen later attempted to use the Japanese military in an attempt to overthrow the Chinsese government, but ultimately failed. In his later years, when he realized the Japanese were using him in an attempt to both destabilize and conquer China, he turned to help offered by the Soviets, inadvertently starting China on the path to Communism. Sun Yat Sen’s writing’s would have a great deal of influence on a young Mao Zedong.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As Marx is to Lenin, Sun Yat Sen is to Mao Zedong.</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s also not all that interactive or interesting, but there are a number of photographs with captions in both English and Chinese. I’m more interested to see that Sun Yat Sen ditched his first wife (an arranged marriage) in favor of a much hotter second wife about ten years before he died. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In his coat and tie he looks like an early 20<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup> century Edwardian businessman. In spite of all his failure, Sun Yat Sen was a prophet. He knew that if China was ever to unify and become great again, it would have to adopt a more Western world view.</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal">But even I think he would be shocked by how Western the Chinese have become. Later today I will spot: </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><em>A movie poster for Abraham Lincoln, Vampire Hunter. (In Chinese characters.)</em></div><div class="MsoNormal"><em>A Chinese marching band practicing with Scottish bag pipes.</em></div><div class="MsoNormal"><em>A liquor store in Kowloon (meaning mostly Chinese customers) selling a wide array of foreign spirits. (including Chivas!)</em></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img height="200" src="http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m6jqmrR8ZY1r2505z.jpg" width="149" /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At the end of the day I will pick up my coat and three pairs of tailormade pants: they fit like a glove. Total cost: $330.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I ask the tailor, a native to Hong Kong, why the Chinese don’t have more of their own brands. The Japanese have Sony, Toyota, Honda, Seiko; the Koreans have Hyundai, Kia, Samsung – the Chinese have nothing.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The tailor nods his head. “So far, we only make for others. It take long time to build brand. No trust. Louis Vuitton; it be around for long time. People trust. But China needs to build trust, very difficult to compete against foreigner and big money.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“How long until they do create brands?” I ask. The tailor thinks about this for a long time. Finally he says, “Hard to say. Thirty more years, maybe?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We sit and drink a Chinese beer. </div><div class="MsoNormal"></div></div><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Copyright 2012 Brian Leiken<br />
<br />
LA Teacher<br />
<a href="http://leiken.blogspot.com/"><span style="color: #5588aa;">http://leiken.blogspot.com/</span></a><br />
<br />
Brian Leiken is an LA inner-city, Special Ed teacher and author of three books for and about his students available on lulu.com. He's also penned <em>I Went Into Teaching for the Money</em> about his first year of teaching in LA. And best of all, he's my son:)<br />
<br />
<em>Crossed Out, Messed Up and Knocked Down</em> by Brian Leiken at <a href="http://www.lulu.com/"><span style="color: #5588aa;">http://www.lulu.com/</span></a><br />
<br />
<span class="caption">laleiken.tumblr.com</span></span></div></span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal"></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/JyuC</div>Eranahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18073421800261470647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363967751149676462.post-19445003592537639652012-06-24T20:01:00.000-07:002012-06-24T20:01:26.902-07:00Hong Kong Files by guest blogger Brian Leiken<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mjBxIBQzhrE/T-fCSJ5yXJI/AAAAAAAAAms/-xW_zdU4F40/s1600/hongkong.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mjBxIBQzhrE/T-fCSJ5yXJI/AAAAAAAAAms/-xW_zdU4F40/s200/hongkong.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
Enjoy my son Brian's first impressions of Hong Kong. Here are the first two travel entries:<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">James Clavell. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">After reading his two Hong Kong
novels, <em>Tai-Pan</em> and <em>Noble House</em>, I have always wanted to visit Hong
Kong. I picked up <em>Tai-Pan</em> out of the school library at South Gate. It was
my first year teaching and after arriving in the morning to monitor a
meaningless home room, I became a refugee as I was kicked out of the
classroom by a more senior teacher. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">With two hours before my
first class, I'd head to the library which was mercifully
quiet and pick up the book to be transported far away from the broken
black top and troublesome students, one last bit of escape before the beginning
of four class periods of hell blended into a smooth puree of indigestible agony.
</span></div>
<br />
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<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Eight years later, I'm finally here.</span>
Although the British no longer run Hong Kong, their thumbprint is embedded into
the city; drivers in Hong Kong follow the British model with the steering
wheel on the right hand side of the car. Instead of stop signs there are
"turnabouts" to handle traffic congestion. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Most signs are in
both English and Cantonese, and most of the residents are at least semi-fluent
in English. Many of the names retain a distinct British flavor: Victoria
Harbor, Southron playground, Flagstaff house, the Quarterdeck club and Colonel
cemetery. This is the city the British ruled but the Chinese built.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Hong Kong is efficient and modern; free
Wi-fi is offered throughout the entire city to all the residents. (unlike
the U.S.) The trains here are known as the MTR, or mass transit railway
and are remarkably clean. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Before using the train, you buy an
"Octopus" pass for about $100 HK dollars ($13 American) which gives
you a card you scan when you enter and exit the station. When the card
gets low on funds, a nearby kiosk allows you to put more money onto the card. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Although
I haven't been here long, I have the feeling that almost everything in Hong
Kong is easily accessible by mass transit. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I'm at the Eaton hotel in the district
of Kowloon, which is centrally located and the heart of many of Hong
Kong's hotels. Victoria Bay cuts the city in half. Across the water I
look over at Hong Kong island, a glass menagrie of skyscrapers that overlook
the harbor. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><em><strong>Behind the skyscrapers stand green colored mountains; the
combination of mountain, city and water makes Hong Kong one of the
more impressive cities I've seen.<o:p></o:p></strong></em></span></div>
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><br />
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Kowloon is more residential, covered in towering
apartment buildings, surrounded by mountains, the only place to build
here is up. Many of the apartment buildings look like they've seen
better days; residents string clothes out the window to dry; the tile of
the buildings are weathered and beaten. The apartments can't be older then
the 1970s but look like they were built in the 1920s. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Immigration was a snap; the airport is designed
for tourists with helpful signs pointing the way to the trains and
busses. Employees stand at attention throughout the airport to guide you
to your next destination; even though its 5:30 AM, they stand like attentive
soldiers waving me through.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Catching the train from the airport, a free
shuttle from the train station, brought me to the hotel and short of
getting a taxi it could not have been easier. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I was informed I should ask for an upgrade
by someone who stayed here before, so when I arrived I asked if they had
anything better. The conceirge immediately offered a deluxe
room (at no exta cost) but have to wait for them to clean it. So now I'm
in the hotel lobby, just waiting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">- Brian</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">
</span></div>
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<b><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Hong Kong Files #2</span></span></b><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The city is
almost suffocating.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Hong Kong is
muggy, sticky and sultry, the air damp with a thick moisture that nearly
overpowers me as I weave through massive crowds of people. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> People here
rush about like New Yorkers, moving with an intense purpose despite the heat.
Most are Chinese but there are a smattering of Filipinos, Indians, Burmese and
trickle of Europeans thrown in. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><em><strong>The harsh jangling of Cantonese
reverberates and echoes off of buildings, a verbal cacophony of clashing
cymbals. Kowloon reminds me of San Francisco’s Chinatown dosed up on PCP
steroids.</strong></em> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I stop to get my
bearings, checking the navigation map on my phone. The city confuses me;
within five minutes I’m not sure I’d be able to find my way back to the hotel,
the landmarks endless neon signs flashing Cantonese hieroglyphics.
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A few signs are in partial English, typically for a hotel or sauna, but most
are in indecipherable Chinese characters, a language system so far removed from
my background and experiences that I am unable to make external references that
will help me translate the sign's meaning. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Chinese is not phonetic; its
symbols are characters based on ideas, not sounds. On the plane I met a
Chinese girl native to Hong Kong who told me it’s easier to write in English
even though it's her second language. English she said is designed to more
effectively convey ideas in a succinct manner.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I note that the
trees here have roots hanging from their branches, the roots able to collect
enough moisture out of the air without bothering to sink into the ground.
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">People brush past me; foreigners are common here and attract no special notice
outside of the Indians that constantly hustle me as I walk down the street.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><em>“Do you want
knock-off watch? I have fake Rolexes!”<o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<em>
</em></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><em>“You want
Hashish? Me get for you!”<o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<em>
</em></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><em>“You want purse?
I have all brands.”<o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I smile and keep
on moving, after about two blocks I’ve been asked ten times if I want a watch,
and another six if I want some form of marijuana. I note that the Indians
speak slightly better commercial English than the natives and make a note to
ask one of them later for directions if I have a question.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I meet a man
claiming to make tailor-made suits. This is something that interests me,
I have planned to buy one when I’m here and it takes time to make a suit, so I
follow him back to his shop. He offers me a three-piece suit for $450, I
tell him I only want a coat and pants, and he goes down to $350. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I state
I still need to look around, heading for the door and suddenly we’re down to
$300. I take a look at his fabrics, pretend to know what I’m doing, but
shake my head and tell him I need to think about it. The price lowers to
$250.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Now we’re in the
ballpark. I state I’m sorry but I still need to think about it. His
son enters and offers $230. This is a decent price, I could probably push
further but decide that’s fine and he measures me. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I agree to come back
Monday for a second fitting and put down a $1000 Hong Kong dollars as a
deposit. He hands me a receipt and tries again to sell me a shirt; I
decline but decide to get a second pair of pants for another $100. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I weave my way over
to the night market, an outside collection of stalls selling knock offs,
miscellaneous junk, and bizarre curios that begins at dusk and runs until late
at night. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Angry bird key chains, plastic smurf figurines, busts of Batman
and Captain America, stuffed animals, bronze Buddha’s, toy guns, T-shirts,
American and European magazines, (inside plastic sleeves to prevent moisture
damage or from someone browsing the wares) cheap jewelry, wigs,
keychains, inferiorly bound, empty journal books with leather covers.
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Tomorrow I’ll take pictures because I can’t even begin to remember the sheer
collection of crap that must go for at least half a mile in every direction.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">People sit
outside at small plastic tables eating food; food vendors keep lobster and fish
alive in plastic tubs as Chinese families share dinner in a family style
manner. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">I pass by an old woman praying over her shop,</span> a handful of
incense sticks in her right hand as she sings a chant to bless her
business. I walk by an off track betting parlor filled with Chinese men
feverishly checking horse races, flat screen TVs line the walls with betting
forms lining the walls.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I’m looking for
Dim Sum, but there doesn't appear to be any nearby, so I settle for one of the
more popular outside food vendors. It reminds me of eating in the
Philippines; one of the more popular beers I see people drinking is San Miguel
light, the most popular (and only light beer) one can get in the
Philippines. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A waitress sits me down at a table across from another
white man, a Canadian staying in Hong Kong until the Chinese process is work
visa so he can go back to teaching in China.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">His name’s Kevin
and he’s spent the past 8 years teaching in Korea, but got bored with it so
wanted a change of scenery. He’s teaching in a northwestern province near
the border of Tibet, and tells me that Hong Kong is nothing like the rest of
China. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><em> “Hong Kong is non-stop action, the rest of China is much more
sedate, beautiful. Here people are just on top of each other. I
love it!”<o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The people next
to us are Hong Kongers, but overhear us and strike a conversation with a slight
British accent. I ask them where the best Dim Sum is Hong Kong; they tell
me the Sheraton, or Vancouver. My jaw drops. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Dim Sum is not
really Chinese; it’s a more Western invention. I order a noodle dish with
chicken; it's heavy with MSG but filling and tasty, nothing amazing but nothing
offensive about it either. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I walk with Kevin
back to his hotel, the Kowloon Mansions. The rooms are twenty bucks a
night, have air conditioning and TV, and just wide enough where if you stretch
both your arms you can touch both sides of the wall. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I suppose it’s
a more authentic Hong Kong experience, but I’ll take my 3 star hotel. We agree
to meet up tomorrow and I walk home, confident I can find my way back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">I get lost. </span>
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<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I check my google maps, but I don’t see my hotel. I know it’s nearby, but
somehow Hong Kong has magically concealed a 21 story red building behind a
puzzle maze of other buildings. I ask a cab for directions, but the
cabbie speaks no English. Frustrated, I spot an Indian looking man with
dark skin and remember he probably speaks better English. Turns out he
does. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I’m a half block
away from the hotel. I’ve walked past the side street leading to it
twice. I spotted a T-Shirt that had a slogan written on it:
“I got lost in Hong Kong.”</span></div>
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</div>
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<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Might have to buy
that now.</span></div>
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</div>
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<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">- Brian</span> </div>
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<br /></div>
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> Copyright 2012 Brian Leiken<br /><br />LA Teacher<br /><a href="http://leiken.blogspot.com/"><span style="color: #5588aa;">http://leiken.blogspot.com/</span></a><br /><br />Brian
Leiken is an LA inner-city, Special Ed teacher and author of three books for and
about his students available on lulu.com. He's also penned <em>I Went Into
Teaching for the Money</em> about his first year of teaching in LA. And best of
all, he's my son:)<br /><br /><em>Crossed Out, Messed Up and Knocked Down</em> by
Brian Leiken at <a href="http://www.lulu.com/"><span style="color: #5588aa;">http://www.lulu.com/</span></a><br /><br /><span class="caption">laleiken.tumblr.com</span></span></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/JyuC</div>Eranahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18073421800261470647noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363967751149676462.post-44703175758425127212012-01-26T20:53:00.000-08:002012-01-26T20:56:19.582-08:00Hollywood Arsonist (It’s LA!) by Brian Leiken<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Krc8it16RW4/TyImybEZU0I/AAAAAAAAAmM/xElqzPuvrOM/s1600/carstumblr_lxb8y1C0Q91r2505z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gda="true" height="151" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Krc8it16RW4/TyImybEZU0I/AAAAAAAAAmM/xElqzPuvrOM/s200/carstumblr_lxb8y1C0Q91r2505z.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
This year the 2012 New Year’s celebration didn’t start on December 31st, but on the 30th.<br />
<br />
Around 2 in the morning I awaken to the clamor of sirens as an army of fire trucks rush up Fairfax Avenue, shrieking past my apartment like wailing infants desperate for attention. <br />
<br />
At first I thought it was a forest fire, but after I spot a squadron of police cars followed by ambulances, I think it could be a riot or zombie infestation. <br />
<br />
Do I have anything to fight off zombies? I do have a pair of swords in my closet, a dull rapier main-gauche and a heavy pirate saber, but neither would be effective at fighting off looters or zombies. (Need to stop watching so much <em>Walking Dead</em>.)<br />
<br />
Raising my arms above my head I stretch and relax; no need to panic quite yet, time to find out what’s going on; that’s what the internet is for: stupid pictures of epic fails, illegal downloads, and news. Turns out it isn’t a zombie infestation; it’s an arsonist.<br />
<br />
An arsonist. One firebug had taken it upon himself to start a jihad against the overabundance of vehicles in Hollywood, lighting them on fire by placing some kind of accelerant beneath the engine, igniting it, and incinerating the vehicle.<br />
<br />
For the arsonist, any vehicle was fair game, so long as it was in an area where no one was watching, but this arsonist was unusual for two reasons.<br />
<br />
1. He didn’t appear to have any monetary motive, making him impossible to track.<br />
<br />
2. He didn’t stop after the first night or leave the area. On the 31st he kept at it, continuing to blow up vehicles all over West and North Hollywood in the same four square mile area. <br />
<br />
This is clearly someone who wanted attention. After the second day I saw that the news story of the Hollywood Arsonist had acquired worldwide attention, having being picked up in Japan, Australia and the BBC news. <br />
<br />
