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Hollywood Arsonist (It’s LA!) by Brian Leiken

2012-01-26T20:53:00.000-08:00

This year the 2012 New Year’s celebration didn’t start on December 31st, but on the 30th.

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.

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.

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 Walking Dead.)

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.

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.

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.

1. He didn’t appear to have any monetary motive, making him impossible to track.

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.

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.

The LAPD put up police checkpoints, and firefighters deployed into rapid response teams throughout the city, but that was all for show.

How do you catch a man who doesn’t have an obvious motive? How do you protect an entire city from a lunatic?

In a couple of instances the fires that were lit climbed into apartment buildings, forcing people to flee their homes.

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.)

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.

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.

A 53 year old Mexican.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Not paying a plastic surgeon in LA is like stealing from a church, it's just not done. 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.

When Renee Zellweger was diagnosed with breast cancer, it made national news, when Janet Jackson had a “wardrobe malfunction,” it sparked a national scandal.

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.

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.

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.

Our society, our entire civilization, is built around a basic assumption that people act in a rational manner, in their own self interest.

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?

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Copyright 2012 Brian Leiken

LA Teacher
http://leiken.blogspot.com/

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:)

Crossed Out, Messed Up and Knocked Down by Brian Leiken at http://www.lulu.com/

laleiken.tumblr.com

Customer Service with a Tear

2012-01-13T22:34:00.000-08:00

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.

I was in my 20s, just finished my first year of teaching and needed work for the summer.

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.

For generations, the boutique's proprietor provided personal attention and service to the community.

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.

She carefully selected and ordered dresses for the women of the town as if she were their personal dresser.

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.

Her service and taste were impeccable, and her clients were fiercely loyal. She made them look and feel fabulous.

As her substitute, I quickly learned that women do not tell their true dress sizes, sort of like telling their real ages.

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.

They would be so delighted at how they looked, they left satisfied customers.

I also learned that women needed dresses for extraordinary occasions. This was the mid '60s and social mores were not very flexible.

Looking for a dress she could get married in, a teenager with a baby bump came in with her disapproving mother.

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.

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.

She pulled out the tops of the dresses and stared at herself to see what she would like as if she still had breasts.

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.

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.

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.

She needed a dress for two funerals. Her brother and cousin were murdered in a bank robbery two days earlier; she was in shock.

She lost two family members in a senseless crime, but she didn't want to wear black.

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.

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.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2012 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Store Displays photo by Kay Pat

Mannequin photo by msvoluptuos31

One Soldier's Story: "A Dignified Transfer" by guest blogger Jorge Duarte

2011-12-18T21:26:00.000-08:00

On September 11, 2001, America witnessed a terrifying nightmare. We all felt a sense of helplessness as we watched it firsthand on national television.

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.

As I continued to dress, I kept my eyes fixated on the television. 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.

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.

I discovered that my school was on high alert for anything suspicious. Every class had a television with the news channel broadcasting the events.

Many Americans would come to know, the events that unfolded on September 11, 2001, were acts of terrorism against the United States. As the days continued, the individuals responsible for the attacks began to surface and the rest was history.

In 2006, I would make a decision that would change my life. I decided to enlist in the United States Air Force.

Many people believed the acts of September 11th were my deciding factor, but that became one of many. My decision to join the military began on a routine day at a local food store where I worked as a pharmacy technician.

While I was performing my duties, I was interrupted by a news broadcast on a portable television inside the pharmacy. The news broadcast was about the war in Iraq and Afghanistan. This is the moment I remember as the main reason for my decision to enlist.

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?”

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.

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.

I joined to replace the soldier that was deployed in Iraq or Afghanistan, to give them a chance at seeing their loved ones again.

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.

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.

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.

I discovered Dover AFB was the only port mortuary for all the armed forces.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

Dignified Transfer. (2009, April). Official Website of the U.S. Air Force.Retrieved from http://www.af.mil/news/story.asp?id=123142994

Graduation Flashback: Then and Now

2011-11-13T22:07:00.000-08:00

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.

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.

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.

As they came down the stairs, some shouted out; one did a cartwheel, and another did a victory dance.

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.

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.

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.

My four years of study prepared me to be an English teacher K-12. I believed that was the life ahead of me.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I had a master plan and a script to follow. I was all set.

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.

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.

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.

That was not the plan the day I stood proudly clenching my diploma ready to take on the world, or so I thought.

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.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2010-2011 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

mortar board 1 photo by renata jun

What I Learned from a Cockroach

2011-10-26T22:50:00.000-07:00

Like most people, I find cockroaches disgusting and repulsive, but one cockroach taught me a lesson just at the time I needed it.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Once again I felt that familiar revulsion, but I was stuck in place.

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.

I realized in the storm that the roach moved forward to live. That was the sign I needed.

I, too, had to move on and flee the corporate storm that was destroying my spirit and future.

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.

Sometimes life lessons come from the last place we would look for them.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2011 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

power of nature by nespresso
steps1 by vasantdave

A Perfect Day in Tuscany

2011-10-04T23:53:00.000-07:00

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.

Lucca dates back to 180 BC as a Roman colony.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The shops nearby displayed the latest fashions of stylized, supple leather and haute couture from Milan and Rome's finest designers.

For dinner we ate at a small cafe that was recommended by Elizabeth Gilbert in her book, Eat, Pray, Love; like her, we had the risotto with wild mushrooms and a fine red wine.

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.

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.

It was the perfect ending to a perfect day in Tuscany. Bellissimo!

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2010-2011 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

http://villavita.net//

Autumn in Lucca by Jscarreiro
Pusseggiata delle Mura by Tango 7174
toscana2 photo by Gabriella Pataky

Romancing the Stone: Reunited with Michelangelo's "David"

2011-09-18T12:08:00.000-07:00

Returning to Florence, Italy, meant seeing Michelangelo's David again.

I remembered the impact he had on me at 25 and wondered how he would affect me this time, some 40 years later.

I had kept him close to my heart since our first encounter.

I've always had a special place for David 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.

Would David 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?

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.

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.

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.

Next time I see him, I will place a "love is eternal padlock" (L'amore è eterno dei lucchetti) 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.

Till we meet again. Ciao.

L'amore è eterno finchè dura photo by Veronica

http://villavita.net/

Sweet Ride: Discovering a New World

2011-08-21T21:43:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

Once it was "restored" and no longer looked like a dust catcher from someone’s basement, I took it for a test drive.

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.

After many falls and scraped knees, I wobbly made my way over the streets and sidewalks of our immigrant Chicago neighborhood in the ‘50s.

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.

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.

I was breaking the rules by leaving my neighborhood, but I couldn’t resist the adventure.

As I rode, I heard new languages and saw different ethnic faces.

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.

Some of the food and the odors were unfamiliar.Other sidewalk tables held clothing and trinkets for sale.

I didn’t feel comfortable getting off my bike just yet. After all, these were strangers I was told not to go near.

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.

As time passed, I grew bolder and got off my bike to taste and touch the foods and wares of the other immigrants' lives.

Thanks to my secondhand bike, I got to discover a new world and its inhabitants in Chicago's immigrant melting pot of the '50s.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2009-2011 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

I "Heart" Blogging:)

2011-08-06T21:44:00.000-07:00

Ninety blog followers and counting on Blogger; 51 followers on Facebook's Networked Blogs:)

Every time a new follower appears, I experience a childlike excitement.

It's like opening a gift whenever a new face shows up, and it's inspiring to dialogue with those who leave comments.

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.

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.

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.

At local events people tell me they have shared my blog with their friends and relatives, and each time I am thrilled and grateful.

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.

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.

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. http://apps.facebook.com/blognetworks/searchpage.php?tag=personal+stories. And there are more followers on other blog sites, such as blogcatalog.com.

Each follower is part of my blogging life, and it makes me smile when they show up or share their thoughts.

But the most important discovery from blogging is the joy I feel every time I write.

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.

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.

Heart by pitabox987
Diversity 6 by bsk

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2010-2011 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Doing "Nothing" is "Something"

2011-07-26T14:04:00.000-07:00

Don't feel like “doing” today…want to relax this morning after teaching my college class for four hours last night.

Slept in…looked at the clock…and rolled over. Permission to self to take the day off.

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.

Ah, the luxury of musing, reflecting without deadlines, appointments and obligations for the day.

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.

No more. I have officially retired my Super Woman cape, and I don’t feel the least bit guilty about it.

My “self” has earned and deserves time without the requirements of work and responsibilities that compete for my time with me.

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.

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.

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.

Is my glass full or empty?

Both, I think: Full from my life’s experiences with some wisdom from my life's challenges and Empty of the cares and struggles of the past with space available now for what comes next.

Doing nothing for a day is good for something:)

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2010-11 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Alarm clock photo by Zvone Lavric

By the Sea

2011-07-17T21:45:00.000-07:00

I’m with my old friend, the sea…just the waves, a few sailboats, occasional shorebirds, scattered shells, polished stones and shifting sand.

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.

Here I am free of worry, stress, responsibility and uncertainty, safe from a world of money, relationships, deadlines, and demands, uncluttered and unfettered.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2009-11 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Sea Photo by Jack Oceano
Shell Photo by Karunakar Rayker

"Stand Up" Biology by Guest Blogger Brian Leiken

2011-07-11T22:05:00.000-07:00

Third block biology is a bitch.

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.

At first they dropped the refuse into the two foot deep lab sinks, treating the wash basins like trash pits.

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.

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.

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.

I've never had to follow the same kid twice.

Even then we had to call in the Dean and threaten to expel five of them.

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.

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.

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.

"Mr. Leiken, I've got an important question! Who would win? Iron Man or the Hulk!"

"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.

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.

"Okay, who would win, Superman or the Hulk?"

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."

"Okay, who would win, Batman or Superman?"

"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."

"Okay, who would win? Iron Man or Batman?"

I pause. That is a good question. "I'll tell you.... after you finish this worksheet."

The boys let out a collective awwww.

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.

"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!"

"There is one of me and forty of you. What is it?"

She thrusts the worksheet out in front of her. "I don't understand it!"

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.

"Did you even read it?" I ask her.

"No."

"Why not?"

She actually looks embarrassed.

"Hey, Mr. Leiken! Yo Momma so fat when she gets on a scale, it says to be continued!"

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.

But I can't let that pass. My mother's honor must be satisfied.

"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."

The class cracks up and lets out a giant oooooohhh!

Unlike the kids, I've got fresh material. I think of yo momma jokes on the way home.

Don't ever mess with a writer.

"Yo momma's so big," I continue, "they had to put in a double wide garage just to let her in the house!"

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.

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!"

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."

Who knew that my years of doing "stand up" would pay off in class?

Copyright 2009-11 by Brian Leiken

Biology 9 photo by Sabrena Carter

Hulk photo by Mauro Martins

Man with Michophone photo by Michal Zacharzewski

LA Teacher Blog

http://leiken.blogspot.com/

Brian Leiken is an L.A. inner-city, special ed teacher and author of Crossed Out, a book about and for his students. Oh yes, he's also my son:)

Crossed Out by Brian Leiken at http://www.lulu.com/

A Different Kind of Tree Hugger

2011-06-23T23:44:00.000-07:00

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.

The former golf course owners sold the land to a developer; and the tree, a victim of drought and greed, lost its caretaker.

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.

I have a special kinship with trees.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I experienced a cathartic therapy from trimming the branches and letting the trees breathe and more light shine through.

It was as if the trees knew I was caring for them, and I sensed their appreciation.

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.

But I couldn't protect them from nature’s fury. For two years, tornadoes spiraled through the Midwest with a vengeance.

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.

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.

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.

Only on a third of an acre on a cul-de-sac, these trees also attracted possum, occasional raccoons and even a fox.

It was my wooded sanctuary, harmonious and nurturing.

The trees gave me a sense of being grounded and balanced while I watched my children grow up.

Once again nature tested the trees. They were besieged by gypsy moth caterpillars, hordes that were out of control and devouring forests at night.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2010-2011 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Tree photo by Joe Zlomek
Raccoon photo by Troy Schulz
Orange tree photo by Jose Luis Navarro

Grandfathers and Cigars

2011-06-11T22:15:00.000-07:00

My Greek Grandfather

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

My Jewish Grandfather

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

It was a game we played, a special ritual in the bond we shared.

In my family, a cigar was not just a cigar. My grandfathers' cigars were tokens of affection and love.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2009-2011 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Photo of Two Cigars by Josiah Gordon

"Cap and Gown" by Brian Leiken, Guest Blogger

2011-06-05T21:39:00.000-07:00

Six years, five graduations, nine hundred school days.

A relatively short period of time in the lifespan of a human, 900 days.

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.

Six years teaching and I'm still just a baby.

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.

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.

"Looking forward to graduation?" I ask rhetorically.

"I'm not going to walk," she says flatly.

"Why?"

"I don't want to walk. It's stupid."

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."

"No, Mister. I don't want to, it's embarrassing."

"Embarrassing? Everyone is walking across stage. It will be over in like a second."

"No, it's okay. I don't want to. Graduations are boring."

"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!"

The girl looks at the floor, unwilling to meet my gaze.

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.

"If you don't do this," I continue, "you may live to regret it."

The girl mumbles something. I ask her to repeat herself, leaning in.

"I don't have the money, Mister."

"Money for what?"

"It's a hundred dollars for the cap and gown."

"A HUNDRED DOLLARS! Cold hard cash?"

The girl nods, quietly embarrassed.

"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 Eclipse. "Do they want you to go?" The girl nods, gaze furtively darting about the room.

"I want you to go the rehearsal today at lunch. You are going to graduate."

"But I don't have the money."

"I'll take care of it. Don't worry about it."

"But, I don't have the money."

"I'll get you your cap and gown. Go."

I go the special ed department first, explaining the situation. Borquez and Khazani immediately start asking their students.

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.

Nothing.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.)

"I have my cap and gown, Mr. Leiken."

I nod, looking up from where I am helping a student finish up a paper. "Awesome, so how was rehearsal?"

"It was okay."

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.

"Aren't you going to join the seniors for the photo?"

"No. It's too hot."

"You should go. Be a part of it."

"No, I don't want to." she answers, staring at the crowd outside.

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.

The bell rings, and the girl turns. "Goodbye, Mister," she says, exiting the room.

It's her way of saying thanks.

Six years, five graduations, 900 days.

It never gets old.

Copyright 2010-2011 by Brian Leiken

LA Teacher
http://leiken.blogspot.com/

Crossed Out by Brian Leiken at http://www.lulu.com/

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:)

Photo of cap and diploma by Mary Gober
Photo of We're done! by Kati Garner

A Memorial Day Reunion

2011-05-26T15:26:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

Dad seemed determined to reunite us at the grave site. I never really knew my father except through my mother’s perceptions and judgments.

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.

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.

As the years passed, the graves seemed harder to find, overgrown under unkempt grass with weeds sunken below the mowing level.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Crying Rose photo by Joanna Kopik

Planting photo by Rodrigo Roveri

Sweet Music, Sweet Memories

2011-05-11T23:53:00.000-07:00

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?

Sweet music evokes sweet memories.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I had the uniform, the instrument, sheet music and stand, but I clearly was not musically inclined.

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.

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.

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 The Music Man.

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.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2010 -2011 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Music Band 1 by Robert Proska

Clarinet by Nina

Exit through the MOCA: Thumbs Up for Street Art by Brian Leiken, Guest Blogger

2011-04-30T21:35:00.000-07:00

Banksy's Bat Papi

I don't like modern art.

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.

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.

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."

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.

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."

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."

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!"

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.

Better to hit me with sticks and stones and break my bones because y'know, names can really hurt me.

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.

Street artists are modern day surrealists that create guerrilla style art by placing their images on unsanctioned public space.

Many don't consider them artists at all, but unlicensed vandals who should be fined and jailed for spraying "graffiti" on public buildings.