The LAPD put up police checkpoints, and firefighters deployed into rapid response teams throughout the city, but that was all for show. <br />
<br />
How do you catch a man who doesn’t have an obvious motive? How do you protect an entire city from a lunatic?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7Iv2UcZZBEw/TyInf7to1SI/AAAAAAAAAmU/VQ9gXDvDxHY/s1600/blazetumblr_lxb8uwuFCc1r2505z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gda="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7Iv2UcZZBEw/TyInf7to1SI/AAAAAAAAAmU/VQ9gXDvDxHY/s1600/blazetumblr_lxb8uwuFCc1r2505z.jpg" /></a></div>In a couple of instances the fires that were lit climbed into apartment buildings, forcing people to flee their homes. <br />
<br />
My car was in a locked parking garage, so I was more or less safe, but my roommate made sure to keep his vehicle parked on Fairfax, a street with lots of light and foot traffic. (We have a deal, I get the parking spot, he gets the room with a larger bathroom attached.)<br />
<br />
On the first of January Mr. Arsonist was at it again, continuing to light fires and prove the powerlessness of the authorities to stop him, an entire city unable to contain one single fire wielding maniac. <br />
<br />
A $60,000 reward was posted to anyone who had information that might lead to the arsonist’s arrest. Soon after the police had a tip and arrested a suspect.<br />
<br />
A 53 year old Mexican.<br />
<br />
Nope. This had crazy white boy written all over it, I knew as soon as they arrested the Mexican they had the wrong guy. White people may not commit as much crime, but when they do, it’s mucho loco. Drugs, car theft, gang violence - Mexicans. Serial killers, multi-million dollar embezzlement, pyromaniacs - Whites. <br />
<br />
On January 2nd a volunteer police deputy on his third ever patrol stops a mini-van on Sunset and Fairfax, two blocks north of where I live. In the back of the van, there are explosives. The driver, Harry Buckhart, is a German immigrant that had been flagged as a person of interest.<br />
<br />
An immigration official had reported that Harry Buckhart had acted out in court a few days earlier, ranting against America when he heard that his mother, Dorothee Buckhart, was going to be deported back to Germany on charges of fraud.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-krTkFvtrXeM/TyIn8yfTxHI/AAAAAAAAAmc/d4aECMrcnXE/s1600/mothertumblr_lxb8wbfkog1r2505z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gda="true" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-krTkFvtrXeM/TyIn8yfTxHI/AAAAAAAAAmc/d4aECMrcnXE/s320/mothertumblr_lxb8wbfkog1r2505z.jpg" width="231" /></a></div>German authorities claim she had pilfered security deposits from her renters in Germany, but while living in Southern California American authorities discovered she had committed an even more heinous crime. She didn’t pay her plastic surgeon for her breast augmentation surgery.<br />
<br />
That may seem like a small deal to those of you who don’t live in Southern California, but breast augmentation surgery is a vital industry in the Southland. <br />
<br />
<strong>Not paying a plastic surgeon in LA is like stealing from a church, it's just not done.</strong> Our entire media is dominated by breasts; looking at them, discussing them, debating which celebrities are real and which are fake, and plastic surgeons make this all possible. <br />
<br />
When Renee Zellweger was diagnosed with breast cancer, it made national news, when Janet Jackson had a “wardrobe malfunction,” it sparked a national scandal.<br />
<br />
A woman who won’t pay her plastic surgeon is a woman not worthy of living in Southern California. Dorothee Buckhart was going to have to be deported. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FAgdCEjmsbg/TyIogV6Sc-I/AAAAAAAAAmk/KMsSJ0NXbBY/s1600/arsonisttumblr_lxb8wzEneu1r2505z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gda="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FAgdCEjmsbg/TyIogV6Sc-I/AAAAAAAAAmk/KMsSJ0NXbBY/s1600/arsonisttumblr_lxb8wzEneu1r2505z.jpg" /></a></div>Her son went crazy. Fifty-two fires and millions of dollars of damage later, he’s drawn worldwide attention. He lived just over a mile away and was caught within shouting distance of my residence, a modern day John Bardo, the man who stalked and killed TV star Rebecca Schaeffer. <br />
<br />
The question is, why? Why has this sparked so much fear and outrage? No one died, the damage, while severe, pales in comparison even to one forest fire. Buckhart has drawn attention not because of what he did, but the manner in how he did it. <br />
<br />
Our society, our entire civilization, is built around a basic assumption that people act in a rational manner, in their own self interest.<br />
<br />
It just doesn’t make sense for someone to cruise through a city, night after night, looking to light cars on fire; where’s the motive, who is he targeting?<br />
<br />
This time, the police got lucky, Buckhart had given himself away a few days earlier through his outburst, but if one 24 year old amateur can do this much damage, how do you deal with a professional who doesn’t care if they live or die but determined to inflict pain? <br />
<br />
There are no answers. Yesterday while walking on Hollywood Boulevard I stopped to stare at a half dozen crooning Elvis impersonators singing to tourists, the day after that to watch a fitness instructor in a Laker’s jersey lead a group of 20 attractive young women through an aerobics fitness routine in a Bristol Farms parking lot.<br />
<br />
<strong>If you want attention in LA, you have to be over the top, blowing up a couple cars isn’t even a footnote - in Hollywood it’s go big, or go home. </strong><br />
<br />
Harry Buckhart went big and got his day in the sun, but in a few months or a year, he’ll be forgotten. Notoriety is like a flare, it burns bright, but fades fast. Just ask Tara Reid or Paris Hilton. <br />
<br />
Buckhart might be considered an abnormality in most of the world, but in Hollywood his behavior was just a more creative way to get on the fast track to a TV movie.<br />
<br />
You want people to stop acting crazy, then stop paying attention to them. Otherwise, pray you don’t get hit and enjoy the entertainment. That’s LA.<br />
<br />
Copyright 2012 Brian Leiken<br />
<br />
<br />
LA Teacher<br />
<a href="http://leiken.blogspot.com/">http://leiken.blogspot.com/</a><br />
<br />
Brian Leiken is an LA inner-city, Special Ed teacher and author of three books for and about his students available on lulu.com. He's also penned <em>I Went Into Teaching for the Money</em> about his first year of teaching in LA. And best of all, he's my son:)<br />
<br />
<em>Crossed Out, Messed Up and Knocked Down</em> by Brian Leiken at <a href="http://www.lulu.com/">http://www.lulu.com/</a><br />
<br />
<span class="caption">laleiken.tumblr.com</span><br />
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</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/JyuC</div>Eranahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18073421800261470647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363967751149676462.post-34790950125524510442012-01-13T22:34:00.000-08:002012-01-13T22:34:33.213-08:00Customer Service with a Tear<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FGuehZ0XKIE/TxEbgqUnrOI/AAAAAAAAAl8/o5TipFAAUd4/s1600/131300_store_displays-8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" kba="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FGuehZ0XKIE/TxEbgqUnrOI/AAAAAAAAAl8/o5TipFAAUd4/s1600/131300_store_displays-8.jpg" /></a></div>What I thought would be just a summer job in a small town became a summer of touching and sometimes tragic encounters with other women's lives. <br />
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I was in my 20s, just finished my first year of teaching and needed work for the summer. <br />
<br />
Though I knew nothing about retail, I accepted a position to run a small women's boutique in the college town where my husband attended law school. The owner was ill and needed someone to manage her dress shop. <br />
<br />
For generations, the boutique's proprietor provided personal attention and service to the community. <br />
<br />
<em>Families of women grew up with her dressing them and depended on her to find just the right dress for the special occasions in their lives.</em><br />
<br />
She carefully selected and ordered dresses for the women of the town as if she were their personal dresser. <br />
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They were accustomed to her attentive service and the care she took in selecting their garments for weddings, graduations, confirmations, proms as well as the latest fashions to make the women feel special.<br />
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Her service and taste were impeccable, and her clients were fiercely loyal. She made them look and feel fabulous.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WizXJ71Tpr8/TxEc8hK6-EI/AAAAAAAAAmE/HU5aPyqRQ64/s1600/mannequin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" kba="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WizXJ71Tpr8/TxEc8hK6-EI/AAAAAAAAAmE/HU5aPyqRQ64/s1600/mannequin.jpg" /></a></div>As her substitute, I quickly learned that women do not tell their true dress sizes, sort of like telling their real ages. <br />
<br />
So, when they would ask for a size 10 and were obviously a 14, I simply brought them the larger dress and fitted them without mentioning the actual size, because size did matter. <br />
<br />
They would be so delighted at how they looked, they left satisfied customers.<br />
<br />
I also learned that women needed dresses for extraordinary occasions. This was the mid '60s and social mores were not very flexible. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Looking for a dress she could get married in, a teenager with a baby bump came in with her disapproving mother. </span><br />
<br />
There was a lot of tension between them; nothing could disguise that the girl was pregnant. Eventually, I found a garment that they could agree on which helped alleviate the uncomfortable situation.<br />
<br />
Another customer, a middle-aged woman, was recovering from a double mastectomy and did not have the special post-surgery bra that hid that fact. Breast cancer then was not as understood or openly discussed as it is today. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">She pulled out the tops of the dresses and stared at herself to see what she would like as if she still had breasts.</span><br />
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I was taken aback at her acceptance and adaptablility after such a traumatic life event. I wanted to console her, to give her a hug, but I didn't, though my heart ached for her.<br />
<br />
She wanted to be normal, so I behaved as if she were "whole," just a woman buying a new dress. I stood by, as she pinched the fabric forward, and told her how lovely she looked. I didn't know what else to say. <br />
<br />
The most startling shopper, a woman with swollen eyelids and unstoppable tears, staggered into the shop. Her voice broke when she spoke in her dazed state. <br />
<br />
She needed a dress for two funerals. Her brother and cousin were murdered in a bank robbery two days earlier; she was in shock. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">She lost two family members in a senseless crime, but she didn't want to wear black. </span><br />
<br />
I found a dark brown, tailored dress that gave her what she needed. She couldn't stop crying as I fitted her. I dressed her quietly and gently. There were no words to help.<br />
<br />
My summer of being a personal dresser in a small boutique gave me a new understanding of "retail therapy" and an appreciation for the owner's devotion to the women of her community. She dressed them for life.<br />
<br />
Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2012 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED<br />
<br />
<em>Store Displays photo by Kay Pat</em><br />
<br />
<em>Mannequin photo by msvoluptuos31 </em><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/JyuC</div>Eranahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18073421800261470647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363967751149676462.post-62070428155781239972011-12-18T21:26:00.000-08:002011-12-18T21:26:11.820-08:00One Soldier's Story: "A Dignified Transfer" by guest blogger Jorge Duarte<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><shapetype coordsize="21600,21600" filled="f" id="_x0000_t75" o:preferrelative="t" o:spt="75" path="m@4@5l@4@11@9@11@9@5xe" stroked="f"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0s1Nab2neOc/Tu62tbwgaNI/AAAAAAAAAl0/LnU3usEtc88/s1600/soldier090405-F-2003B-142.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="203" oda="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0s1Nab2neOc/Tu62tbwgaNI/AAAAAAAAAl0/LnU3usEtc88/s320/soldier090405-F-2003B-142.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">On September 11, 2001, America witnessed a terrifying nightmare. We all felt a sense of helplessness as we watched it firsthand on national television. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Preparing for school, I began to watch the morning news, wondering what happened and trying to figure out what I was seeing on the screen.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As I continued to dress, I kept my eyes fixated on the television. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">News footage continued about the North Tower of the World Trade Center, and I saw what most Americans watching the news saw that morning, the second plane striking the South Tower of the World Trade Center.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At that moment I was overwhelmed with a sense of urgency; I did not know the reasons, but I felt that something was not right.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I discovered that my school was on high alert for anything suspicious. Every class had a television with the news channel broadcasting the events. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Many Americans would come to know, the events that unfolded on September 11, 2001, were acts of terrorism against the United States. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As the days continued, the individuals responsible for the attacks began to surface and the rest was history. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">In 2006, I would make a decision that would change my life. I decided to enlist in the United States Air Force.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Many people believed the acts of September 11th were my deciding factor, but that became one of many. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My decision to join the military began on a routine day at a local food store where I worked as a pharmacy technician.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">While I was performing my duties, I was interrupted by a news broadcast on a portable television inside the pharmacy. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The news broadcast was about the war in Iraq and Afghanistan. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This is the moment I remember as the main reason for my decision to enlist. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">While the news aired, a female coworker said, “My husband wants to join the military so bad, but they won’t take him because of a medical condition.” I remember thinking, “If a man who is not medically fit is willing to pay the ultimate sacrifice for his country, what does that say about an able bodied man like me?”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I remember going home and contemplating the decision to enlist. I remember the local news broadcasting tributes to the fallen Arizona natives that served in the armed forces. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I decided to enlist in the military, not because I was angry and wanted justice for the acts of terror that affected the way many people lived.</span> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I joined to replace the soldier that was deployed in Iraq or Afghanistan, to give them a chance at seeing their loved ones again. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The endless stories of a family’s sorrow and knowing that I may have the ability to bring a soldier back to their family was more than what I needed to join the military. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I joined the Air Force, and my first duty assignment was at Dover AFB as a cargo aircraft mechanic on the Lockheed Martin C5 Galaxy and the Boeing C17 Globemaster III. My duties involved preparing the aircraft for missions, launching, and recovering.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I soon realized that many aircrafts recovered by our unit came from bases embedded in the Middle East. I also discovered a unique characteristic of Dover AFB that no other air base had.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I discovered Dover AFB was the only port mortuary for all the armed forces.</span><strong> </strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Every soldier killed overseas would have to make the stop at Dover AFB before continuing to their last resting place. It was not long before I realized that many of these soldiers were transported on the aircrafts I would be recovering. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I still remember the briefing I had regarding “Dignified Transfers.” Our squadron would get briefed on the time an aircraft would land carrying the remains of our fallen soldiers. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The reason we were briefed was to make sure all engine driven equipment on the flight line were shut down. The ceremony for a dignified transfer required complete silence on the flight line.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Much of the aircraft recovery for dignified transfers were tasked by a separate sister unit on base. The ceremony conducted by the Honor Guard was private; neither public nor media were allowed to attend. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In April 2009, President Barack Obama lifted the media ban on the dignified transfer ceremony. Among the media, the families were also allowed to attend. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In late August of 2009 I recall arriving at my squadron and being briefed on my assignment. I was tasked to conduct maintenance on top of the tail section of the aircraft.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">While I was working on the aircraft, I was interrupted by a broadcast over my portable radio, “Attention on the net, attention on the net. Please be advised aircraft 5007 will be arriving with a dignified transfer.”</span><br />
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</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As the plane landed, I could see personnel gathering near the aircraft. I was unfamiliar with this scene as I was only used to seeing the Air Force Honor Guard during the ceremony. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sitting on the top of the tail section 60 feet in the air and about 400 yards away, I could still see the Honor Guard preparing. I also saw a group of people that were not in military uniforms.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The ceremony began as the coffin was carried out of the aircraft. As I sat there, fixated on the events unfolding before my eyes, the night’s silence that blanked the flight line was shattered by the soul wrenching screams of a mother. The sight of the coffin holding the remains of her child triggered her uncontrollable actions. When the ceremony ended, the family was escorted off the flight line. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Before the media ban was lifted, I had become complacent with the ceremonies that were conducted during a dignified transfer. It had become a routine that was normal on the flight line. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Not until I witnessed the pain and suffering that was endured by the family was I brought back to reality and found the purpose of my duty in the military yet again. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As I look at the picture of the dignified transfer, I relive the moments of why I joined the military, hoping that the public realizes the reality of duty for a soldier.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">No longer shielded by a government ban, the public can witness what was once emotionally endured by a selected few. This picture brings meaning to my purpose; I can only hope it brings purpose to others around the country.</span><br />
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<em><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Photo by: (U.S. Air Force photo/Roland Balik) “Dignified Transfer,” 4/6/2009 - An Air Force Mortuary Affairs Operations Center carry team transfers the remains of an Air Force Staff Sgt. who died April 4 near Helmand Province, Afghanistan, from wounds suffered from an improvised explosive device. He was assigned to the 48th Civil Engineer Squadron, Royal Air Force Lakenheath, United Kingdom. His family is the first to allow media to cover the dignified transfer under the new Department of Defense policy </span></em><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dignified Transfer. (2009, April). Official Website of the U.S. Air Force.Retrieved from http://www.af.mil/news/story.asp?id=123142994</span><br />