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.

In other words, they delight in thumbing their nose at the establishment, especially the post modern art movement.

Last year, Banksy, the Andy Warhol of the street art movement, made a documentary entitled Exit Through The Giftshop. The movie was supposed to be a documentary about Banksy until he takes over the film and spins the cameras on filmmaker Thierry Guetta.

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 LA Weekly, and Thierry's Brainwash originals transform into priceless gems worth thousands of dollars.

Bat Papi is my favorite.

Starting this weekend the LA museum of contemporary art (MOCA) put on the first major museum "Street Art" exhibition - Art in the Streets.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

The crowd is an exhibit unto itself, 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.

As they say in LA, it's not an event, it's a "happening."

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.

Banksy's I Hate Mondays!

interior subway car two feet wide

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.

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.

"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."

"Probably both."

"I normally hate museums," Arlie adds, "but this doesn't feel like a museum at all."

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.

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.

I don't like Modern Art, but for Street Art, I'll make an exception.

Banksy's Police Beating Pinata

Copyright 2011 Brian Leiken

LA Teacher

http://leiken.blogspot.com/

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:)

Crossed Out and Messed Up by Brian Leiken at http://www.lulu.com/

Greek Easter & Passover: Sharing Food and Feud

2011-04-18T14:28:00.000-07:00

Traditional family holidays meant sharing food with a dash of feud.

I have memories of Easter with my original family and Passover with my acquired family.

Just as they gathered annually to celebrate their respective religious beliefs and distinctive holiday dishes, they also shared their personal differences.

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.

I recall entering my aunt’s house exclaiming, “Christos Anesti,” (Christ is Risen), hugging my cousins and enjoying the warmth of family bonds, celebrating our reunion since our last holiday together.

Like my Catholic friends, it was our tradition to fast before Easter and then gorge ourselves during a huge feast on Greek Easter Sunday.

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.

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.

We looked forward to these family events with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension.

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?

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.

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.

This "feud" ritual following the hearty, celebratory meal would be re-enacted at the next family holiday dinner.

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.

After my marriage, my Easters became Passovers.

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.

All the dishes served had symbolic meanings, and the elders read passages to accompany foods that represented those difficult times.

I participated in the ceremony out of respect for my in-laws but couldn't identify with the occasion.

I couldn’t relate to the unappetizing gefilte fish, unleavened bread and bitter herbs. I came from another tribe and heritage.

I missed the celebration of my original family’s Easter holiday, even with my mother and her brother sniping at each other.

Though the traditions represented a contrast of cultures, customs and foods, the families did have some other "rituals" in common.

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.

The official Passover ritual was strained by their dislike for each other. It, too, was predictable like my mother and my uncle.

It wasn’t expressed loudly like my Greek relatives. After the meal, the women separated from the men and gathered in the kitchen.

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.

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!

Sweet by Yucel Tellici

Matzah for Passover photo by Alex Ringer

Dana's Hollywood Birthday by Guest Blogger Brian Leiken

2011-04-10T18:00:00.000-07:00

Birthdays!

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

Last year Easter fell on the 4th.

Dana upstaged Jesus.

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.

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.

In addition to celebrating Dana's birthday, they'll also be watching a live broadcast of her latest TV show, Marcel's Quantum Kitchen, 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.

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.

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.

We pass by a pair of dog owners making small talk about their breeds, and Phil unsuccessfully tries to hide his disgust.

"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."

I nod in sympathy. Freaking white people and their small talk.

Phil and I have got better things to discuss, like the press release for his new novel, Ass Eyes in a Sea of Spec, http://bit.ly/iamxum.

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.

There goes the neighborhood.

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?

"Probably a beer. Hoppy. Takes some getting used to, but after a while you'll love it."

"Rum and coke." I reply. "Sweet, easy going, piratey."

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.

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. http://leiken.blogspot.com/2009/09/birthday-bazaar.html

Calling Marcel a "cook" is like naming Einstein a "mathematician"; Marcel is a gastronomic force of nature, his kitchen a culinary laboratory.

Marcel's Quantum Kitchen (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.

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."

Originally a contestant on Top Chef, Marcel had developed a reputation for having an "attitude"; for being a vicious perfectionist with no empathy or pity for "lesser" cooks.

But I've tasted his cooking; its like eating a Picasso. I shake his hand, Marcel beams.

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.

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?"

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.

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."

"That's amazing."

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."

I try not to gape. He was a circus performer? "Isn't that scary?"

"Anytime you do something new it's scary, everything's scary. But you just go out and do it."

My sister arrives, she's just had her hair and make-up done and she looks like a movie star.

"Would you believe that the guy who was doing my make-up was a former contestant on NEXT?" she exclaims.

"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."

"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?"

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.

"If you were a drink, what kind of drink would you be?" I ask.

"Champagne," my sister answers.

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.

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.

"Oh, that's Shannon. She's Marcel's girlfriend; they met while she was modeling for the show."

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.

"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!"

"I'll write about this party next, I just need a couple of photos as proof I was here."

You need proof?" Marcel calls out, waving me over.

"C'mon then, let's take a photo."

We pose and I give my patented "thumbs up and wink" - Arrggh! Marcel picks up on it immediately and mimics it.

Dana begins opening gifts. I haven't gotten her anything yet, because I've learned its better just to ask what she wants.

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.

Dana claps her hands in excitement. "Where's your gift, brother unit?"

"I decided to wait."

"Phil got it right. Good job, Phil."

I try not to glare. "Yeah, good job, Phil."

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.

The Tonight Show, Howie Mandel, Beyond Chance, The Best Damn Sports Show, Christopher Lowell, NEXT, Ace of Cakes - there's more but I can't remember them all.

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.

Other than Facebook how else is she supposed to keep up with all these people?

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.

Dana arches an eyebrow in my direction, annoyed I'm not watching the show, but then hardly anyone is.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!"

But my sister only has one motto: Make it happen!

Before I head out, I kiss her on the cheek. "I better still get a call on my birthday," Dana warns.

I nod. Woe unto those who forget my sister's birthday. D-day is not June 6th.

D-day is April 10th.

Happy Birthday, Dana.

Make it happen!

LA Teacher
http://leiken.blogspot.com/

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:)

Crossed Out and Messed Up by Brian Leiken at http://www.lulu.com/

Homes: The Way They Were

2011-04-01T12:34:00.000-07:00

There’s a scene in the movie, The Way We Were, where two men are sharing “best of” memories.

Inspired by that scene, I am remembering the many homes of my life and their “best of” moments.

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.”

First home, early childhood in a multi-ethnic Chicago apartment complex where our playgrounds were asphalt and concrete, alleyways sandwiched between brick buildings, underground storage basements and a large empty, weed prairie.

I always dreamed of having a real backyard with flowerbeds like my aunt’s old Chicago house in South Shore.

Best memory: 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.

Second home, teen years in the south suburbs of Chicago, in working class Dolton, 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.

Best memory: 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.

In my married home 20’s to mid 30’s in Eureka, a central Illinois bedroom community 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.

Best memory: my young children playing in a tree, one in the big tire swing and the other in the crook of the tree.

Second best memory: 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.

My home on a cul-de-sac in Falls Church, VA, where some nights the sky was a planetarium with constellations that shone brightly as crickets serenaded us on a summer evening.

Best memory: 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.

Last home in an apartment townhome in Marina del Rey overlooking the channel, 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.

Best memory: 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.

Home today in a condo overlooking a former golf course in Phoenix.

Best memory: drinking my morning coffee while I watch a hummingbird pause for a sweet drink at the feeder just above the orange tree.

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.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2010 -2011 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Welcome banner by Billy Alexander

Tree photo by Sue Byford

Hummingbird photo by Tiffany Clark

Man on Fire by Brian Leiken, Guest Blogger

2011-03-20T17:43:00.000-07:00

"A man can be an artist...in anything, food, whatever. It depends on how good he is at it.

Creasy's art is death. He is about to paint his masterpiece. I have nothing else to say." - Rayburn, Man on Fire

My art is teaching.

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.

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.

If you can teach Special Ed in the inner city, you can teach anything.

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."

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.

Give me a class of honors and AP, and I am no longer a figure skater, but a God.

You are what you teach.

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.

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.

No matter how hard you try, your students still have to be willing to learn and listen.

Sometimes you receive a question in class that is so far out in left field it came from the bleachers.

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.

"Mister," Fluffy asks, "What happens if a house is haunted? Does the property go down?"

Sigh, it's Fluffy. Duran takes to the plate first. "Well, then you have to call in the Ghost Busters."

The class laughs. "Ha ha ha, Mr. Duran." Fluffy says loudly. "Very funny. I know there is no such thing as the Ghost Busters."

Shrugging, I return to the board. A small interruption, no big thing.

"But seriously," Fluffy interjects, "what happens when a house is haunted?"

My turn. "Normally after the police ascertain a house is haunted, they call in the Bureau of Paranormal Activity."

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?"

Fluffy sits forward. "Section 13! What do they do?"

"They investigate and solve paranormal crimes; hauntings, aliens, that sort of thing."

"How do you get into it!"

"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.

"How does one get to be one of those!" Fluffy pants, leaning forward.

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."

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?"

"Talk to me after class."

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.

"Mr. Leiken, I tried looking up Section 13 on Google, and I couldn't find anything."

"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."

"Oh." Fluffy replies, heading back to his seat.

It's probably the first time Fluffy has ever shown initiative when attempting to research a topic.

Later that week I show an English class one of my blogs, Top 10 Movies: 2010.

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.

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.

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.

"Can't we turn it in late, Mister?"

"Sorry, I don't accept late work."

"But you can't expect us to do work on the weekend!"

"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!"

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!"

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?"

The next time I give an assignment, thirty kids turn it in. That's progress, I guess.

Good teaching is like telling a good joke. 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.

Teaching is the same way; anyone can recite facts and present information, but not everyone has the passion, the personality, the inner fire.

A great teacher has a heart of flame, a soul animated not with a bonfire but an inferno, 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.

Without the fire, you won't make it. There's a reason why teachers who have given up are referred to as burn outs.

As the refrain goes from Damn Yankees, "You got to have heart, miles and miles and miles of heart."

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.

Writer, comedian, pirate, I am all of those things.

But I am also, and always will be, a teacher. Everyday I teach in the inner city, I continue to create my masterpiece.

I am the man on fire.

Copyright 2011 Brian Leiken

LA Teacher
http://leiken.blogspot.com/

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:)

Crossed Out and Messed Up by Brian Leiken at http://www.lulu.com/

Photo: burning match by Stephen Davies
Photo: class full 'o bored students by mexikids
Photo: flames by patita rds

In Search of an Irishman on St. Paddy's Day

2011-03-10T11:34:00.000-08:00

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.

A no-brainer, right?

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.

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.”

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.

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.

OK, so we picked the wrong bar randomly.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Here's to a long life and a merry one
A quick death and an easy one
A pretty girl and an honest one
A cold beer and another one!

http://www.theholidayspot.com/patrick/irish_blessings_and_sayings.htm

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2010-2011 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Clover leaf photo by Sarah Williams
Paddy's Day drinking kit photo by Steve Ford Elliott
Irish leprechaun photo by Chris Chidsey

In Like a Lion...Out Like a Lamb

2011-03-02T22:14:00.000-08:00

I’ve been thinking of the rituals and symbols we attribute to spring: spring break, spring cleaning, and even “spring forward” for daylight savings time.

Rites of spring at Yale Elementary School in Chicago in the ‘50s came with its own rituals. My fifth grade class was selected to decorate the student hallway bulletin board.

Eagerly armed with scissors, glue, felt and thumbtacks, we created a felt lion and furry lamb covered with cotton balls along with paper cut spring tulips and dandelions to welcome spring to cold Chicago.

It was a major display that everyone walked by, a prime location. We felt appreciated for the“craftsmanship” and creativity of our delightful spring banner. In some aspects, it was the “early seeds” of my marketing career to create eye-catching ads and promotions (little did I know:).

Growing up in Chicago, spring meant coloring Easter eggs and the sugary fun of emptying an Easter basket filled with chocolate bunnies and jelly beans.

It also meant a new outfit for church, including an Easter bonnet, short, white gloves and black patent leather shoes.

I transitioned from girl to young lady in the spring when I wore my first “nylons,” hosiery with seams, signaling a coming of age similar to a boy going from short pants to trousers.

However, I couldn’t keep the hosiery's back seams straight on my beanstalk legs that seemed to be growing too fast for the rest of me. Nevertheless, I was thrilled to wear them thinking of the glamorous actresses in the movies and magazines posing in their fashionable, elegant stockings.

Spring also meant late winter storms and blustery winds as Chicago's winter belted its last “roar” before it allowed gentle spring rains and plants to come out of their slumber, allowing the new born “lamb” to replace the fierce lion of winter.

Spring is a time of awakening, to shake off winter’s doldrums and allow new growth to emerge. The seasons of our lives imitate these cycles, prompting us to shed our winters for new life.

We are in synch with life’s patterns when we remove our winter coats to embrace the warmth and gentleness of spring’s “lamb.”

When I think back to my grade school display of the felt lion and furry, cotton lamb, it makes me smile and welcome spring once again with a child's delight.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2010-2011 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Lion photo by Jean Scheijen
Easter Eggs photo by Alexandar Iotzov
Toy Sheep photo by Ula Kapala

For Love of the Movies

2011-02-20T09:46:00.000-08:00

It’s award season for the movies, my favorite time of the year for one of my family’s treasured traditions, the Oscars. For some families, it’s sports…for mine, it’s the movies.

My family speaks “moviespeak.” It is a bond that transcends our lifestyles and ages and continues as a tradition through our generations.

Movies have been part of my life since my mother took me with her every week to the local Chicago theatres. It was both escape and entertainment for her while she waited for my dad to return from WWII.

I barely fit on the seat and often fell asleep while watching adult dramas or cowered under the seat for horror films like The Thing.

Later my mother took me to live performances at the elegant Chicago Theatre where musicians sometimes performed before a movie. Together we saw Harry James, the great trumpet player of his time, a sold out event similar to major concert tours today.

Mom adored the actors, read Photoplay (a precursor of TMZ and Entertainment Weekly) and the celebrity gossip magazines. She lived her life vicariously through film stars and knew not only their film credits but their personal lives as revealed through the “rags” of the day.

Movie stars were her special friends. She knew them the way diehard soap opera fans follow their favorite characters. Our family’s Super Bowl was the Oscars ceremony which we watched faithfully every year as the film stars accepted their awards.

As a girl, I dreamed of someday accepting an Oscar. I got as far as a high school drama award that looked like an Oscar statuette.

Growing up in Chicago, movies along with Looney Tunes cartoons made for a perfect Saturday morning following the serial adventures of Tarzan while enjoying Good & Plenty candy and jujubes as well as air conditioning before most homes had it, and sometimes even a special event on the theatre stage like learning how to do yoyo tricks (never did master “walking the dog.”)

On hot summer nights, the family would pack up the car and go to the drive-in movies. Later we would stop by a Dairy Queen or Dog n Suds for a sweet ending to our family outing. We were together, entertained and shared a treat. Life was simple and we were satisfied.

My mother’s love of the movies is a legacy in our family. My brother quotes movie lines when the occasion calls for it. My son remembers and recalls favorite scenes in great detail like sporting fans that have total recall of their favorite sports moments.

No matter what else is going on in our lives, movies are a part of the family. As my mother started and we continue, we cast our votes for the Oscars as to who will win versus who should win. Like my parents, we critique and share our opinions about movies.

We consider ourselves well-informed critics with a wealth of movie going experience as well as followers of the movie industry, my daughter as a TV producer and my son as a writer. We simply love stories, and movies tell and preserve them better than anything else.