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<stroke joinstyle="miter"></stroke><formulas><f eqn="if lineDrawn pixelLineWidth 0"></f><f eqn="sum @0 1 0"></f><f eqn="sum 0 0 @1"></f><f eqn="prod @2 1 2"></f><f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelWidth"></f><f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelHeight"></f><f eqn="sum @0 0 1"></f><f eqn="prod @6 1 2"></f><f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelWidth"></f><f eqn="sum @8 21600 0"></f><f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelHeight"></f><f eqn="sum @10 21600 0"></f></formulas><path gradientshapeok="t" o:connecttype="rect" o:extrusionok="f"></path><lock aspectratio="t" v:ext="edit"></lock></shapetype></span><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/JyuC</div>Eranahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18073421800261470647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363967751149676462.post-43659665510737250242011-11-13T22:07:00.000-08:002011-11-13T22:11:26.436-08:00Graduation Flashback: Then and Now<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KW_6p9CW19U/TsCvRg5m01I/AAAAAAAAAlo/MfL_xH9Nj8Q/s1600/348402_mortar_board_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" nda="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KW_6p9CW19U/TsCvRg5m01I/AAAAAAAAAlo/MfL_xH9Nj8Q/s200/348402_mortar_board_1.jpg" width="160" /></a></div>As I watched the college students march proudly in procession into the stadium, I nostalgically remembered the excitement of that day in my life years ago at my undergrad college graduation from the University of Illinois in Urbana.<br />
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I never imagined that one day I would be watching my students' graduation. I sat in the front row ceremoniously attired in my cap, gown and hood to support the commencement ritual for the new grads. <br />
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Scanning their faces, I could see the pride and the relief that they had made it to the prize. I watched them accept their diplomas while their families and friends whistled and applauded as their names were called. <br />
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<em>As they came down the stairs, some shouted out; one did a cartwheel, and another did a victory dance.</em><br />
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As I reminisced, I remembered that sunny day when I stood beaming in my cap and gown, clutching that hard earned diploma in front of the University's Assembly Hall. I was on top of the world.<br />
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I remembered the look on my face preserved in the photo my parents kept on display for years. I was glowing, filled with hopes, dreams and goals for a bright future. <br />
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A college degree was my ticket to a new life, better than my parents had, to live the American dream...the first college grad in our family, let alone the only female.<br />
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My four years of study prepared me to be an English teacher K-12. I believed that was the life ahead of me.<br />
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Graduating from college is what my mother had encouraged me to do after her own education was cut short by a depression that required her to quit school as an 8th grade honors student and work in the local factory to help her family put food on the table. My father managed to graduate high school which was typical for his generation.<br />
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I could relate to the students who pursued a degree while working fulltime, raising families and going to school at night. I appreciated their struggles and determination. <br />
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It had not been easy for me either. If it hadn't been for three scholarships and working three jobs, I could not afford to pay for my education. There were no other funds available at the time.<br />
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Looking back at that day when the world was my oyster, I thought I knew where the journey would take me: marriage, children, a teaching career and a comfortable life in a small town in the Midwest. <br />
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I had a master plan and a script to follow. I was all set. <br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Little did I know, how differently my life would go. I had college credits and a degree but little life experience for what was to come.</span><br />
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Years later after my divorce, I moved East to pursue a corporate communications and marketing career and even became a vice president of a high-tech start-up as my career advanced. <br />
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I raised my children as a single parent, then married and divorced again, and ultimately returned to teaching after many years in the business world. Along the way I earned my MA from the University of Richmond.<br />
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That was not the plan the day I stood proudly clenching my diploma ready to take on the world, or so I thought.<br />
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Where will the journey take the new grads? The one thing I can tell them is that it will be an adventure they cannot imagine and wouldn't want to miss.<br />
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Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2010-2011 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED<br />
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<em>mortar board 1 photo by renata jun</em><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/JyuC</div>Eranahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18073421800261470647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363967751149676462.post-47190169494244381922011-10-26T22:50:00.000-07:002011-10-26T23:45:01.038-07:00What I Learned from a Cockroach<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CXVVw1Jcs_I/Tqj6ofFM-TI/AAAAAAAAAkg/uG0-3THGghg/s1600/657395_power_of_nature.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150px" ida="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CXVVw1Jcs_I/Tqj6ofFM-TI/AAAAAAAAAkg/uG0-3THGghg/s200/657395_power_of_nature.jpg" width="200px" /></a></div>Like most people, I find cockroaches disgusting and repulsive, but one cockroach taught me a lesson just at the time I needed it.<br />
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I'm afraid of bugs...always have been. I remember them knocking and buzzing at the screen as I tried to sleep on a hot "unairconditioned" night in Chicago when I was a young girl. <br />
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It was the mid '90s on a sultry afternoon in New Orleans. I just left our company's partner conference. I was in turmoil about whether to leave the company that was faltering; it was just a matter of time before it would go belly up. Layoffs were underway, and the high-tech giant was floundering.<br />
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I was burned out; and as the workers left, the rest of us shouldered more of the load. I had reached a fork in the road--stay or go before the end. I was offered a corporate position, but it was really too late for a turnaround. If I left, I had no idea what I would do next. I felt "stuck" by my responsibilities and could not see a way out.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5s4zsazXH5E/Tqj3Bk9oLhI/AAAAAAAAAkQ/SdN-8J9_Q3U/s1600/glassblowing-02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="131px" ida="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5s4zsazXH5E/Tqj3Bk9oLhI/AAAAAAAAAkQ/SdN-8J9_Q3U/s200/glassblowing-02.jpg" width="200px" /></a></div>On the way back to the hotel, I discovered an art glass studio where students were shaping lava-like, molten glass into beautiful, decorative vases and bowls. <br />
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I love art glass, so I couldn't pass up the chance to watch the amazing process of golden, liquid glass being fired. It was an old warehouse with a tall, arched glass skylight, a dramatic rooftop for the fiery ovens below where the glass was given its final form. <br />
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Suddenly a storm blew in, the sky blackened, and lightening streaked above the skylight putting nature's fireworks on display, a theatrical production of fire and rain clashing as the glass was creatively brought to life by the glassblowers. It was a dramatic moment of blazing fire, pounding water and lashing wind. <br />
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A deluge struck the building and we were caught on foot in a flash flood. The street quickly filled up with rushing water. We took off our shoes, rolled up our slacks, and waded into thigh-high murky water, feeling the pavement under our feet, but unable to see what was beneath the quickening current. <br />
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We sought higher ground and saw an historic townhome nearby with a dozen steps up to its landing. We climbed as quickly as we could to safety as the water continued to rise. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Eng6yTmXhRU/Tqj5WVM49iI/AAAAAAAAAkY/0SBIuB6E7S0/s1600/809106_steps_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="125px" ida="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Eng6yTmXhRU/Tqj5WVM49iI/AAAAAAAAAkY/0SBIuB6E7S0/s200/809106_steps_1.jpg" width="200px" /></a></div>We were not the only ones seeking dry ground. Below us, we watched a giant roach instinctivelyly inch its way up each concrete step to avoid being swept away.<br />
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Once again I felt that familiar revulsion, but I was stuck in place.<br />
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As I observed the roach work its way to safety, I became fascinated by its behavior. It knew what to do and how to survive.<br />
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I realized in the storm that the roach moved forward to live. That was the sign I needed.<br />
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I, too, had to move on and flee the corporate storm that was destroying my spirit and future.<br />
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I still am squeamish when I see a cockroach but am grateful for the lesson it taught me that day when I needed to escape the murky turmoil around me and regain my footing on solid ground.<br />
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Sometimes life lessons come from the last place we would look for them.<br />
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Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2011 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED<br />
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<em>power of nature by nespresso</em><br />
<em>steps1 by vasantdave</em><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/JyuC</div>Eranahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18073421800261470647noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363967751149676462.post-37189156980740525682011-10-04T23:53:00.000-07:002011-10-04T23:53:59.483-07:00A Perfect Day in Tuscany<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Every now and then, I experience a perfect day...where everything seems just right. I had such a glorious day last fall in the magical city of Lucca, northern Tuscany, Italy. <br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uU1MnpEU-Ug/TolrpuK8g8I/AAAAAAAAAjs/89uuORH_1Pc/s1600/autumn200px-LuccaJC1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="137px" kca="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uU1MnpEU-Ug/TolrpuK8g8I/AAAAAAAAAjs/89uuORH_1Pc/s320/autumn200px-LuccaJC1.jpg" width="320px" /></a>Lucca dates back to 180 BC as a Roman colony. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Today it is a charming, hillside town fortified with double thick, massive red-brick walls built from 1504-1645 that provided centuries of protection and defense to its citizens from invaders who sought the wealth of the thriving silk merchant families. </div><br />
Lucca managed to keep the marauders at bay and then had the good fortune to be protected and ruled by Elisa, Napoleon's sister, so its beauty was enhanced and its history preserved. <br />
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Even now there are portals with massive gates for entering the town where pedestrians, mopeds and small cars wind their way around shops, cafes, open markets, piazzas, and gelato stands in the gentle bustle of the town.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>The wall, wide enough to be a two lane road, towers above the city as a 3-mile park circling Lucca and offering views of the medieval look-out towers and exquisitely landscaped gardens of the villas it rings and embraces. Outside the wall at ground level lies the newer city and the surrounding countryside abundant with vineyards of olives and grapes.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9Dnt0BGos1g/Tolp7zp7HZI/AAAAAAAAAjo/CMftsDinQlY/s1600/Toscana_Lucca1_tango7174.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240px" kca="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9Dnt0BGos1g/Tolp7zp7HZI/AAAAAAAAAjo/CMftsDinQlY/s320/Toscana_Lucca1_tango7174.jpg" width="320px" /></a></div>On top of the wall, families stroll with their children, lovers walk hand-in-hand, cyclists stop for a picnic lunch, and runners jog under the shade trees. <br />
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My perfect Lucca day started with a stop at a small grocer's inside the walled community where Gina, my traveling companion and guide from http://villavita.net/, and I selected the ingredients for a fresh sandwich plus fruit and cheese for our bike ride and picnic atop the wall. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-i2ofTtbp5qY/Toli28cu3WI/AAAAAAAAAjg/yiURJwO4X1M/s1600/Luccawall107377069_3962e07037.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" kca="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-i2ofTtbp5qY/Toli28cu3WI/AAAAAAAAAjg/yiURJwO4X1M/s1600/Luccawall107377069_3962e07037.jpg" /></a></div>Next we rented our bikes at the foot of the wall and began our climb onto the multi-story high walls and ramparts to enjoy the ambiance and the magnificent vista on our bike ride. <br />
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The weather was just right, sunny, comfortable and clear, so we could see for miles. A garden show and exhibit hugged the wall's banks where local flowers and plants were artfully displayed to the pleasure of passersby.<br />
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We could have been in Central Park with people leisurely enjoying the day on the promenade along the tree-lined wall. Midway we paused at a grassy spot to eat our delicious lunch of prosciutto, tomatoes, pecorino (sheep-milk cheese) and fresh, juicy peaches. <br />
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Gina shared a legendary story of the great jazz musician Stan Getz being incarcerated in Lucca for a month for smoking pot. The locals sat outside the jail and listened to him play from his cell every night as if they were at a concert.<br />
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</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">After our relaxing ride, we entered Lucca through one of its portals and stopped at a famous cafe where Puccini and other creative artists of his day sipped their coffee. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IAnMdnrVpHc/TooI41tXH7I/AAAAAAAAAkE/hca-WXO8Fh0/s1600/220px-Puccini_statue_lucca.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" kca="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IAnMdnrVpHc/TooI41tXH7I/AAAAAAAAAkE/hca-WXO8Fh0/s1600/220px-Puccini_statue_lucca.jpg" /></a></div>We wandered through the city's narrow lanes, still intact in their ancient Roman street plan, to the piazza where a bronze of Puccini, legs crossed, sits and looks out at the square. We watched children climb on top of his lap while adoring parents took their photos with the composer. <br />
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The shops nearby displayed the latest fashions of stylized, supple leather and haute couture from Milan and Rome's finest designers. <br />
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For dinner we ate at a small cafe that was recommended by Elizabeth Gilbert in her book, <em>Eat,</em> <em>Pray, Love</em>; like her, we had the risotto with wild mushrooms and a fine red wine.<br />
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The most magical part of the day was yet to come. We went to the cathedral, where Puccini was once the organist, to hear aspiring opera students, accompanied by a grand piano, sing Puccini's famous arias. <br />
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A small audience, seated in folding chairs, listened in rapt appreciation. The night was balmy and the music enchanting. Some of us were moved to tears.<br />
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It was the perfect ending to a perfect day in Tuscany. <em>Bellissimo!</em><br />
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Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2010-2011 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED<br />
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<a href="http://villavita.net//">http://villavita.net//</a><br />
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<em>Autumn in Lucca by Jscarreiro</em><br />
<em>Pusseggiata delle Mura by Tango 7174<br />
toscana2 photo by Gabriella Pataky</em><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/JyuC</div>Eranahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18073421800261470647noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363967751149676462.post-44577099498733544232011-09-18T12:08:00.000-07:002011-09-18T12:08:49.451-07:00Romancing the Stone: Reunited with Michelangelo's "David"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gqWZxqc3B_E/TnY-4LSo8wI/AAAAAAAAAjI/PX1o9woTN1w/s1600/michelangelo-sculptures-13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rba="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gqWZxqc3B_E/TnY-4LSo8wI/AAAAAAAAAjI/PX1o9woTN1w/s1600/michelangelo-sculptures-13.jpg" /></a></div>Returning to Florence, Italy, meant seeing Michelangelo's <em>David</em> again. <br />
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I remembered the impact he had on me at 25 and wondered how he would affect me this time, some 40 years later. <br />
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I had kept him close to my heart since our first encounter.<br />
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I've always had a special place for <em>David</em> in my fantasy world of men I adore and admire, a celebrity crush on a man of stone, whose magnificence seems so alive and present as if he could turn at any moment to his throng of admirers like a rock star facing his fans.<br />
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Would <em>David</em> still inspire me with his beauty and grace after all these years? Would the proud, yet gentle young man, toned and muscular, fit for Goliath, still stir me with his restrained power and reflective, protective gaze? <br />
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Though many years have passed, I still am captivated and charmed by his elegance and beauty. He remains a prince preserved in marble as if the Gods had frozen him for us to behold, a monument to eternal youth and strength that exudes courage and confidence.<br />
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I no longer have a schoolgirl crush. Instead my wiser eyes perceive "a peaceful warrior," with immortalized energy, ready to do whatever is required of him.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0Y7hu0JyA1Y/TnY_KTNnpCI/AAAAAAAAAjM/W1TaMij1vjA/s1600/padlock3589032993_7dc8291a57_t.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200px" rba="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0Y7hu0JyA1Y/TnY_KTNnpCI/AAAAAAAAAjM/W1TaMij1vjA/s200/padlock3589032993_7dc8291a57_t.jpg" width="133px" /></a></div>In my mid 20's, it was love at first sight; in my mid 60's, I am totally smitten by his gentle, powerful figure and adore him all the more. <br />
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Next time I see him, I will place a "love is eternal padlock" (<em>L'amore è eterno dei lucchetti</em>) on a Ponte Vecchio bridge rail to symbolize my commitment to an Italian Idol who will never change, who is perfect just the way he is.<br />
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Till we meet again. <em>Ciao</em>.<br />