Movie Star Namesakes
I learned in my teens that my name came from a movie character. The Greek family tradition is to name the firstborn after a grandparent. My pregnant mother found the perfect equivalent for my grandmother’s name in what is now a black-and-white cult film from the ‘40s, The Curse of the Cat People. Simone Simon played a horror film’s heroine named Erana.

Years later, I named my daughter Dana, the name of the lovely British actress Dana Wynter who starred in the '50s Invasion of the Body Snatchers. It was an unconscious coincidence that I was following in my mother’s footsteps.

Over the holidays, we always go to the movies. Our tastes differ, but we want to share the family experience. We may not have read the same book, but we’ve seen the same movie. Even now, when I have a long day, I escape with popcorn to the movies, on the big screen or via Netflix or Blockbuster.

Movies still have the magical power to transport me to a place where I am totally engaged and the rest of life can be put on hold for awhile. They still move and sometimes scare me.

They take me away from the ordinary and involve me in their stories where I feel empathy with the characters, their problems, struggles and victories. They make me feel more alive. I love the movies.

Chicago Theatre photo by Chris Ayers

Popcorn photo by Steven Kapsinow

My Secret Valentine

2011-02-10T21:40:00.000-08:00

Today, just before Valentine’s Day, I found an old love letter from a “soul mate” from years ago, a restless, poetic man who stirred and quickened my heart with his artistic brooding and literary references.

Some 30 years later, I was touched again when I read the intimate thoughts, revelations and literary allusions we shared in expressing our exciting chemistry and the irresistible attraction of the power of the words we gave to each other.

We were both struggling to be understood and self-realized through our writing.

We wrote to each other with great fervor and flourishes, the struggling Irish poet submitting his work to New York magazines and a cocooned woman who wanted so much to just be free to express herself, trapped in her stable but stifling middle class life.

Our real passion was expressing our yearnings and desires as writers to be understood and connected in a creative sharing where we dared to write our personal and confessional thoughts, touching with our minds and heartfelt outpourings.

Looking back, it was a secret love as if written in another era, a series of lovers’ letters in a Victorian novel.

The idea of being with each other through our love of language was more exciting than any other intimacy. It was a “love match” of words where we indulged ourselves in our intimate correspondence.

At times it was excessive and very much like a suffering Lake Poet speaking to a love he could never have, but the wanting brought such ecstasy of what could be and fueled desire.

How ironic that the letter should reappear just before Valentine’s Day. I’ve been single for a long time, and it’s been years since I’ve had a “real” valentine.

I found myself holding the letter against my heart as if hugging it would bring back the sentiments expressed by my “unrequited” love.

It spurred me to see if I could find my restless poet online, but I didn’t; and even if I had, who would he be now?

I prefer to preserve the memory of my long, lost love because it’s part of the romance that will never end. It will always be there in the letters.

I returned the sweet, weathered letter into its envelope and safely back into the nightstand.

It is a cherished reminder of a brief, romantic period of writers’ passions awakened but not fulfilled, that were never meant to be.

For me, it was the beginning of the woman who would eventually set herself free to someday write from her heart.

Today, just before Valentine’s Day, I got a valentine that warmed my heart.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2010-2011 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Valentine photo by Billy Alexander
Envelope photo by Kriss Szkurlatowski

The Meaning of Pearls

2011-01-23T19:13:00.000-08:00

Diamonds may be a girl’s best friend, but for me it’s always been pearls.

All gems have attributed meanings and qualities, especially when we look at birthstone definitions.

Pearl’s origin and meaning:

"The pearl is the oldest known gem, and for many centuries it was considered the most valuable. Unlike all gems, the pearl is organic matter derived from a living creature - oysters and mollusks.

It was said in some early cultures that the pearl was born when a single drop of rain fell from the heavens and became the heart of the oyster.

Pearls have been called the 'teardrops of the moon.'

Some believe that pearls were formed by the passage of angels through the clouds of heaven.

Over time, the pearl has become the symbol of purity and innocence and it is often sewn into bridal gowns, or worn as jewelry by the bride." http://crystal-cure.com/pearl.html

I’ve never been a diamond girl. Pearls suit me better and represent singular moments in my life.

At 22, fresh out of college, I received my first strand of long, lustrous, cultured pearls as an engagement gift.

My fiancé and I shopped at Marshall Fields for the perfect strand to wear at the engagement party his aunt was giving me in the Chicago suburbs, a gathering for her friends to meet her nephew’s bride-to-be.

The pearls stood for his love and commitment. Pearls were also sewn on to the bodice of my wedding gown.

The next time I received pearls they came directly from the Orient. My second, shorter pearl necklace was strung with more refined, dainty pearls.

They were sent from my Army husband from Hong Kong where he, like so many other soldiers of that era, spent an RandR from their tours of duty in Vietnam.

The pearls arrived along with a 12-place setting of porcelain china, and the latest stereo and camera equipment of the time. Most GI’s sent similar care packages to their waiting wives in the late ‘60s.

When I turned 40, elegant pearl earrings were gifted to me again, this time from a new love for my birthday.

The problem was that the earrings were pierced, and my ears weren’t.

The pearls were beautiful, and I had only one choice. I dreaded the thought of punching holes into my earlobes, but I could hardly wait to wear the earrings.

My teenage daughter accompanied me to the mall to get the job done. She held my hand, like a patient mother, as the stapler popped the openings for my new pearls of love to rest.

The pearls joined my collection, and my daughter enjoyed them too when she wore them for special occasions.

At 47 when I married the second time, I thought it was only fitting that my daughter, my maid of honor, should have her own pearl earrings.

They were my gift to her on that day of love. Pearls were sewn onto the sleeves and hem of my tea-length bridal gown.

I have added to my pearl treasures over the years. They stay cloistered together in their own jewelry box, and I still favor them over other gems.

They connect me to wonderful memories and gifts of love. Over the years, my affection and fascination for pearls has deepened.

I’m especially drawn to pearls that are irregular, created in an emerging state and preserved in the process of transformation.

They are known as blister pearls, "mabe (ma-bay) pearls" grown in a Mabe oyster.

I still love traditional pearls but find a different kind of beauty in the unique shapes and free forms of the blister pearl. Unlike the attempt at perfection of the cultured pearl, they are imperfect and more interesting reminders of life itself.

"Eastern cultures believe that pearls symbolize purity and spiritual transformation. Simply wearing a pearl reminds the wearer to be honest, pure, wise, and to walk with the utmost dignity."

From the Meaning of Pearls: http://www.articlealley.com/article_27059_28.html

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2009-2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Photo of Strands of Pearls by wemedge

Snooki and the Book Signing by Brian Leiken

2011-01-16T22:15:00.000-08:00

Snooki isn't a name. It's slang, a colloquialism of informal speech best used for stuffed animals and cute pets, a name befitting puggles and hamsters.

(My first pet was a hamster with a name ironically similar to "Snooki"; I named him Snoochi - until he died of wet tail. There was a Snoochi II, III, and IV - they died of wet tail too. Don't ever name your hamster Snoochi unless you want them to die of wet tail.)

Nicole "Snooki" Polizzi, better known as Snooki, is a reality TV star from the hit show Jersey Shore, an MTV show about eight Italian roommates from New York pretending to be from New Jersey having to share a house together.

There's Jenni "JWowww" Farley, Paul "Pauly D"DelVecchio, and of course Michael "The Situation" Sorrentino; Jersey Shore is a mash-up of MTV's the Real World blended with HBO's the Sopranos.

Four foot nine with poofed hair, fake tan, big boobs and enough mascara to rival a raccoon, Snooki is one of the more popular characters from the show. Snooki isn't pretty, most men wouldn't give her a second glance, but what Snooki doesn't have in looks she makes up for in humor.

Girls adore Snooki, because of all the cast members on Jersey Shore, she's the one most of them would like to hang out with.

She even has a book, A Shore Thing. Written by Snooki's ghost writer, Valerie Frankel, A Shore Thing is a novel about a girl named "Gia" who resembles Snooki and has lots of hot sex with a beefy Italian firefighter named Frank.

Valerie Frankel may have written the book, but Snooki gave her lots of ideas, and Snooki's face is on the cover and on the back, so it's almost like Snooki wrote the entire thing all by herself.

So why am I writing about Snooki, you ask? Good question. I'm writing about Snooki because I went to her book signing at the Grove.

When I saw the sign at Barnes and Noble promoting the book signing, I immediately texted Parrish, who is a huge fan of Jersey Shore. I didn't think Parrish would want to go, but she texted me back almost instantly. "Let's Go!!"

What the hell, at least I'll get a blog out of it.

When you attend a book signing, most stores will demand you purchase a copy of the book from the store for the author to sign.

Because Snooki is a high profile reality TV celebrity, Barnes and Noble is handing out alphabetized wrist bands along with brand new copies of the book for $26.95.

Grumbling, I pay it. They won't let me stand in line with Parrish if I don't have my own book. We are given a flyer with a number of guidelines and rules:

. Posed photography WILL NOT be allowed. Photographs may be taken from the signing line only.

. Other memorabilia WILL NOT be allowed.

. Personalization WILL NOT be available.

It's only four o'clock, we've got some time to kill. We hit the Cafe Moza and people watch.

Two and a half hours later after eating a feast of fine french cheeses and bread and beer, we trek back into the store.

People are already lining up, but I cut through to the front and find that because we purchased our wrist bands early, we can move past the majority of the people waiting.

I estimate there are probably about 300 people here, most of them young women with their mothers and a handful of hapless boyfriends.

A trio of teenage girls behind us begin giggling and screaming uncontrollably as soon as Snooki appears. "Snooki!" one of them screams. Snooki waves, escorted by an entourage of security guards, managers, agents, photographers and book store staff.

She's short, tiny, would be forgettable except she is surrounded by the aura of celebrity, and that makes her the most envied person in the room.

"Oh my God!" one of the girls behind us gushes. "She is so short!"

"Quiet!" another girl admonishes her friend. "She'll hear you!"

"Are you girls from LA?" I ask.

"No, we're from Newport." (That's the OC.)

"Have you met anyone famous?"

"Well, we met the cast of Jackass!" the prettiest one titters. "But I'd really like to meet Justin Bieber."

"If I met Justin Bieber, I'd pee my pants," another girl cuts in. "Why are you here?"

"I'm writing a story for my blog."

Her eyes go round. "You have a blog! Are you someone famous?"

Parrish gives me the eye, trying to hide her smirk. I sigh, oh the lies I could spin, the lies I could spin. "No, I'm not famous. Only in my own head."

Snooki comes back out and girls at random begin screaming, WE LOVE YOU, SNOOKI!

A member of the staff opens up a copy of the book, instructing us to have the novel open to the front page for Snooki to sign.

I pull out my iPhone, attempting to figure out how to zoom in the camera. Should have checked that out earlier, because the line is moving forward like a waterslide at the park, people being processed in groups as Snooki signs her name over and over again in book after book in a bright pink pen.

There must have be at least 50 people in front of us, but the store crew has them filed past Snooki in under ten minutes.

Books primed, we hand them to a store clerk who passes the books to Snooki. I try to get in close to take a picture on my phone, but security stops me.

"Sir, you'll need to turn off that phone. No cameras past the line."

I shut it off. Risking my phone to get a close up of Snooki just ain't worth it.

As I walk up for a brief moment, Snooki and I glance at one another. I permit myself a polite smile, and give her a small nod. To her credit, Snooki doesn't pretend that I'm some super fan who has been just dying to get a chance to meet her.

Beneath the makeup, the tan, and the poofed up hair, she looks tired, weary, a five minute celebrity running a marathon because the moment she quits, it's over.

She signs the book, and I move on.

As we exit, a member of the staff cuts off and collects our wristbands, preventing us from selling or giving them away to other people.

"Wow, I can't believe we met Snooki!" Parrish exclaims. "I can't wait to read this ghost written book! What are you going to do with yours?"

"Not sure yet," I reply. Tax write off maybe?

The inanity of fame; how could someone like Snooki, a girl with no talent, accomplishments, or beauty, become an instant celebrity?

Snooki is a celebrity precisely because she has no talent, accomplishments, or beauty - she's the young woman many identify with because they all think they could be the next Snooki.

You don't need skill, or intelligence, or looks to be famous; just timing and luck. Who wants to be the next lottery winner, step right up and get a chance to meet Snooki, buy her book! Maybe some of her fame will rub off on you!

Snooki. Like everything else in this country, she's instant and effortless, even her name is disposable. Cultural fast food to be consumed and forgotten.

But hey, at the end of the day she's $26.95 ahead, because I still ended up buying her book.

Definitely a tax write off.

Copyright 2010 Brian Leiken

LA Teacher
http://leiken.blogspot.com/
Crossed Out by Brian Leiken at http://www.lulu.com/

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:)

A Perfect Day in Tuscany

2011-01-05T12:03:00.000-08:00

Every now and then, I experience a perfect day...where everything seems just right. I had such a glorious day last September in the magical city of Lucca, northern Tuscany, Italy.

Lucca dates back to 180 BC as a Roman colony. 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.

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.

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.

Today the walls, wide enough to be a two lane road, tower above the city as a 3-mile park circling the city that offers views of the medieval look-out towers and exquisitely landscaped gardens of the villas it rings and embraces. Outside the wall lie the newer city and the countryside abundant with olives and grapes.

The top of the walls are like a park where families stroll with their children, lovers walk hand-in-hand, cyclists stop for a picnic lunch, and runners jog under the shade trees.

A garden show and exhibit hug the wall's banks where local flowers and plants are artfully displayed to the pleasure of passersby.

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 select the ingredients for a fresh sandwich plus fruit and cheese for our bike ride and picnic atop the wall.

Next we rent our bikes at the foot of the wall and begin our climb onto the multi-story high walls and ramparts to enjoy the ambiance and the magnificent vista on our bike ride. The weather is just right, sunny, comfortable and clear, so we can see for miles.

We could have been in Central Park with people leisurely enjoying the day on the promenade along the tree-lined wall. Midway we pause at a grassy spot to eat our delicious lunch of prosciutto, tomatoes, pecorino (sheep-milk cheese) and fresh, juicy peaches.

Gina shares a legendary story of the great jazz musician Stan Getz being incarcerated 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.

After our relaxing ride, we enter Lucca through one of its portals and stop at a famous cafe where Puccini and other creative artists of his day sipped their coffee.

We wander 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.

Children climb on top of his lap while adoring parents take their photos with the composer.

The shops nearby display the latest fashions of stylized, supple leather and haute couture from Milan and Rome's finest designers.

For dinner we decide to eat at a small cafe that was recommended by Elizabeth Gilbert in her book, Eat, Pray, Love; like her, we had the risotto with wild mushrooms and a fine red wine.

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.

A small audience, seated in folding chairs, listens in rapt appreciation. The night is balmy and the music enchanting. Some of us are moved to tears.

It was the perfect ending to a perfect day in Tuscany. Bellissimo!

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

http://villavita.net/workshops/creative-travel-writing-workshop/

Lucca, Italy photo by laurab

toscana2 photo by Gabriella Pataky

Our Christmas of Catastrophes

2010-12-21T17:03:00.000-08:00

Most Christmas memories blend together, a collage of moments in the scrapbook of memories we all carry in our minds.

But there is one from my childhood that stands out.

It was our Christmas of Catastrophes in 1953 when I was 10 and living in a small apartment with my two brothers, my parents and our cat, Kitty.

Chicago was under a snow and ice siege…freezing, slippery conditions that kept us inside as the biggest and most anticipated holiday of the year approached.

We were excited. Our Greek mother had taught us to sing “Silent Night” in Greek to impress our relatives when the big day arrived.

We decorated our tree that just missed the ceiling and sat tucked into the corner of our small living room. The ornaments were vintage now, mostly glass tinted with silver and gold designs and old world themes, from my parents early Christmases together.