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L'amore è eterno finchè dura photo by Veronica<br />
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<a href="http://villavita.net/">http://villavita.net/</a><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/JyuC</div>Eranahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18073421800261470647noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363967751149676462.post-24643017727312316952011-08-21T21:43:00.000-07:002011-08-21T21:43:51.187-07:00Sweet Ride: Discovering a New World<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EgY22EAIfxo/TlHYDynlWbI/AAAAAAAAAjA/keh01ujbx1I/s1600/bicyclethumbnailCAUCDOW4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" qaa="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EgY22EAIfxo/TlHYDynlWbI/AAAAAAAAAjA/keh01ujbx1I/s1600/bicyclethumbnailCAUCDOW4.jpg" /></a></div>At 10 I inherited an oversized boy’s bike from my cousin. It was officially my first bike since we couldn’t afford the popular Schwinns of the day.<br />
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It made me happy to have my own "wheels." I cleaned and painted the secondhand bike red and even added a silver thunderbolt to the fender to make it look fast and ready to roll.<br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Once it was "restored" and no longer looked like a dust catcher from someone’s basement, I took it for a test drive.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The first step was to find a place to mount the boy’s bike since I wasn’t tall enough to reach over the frame without starting from a stoop. Then I had to manage to stay upright and balanced. </div><br />
After many falls and scraped knees, I wobbly made my way over the streets and sidewalks of our immigrant Chicago neighborhood in the ‘50s.<br />
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I was curious about what was outside the safety of the few blocks I already knew. I decided to risk a ride beyond the boundaries of my Greek, Irish, Polish and Swedish neighborhood. There was a bigger world out there; and my bike, like a trusty steed, would take me there.<br />
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So I headed for the nearest stoop, straddled my bike, and set off for my first trip across neighborhood borders into foreign territory with other nationalities on Chicago's South Side.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I was breaking the rules by leaving my neighborhood, but I couldn’t resist the adventure.</span> <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ivw-qnyzRFQ/TlHbXZOH99I/AAAAAAAAAjE/orZUmuZoVE4/s1600/1143566_fish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200px" qaa="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ivw-qnyzRFQ/TlHbXZOH99I/AAAAAAAAAjE/orZUmuZoVE4/s200/1143566_fish.jpg" width="125px" /></a></div>As I rode, I heard new languages and saw different ethnic faces.<br />
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Even so, the lifestyles seemed familiar to my neighborhood with open market tables covered with fresh breads, fish, and produce, many displayed just outside of family-owned shops housed under their apartments. <br />
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Some of the food and the odors were unfamiliar.Other sidewalk tables held clothing and trinkets for sale.<br />
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I didn’t feel comfortable getting off my bike just yet. After all, these were strangers I was told not to go near.<br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">When I returned home, I didn't dare tell anyone of my explorations just a few blocks away. I kept my travels a secret so I could return to discover more about the new territory.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>As time passed, I grew bolder and got off my bike to taste and touch the foods and wares of the other immigrants' lives. <br />
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Thanks to my secondhand bike, I got to discover a new world and its inhabitants in Chicago's immigrant melting pot of the '50s.<br />
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Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2009-2011 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED <br />
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/JyuC</div>Eranahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18073421800261470647noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363967751149676462.post-10140345131223610912011-08-06T21:44:00.000-07:002011-08-06T21:44:44.291-07:00I "Heart" Blogging:)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-I9fo8nEdu5U/Tj4RAE8zRjI/AAAAAAAAAi4/Ova4QeUT-Qw/s1600/1335560_red_heart_rising.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-I9fo8nEdu5U/Tj4RAE8zRjI/AAAAAAAAAi4/Ova4QeUT-Qw/s1600/1335560_red_heart_rising.jpg" t$="true" /></a></div>Ninety blog followers and counting on Blogger; 51 followers on Facebook's Networked Blogs:) <br />
<br />
Every time a new follower appears, I experience a childlike excitement. <br />
<br />
It's like opening a gift whenever a new face shows up, and it's inspiring to dialogue with those who leave comments. <br />
<br />
Who has come by? from where? We are now connected through my stories and comments and their thoughts and reflections on what I've shared. <br />
<br />
It's been a year and a half since I set up my blog. At the time, I had no idea where the blog journey would lead me.<br />
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It’s been an amazing ride so far. I have shared stories from my youth with my children that were new to them. Followers I will never meet have commented on my blog from Greece, Australia, NYC, Indiana, Canada and elsewhere. <br />
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At local events people tell me they have shared my blog with their friends and relatives, and each time I am thrilled and grateful. <br />
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Blogging expands my world in delightful ways. I'm often surprised that the writing speaks to such a diverse group of men and women, ages and beliefs.<br />
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I always wanted to write a memoir to share my life experiences and the wisdom from them, but a book seemed so daunting. Blogging moves me one step closer to that dream.<br />
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A new world has opened with readers from all walks of life. My blog was featured on blogher.com twice and is ranked on the three Top 50 lists on Facebook’s Networked Blogs. <a href="http://apps.facebook.com/blognetworks/searchpage.php?tag=personal+stories">http://apps.facebook.com/blognetworks/searchpage.php?tag=personal+stories</a>. And there are more followers on other blog sites, such as blogcatalog.com.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span style="font-size: large;">Each follower is part of my blogging life, and it makes me smile when they show up or share their thoughts.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KG0vXml_4QY/Tj4VKkCmqTI/AAAAAAAAAi8/36GBE3zPL3M/s1600/888077_-diversity_6-.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="123px" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KG0vXml_4QY/Tj4VKkCmqTI/AAAAAAAAAi8/36GBE3zPL3M/s200/888077_-diversity_6-.jpg" t$="true" width="200px" /></a></div><br />
But the most important discovery from blogging is the joy I feel every time I write.<br />
<br />
My creative process springs from ideas that emerge in the car, the bathtub, anywhere, to finding images to enhance and complete the story, and finally to publishing it. I feel euphoric when I see it published and more so when someone "likes" it. <br />
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For me, blogging is the ultimate way to connect and share with those I know and many I will only meet in the virtual world. It gives me a natural "high"every single time. I am following my bliss. <br />
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<em>Heart by pitabox987<br />
Diversity 6 by bsk</em><br />
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Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2010-2011 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/JyuC</div>Eranahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18073421800261470647noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363967751149676462.post-1553338178500792072011-07-26T14:04:00.000-07:002011-07-26T14:04:09.137-07:00Doing "Nothing" is "Something"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QwTlsm9J7qE/TinY5Qj4UoI/AAAAAAAAAc0/rXl9gPrsb0Q/s1600/1146531_alarm_clock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="167px" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QwTlsm9J7qE/TinY5Qj4UoI/AAAAAAAAAc0/rXl9gPrsb0Q/s200/1146531_alarm_clock.jpg" t$="true" width="200px" /></a></div>Don't feel like “doing” today…want to relax this morning after teaching my college class for four hours last night. <br />
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Slept in…looked at the clock…and rolled over. Permission to self to take the day off.<br />
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List of things to do can wait till tomorrow. Instead, sip coffee in my pjs on the front porch and write while the birds sing and the soft breeze and checkered sunlight caress my neck ever so gently. Enjoying a sunny day in Phoenix.<br />
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Ah, the luxury of musing, reflecting without deadlines, appointments and obligations for the day. <br />
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Simple and delightful and so different from my former self, the Type A, overly responsible, overachieving Super Woman who tried and at times did do it all…single mother, professional career woman, wife, hostess, etc. Exhausting.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-r-reZAO1hDw/TinZPN16PrI/AAAAAAAAAc4/owRGiWqZuRs/s1600/superwoman1151671330o2EKkN.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200px" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-r-reZAO1hDw/TinZPN16PrI/AAAAAAAAAc4/owRGiWqZuRs/s200/superwoman1151671330o2EKkN.jpg" t$="true" width="160px" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;">No more. I have officially retired my Super Woman cape,</span> and I don’t feel the least bit guilty about it.<br />
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My “self” has earned and deserves time without the requirements of work and responsibilities that compete for my time with me. <br />
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Putting me first is a relatively new experience after years of doing just the opposite for bosses, family and friends. It’s very liberating and peaceful to not have “to do” anything. I never had that choice or so I believed.<br />
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How lovely to finally know what it’s like to be free and not have to answer to anyone but me, a heady thought indeed. Just floating for now…see where the current takes me. During my life, the raft has taken me over the “falls” (divorces, moves, layoffs), and I’m still here.<br />
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The fears and worries of those times no longer have power over me. I realize now I did learn survival skills on my life journey, but the angst isn’t worth it.<br />
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Is my glass full or empty?<br />
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Both, I think: <em>Full</em> from my life’s experiences with some wisdom from my life's challenges and <em>Empty</em> of the cares and struggles of the past with space available now for what comes next. <br />
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<em><strong>Doing nothing for a day is good for something:)</strong></em><strong></strong><br />
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<strong> </strong>Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2010-11 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED<br />
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<em>Alarm clock photo by Zvone Lavric </em><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/JyuC</div>Eranahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18073421800261470647noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363967751149676462.post-35330992907895394742011-07-17T21:45:00.000-07:002011-08-02T11:56:36.545-07:00By the Sea<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MkUK7LPVwVo/TiO1RLWxS-I/AAAAAAAAAcs/jLTa6BdiE8A/s1600/607841_sunset_beach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150px" m$="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MkUK7LPVwVo/TiO1RLWxS-I/AAAAAAAAAcs/jLTa6BdiE8A/s200/607841_sunset_beach.jpg" width="200px" /></a></div>I’m with my old friend, the sea…just the waves, a few sailboats, occasional shorebirds, scattered shells, polished stones and shifting sand.<br />
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The sea, my sanctuary, my place of worship and salvation… soothing, grounding, sacred, peaceful... calming and beckoning me...a place to be alone and protected where I can shut out the distractions of the world and my mind and become whole, balanced and connected—a respite for my soul.<br />
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Here I am free of worry, stress, responsibility and uncertainty, safe from a world of money, relationships, deadlines, and demands, uncluttered and unfettered. <br />
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The sea is a where I find serenity and basic shelter from life’s storms and disappointments with powerful forces that mirror my unconscious, shifting, mysterious, creative, unknown.<br />
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I am awed by the sea’s strength and endurance, its unceasing change: beauty in the bright sun, dusk and blackness—reassuring, lasting, and transforming like life itself. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VYlT9Dze4Vc/TjhIO32T6PI/AAAAAAAAAiY/bUW37N0SdJE/s1600/195310_augur_shell_and_pebble.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="148px" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VYlT9Dze4Vc/TjhIO32T6PI/AAAAAAAAAiY/bUW37N0SdJE/s200/195310_augur_shell_and_pebble.jpg" t$="true" width="200px" /></a></div>Its shoreline provides an ever changing altar of glass chards, sparkling in the sun like tiny stain glass windows, hallowed ground for fish sacs, driftwood and seaweed.<br />
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The sandy tableau displays the sea’s random creativity and many moods reflected in the sun’s mirror complemented by the sky’s backdrop, brilliant in crimson at sunset and stunning in black velvet with shimmering stars at night.<br />
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The sea is my sanctuary, life affirming, reliable and unpredictable, free to be itself, stormy or placid—no limitations, no should’s or have to’s, no one to answer to—a universal constant that transcends love, war, politics, career and family. It only answers to itself.<br />
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For me it is a deity without icons, saints, incense, catechism and hymns, and I come to worship as a parishioner who speaks and prays for strength, wisdom and direction. <br />
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This is where I become centered, renewed and readied to be part of the world again, a spa for my senses where I can reconnect all my parts and return revitalized to life.<br />
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Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2009-11 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED<br />
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<em>Sea Photo by Jack Oceano</em><br />
<em>Shell Photo by Karunakar Rayker </em><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/JyuC</div>Eranahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18073421800261470647noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363967751149676462.post-53835217942408348582011-07-11T22:05:00.000-07:002011-08-02T12:02:24.496-07:00"Stand Up" Biology by Guest Blogger Brian Leiken<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UDSPwcCBGnw/Tg--cwGMJRI/AAAAAAAAAcg/xzIsqbACmXA/s1600/skull384227_biology_9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="146px" i$="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UDSPwcCBGnw/Tg--cwGMJRI/AAAAAAAAAcg/xzIsqbACmXA/s200/skull384227_biology_9.jpg" width="200px" /></a></div>Third block biology is a bitch.<br />
<br />
The class has improved slightly from the first two weeks, when the freshman capered about like wild spider monkeys as they devoured their sole source of nutrients, small orange bags of red hot chili nachos. <br />
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At first they dropped the refuse into the two foot deep lab sinks, treating the wash basins like trash pits.<br />
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Now they just stuff waste in the cabinets beneath the counters. I found close to sixty empty nacho bags in one of the back cabinets, complete with candy wrappers, plastic gatorade bottles, and miscellaneous junk food trash worthy of Homer Simpson.<br />
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I've never had to follow so many students outside of class wearing my Parrot costume; usually it's an effective deterrent. Embarrass one kid, and the rest fall in line out of fear of the same happening to them.<br />
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By the seventh or eighth victim. the class finally catches on that I would follow each and every one of them to their next class, squawking and chirping while flapping my wings, calling out their name at the top of my lungs in a squeaky parrot voice.<br />
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I've never had to follow the same kid twice.<br />
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Even then we had to call in the Dean and threaten to expel five of them.<br />
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And 90% of them had to fail the first half of the course before it dawned on them that they would have to repeat the class again.<br />
<br />
So now it's better, if by better they (mostly) remain in their seats and they (mostly) do their work, even if that means copying from a friend. I'll take it. <br />
<br />
When I enter the class now, there is a smattering of catcalls, mostly "LEIKEN" followed by two minutes of my making the rounds. Every boy, and some of the girls, want me to acknowledge them with the "ghetto" handshake of pounding hands.<br />
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"Mr. Leiken, I've got an important question! Who would win? Iron Man or the Hulk!"<br />
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"The Hulk." This is part of our tradition. I've got four boys who are obsessed with super hero match ups. So long as they do their work, I placate them.<br />
<br />
Plus I really like talking about superheroes. If my college friends, John, Steven, Vinnie, or even my roommate Christopher were around, I'd be way out of my league, but the kids don't read comics. They only know movies, so among them I'm like a trivia genius.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-W3ycp5euhCk/Tg--q7vWdcI/AAAAAAAAAck/HhpBt38gYxo/s1600/600957_hulk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="131px" i$="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-W3ycp5euhCk/Tg--q7vWdcI/AAAAAAAAAck/HhpBt38gYxo/s200/600957_hulk.jpg" width="200px" /></a></div>"Okay, who would win, Superman or the Hulk?"<br />
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I grimace. This is going to take a while. "I told you before, Superman. He can fly, and they had a special Marvel vs DC crossover where the two fought and Superman won."<br />
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"Okay, who would win, Batman or Superman?"<br />
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"Batman." Four boys immediately begin protesting. How the hell can Batman beat Superman? I cut them off. "Batman cheats. He would trick Superman, and failing that use a kryptonite Baterang."<br />
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"Okay, who would win? Iron Man or Batman?"<br />
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I pause. That is a good question. "I'll tell you.... after you finish this worksheet."<br />
<br />
The boys let out a collective awwww.<br />
<br />
I make the rounds around the room, talking with students in clumps of two's or three's. Sometimes we can discuss biology; sometimes we go off topic. What can I do? I'm lucky to get them to pay attention for even a few minutes. <br />
<br />
"Mister Leiken, Mister Leiken!" one of the girls calls out. "I've been calling your name and you've been like ignoring me for the past five minutes!"<br />
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"There is one of me and forty of you. What is it?"<br />
<br />
She thrusts the worksheet out in front of her. "I don't understand it!" <br />
<br />
I put it down in front of her and have her read the first paragraph. It's about the water cycle. After we read it, I ask her the first question. She answers it.<br />