Some of our strung colored lights were candles with rising bubbles that appeared when they were lit. Once decorated, the finishing touches were slivers of silver tinsel hung from the branches. It was a happy time for a working class family in the immigrant neighborhood.

Nothing seemed different this particular Christmas except for the nonstop severe weather and the sheets of ice everywhere.

The most popular Christmas song that year was Nat King Cole’s recording of “The Christmas Song.” My father who loved to sing in bars and at weddings had to have it. He called all over the city to find a copy of the 78 record platter and finally found one.

Under other circumstances, my father would not have ventured out in the Arctic grip the city was under, but he was obsessed with the song and was determined to have it for Christmas. So he cleared the car of its snow and ice and began his trek to the record store.

Our cat Kitty, we discovered, was fascinated by the slinky, snakelike glimmering tinsel dangling seductively from the branches. It was a new cat toy to play with and bat with his paws.

However, it didn’t stop there. Kitty wanted to taste the tinsel, and with one stubborn tug pulled down the tree.

Branches snapped, ornaments rolled across the floor, some broke, and we gasped. With tears and laughter we put the tree upright and repaired the damages as best we could to restore it to its pristine state.

It was dark now and my weary father returned with his precious record only to find worsened street conditions for parking his big Caddie. As he attempted to seesaw into a spot, he hit the car in front and in back of him.

Totally exasperated, my dad now had car insurance and damage issues as well as unhappy neighbors to deal with. He finally gave up and came inside in a foul mood. The earlier excitement and family cheer were now gone.

But there was still one more catastrophe that day.

My dad unwrapped the coveted record from its packaging only to discover it was cracked and unplayable.

We did recover from that awful day and still had a good Christmas in spite of the cat, the tree, the car and the broken record.

It was an unforgettable Christmas, our Christmas of Catastrophes.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2009-2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Cat photo by Palmer W. Cook

Hearts & Teardrops: A Geography Lesson

2010-12-12T12:51:00.000-08:00

Years ago, sitting in my English professor's office, I found a curious wall map of the U.S.

It was a canvas divided only with states' borders; instead of cities, the painting was dotted with partial and broken hearts and teardrops like pushpins marking an emotional geography.

I asked my professor what the hearts and teardrops represented on the non-topographical map. He told me they were placemarks for locations where hearts still lingered and tears still stained the people and relationships of the artist's life.

It got me thinking as to where I would place my hearts and tears around the country. I have lived in the Midwest, East Coast, and now the West and Southwest.

How many hearts and tears would there be for my sixty some years of living as my relationships changed: marriage, divorce, separation, and friendships that touched me, a mix of love and hurt, joy and sadness?

Some relationships, no matter where they happened, stay with me; others are gone and not stood the test of time.

My personal geography, like the painting, has its share of both symbols marking my emotional terrain throughout the years.

They represent some of the happiest and some of the most painful experiences of my life.

Nevertheless, my emotional geography is not a map I would change. My map is filled with geography lessons that are part of the journey I have known and have shaped me into who I am.

Did I take the roads less travelled? Did I end up in places I never thought I would? Looking back, does it really matter? The detours were often the best parts of the trip.

I'm still traveling and expect I will add more hearts and tears along the way. What's important are the experiences they represent of a life fully lived.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Broken Heart by Billy Alexander

Gateway

2010-12-04T19:27:00.000-08:00

I close my eyes and breathe deeply.

As I take deeper, longer breaths, in my mind, I am transported.

I stand before an arch looking at the path that takes me into a golden field on the way to the garden, my beautiful, tranquil garden.

I follow the path to the water and the secluded garden where my guide awaits.

It is a spiritual retreat, and only I have access.

It is an inner resting place I have created when there is nowhere else to go. Life’s pressures and stresses are not allowed in my secret garden.

When I enter the garden, I escape the cares and weight of life. My guide is always there …when I am afraid, uncertain and alone. We are connected. We sit beside the water, and my guide listens to my doubts and apprehensions.

I know I can rely on my guide to help me when life is too much, and I need refuge. This is our time and place, an inner world untouched by others, where there is peace and comfort from external reality.

In the garden, I am soothed by my gentle guide. We are detached from the material world.

Protected in my meditative oasis, I transcend responsibilities, worries and anxieties.

In my garden I am calm. I am safe. I am free.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2009-2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Archway photo by Maureen McGarrigle

Follow the Signs

2010-11-23T21:52:00.000-08:00

In an old Steve Martin film, LA Story, his character is asking for a “sign.”

He finds it on the side of a freeway, a blinking directional sign, a kind of modern oracle to guide him.

I can relate.

In times when life seemingly presents no answers, I grope for them anyway and somehow they appear when I least expect them and in the unlikeliest of places.

Coming from the doctor’s office, something prompts me to glance at the rear window of the car beside mine, with a sticker that asks, “Have you thanked God today?”

There it is—the message at a time when I’m at a loss for solutions to my child’s serious health problem.

And the signs and their messages keep coming. After an eye-check up, I glance at a parked car’s bumper which shouts,

“Got Faith?” More questions to remind me that I have the answers within me.

Driving on the way to teach my multi-cultural, adult college class of Muslims, Hispanics, African-Americans, and Caucasians: a composite of soldiers back from multiple Middle East tours of duty; single parents, some never been married; some from inner-city projects and gangs; some who have served time—all wanting better lives through education and a coveted degree.

It’s a daunting challenge and responsibility to teach to this diverse population and their mismatched skill levels.

I’m waiting at a stoplight thinking about this night’s class, and to my right I see a church’s corner sign that reads, “Do More Good.”

No specifics, no details or steps to take…just do more good. Seems so simple, yet profound, reminding me of what I can do.

I have learned that when I need them, the signs appear. I just have to follow them.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2009-2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Photo by Asif Akbar

Graduation Flashback: Then and Now

2010-11-14T22:55:00.000-08:00

As I watched the students march in procession, I thought back to my undergrad college graduation from the University of Illinois in Urbana.

Now, I was attending graduation as a faculty member donned ceremoniously in cap and gown to support the commencement ritual for the new grads at a local college.

Scanning their faces, I could see the pride and the relief that they made it to the prize. I watched them accept their diplomas while their families and friends shouted and applauded as their names were called.

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.

I remembered the look on my face in the photo my parents took. I was glowing, filled with hopes, dreams and goals for a bright future.

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.

My four years of study prepared me to be an English teacher K-12. I believed that was the life ahead of me.

Graduating from college is what my mother had encouraged me to do after her own education was cut short by a depression which 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.

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.

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.

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. I had a master plan and a script to follow. I was all set.

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.

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.

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.

That was not the plan the day I stood proudly clenching my diploma ready to take on the world, or so I thought.

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.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

mortar board 1 photo by renata jun

An Object of Affection

2010-11-08T17:32:00.000-08:00

Best camera I ever had. No adjustments, no gadgetry…just press the button, indestructible and compact…my Kodak Instamatic.

It was our first summer in Virginia, and the camera was filled with priceless photos and memories from our trip back to Illinois for my father’s second wedding: my daughter as the ring bearer, my children reunited with my brothers, and dad with his siblings from CA who came to see him marry his new wife.

There were still a few pictures left on the roll.

Later that summer, the Instamatic preserved pictures from a trip to NYC with my son, 10 and daughter, 7. A native New Yorker and theatre friend took us “parading,” as he called it, to the Empire State Building, Staten Island and Central Park.

My children and I were making new memories together as we explored the East Coast after our move to northern Virginia from a small town in the Midwest.

When we returned to Virginia, I discovered the camera was missing along with all the memories it carried. I knew I could never replace those Kodak moments.

Several weeks passed before I received a package from someone who had also been in Central Park during the marathon. The Good Samaritan found our address in the camera case and mailed the camera to us.

So the camera and its treasures found their way home, like a faithful family pet that was lost and then returned.

Later that summer, we were exploring Baltimore’s Inner Harbor and stopped for some ice cream at Swenson’s. With tired kids in tow, I left the camera behind, this time on the booth’s seat at the ice cream parlor.