<br />
"Did you even read it?" I ask her.<br />
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"No."<br />
<br />
"Why not?"<br />
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She actually looks embarrassed.<br />
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"Hey, Mr. Leiken! Yo Momma so fat when she gets on a scale, it says to be continued!"<br />
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I look at the clock, five minutes until the end of class. I should yell at him, I should give him a stern lecture, I should do a lot of things. <br />
<br />
But I can't let that pass. My mother's honor must be satisfied.<br />
<br />
"Oh yeah," I snap back, "Yo Momma so ugly that when they put a bag over her head, and she looks in a mirror, it still breaks."<br />
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The class cracks up and lets out a giant oooooohhh!<br />
<br />
Unlike the kids, I've got fresh material. I think of yo momma jokes on the way home.<br />
<br />
Don't ever mess with a writer. <br />
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"Yo momma's so big," I continue, "they had to put in a double wide garage just to let her in the house!"<br />
<br />
The class is laughing hysterically. Another, another, they cry! I give the kid a chance to make a come back. If you don't use original material, the kids will call you on it. You can't repeat an old yo momma joke; that earns you no respect.<br />
<br />
Time to move in for the kill. "Yo momma is so fat, when she steps on a dollar bill, you get back change, minus fifty cents!"<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>My heckler is silent. A chorus of boys in the back begins to chant Cu-ler-o! Cu-ler-o! This basically means "girly man." <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5NJwpvfKEnQ/TjhJVj-OmAI/AAAAAAAAAic/uKTZMM85hGQ/s1600/1153096_man_with_microphone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200px" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5NJwpvfKEnQ/TjhJVj-OmAI/AAAAAAAAAic/uKTZMM85hGQ/s200/1153096_man_with_microphone.jpg" t$="true" width="81px" /></a></div>Who knew that my years of doing "stand up" would pay off in class?<br />
<br />
Copyright 2009-11 by Brian Leiken<br />
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<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><em>Biology 9 photo by Sabrena Carter</em><em><br />
</em></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><em>Hulk photo by Mauro Martins</em><em><br />
</em></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><em>Man with Michophone photo by Michal Zacharzewski</em></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><em>LA Teacher Blog</em></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://leiken.blogspot.com/">http://leiken.blogspot.com/</a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Brian Leiken is an L.A. inner-city, special ed teacher and author of <em>Crossed Out</em>, a book about and for his students. Oh yes, he's also my son:)</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><em>Crossed Out</em> by Brian Leiken at <a href="http://www.lulu.com/">http://www.lulu.com/</a> </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"> </div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/JyuC</div>Eranahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18073421800261470647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363967751149676462.post-3303248071294013162011-06-23T23:44:00.000-07:002011-06-23T23:44:12.390-07:00A Different Kind of Tree Hugger<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-x61MwHzr8vg/TgQtwOXHCeI/AAAAAAAAAcM/e8qJDBeopN0/s1600/tree961974_in_the_sugarbush_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200px" i$="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-x61MwHzr8vg/TgQtwOXHCeI/AAAAAAAAAcM/e8qJDBeopN0/s200/tree961974_in_the_sugarbush_2.jpg" width="131px" /></a></div>I was having a bad dream and woke up to the sound of a buzz saw to discover the mangled corpse of chopped wood chunks and strewn branches, the remains of the beautiful tree that protected my balcony. <br />
<br />
The former golf course owners sold the land to a developer; and the tree, a victim of drought and greed, lost its caretaker. <br />
<br />
I am up on the second floor, and though the tree was 20 feet away, it was home to mourning doves and hummingbirds. The mature tree was a sanctuary for them and a natural shade and privacy screen for my living space. I felt a mixture of sorrow and anger. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I have a special kinship with trees.</span> <br />
<br />
I grew up in a immigrant Chicago apartment building encircled with asphalt and concrete and envied the girl who lived in a house adjacent to the apartments with a backyard filled with trees and a yard to play in. I told myself that someday I would be in a home embraced by trees.<br />
<br />
And my wish came true. After I married and was living in a small, bedroom community in central Illinois, we moved onto a five acre, semi-wooded lot with wonderful, century old, sugar maple trees. <br />
<br />
With all that land, being a former city kid, I eagerly planted a huge vegetable garden and experienced great delight watching the surrounding trees change their wardrobes with the passing seasons. <br />
<br />
We even drank the sap from the maple trees, nectar fit for the gods. Nothing manufactured measures up to fresh maple syrup’s unique and rich sweetness tapped from the source.<br />
<br />
One buckeye tree had the honor of housing a tire swing for my children plus offering beautiful mahogany nuts every fall for Xmas wreaths and decorating the fireplace mantle in the winter.<br />
<br />
I experienced a cathartic therapy from trimming the branches and letting the trees breathe and more light shine through. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">It was as if the trees knew I was caring for them, and I sensed their appreciation.</span><br />
<br />
During a troubled divorce period, pruning the trees helped me redirect my frustration and anger by cutting off the dead branches, allowing new shoots to grow.<br />
<br />
But I couldn't protect them from nature’s fury. For two years, tornadoes spiraled through the Midwest with a vengeance. <br />
<br />
Spared one year but not the next, a fierce tornado tore my beloved sugar maples out of the ground taking away their beauty and protection. <br />
<br />
I took it as a personal loss as my tree friends and guardians were devastated by the unrelenting winds. In the spring I planted redbud trees further back in the forest giving them more shelter from the storms.<br />
<br />
When I moved to Virginia, my new home came with stately white oaks for a hammock and a playground for squirrels, Baltimore orioles, blue jays and wrens. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sQ3zHkl0hx4/TgQt_1RopgI/AAAAAAAAAcQ/1knD2l3GDLI/s1600/91040_racoons_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150px" i$="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sQ3zHkl0hx4/TgQt_1RopgI/AAAAAAAAAcQ/1knD2l3GDLI/s200/91040_racoons_2.jpg" width="200px" /></a></div>Only on a third of an acre on a cul-de-sac, these trees also attracted possum, occasional raccoons and even a fox. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">It was my wooded sanctuary, harmonious and nurturing.</span><br />
<br />
The trees gave me a sense of being grounded and balanced while I watched my children grow up.<br />
<br />
Once again nature tested the trees. They were besieged by gypsy moth caterpillars, hordes that were out of control and devouring forests at night. <br />
<br />
The white oaks were under attack by a relentless pestilence. Every day I removed the obnoxious caterpillars feeding off the trees and weakening them. The battle seemed endless, but I persisted to save the trees. <br />
<br />
During that “infestation” period, I also was fighting an inheritance battle with my father back in the Midwest over my mother’s will which split the proceeds from the house among my father, my brothers and me. <br />
<br />
I was the will's executor, but my father was ignoring my mother’s wishes; and I had to hire an attorney to be certain the inheritance was allocated as my mother had wanted.<br />
<br />
Battling the gypsy moths helped me release the anger I felt towards my father’s bullying, and the trees served as an outlet for my difficult emotional storm. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QNUgDqyi2qI/TgQuWAqLJ_I/AAAAAAAAAcU/8xY4-pesChc/s1600/698869_oranges_at_tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150px" i$="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QNUgDqyi2qI/TgQuWAqLJ_I/AAAAAAAAAcU/8xY4-pesChc/s200/698869_oranges_at_tree.jpg" width="200px" /></a></div>Though the tree behind my condo was hauled away, there is still a fragrant orange tree tucked in a corner below that perfumes the breeze and shares its sweet fruit with all the neighbors.<br />
<br />
I have a special connection and history with trees. I have cared for them, and they have cared for me providing me pleasure and a release from pain. I am a different kind of tree hugger.<br />
<br />
<br />
Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2010-2011 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>Tree photo by Joe Zlomek</em><br />
<em>Raccoon photo by Troy Schulz</em><br />
<em>Orange tree photo by Jose Luis Navarro </em><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/JyuC</div>Eranahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18073421800261470647noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363967751149676462.post-57351050236735370392011-06-11T22:15:00.000-07:002011-08-02T12:12:39.744-07:00Grandfathers and Cigars<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Br7eyxAukw0/TjhLA2RLdLI/AAAAAAAAAig/9teCnxeodZA/s1600/111885_cuban_cigars.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="187px" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Br7eyxAukw0/TjhLA2RLdLI/AAAAAAAAAig/9teCnxeodZA/s200/111885_cuban_cigars.jpg" t$="true" width="200px" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EKr6786ZJi4/TfREBqp6obI/AAAAAAAAAcE/7PhNLxB1QCw/s1600/111885_cuban_cigars.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a></div><strong><span style="font-size: large;">My Greek Grandfather </span></strong><br />
<br />
It was the Great Depression. My immigrant Greek grandfather’s fruit and vegetable stand in Chicago was defunct. He was broke, but a proud man, too proud to let the other Greek men know how bad things were financially. <br />
<br />
To uphold his position within the community, he continued to meet with them in the evenings just as he always had to smoke a cigar and play cards. The nightly ritual was his way of holding on even though he was desperate.<br />
<br />
My mother, only 12, adored her father Vasileios, a man who stood tall with erect, stiff posture, strong cheekbones and groomed moustache, an honest, hardworking man who came to America from a small village in Greece to build a new and prosperous life. <br />
<br />
To help the family get by, my mother worked long hours at the factory and visited her father faithfully every evening where she discretely slipped a quarter into his jacket draped over his chair to pay for his cigar.<br />
<br />
Nothing was ever said…no thank you or acknowledgement of the child’s nightly gift to her father. It would not have been fitting. The ritual continued until his death of a broken heart, according to my mother, from having lost everything, including the American dream. <br />
<br />
That is the only story I remember being told about my grandfather, but it gave me a portrait of a proud man who kept his dignity in times of adversity. <br />
<br />
<strong><span style="font-size: large;">My Jewish Grandfather</span></strong><br />
<br />
My father's father, Grandpa Harry, was a true entrepreneur who came from Hungary to also build his fortune in the new world. He started working in Minnesota for the Edward Hines Lumber Co. and soon became an interpreter for the other immigrant men.<br />
<br />
He spoke seven languages and was a clever man who seized opportunities wherever he found them. He also became the banker of sorts for the other men helping them as they found their way in a new land.<br />
<br />
Grandpa Harry had many businesses, some succeeded, some failed, but he never quit. After the stock market crash, he pawned his wedding ring to pay his bills and start again. Tall for the time, over 6 feet, he dominated others, including his sons but adored his grandchildren, especially the girls. <br />
<br />
I was one of his favorites. He gave me my first instrument, a second hand clarinet. He wanted to give me a piano but there was no room for it in our small apartment in Chicago. He also gave me a used typewriter that I still had when I went off to college. <br />
<br />
There are many funny stories about Grandpa Harry like the time we woke up to find new bushes he planted in the dark in our yard while we slept in our new house in the suburbs. We never knew where the shrubbery came from. It was just the way Grandpa did things. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>One of my memories of him was his cigars. They were one of his favorite things; there was always a box of cigars with him.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-B5fg7CvgvHA/TjhL1-QJylI/AAAAAAAAAik/Dm4TFjJtue8/s1600/cigarbox400px-R_J_short_churchills.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200px" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-B5fg7CvgvHA/TjhL1-QJylI/AAAAAAAAAik/Dm4TFjJtue8/s200/cigarbox400px-R_J_short_churchills.jpg" t$="true" width="133px" /></a></div><br />
Every time he took one out of the cigar box, he gave me the seal which I immediately made into a shiny ring for my finger.<br />
<br />
It was a game we played, a special ritual in the bond we shared.<br />
<br />
In my family, a cigar was not just a cigar. My grandfathers' cigars were tokens of affection and love.<br />
<br />
<br />
Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2009-2011 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED<br />
<br />
<em>Photo of Two Cigars by Josiah Gordon</em><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/JyuC</div>Eranahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18073421800261470647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363967751149676462.post-68384470067398565392011-06-05T21:39:00.000-07:002011-08-02T12:16:29.124-07:00"Cap and Gown" by Brian Leiken, Guest Blogger<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5cbUxx41XpA/TjhMqt5GfnI/AAAAAAAAAio/2Vgt_QMuU5E/s1600/348402_mortar_board_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200px" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5cbUxx41XpA/TjhMqt5GfnI/AAAAAAAAAio/2Vgt_QMuU5E/s200/348402_mortar_board_1.jpg" t$="true" width="160px" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;">Six years, five graduations, nine hundred school days. </span><br />
<br />
A relatively short period of time in the lifespan of a human, 900 days.<br />
<br />
If all the hours I had spent teaching in school were added up into one continuous, non-stop marathon, at 6.6 hours a day, I'd be only 247 days old.<br />
<br />
Six years teaching and I'm still just a baby.<br />
<br />
This year only two of the students on my case load are graduating, but only one will be at the ceremony, only one will walk across the stage. The other should have graduated last year, but doesn't want to "walk" when most of his senior class graduated a year earlier.<br />
<br />
But the girl who is walking across stage is a success story. I've seen her grown from a shy, dependent girl into a slightly less shy but independent young woman. It's been a struggle: building her confidence, teaching her to believe in herself, getting her to work on her own.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Looking forward to graduation?" I ask rhetorically.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"I'm not going to walk," she says flatly.</span><br />
<br />
"Why?"<br />
<br />
"I don't want to walk. It's stupid."<br />
<br />
Oh no, this is not happening. "Graduation is a rite of passage, it only comes once. In life, there are no do-overs. You should go."<br />
<br />
"No, Mister. I don't want to, it's embarrassing."<br />
<br />
"Embarrassing? Everyone is walking across stage. It will be over in like a second."<br />
<br />
"No, it's okay. I don't want to. Graduations are boring."<br />
<br />
"Of course they're boring!" I exclaim. "Graduation is supposed to be boring! It's for your parents, and your teachers, and your family! Graduation is for everyone but you!"<br />
<br />
The girl looks at the floor, unwilling to meet my gaze.<br />
<br />
It occurs to me there is more going on here than meets the eye; the benefit of six years, five graduations and 900 days experience. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"If you don't do this," I continue, "you may live to regret it."</span><br />
<br />
The girl mumbles something. I ask her to repeat herself, leaning in.<br />
<br />
"I don't have the money, Mister."<br />
<br />
"Money for what?"<br />
<br />
"It's a hundred dollars for the cap and gown."<br />
<br />
"A HUNDRED DOLLARS! Cold hard cash?"<br />
<br />
The girl nods, quietly embarrassed.<br />
<br />
"What about your parents?" I ask. "Don't they have the money?" The girl shakes her head. I've known that her family is poor, I once had to "loan" her and her sister money to go see <em>Eclipse.</em> "Do they want you to go?" The girl nods, gaze furtively darting about the room.<br />
<br />
"I want you to go the rehearsal today at lunch. You are going to graduate."<br />
<br />
"But I don't have the money."<br />
<br />
"I'll take care of it. Don't worry about it."<br />
<br />
"But, I don't have the money."<br />
<br />
"I'll get you your cap and gown. Go."<br />
<br />
I go the special ed department first, explaining the situation. Borquez and Khazani immediately start asking their students.<br />
<br />
Some seniors short on credits have already bought their cap and gown but won't be needing the gown since they won't be graduating.<br />
<br />
Nothing.<br />
<br />
An aide who graduated two years ago says he'll bring in his blue and silver cap and gown, after all, he isn't using it. Caps and gowns don't really change; South East's 2005 graduating class would fit right in with this year.<br />
<br />
But his father has already thrown the aide's cap and gown away. Turns out he didn't think his son would ever need to use it.<br />
<br />
Ms. Owens finds a website that sells the gowns for $15, but time is short and it will cost me through the nose to have it shipped.<br />
<br />
Eventually, I go to the head of leadership and ask her if I can buy the gown at cost, or about $50. The head of leadership agrees. Khazani, Martinez and Solorio all help contribute cash.<br />
<br />
I go back to the girl, handing her the money. I could have paid for it directly, but I want her to buy it for herself. She deserves that.<br />
<br />
Two hours later she enters my room with a small plastic bag containing the gown, cap, a black embroidered sash, and a small medal. (In today's world, graduation is worthy of a medal.)<br />
<br />
"I have my cap and gown, Mr. Leiken."<br />
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I nod, looking up from where I am helping a student finish up a paper. "Awesome, so how was rehearsal?"<br />
<br />
"It was okay."<br />
<br />
The girl goes to my window, looking out over the football field, where students are lining up for the senior photo. She stares in silence, twisting the cap and gown bag in her hands in endless loops.<br />
<br />
"Aren't you going to join the seniors for the photo?"<br />
<br />
"No. It's too hot."<br />
<br />
"You should go. Be a part of it."<br />
<br />
"No, I don't want to." she answers, staring at the crowd outside.<br />
<br />
I stop lecturing her. Sometimes you have to let people do what they want to do. Nothing is said, nothing is spoken. Neither of us is bothered by the silence, the lack of conversation.<br />
<br />
The bell rings, and the girl turns. "Goodbye, Mister," she says, exiting the room.<br />
<br />
It's her way of saying thanks.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gHzr1D-tKKk/TjhM7q_xt0I/AAAAAAAAAis/Jp4pRWcMtAY/s1600/18041_were_done.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150px" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gHzr1D-tKKk/TjhM7q_xt0I/AAAAAAAAAis/Jp4pRWcMtAY/s200/18041_were_done.jpg" t$="true" width="200px" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;">Six years, five graduations, 900 days.</span><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">It never gets old.</span><br />
<br />
Copyright 2010-2011 by Brian Leiken<br />
<br />
<em>LA Teacher</em><br />
<em><a href="http://leiken.blogspot.com/">http://leiken.blogspot.com/</a></em><br />
<br />
<em>Crossed Out</em> by Brian Leiken at <a href="http://www.lulu.com/">http://www.lulu.com/</a><br />
<br />
Brian Leiken is an LA inner-city, special ed teacher and author of Crossed Out, a book about and for his students. Oh yes, he's also my son:)<br />
<br />
<em>Photo of cap and diploma by Mary Gober</em><br />
<em>Photo of We're done! by Kati Garner </em><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/JyuC</div>Eranahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18073421800261470647noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363967751149676462.post-26660720607962346552011-05-26T15:26:00.000-07:002011-08-02T12:20:36.074-07:00A Memorial Day Reunion<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-htuFdturQqU/TjhN5YvovKI/AAAAAAAAAiw/IEwGfKOdyTo/s1600/121755_crying_rose.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="148px" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-htuFdturQqU/TjhN5YvovKI/AAAAAAAAAiw/IEwGfKOdyTo/s200/121755_crying_rose.jpg" t$="true" width="200px" /></a></div>Dad led me there. I know that now. I had gone back to Illinois for a couple days, back to my roots, to the remnants of family still there. <br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">On a wet, early Memorial Day morning, Dad requested that we visit my mother’s grave. I complied, feeling a sense of obligation to them both.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
Dad seemed determined to reunite us at the grave site. I never really knew my father except through my mother’s perceptions and judgments. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
There was a family tradition of an annual pilgrimage every Memorial Day to our relatives’ graves. We always packed a spade, bucket, and scrub brush and stopped by the open market for flowers for the gravesite.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>I watched the annual ritual of my parents filling the bucket from the nearest pump and scrubbing the flat headstones until the inscriptions could be seen. <br />
<br />
As the years passed, the graves seemed harder to find, overgrown under unkempt grass with weeds sunken below the mowing level. <br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>Dead people I had never known were conjured from memories. I was linked to these family ghosts by my mother’s stories and recollections. Over the years, I felt as if I came to know them, and they were no longer strangers.<br />
<br />
Today my father and I stopped at a small flower stand near the cemetery. The plant selection was limited to a few shelves of drooping flowers. <br />
<br />
Drizzle spattered mud on the leaves. I pruned off the dying petals and soggy leaves to make them more presentable. As always for these occasions, Dad brought a bucket, brush and spade along.<br />
<br />
It was eight years since my mother’s funeral, the last time we were all together. At that time I was unable to cry. She had died when my life was coming apart; and I was experiencing another death, my divorce.<br />
<br />
But today was different. I couldn’t seem to stop my tears. I couldn’t even speak as I watched my father clear away the debris and clean the gravesite the way I remembered it from so long ago.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ktdRkDPdnY0/Td7LHWK2EAI/AAAAAAAAAb4/DA-iOVdbuSI/s1600/428778_planting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200px" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ktdRkDPdnY0/Td7LHWK2EAI/AAAAAAAAAb4/DA-iOVdbuSI/s200/428778_planting.jpg" t8="true" width="131px" /></a></div>As I planted, he spoke of coming to my mother’s grave often to talk to her. He told me that no one would ever stand up for him like my mother did. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">He never said he loved her. In fact, he said he was happier with his new wife.</span><br />
<br />
I couldn’t reply. Once again I was in the middle between them. <br />
<br />
And then he told me something I never knew… he was always lonely with my mother. <br />
<br />
In the quiet rain, I heard his pain and regrets as he apologized, saying there were things he shouldn’t have done and was sorry for.<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Could my mother hear him? Did it take this long for there to be peace? He told my mother and me as we completed the gravesite ritual together for the last time.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">It was a moment of truth at my mother’s grave and the beginning of forgiveness. It was the day I got to know my father a little better.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2010-2011 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
<em>Crying Rose photo by Joanna Kopik</em></div><em></em><br />
<em>Planting photo by Rodrigo Roveri </em><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/JyuC</div>Eranahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18073421800261470647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363967751149676462.post-24995384640468822792011-05-11T23:53:00.000-07:002011-05-13T13:47:12.693-07:00Sweet Music, Sweet Memories<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ENnk13zz6qg/TcuHU_Y58EI/AAAAAAAAAbw/B_35No9nTMo/s1600/1229641_mosic_band_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133px" j8="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ENnk13zz6qg/TcuHU_Y58EI/AAAAAAAAAbw/B_35No9nTMo/s200/1229641_mosic_band_1.jpg" width="200px" /></a></div>Has music ever taken you back to a place and time, a sort of jukebox of memories that the music brings back as if it were just yesterday? <br />
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Sweet music evokes sweet memories.<br />
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There seem to be songs attached to moments in our lives that conjure up those unforgettable memories we've stored in our hearts and minds of people and places that we carry with us forever. All it takes is a few notes and we're there.<br />
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As I listened to the solo clarinettist masterfully hit the notes so perfectly at the public symphony, I flashed back to when I took up the clarinet because of a handsome Irish boy who played in the school band and whose auburn-haired, freckled sister was my best friend. <br />
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The clarinettist's notes transported me to seventh grade and my struggles with the instrument's reed and intricate fingerplay as I tried to hit the notes correctly. My motivation to play was Michael, who didn't seem to know I existed.<br />
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I was a gawky, shy girl with a secret crush on a tall, proud boy who was, unbeknowst to him, my Prince Charming, standing proudly in his sky blue and white, satiny band uniform.<br />
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It helped that my grandfather found a used clarinet and a music stand (to make it official) at a local pawnshop. Grandpa would have preferred for me to learn to play the piano like my grandmother, but there was no room in our tiny apartment. So it had to be the clarinet.<br />
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Unfortunately, hard as I practiced, I had no musical talent. The sounds I created were squawky and screechy; and though I played "I Am a Happy Wanderer" over and over, it never got better. The neighbors in the old Chicago apartiment building didn't complain about my rehearsals, at least not openly. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gBk7EtZw8mQ/TcuHNnNYZ6I/AAAAAAAAAbs/zXnU0lki6XY/s1600/clarinet3805274544_7e32844358_t.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133px" j8="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gBk7EtZw8mQ/TcuHNnNYZ6I/AAAAAAAAAbs/zXnU0lki6XY/s200/clarinet3805274544_7e32844358_t.jpg" width="200px" /></a></div>I had the uniform, the instrument, sheet music and stand, but I clearly was not musically inclined. <br />
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However, to be near my secret crush, I continued to faithfully practice "Edelweiss" until I was out of breath, and my cat hid under the bed.<br />
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Needless to say, I never got the boy, who didn't even notice me; I don't think we ever had a conversation. He had no idea how I fantasized about our holding hands and my being his girlfriend. <br />
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I did look the part in my blue and white cape and marched with the others to the school assembly performance, probably sounding like a scene from <em>The Music Man</em>. <br />
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The next year we moved to the suburbs, and the clarinet was put to rest in its weathered case. I never played it again, and no one seemed to mind.<br />
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<em>Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2010 -2011 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED</em><br />
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<em>Music Band 1 by Robert Proska</em><br />
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<em>Clarinet by Nina</em><br />
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</em><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/JyuC</div>Eranahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18073421800261470647noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363967751149676462.post-61272965036785017742011-04-30T21:35:00.000-07:002011-04-30T21:35:09.193-07:00Exit through the MOCA: Thumbs Up for Street Art by Brian Leiken, Guest Blogger<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-50t1XdA-mhA/TbxifXjC5bI/AAAAAAAAAbY/DUtneB_g8vA/s1600/batpapisafe_image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200px" j8="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-50t1XdA-mhA/TbxifXjC5bI/AAAAAAAAAbY/DUtneB_g8vA/s200/batpapisafe_image.jpg" width="163px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Banksy's <em>Bat Papi</em> </td></tr>
</tbody></table>I don't like modern art.<br />
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Modern art doesn't have to be explained, it doesn't have to follow any rules or guidelines; modern art can be formless, shapeless, messy, non-sensical, even ridiculous. <br />
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If I were to write a blog with no paragraphs, no sentence structure and no standardized spelling it would be unreadable garbage, literate trash not worth the encrypted bits of data it's written on. <br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">But splatter some paint on canvas, cover a painting in abstract geometric shapes, take a picture of a soup can, and suddenly it's "art." </span><br />
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I despise modern artists - these new age con-men that hide behind their pseudo scientific etymology that criticizes the viewer for not understanding their post-modern, post-minimalist, conceptual-realist, impressionist via post-impressionist, neo-expressionist movement. <br />
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The modern artist does not have to be "great," only to have others perceive them as "great"; their art requires no study or great skill - it's meant to be mass produced, copied, emulated. Modern art requires nothing on the part of the artist or the viewer: technique, style, and form are irrelevant; all that matters is how the art makes you "feel."<br />
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An eight year old, Autumn de Forest, began producing art pieces when she was five - she's already raked in $200,000. Doesn't matter if she's a child prodigy or if she's just lucky - people like her work because buying an 8-year old's art makes them feel "good."<br />
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Not even war has managed to escape the touchy-feely modern day art movement. In the early days of operation "Iraq Freedom" bomber crews would write epithet's on the sides of their bombs:"Take that Camel Jockey!" or "Hope you've got 72 virgins waiting on the other side, Mohammad!" <br />
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Reporters took photographs, there was an uproar, and the Air Force apologized, promising a quick stop to the practice of writing insults on bombs. It was evidently okay to blow someone up, just not to call them a name while doing it.<br />
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Better to hit me with sticks and stones and break my bones because y'know, names can really hurt me.<br />
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One of the newest movements in modern art is "Street Art," an art movement that started about twenty years ago off the streets of New York and LA.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Street artists are modern day surrealists that create guerrilla style art by placing their images on unsanctioned public space.</span> <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Xwim7C8jmOY/TbxiNT4-qiI/AAAAAAAAAbM/vwIj_F4Kd4I/s1600/graffatisafe_image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200px" j8="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Xwim7C8jmOY/TbxiNT4-qiI/AAAAAAAAAbM/vwIj_F4Kd4I/s200/graffatisafe_image.jpg" width="149px" /></a></div>Many don't consider them artists at all, but unlicensed vandals who should be fined and jailed for spraying "graffiti" on public buildings. <br />
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Growing up with '70's and '80's pop culture, street artists don't appear to be interested in redefining art, but simply questioning its meaning by stating it doesn't have any meaning.<br />
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<em>In other words, they delight in thumbing their nose at the establishment, especially the post modern art movement.</em><br />
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Last year, Banksy, the Andy Warhol of the street art movement, made a documentary entitled <em>Exit Through The Giftshop.</em> The movie was supposed to be a documentary about Banksy until he takes over the film and spins the cameras on filmmaker Thierry Guetta. <br />
<br />
Although Thierry Guetta has no discernible talent, Banksy lends him credibility, transforming Thierry into Mr. Brainwash, a non-talented overhyped genius sensation. A couple testimonials, a write up in the <em>LA Weekly</em>, and Thierry's Brainwash originals transform into priceless gems worth thousands of dollars.<br />
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<em>Bat Papi</em> is my favorite.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Starting this weekend the LA museum of contemporary art (MOCA) put on the first major museum "Street Art" exhibition - Art in the Streets. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5nVwYeE-GjI/TbxiSk6sZ4I/AAAAAAAAAbQ/IG5XSswOB9w/s1600/Briansafe_image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149px" j8="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5nVwYeE-GjI/TbxiSk6sZ4I/AAAAAAAAAbQ/IG5XSswOB9w/s200/Briansafe_image.jpg" width="200px" /></a></div><em>Like a midwesterner avoiding a vegan restaurant, the MOCA is the kind of museum I would never enter unless I wanted to make myself irrationally angry watching people ogle over puddles of dripping ooze; but for Street Art, I'll make an exception.</em><br />
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Street Art doesn't pretend to be anything; it is just as devoid of meaning as any other kind of modern art, except Street Art is both an incessant celebration of pop-culture and never ending mockery of the modern art movement.<br />
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My uncle Bernard is in town, so I decide to take him and my cousin Arlie to the exhibit. We park and Arlie pops for the tickets, $10 a piece. <br />
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After nearly running a couple of pedestrians over, we discover we're at the wrong part of the museum, we'll have to take a shuttle to the exhibit which is being held in another part of the MOCA downtown. Ironically this was the best thing we could have done because the line for tickets outside the actual event looks to be about an hour long.<br />
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Inside we are greeted by a mural of dead animals covered in doors that function like a macabre pop up book, when the doors are flipped "open" they reveal the animals interior organs. Brains, guts, the digestive system. People open the doors then scurry away in revulsion.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fFqmO08MwnQ/TbxiqzjKIDI/AAAAAAAAAbc/K-2fR28UjnA/s1600/MOCAsafe_image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239px" j8="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fFqmO08MwnQ/TbxiqzjKIDI/AAAAAAAAAbc/K-2fR28UjnA/s320/MOCAsafe_image.jpg" width="320px" /></a></div>Looking out over the museum the entire building strikes me as a carnival. The MOCA's interior is covered in graffiti, stencil art, and posters with videos playing in the background. <br />
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It's packed with Hollywood hipsters wearing ironic T-shirts and coiffed hair, faces masked under thick McNamara glasses, bodies decorated with sleeves of tattoos, wrapped in so many lairs of irony one wonders if there is a person beneath the "look."<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The crowd is an exhibit unto itself,</span> young MILF's with adorable children who function not as kids but as fashion accessories, manicured metrosexuals, 5'1 lesbian couples with matching chain tattoos, unshaven intellectuals wearing leather jackets and sneakers, dolled up Asian girls being towed by their dopey white boy boyfriends, Echo Park Bohemians and vogue Westsiders who look like they rarely cross East of the 110, teenage taggers who drool over the cholo graffiti with wonder and envy.<br />
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As they say in LA, it's not an event, it's a "happening."<br />
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The art is as varied as it is bizarre; some of it I recognize because I've already seen it decorating the streets of LA for years; Shepard Fairey's Andre the Giant entitled "Obey" (he's also done the blue and red Obama poster), Invader's trademark Space Invader coming down to Earth, Lady Pink's Buff Monster - and of course Banksy.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6bMuvjkApeY/TbxiXVo-LpI/AAAAAAAAAbU/NP5mt96ALc8/s1600/Banksysafe_image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298px" j8="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6bMuvjkApeY/TbxiXVo-LpI/AAAAAAAAAbU/NP5mt96ALc8/s400/Banksysafe_image.jpg" width="400px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Banksy's <em>I Hate Mondays!</em> <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UUxShE5TC9o/Tbxi_OQwN6I/AAAAAAAAAbk/tREF4KqrIXw/s1600/subwaysafe_imageCA1KJ6U9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" j8="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UUxShE5TC9o/Tbxi_OQwN6I/AAAAAAAAAbk/tREF4KqrIXw/s1600/subwaysafe_imageCA1KJ6U9.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">interior subway car two feet wide</td></tr>
</tbody></table>There are ceilings hung with paper fighter jets riding skateboards above armored shogun warriors, disembodied arms spray painting buildings, cars pimped out with blue and pink chrome, a 3-D replica of an interior subway car two feet wide, a drum set just sitting out in the open waiting for anyone to play it, murals of cholo's drinking 40's and chola's wielding uzi's dressed as angels.<br />
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It takes me a moment to realize that much of the art isn't even on canvas, but spray painted or stenciled into the walls of the MOCA itself - someone is going to have a time cleaning this all up.<br />
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"I like it," Bernie declares grandly, "I like it because it's an act of free will. I just can't tell if they are doing it to make a statement or make a buck."<br />
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"Probably both."<br />
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"I normally hate museums," Arlie adds, "but this doesn't feel like a museum at all."<br />
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She's right, it doesn't feel like a museum. The exhibit isn't confined to the art on display, but is a part of the walls themselves, even the crowd feels like a part of the show. This is art not for the elite, but for the masses; subversive, irreverent, flippant - it requires no "specialized" training to appreciate.<br />
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Street Art is both a celebration and inditement of the billboards and advertisements that have become such a part of our architecture we can no longer imagine life without them.<br />
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<em><strong>I don't like Modern Art, but for Street Art, I'll make an exception.</strong></em><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-b9WlnzhU7VA/Tbxl45mxIhI/AAAAAAAAAbo/cs2ii6mZHaI/s1600/pinatasafe_imageCAY9OD5G.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298px" j8="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-b9WlnzhU7VA/Tbxl45mxIhI/AAAAAAAAAbo/cs2ii6mZHaI/s400/pinatasafe_imageCAY9OD5G.jpg" width="400px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
Banksy's <em>Police Beating Pinata</em><br />
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</tbody></table>Copyright 2011 Brian Leiken<br />
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LA Teacher<br />
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<em><a href="http://leiken.blogspot.com/">http://leiken.blogspot.com/</a></em><br />
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<br />
Brian Leiken is an LA inner-city, Special Ed teacher and author of three books for and about his students available on lulu.com. He's also penned <em>I Went Into Teaching for the Money</em> about his first year of teaching in LA. And best of all, he's my son:)<br />
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<em>Crossed Out and Messed Up</em> by Brian Leiken at <a href="http://www.lulu.com/">http://www.lulu.com/</a><br />
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<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/JyuC</div>Eranahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18073421800261470647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363967751149676462.post-47114613077476819822011-04-18T14:28:00.000-07:002011-04-18T14:33:34.783-07:00Greek Easter & Passover: Sharing Food and Feud<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gTixNvFzJsw/Tavfq7N0eDI/AAAAAAAAAbA/gVkmUH0Y2I8/s1600/Grkfood100_1959.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" r6="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gTixNvFzJsw/Tavfq7N0eDI/AAAAAAAAAbA/gVkmUH0Y2I8/s1600/Grkfood100_1959.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Traditional family holidays meant sharing food with a dash of feud. <br />
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I have memories of Easter with my original family and Passover with my acquired family.<br />
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Just as they gathered annually to celebrate their respective religious beliefs and distinctive holiday dishes, they also shared their personal differences.<br />
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My Greek relatives took turns hosting holidays: Christmas at our house; Thanksgiving at my uncle’s; and Greek Easter at my aunt’s home in Chicago’s South Shore. Greek Easter is typically celebrated the week after American Easter. <br />
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I recall entering my aunt’s house exclaiming, “Christos Anesti,” (<em>Christ is Risen</em>), hugging my cousins and enjoying the warmth of family bonds, celebrating our reunion since our last holiday together. <br />
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Like my Catholic friends, it was our tradition to fast before Easter and then gorge ourselves during a huge feast on Greek Easter Sunday.<br />
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Greek Easter was a banquet of mouthwatering spring lamb, mounds of creamy mashed potatoes, authentic Greek salad tossed with black olives and feta cheese accompanied by a bounty of side dishes laden across a long, narrow dinner table. I always tried to sit next to my handsome blonde, blue-eyed cousin who I had a secret crush on. <br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gkEuTASOnzY/Tayr3likUII/AAAAAAAAAbI/ML_1cee39dk/s1600/baklava_sweet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" r6="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gkEuTASOnzY/Tayr3likUII/AAAAAAAAAbI/ML_1cee39dk/s1600/baklava_sweet.jpg" /></a>We crowded around, eagerly gobbling the women's speciality dishes to compensate for our week of fasting. Though we stuffed ourselves, we always left room for the desserts, including baklava and my favorite powdered-sugar cookies (kourembiathes). And of course, the adults drank ouzo, Greek liqueur.</div><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">We looked forward to these family events with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension.</span><br />
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What would our cousins look like since Christmas? What was the latest gossip? At what point would our mother and her brother have their annual argument which was part of the holiday ritual as well? <br />
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They had fought for many years, and a truce of sorts was declared for the sake of family during the holiday meals. The peace lasted throughout dinner; and then, on cue, the predictable and loud argument erupted. <br />
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They had contrary opinions on just about everything, and neither would give in to the other and remained in a resentful standoff until the next family gathering.<br />
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This "feud" ritual following the hearty, celebratory meal would be re-enacted at the next family holiday dinner. <br />
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We cousins understood these family feuds and looked forward to being together for the future disarmament at Thanksgiving or Christmas. The coolness would last until then.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">After my marriage, my Easters became Passovers.</span><br />
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For me, Passover rituals seemed solemn compared to the joyous Easters I remembered. During the Seder, we gathered to honor Jewish liberation from persecution and their suffering while enslaved. <br />
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All the dishes served had symbolic meanings, and the elders read passages to accompany foods that represented those difficult times.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-goURF_e0Tlk/TavgoU4PX2I/AAAAAAAAAbE/fP1DNu9vnQ4/s1600/matza_for_passover_pessah_28.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="130" r6="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-goURF_e0Tlk/TavgoU4PX2I/AAAAAAAAAbE/fP1DNu9vnQ4/s200/matza_for_passover_pessah_28.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>I participated in the ceremony out of respect for my in-laws but couldn't identify with the occasion.<br />
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I couldn’t relate to the unappetizing gefilte fish, unleavened bread and bitter herbs. I came from another tribe and heritage.<br />
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I missed the celebration of my original family’s Easter holiday, even with my mother and her brother sniping at each other. <br />
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Though the traditions represented a contrast of cultures, customs and foods, the families did have some other "rituals" in common. <br />
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My mother-in-law and sister-in-law didn’t get along either, and their cold silences were felt by everyone throughout these obligatory occasions. <br />
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The official Passover ritual was strained by their dislike for each other. It, too, was predictable like my mother and my uncle.<br />
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It wasn’t expressed loudly like my Greek relatives. After the meal, the women separated from the men and gathered in the kitchen. <br />
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</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">By this time, they could no longer tolerate being around each other. The dispute would be acted out as criticism and complaining usually over small things. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Like my original family, my acquired family understood these matters and accepted them. It was part of the ritual of sharing food and feud. Pass the lamb and gefilte fish. Opah! Oy Vey!</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2010-2011 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><em>Sweet by Yucel Tellici</em><br />
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<em>Matzah for Passover photo by Alex Ringer </em></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><em></em> </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><em></em> </div><em></em> <br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><em></em> </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/JyuC</div>Eranahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18073421800261470647noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363967751149676462.post-48200239714951743142011-04-10T18:00:00.000-07:002011-04-10T18:00:11.931-07:00Dana's Hollywood Birthday by Guest Blogger Brian Leiken<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-e8HgdGzVrno/TaJGBjxF7QI/AAAAAAAAAa0/elcnMx2Zk6U/s1600/Danacakesafe_image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a></div>Birthdays!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FY07CQ0OIZw/TaJQ_tJUiLI/AAAAAAAAAa8/rqQcVFK8e2w/s1600/DanaBrisafe_image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" r6="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FY07CQ0OIZw/TaJQ_tJUiLI/AAAAAAAAAa8/rqQcVFK8e2w/s320/DanaBrisafe_image.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>For most of us, our birthday is an excuse to get together with family and friends, have a good meal, open a few gifts and blow out some candles on a cake.<br />
<br />
After turning 21, I became indifferent to birthdays, all I had left to look forward to was may auto insurance dropping at age 25, and I just didn't see any point to celebrating getting older. <br />
<br />
Sometimes I've woken up and actually forgotten it's my day of birth until I get a call from my mother wishing me a "Happy Birthday."<br />
<br />
Dana is my diametrical birthday opposite; my sister will often begin planning her birthday party weeks in advance, sending out evites to hundreds of potential attendees. <br />
<br />
Her birthday is not commemorated by a single party, but a week long event of exquisite dinners starting usually around the 4th of April which culminates on her "official" birthday in either a swank Hollywood hotel or trendy club on April 10th.<br />
<br />
Last year Easter fell on the 4th.<br />
<br />
Dana upstaged Jesus.<br />
<br />
This year I get an email from Tracina, Dana's co-producer, that they are holding a birthday party for my sister at the Hudson, one of those versatile bars that simultaneously appeals to both men and women. <br />
<br />
The Hudson may look like a converted train box car on the outside, but on the inside it's a meeting place for the society of good looking white people with great cheek bones, a pit stop for hipsters before they head out to the even trendier and swankier clubs in West Hollywood. <br />
<br />
In addition to celebrating Dana's birthday, they'll also be watching a live broadcast of her latest TV show, <em>Marcel's Quantum Kitchen</em>, with both the cast and crew in attendance. Given the last minute invitation, Dana isn't expecting a big crowd, but then this is just the opening birthday event. <br />
<br />
Phil's got an invitation, he lives nearby so I stop by his place and we walk over. Like most trendy Hollywood bars, at the Hudson you've got to pay for valet or spend 15 minutes in a vain attempt looking for free parking before finally giving up and paying the $6 for the valet.<br />
<br />
The Midwesterner in me would rather walk, so we decide to hike the distance, it would be a pleasant stroll except for the deluge of white people walking their dogs. <br />
<br />
We pass by a pair of dog owners making small talk about their breeds, and Phil unsuccessfully tries to hide his disgust.<br />
<br />
"I swear to God the worst part about owning a dog is all the banal questions you have to suffer through. How old is your dog? What breed is your pup? Where do you have him groomed? It's the worst."<br />
<br />
I nod in sympathy. Freaking white people and their small talk. <br />
<br />
Phil and I have got better things to discuss, like the press release for his new novel, <em>Ass Eyes in a Sea of Spec, </em><a href="http://bit.ly/iamxum">http://bit.ly/iamxum</a>. <br />
<br />
As we debate the content of the press release, we pass a dog owner walking his poodle; he fires off a withering glare. We're not Weho material walking pampered dogs that spend their days in doggie day care; we're writers.<br />
<br />
There goes the neighborhood. <br />
<br />
We get to the Hudson early to enjoy the last vestiges of happy hour. Fifteen minutes and two drinks later, both of us are in a better mood. I ask Phil if he were a drink, what kind of drink would he be?<br />
<br />
"Probably a beer. Hoppy. Takes some getting used to, but after a while you'll love it."<br />
<br />
"Rum and coke." I reply. "Sweet, easy going, piratey."<br />
<br />
Marcel and the cast from his show arrive but Dana's nowhere in site. It's after seven, but Dana will never be on time for her own party - in LA that's simply not done. <br />
<br />
I walk over and say hello to the cast; it's the third time I've met Marcel, the first being my 39th birthday where I made a request to my sister to have him cook me a dinner at Bazaar. <a href="http://leiken.blogspot.com/2009/09/birthday-bazaar.html">http://leiken.blogspot.com/2009/09/birthday-bazaar.html</a><br />
<br />
Calling Marcel a "cook" is like naming Einstein a "mathematician"; Marcel is a gastronomic force of nature, his kitchen a culinary laboratory.<br />
<br />
<em>Marcel's Quantum Kitchen</em> (MQK) is a reality TV show ostensibly about a Hollywood catering business, but the heart of the program is observing Marcel in his kitchen concoct dishes that defy the laws of culinary physics.<br />
<br />
Noodles created out of blended wine, foie gras wrapped around cotton candy, desserts cooked with liquid nitrogen that cause smoke to billow forth from the mouth and nose - it's not cooking but science, or what Marcel refers to as "molecular gastronomy."<br />
<br />
Originally a contestant on <em>Top Chef</em>, Marcel had developed a reputation for having an "attitude"; for being a vicious perfectionist with no empathy or pity for "lesser" cooks. <br />
<br />
But I've tasted his cooking; its like eating a Picasso. I shake his hand, Marcel beams.<br />
<br />
Chef, buddy, and fellow cast member Jarrid is sitting next to him. Covered in tattoos and wearing a leather jacket, Jarrid looks like he belongs in the Hell's Angels. He exudes almost manic energy; I bet he was pegged with ADHD as a kid.<br />
<br />
I sidle up next to him. "I heard that while you were working as a bus boy at Bazaar you stole a prep chef uniform and showed up the next day pretending to be one of the cooks. Is that true?" <br />
<br />
Jarrid laughs. "Yeah, I wanted to learn how to cook, and it wasn't happening fast enough, so I just took one of the uniforms that had gotten back from the cleaners and showed up early the next day.<br />
<br />
I started prepping and it was like a month before anyone figured out that I wasn't a cook, I just wanted to learn. Marcel knew, but he didn't care. After the boss found out, Marcel just took me in and now I work for him."<br />
<br />
"That's amazing."<br />
<br />
Jarrid shrugs. "Anytime I've wanted to do something, I just went out and did it. That's how I learned how to be a circus performer, fire eater, and trapeze artist."<br />
<br />
I try not to gape. He was a circus performer? "Isn't that scary?"<br />
<br />
"Anytime you do something new it's scary, everything's scary. But you just go out and do it."<br />
<br />
My sister arrives, she's just had her hair and make-up done and she looks like a movie star.<br />
<br />
"Would you believe that the guy who was doing my make-up was a former contestant on NEXT?" she exclaims.<br />
<br />
"I remember producing him and he was quite the prize, I mean they all wanted him. I was just afraid he was going to make me look like a drag queen."<br />
<br />
"You look great, Dana," I reply. I'm a little surprised she isn't wearing a tiara, but then it is early. "Where's Christos?"<br />
<br />
Up in San Francisco, but he had me bring wine." Dana withdraws a couple of bottles from a small winery located in Napa valley. We uncork it and it's delicious.<br />
<br />
"If you were a drink, what kind of drink would you be?" I ask.<br />
<br />
"Champagne," my sister answers. <br />
<br />
I nod; my sister probably would be a bottle of champagne, sophisticated and sparkly. We order food and I devour a burger and sweet potato fries. It's one of the best burgers I've ever had, but then I'm really hungry and I am a burger whore.<br />
<br />
A willowy woman with great cheek bones arrives; she looks like a model. Phil asks who it is. I'm not sure but I think it's Marcel's super hot model girlfriend. I ask Dana.<br />
<br />
"Oh, that's Shannon. She's Marcel's girlfriend; they met while she was modeling for the show." <br />
<br />
I love it when I'm right. To get a woman like Shannon you'd have to be some kind of culinary genius with his own TV show. My sister didn't settle for anything less than 007; I'd date Christos and I'm not even gay.<br />
<br />
"I was expecting a blog about the last party, but instead you wrote about your car!" Dana exclaims. "I still think you should name it "Teacher's Pet!" <br />
<br />
"I'll write about this party next, I just need a couple of photos as proof I was here."<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6ZAKHcOsKvw/TaJFbyRh5DI/AAAAAAAAAaw/NgLEGvroN3M/s1600/MarcelBrisafe_image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" r6="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6ZAKHcOsKvw/TaJFbyRh5DI/AAAAAAAAAaw/NgLEGvroN3M/s320/MarcelBrisafe_image.jpg" width="238" /></a></div>You need proof?" Marcel calls out, waving me over.<br />
<br />
"C'mon then, let's take a photo." <br />
<br />
We pose and I give my patented "thumbs up and wink" - Arrggh! Marcel picks up on it immediately and mimics it.<br />
<br />
Dana begins opening gifts. I haven't gotten her anything yet, because I've learned its better just to ask what she wants. <br />
<br />
Phil has brought her a Buddha board, a stylus that you paint with water that creates images, then over time disappear allowing you to use it over and over again. <br />
<br />
Dana claps her hands in excitement. "Where's your gift, brother unit?"<br />
<br />
"I decided to wait."<br />
<br />
"Phil got it right. Good job, Phil."<br />
<br />
I try not to glare. "Yeah, good job, Phil."<br />
<br />
More people arrive; many of them people Dana has worked with on other shows. My sister has a vast network of reality TV show contacts; it's one of the reasons she is so successful at both finding work and getting shows produced. <br />
<br />
<em>The Tonight Show, Howie Mandel, Beyond Chance, The Best Damn Sports Show, Christopher Lowell, NEXT, Ace of Cakes</em> - there's more but I can't remember them all. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Dana's birthdays are more than just a celebration; they provide her an opportunity to network; it's one of the reasons why it takes a week for her to get through her birthday.</span><br />
<br />
Other than Facebook how else is she supposed to keep up with all these people?<br />
<br />
The staff changes the channel on a big screen TV over to MQK but there's a Laker game on and the bar is packed; I can't hear a thing. As soon as the show starts, the cast and crew cheers; I try listening for half a minute before giving up. <br />
<br />
Dana arches an eyebrow in my direction, annoyed I'm not watching the show, but then hardly anyone is.<br />
<br />
The Lakers are playing the Utah Jazz and are on the verge of making a come back; the bar is filled with jubilant cries of exultation that drowns out any conversation more than two feet away. <br />
<br />
At least until Kobe drops the ball with two seconds left and loses the game (I love it when the Lakers lose), but by this time MQK is almost over.<br />
<br />
I find my attention diverted between watching Marcel on screen, then switching back to glance at him in the bar; which one do I watch? TV Marcel, or flesh and blood Marcel? The same goes for the rest of the cast: Jarrid, Robyn, and Kevin.<br />
<br />
Watching someone on TV while being able to simultaneously talk to them creates dissonance in the brain. How do I know which one is real?<br />
<br />
We sing Dana happy birthday; there are cupcakes and she blows out a pair of candles. She's completely in her element, laughing, working the room as her friends and co-workers pay homage to the young woman who has become a celebrity in the nebulous world of production.<br />
<br />
The only thing better than being a star is being a star maker; and my sister has the contacts, experience, and creativity to make it happen. If most people in Hollywood are talk, Dana is one of those rare few who can actually make it happen.<br />
<br />
Breast cancer didn't stop her, it wasn't even a yield sign, just a speed bump that barely slowed her down; she managed to produce MQK while going through chemotherapy.<br />
<br />
Like a gambler rolling straight 7's at the craps table, people surround my sister in the hopes that some of her luck will rub off on them.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Beautiful, fearless, exuberant, Dana is a phenomenon, a Hollywood singularity that continues to beat the odds because successful people like my sister generate their own luck.</span><br />
<br />
If I had a motto it would be something like, "It's kind of crappy, but it's free," or "Send those squabs to Davy Jones' locker!" <br />
<br />
But my sister only has one motto: Make it happen!<br />
<br />
Before I head out, I kiss her on the cheek. "I better still get a call on my birthday," Dana warns.<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I nod. Woe unto those who forget my sister's birthday. D-day is not June 6th.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-e8HgdGzVrno/TaJGBjxF7QI/AAAAAAAAAa0/elcnMx2Zk6U/s1600/Danacakesafe_image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" r6="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-e8HgdGzVrno/TaJGBjxF7QI/AAAAAAAAAa0/elcnMx2Zk6U/s320/Danacakesafe_image.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">D-day is April 10th.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Happy Birthday, Dana.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Make it happen!</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
Copyright 2011 Brian Leiken</div><br />
<br />
<em>LA Teacher</em><br />
<a href="http://leiken.blogspot.com/">http://leiken.blogspot.com/</a><br />
<br />
Brian Leiken is an LA inner-city, Special Ed teacher and author of three books for and about his students available on lulu.com. He's also penned I Went Into Teaching for the Money about his first year of teaching in LA. And best of all, he's my son:)<br />
<br />
<em>Crossed Out</em> and <em>Messed Up</em> by Brian Leiken at <a href="http://www.lulu.com/">http://www.lulu.com/</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/JyuC</div>Eranahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18073421800261470647noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363967751149676462.post-23283497676083709422011-04-01T12:34:00.000-07:002011-04-01T12:34:10.577-07:00Homes: The Way They Were<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yCXIWNvhv2k/TZYmugvHvUI/AAAAAAAAAao/4kKO6oPvjh8/s1600/1334838_welcome_banner_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="106" r6="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yCXIWNvhv2k/TZYmugvHvUI/AAAAAAAAAao/4kKO6oPvjh8/s200/1334838_welcome_banner_1.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>There’s a scene in the movie, <em>The Way We Were,</em> where two men are sharing “best of” memories.<br />
<br />
Inspired by that scene, I am remembering the many homes of my life and their “best of” moments.<br />
<br />
Though I have lived in many places, not all of them felt like home. The ones that I think of as home were those where I felt connected to my surroundings. These are my “best of” home memories, “the way they were.”<br />
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<strong>First home, early childhood in a multi-ethnic Chicago apartment complex</strong> where our playgrounds were asphalt and concrete, alleyways sandwiched between brick buildings, underground storage basements and a large empty, weed prairie. <br />
<br />
I always dreamed of having a real backyard with flowerbeds like my aunt’s old Chicago house in South Shore. <br />
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<em><strong>Best memory:</strong> climbing the advertising billboard's wooden scaffolds on the State Street side of the prairie to get a great view of sparks flying when the boys threw cans on the streetcar tracks, a game for city kids.</em><em><br />
</em><br />
<strong>Second home, teen years in the south suburbs of Chicago, in working class Dolton,</strong> where we finally had a yard where my mother hung the wash to dry on a clothesline that doubled as our theatre curtain, a blanket attached with clothespins, for our backyard plays.<br />
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<em><strong>Best memory: </strong>the fir tree my mother planted that grew taller than our house and became a giant Xmas tree every winter that we lit for all to see.</em><em><br />
</em><br />
<strong>In my married home 20’s to mid 30’s in Eureka, a central Illinois bedroom community</strong> of churchgoing gentlemen farmers, home was a rambling farmhouse that we modernized on our semi-timbered five acres adjacent to neighbors who rode their horses past the cornfields up the road. <br />
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<em><strong>Best memory: </strong>my young children playing in a tree, one in the big tire swing and the other in the crook of the tree.</em><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-NqGz9D8JC4E/SvJ2kjWWwoI/AAAAAAAAAFQ/mXLLPBwiBfc/s1600/tireswing1091137_autumn_in_ontario_3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" r6="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-NqGz9D8JC4E/SvJ2kjWWwoI/AAAAAAAAAFQ/mXLLPBwiBfc/s1600/tireswing1091137_autumn_in_ontario_3.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<em><strong>Second best memory:</strong> growing a vegetable garden for the first time and preparing the homegrown produce for my family and putting fresh cut flowers on the table from my own backyard.</em><br />
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<strong>My home on a cul-de-sac in Falls Church, VA</strong>, where some nights the sky was a planetarium with constellations that shone brightly as crickets serenaded us on a summer evening.<br />
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<em><strong>Best memory:</strong> watching our beloved cat, Frisky, roll around in the ivy while I rested lazily with a book in the hammock slung between two giant White Oak trees.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<strong>Last home in an apartment townhome in Marina del Rey overlooking the channel</strong>, watching the moon play on the water with the shimmering lights of boats and distant planes looking like UFOs blocking the stars as they descended into LAX.<br />
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<em><strong>Best memory:</strong> walking the boardwalk piers between the slips of the anchored sailboats and yachts during a crimson sunset, almost as much pleasure as strolling the beach a few blocks away.</em><em><br />
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<strong>Home today in a condo overlooking a former golf course in Phoenix.</strong><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IHBLIXGsmnc/SvJyuvRgOQI/AAAAAAAAAFA/gSHBJ6f_tJo/s1600/808847_hummingbird.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="148" r6="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IHBLIXGsmnc/SvJyuvRgOQI/AAAAAAAAAFA/gSHBJ6f_tJo/s200/808847_hummingbird.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><em><strong>Best memory: </strong>drinking my morning coffee while I watch a hummingbird pause for a sweet drink at the feeder just above the orange tree. </em><br />
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All of the home bookmarks are where I felt centered. They are the places that are always with me and are the “best of” memories.<br />
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Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2010 -2011 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED<br />
<br />
<em>Welcome banner by Billy Alexander</em><br />
<br />
<em>Tree photo by Sue Byford</em><br />
<br />
<em>Hummingbird photo by Tiffany Clark</em><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/JyuC</div>Eranahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18073421800261470647noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363967751149676462.post-54037853227822342782011-03-20T17:43:00.000-07:002011-03-20T17:52:45.993-07:00Man on Fire by Brian Leiken, Guest Blogger<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-FoVZlKTAbB0/TYZR5ziw6rI/AAAAAAAAAac/9DsxzA4plAo/s1600/1339517_burning_match.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" r6="true" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-FoVZlKTAbB0/TYZR5ziw6rI/AAAAAAAAAac/9DsxzA4plAo/s200/1339517_burning_match.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><em>"A man can be an artist...in anything, food, whatever. It depends on how good he is at it. </em></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><em>Creasy's art is death. He is about to paint his masterpiece. I have nothing else to say."</em></span> <strong>-</strong> Rayburn, <em>Man on Fire</em><br />
<br />
My art is teaching. <br />
<br />
Like most men with delusions of grandeur, I'd like to think I'm something other than I am: a writer, a comedian, a pirate, the Indiana Jones of Southeast Asia. But my true craft, my genuine talent, lies withing the realm of teaching. <br />
<br />
It's a skill that's been honed through thousands of hours of practice in the heart of darkness, the inner city classroom, strengthened by teaching the inherently "unteachable," Special Ed. Anyone can teach AP, but not anyone can teach Special Ed.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">If you can teach Special Ed in the inner city, you can teach anything.</span><br />
<br />
I used to think I was ineffective, a fraud, a fake. No matter how hard I tried, no matter how many times I explained and re-explained, no matter how many hours I spent in review or helping kids with their homework, my students just didn't "get it."<br />
<br />
But give me a class full of general ed students, and I transform, metamorphosing from a crude hockey player into an elegant figure skater, gliding through concepts with lectures and discussion that borders on high performance art.<br />
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Give me a class of honors and AP, and I am no longer a figure skater, but a God.<br />
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<strong>You are what you teach.</strong><br />
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One of the tricks to teaching is learning not to take things personally, to quell your feelings and your emotional frustration: apprehension, rage, angst - gone. <br />
<br />
Like a bemused comedian in the middle of a routine, you are no longer an individual but an act, a persona that oscillates between unflappable royalty and Buddhist monk, because no matter how good you are, you have to accept that some things are beyond your control.<br />
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No matter how hard you try, your students still have to be willing to learn and listen.<br />
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Sometimes you receive a question in class that is so far out in left field it came from the bleachers.<br />
<br />
I'm co-teaching in Duran's economics class, explaining how property values can decline in crime ridden areas when a question is tossed from outside the stadium.<br />
<br />
"Mister," Fluffy asks, "What happens if a house is haunted? Does the property go down?"<br />
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Sigh, it's Fluffy. Duran takes to the plate first. "Well, then you have to call in the Ghost Busters."<br />
<br />
The class laughs. "Ha ha ha, Mr. Duran." Fluffy says loudly. "Very funny. I know there is no such thing as the Ghost Busters."<br />
<br />
Shrugging, I return to the board. A small interruption, no big thing.<br />
<br />
"But seriously," Fluffy interjects, "what happens when a house is haunted?"<br />
<br />
My turn. "Normally after the police ascertain a house is haunted, they call in the Bureau of Paranormal Activity."<br />
<br />
The entire class looks up. Bureau of Paranormal Activity! What's that? "Seriously, none of you have heard of the Bureau of Paranormal Activity? Section 13?"<br />
<br />
Fluffy sits forward. "Section 13! What do they do?"<br />
<br />
"They investigate and solve paranormal crimes; hauntings, aliens, that sort of thing."<br />
<br />
"How do you get into it!"<br />
<br />
"You study to be a para-psychologist. They're specifically trained to handle ghosts. One of the ways they identify ghosts is by the ectoplasm they leave behind." I state offhandedly.<br />
<br />
"How does one get to be one of those!" Fluffy pants, leaning forward.<br />
<br />
The class is riveted. Time to crush Fluffy's imaginary dream. "Well, you have to go to college and get a degree in para-psychology."<br />
<br />
Fluffy deflates. College. I might as well have told him he had to jump to the moon. "How come I've never heard of Section 13?"<br />
<br />
"Talk to me after class."<br />
<br />
Twenty minutes later, the bell rings and Fluffy's out the door, question and answer forgotten as he heads out to lunch, but the next day he approaches me with yet another question. <br />
<br />
"Mr. Leiken, I tried looking up Section 13 on Google, and I couldn't find anything."<br />
<br />
"Well it's not like they are going to have Section 13 on the Internet!" I snort. "They don't want the public knowing about it."<br />
<br />
"Oh." Fluffy replies, heading back to his seat.<br />
<br />
It's probably the first time Fluffy has ever shown initiative when attempting to research a topic.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-26lrgDXRmcY/TYZSxN-ZOpI/AAAAAAAAAag/PuM9xlMCqXU/s1600/63488_class_full_o_bored_students.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="142" r6="true" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-26lrgDXRmcY/TYZSxN-ZOpI/AAAAAAAAAag/PuM9xlMCqXU/s200/63488_class_full_o_bored_students.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Later that week I show an English class one of my blogs, <em>Top 10 Movies: 2010. </em><br />
<br />
Working with Castaneda, we've decided to dedicate one day a week to blog writing in an attempt to get the class to write creatively and work on self expression. <br />
<br />
On Friday I give them their first assignment: write one page about a movie or TV show they either loved or hated and explain why they either loved or hated the show or film.<br />
<br />
On Monday I ask them to hand in the assignment. Out of forty kids, only eighteen turn in their work, and five of the eighteen turned in not papers but three sentence paragraphs. Curiously, the three Special Ed kids in the class have all completed the assignment.<br />
<br />
"Can't we turn it in late, Mister?"<br />
<br />
"Sorry, I don't accept late work."<br />
<br />
"But you can't expect us to do work on the weekend!"<br />
<br />
"Oh no, not the WEEKEND!" I exclaim, throwing up my hands. "Oh my God, the teacher assigned homework on the weekend. We're doomed, DOOMED!"<br />
<br />
I fall down to my knees, head raised as I beseech the heavens, sobbing. "Why, God, why? Why have you forsaken us? I can't believe you expect us to do homework on the WEEKEND! Why not just kill us now!"<br />
<br />
The class is stupefied, not sure whether to laugh or look ashamed. I pop back up to my feet, grinning. "So, what can anyone tell me about constructive criticism?"<br />
<br />
The next time I give an assignment, thirty kids turn it in. That's progress, I guess.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Good teaching is like telling a good joke</span>. Anyone can tell a joke, but not anyone can tell a joke effectively. Cracking jokes is not about the words; it's about the timing. A good joke is not just a set up and a punch line, but a story infused with personality. <br />
<br />
Teaching is the same way; anyone can recite facts and present information, but not everyone has the passion, the personality, the inner fire. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">A great teacher has a heart of flame, a soul animated not with a bonfire but an inferno</span>, a tornado of enthusiasm that tears away the listless and mundane, a whirlwind that rips through the insipid red tape and brainless bureaucracy of standardized testing and meaningless rules.<br />
<br />
Without the fire, you won't make it. There's a reason why teachers who have given up are referred to as burn outs. <br />
<br />
As the refrain goes from <em>Damn Yankees</em>, "You got to have heart, miles and miles and miles of heart." <br />
<br />
Hopefully, your flame catches a spark in those you teach and inspires them to be more than they are, not diploma approved CST automatons, but free willed thinkers who refuse to live in the cave of cultural conformity.<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-NiilEAH0ANs/TYZTM_7UrDI/AAAAAAAAAak/colgf3z2rz0/s1600/1192845_flames.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" r6="true" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-NiilEAH0ANs/TYZTM_7UrDI/AAAAAAAAAak/colgf3z2rz0/s200/1192845_flames.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Writer, comedian, pirate, I am all of those things. <br />
<br />
But I am also, and always will be, a teacher. Everyday I teach in the inner city, I continue to create my masterpiece. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>I am the man on fire.<br />
<br />
Copyright 2011 Brian Leiken<br />
<br />
<em>LA Teacher</em><br />
<a href="http://leiken.blogspot.com/">http://leiken.blogspot.com/</a><br />
<br />
Brian Leiken is an LA inner-city, Special Ed teacher and author of three books for and about his students available on lulu.com. He's also penned <em>I Went Into Teaching for the Money</em> about his first year of teaching in LA. And best of all, he's my son:)<br />
<br />
<em>Crossed Out and Messed Up</em> by Brian Leiken at <a href="http://www.lulu.com/">http://www.lulu.com/</a><br />
<br />
<em>Photo: burning match by Stephen Davies</em><br />
<em>Photo: class full 'o bored students by mexikids</em><br />
<em>Photo: flames by patita rds</em><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/JyuC</div>Eranahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18073421800261470647noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363967751149676462.post-19835553889034801302011-03-10T11:34:00.000-08:002011-03-10T11:34:09.132-08:00In Search of an Irishman on St. Paddy's Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-QubEZv62moQ/S51ERH4ZiOI/AAAAAAAAAPA/nnXLFyDT3gw/s1600/462365_clover_leaf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="187" q6="true" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-QubEZv62moQ/S51ERH4ZiOI/AAAAAAAAAPA/nnXLFyDT3gw/s200/462365_clover_leaf.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>As a feature reporter for NBC in the Midwest years ago, my assignment was to interview Irishmen drinking and toasting on St. Paddy’s Day in local pubs in central Illinois.<br />
<br />
A no-brainer, right? <br />
<br />
My camerman and I thought we had an easy day ahead and expected to wrap the St. Paddy’s Day story up early so we could enjoy the holiday. <br />
<br />
We entered one Irish bar and started conversations with the “revelers,” clanking their green beer mugs together, shouting “Erin Go Bragh” (an Irish blessing used to express allegiance to Ireland) and breaking into choruses of “Danny Boy.”<br />
<br />
Everything seemed traditionally Irish. I was raised in Chicago where the river was dyed green for the occasion, and a parade paid honor to the many Irish communities that live in the windy city.<br />
<br />
As I walked from one drinker to the next, I found many nationalities: Germans, Scots, Dutch, Italians and assorted heritages, but not one Irishman among them. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-jNEnHAep3co/S51DQmMGasI/AAAAAAAAAOo/CNH2nxd1XS4/s1600/271106_paddys_day_drinking_kit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" q6="true" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-jNEnHAep3co/S51DQmMGasI/AAAAAAAAAOo/CNH2nxd1XS4/s200/271106_paddys_day_drinking_kit.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>OK, so we picked the wrong bar randomly. <br />
<br />
As the night wore on and we hit a number of pubs, I wondered if I was going to meet any Irish drinkers (or at least those who would admit it) in central Illinois.<br />
<br />
That night as the bar voices got louder telling jokes and singing Irish songs, no one I talked to claimed to be Irish. I was baffled, and it was turning into a long night.<br />
<br />
Astonished, I never did find one. My only choice as a roving reporter was to flip the story assignment to: There are no Irish in central Illinois’ drinking establishments on St. Paddy’s day (not much fun), or go generic and show people having a good time on an Irish holiday.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">For one day wherever we are, we can all be Irish, gulp green beer and sing “When Irish Eyes are Smiling.” And that’s no blarney.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-3tOFF4AwZzw/S51D5UVdCFI/AAAAAAAAAO4/eUGuoOeyvHA/s1600/498008_irish_leprechaun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" q6="true" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-3tOFF4AwZzw/S51D5UVdCFI/AAAAAAAAAO4/eUGuoOeyvHA/s200/498008_irish_leprechaun.jpg" width="190" /></a></div><em>Here's to a long life and a merry one</em><br />
<em>A quick death and an easy one</em><br />
<em>A pretty girl and an honest one</em><br />
<em>A cold beer and another one!</em><br />
<em><br />
</em><br />
<a href="http://www.theholidayspot.com/patrick/irish_blessings_and_sayings.htm">http://www.theholidayspot.com/patrick/irish_blessings_and_sayings.htm</a><br />
<br />
<br />
Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2010-2011 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED<br />
<br />
<em>Clover leaf photo by Sarah Williams</em><br />
<em>Paddy's Day drinking kit photo by Steve Ford Elliott</em><br />
<em>Irish leprechaun photo by Chris Chidsey </em><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/JyuC</div>Eranahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18073421800261470647noreply@blogger.com3