A couple days later, I realized it was gone along with the pictures from our Baltimore trip. A few weeks passed and I received a call from someone who had also stopped for ice cream, found the camera and dropped it off at our home.

Once again the camera was reunited with our family.

I never lost the Instamatic after that summer when we explored our new surroundings. It's now packed away with family albums, slides and other memorabilia.

It preserved the adventures of a single mom and her children adapting to a new life and geography.

Somehow the camera and the memories it saved always returned safely to us. It was part of the family, and through the kindness of strangers who found it in NYC and Baltimore, the camera made it back where it belonged.

Objects do evoke memories. Perhaps that’s why we hold onto them.

Our inexpensive, uncomplicated Instamatic kept our family’s history and helped us hold on to those times when we started a new life together.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2009-2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

New York photo by clemmeson

Facebook: See me, hear me, feel me, or not

2010-11-02T11:28:00.000-07:00

Facebook, 5 million users, so many friends, so little time. Just want to connect, comment, like, share.

Superficial touching, remote caring.

We reach out to each other to gossip, brag, complain, protest to our virtual community of friends and family. We express ourselves and wait to see if anyone paid attention or noticed.

Almost like a popularity contest. How many commented? How many clicked "Like"?

We are plugged in, or so it seems. So safe, so easy to say nothing of consequence, share our lives, sort of, but not real contact.

We live everywhere; our time is limited; this is the best way to touch base.

The phone is hit or miss. E-mail not as quick to let you know. Virtual living in a time-starved, long distance world. Works to a point, can't live without it, satisfying but never filling.

Our anonymous and private lives in a public gathering place, technology's replacement for the village well, pub, stroll through the neighborhood.

Odd that it's called Facebook, an album of faces that stare back at me, on the other side of the screen from me peering in.

Intimacy, closeness, touching, not there. A moment of your time, please. Look at me. Acknowledge I exist today. Facetime via machine time.

Something is missing: time for each other. Stop the clock just for a bit and spend some time with me. Reach out and touch someone across the miles, the time zones.

Did I miss your post? How old is it? Too much information, too little. How are you...really? I wish we could just sit down and have a cup of coffee and tell me how you're really doing.

Our lives are more than bits and bytes. I am human; I am not a machine. I miss you.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

A Different Kind of Retail Therapy

2010-10-24T11:28:00.000-07:00

I was in my 20s, just finished my first year of teaching and needed work for the summer.

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.

For generations, the boutique's proprietor provided personal attention and service to the community. 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.

She carefully selected and ordered dresses for the women of the town as if she were their personal dresser. 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.

Her service and taste were impeccable, and her clients were fiercely loyal. She made them look and feel fabulous.

As her substitute, I quickly learned that women do not tell their true dress sizes, sort of like telling their real ages.

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.

They would be so delighted at how they looked and left satisfied customers.

I also learned that women needed dresses for extraordinary occasions. This was the mid '60s and social mores were not very flexible.

Looking for a dress she could get married in, a teenager with a baby bump came in with her disapproving mother. 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.

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.

She pulled out the tops of the dresses and stared at herself to see what she would like as if she had the bra to fill out her bosom. 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. 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.

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. She needed a dress for two funerals. Her brother and cousin were murdered in a bank robbery two days earlier; she was in shock.

She lost two family members in a senseless crime, but she didn't want to wear black. 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.

So 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.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Store Displays photo by Kay Pat

Mannequin photo by msvoluptuos31

Shirley Temple and "Glee": Good times for bad times

2010-10-16T21:34:00.000-07:00

When times are tough, entertainment helps us escape reality.

During the Great Depression of the '30s, people grinned and clapped when Shirley Temple sang, "The Good Ship Lollipop."

Her adorable singing and tap dancing on the silver screen made them forget joblessness, bread lines and poverty. She was a charming distraction from disturbing, distressing uncertainty.

When the dimpled, blond, curly haired girl pouted and giggled, she briefly took them back to childhood innocence and joy.

She was an icon for hope and brought a weary America much-needed relief in difficult times.

Today Glee uplifts us with song and dance during the Great Recession. Even when dealing with teenage angst, the cast breaks into song and dance, offering a sweet retreat from everyday problems.

The TV show helps us forget foreclosures, debt and high unemployment. It makes us feel better. Just for a short time we are transported and delighted.

Both Shirley Temple and Glee are more than entertainment.

They keep life "lighter" for us when we really need it; they help us maintain our balance and avoid despair.

We smile, chuckle and push away the dark clouds.

There's a common belief that the right leader shows up at the right time.

I think the right diversion also appears when we need it most, and we hug and squeeze its sweetness to help us through the storm. It's a gentle "feel good" reminder of who we are when life is simpler.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

"Look at Me" by guest blogger Karen Cross

2010-10-09T22:35:00.000-07:00

Look at me.

I am.

No! Look at me!

Which one are you?

I don’t know, I can’t see me anymore…all I see is pain.

I see you. You are a survivor!

Survivor, ha! I am done surviving.

You are so strong.

Am I?

Look at all you have come through.

You mean all I have survived.

Well yes…

Yes, I know I am a childhood SURVIVOR of sexual abuse. My marriage SURIVIVED an affair and now…

Now you have SURVIVED breast cancer.

But I don’t want to SURVIVE anymore, I want to LIVE!

You are so blessed!

Yes, I know.

You were lucky not to have chemo or radiation…

STOP!! I am blessed, BUT I AM NOT LUCKY! ARE YOU LOOKING AT ME?

Yes, and I still see a strong young woman. A survivor!

Please stop saying that. I am standing here with no breasts. With medical tubes hanging where my round, supple femininity should be… How is that lucky?

Well…

Well what? You have nothing to say? You shouldn’t, because you do not know what this is like. Let me tell you, it is a horror amusement ride at one of those traveling carnivals.

Go on, tell me more…

Well I want to scream, “Let me off this ride!” Cancer, mastectomy, expanders…oh my! And yet there is more to come.

I hear your pain.

I don’t think you do. You can’t hear PAIN!

Tell me more about this ride.

December 31st was when the call came and the doors opened to the house of horrors. The doctor was on the line, and we all know doctor’s only call when it’s bad. He said, “The biopsy revealed cancer. The good news is we caught it early.”

Happy New Year!

After that call, everything is a whirlwind of shock, information overload and tough decisions. Dr. Cox, the breast cancer surgeon, was amazing and thorough in her presentation of options.

With the odds of recurrence lowest after full mastectomy, I made the choice to remove my breast and undergo reconstruction. My life, in one doctor’s visit, had changed forever.

I left the office with my husband and sister; all of us silent. It was a lot to take in, for everyone. Walking to the car felt surreal, nothing would ever be the same.

Fear of the unknown had left me numb. I had now become an attraction on the horror ride, a zombie driven aimlessly through the motions of the events that followed.

Day by day, minute by minute, I ceased to feel. After all, I had to put on a show to protect the ones I loved from the gruesomeness cancer displays.

Along the ride I appeared strong and fearless as I subjected my womanhood to the butcher’s knife. Then the ride appears to end as it comes to rest in front of these mirrors; mirrors reflecting before and after…

And now I ask you, who am I?

You are me…

No, I have changed. Where is the beautiful, confident woman I used to see?

I am still here and yours to claim.

I can’t see you in me anymore. I stand here, after the knife, angry, scarred and altered.

I still see beauty and confidence in you, look harder.

I look and I see beauty shattered with the absence of me and confidence lost in what has been left behind.

Maybe you should look at me.

I am looking and I am lost in my reflections.

I see you, you are the strong one.

Am I?

Yes, nothing’s changed there.

Then you must not be looking, because everything has changed.

On the outside, yes, but you have always been a survivor and…

There it is again, SURVIVOR, why must this be my title? When can I say enough is enough?

The Lord has a purpose for your life and your strength in adversity is how He uses you.

I accept that, but when is it okay for me to just be? When can I just live? When can I stop SURVIVING?

Maybe the answer is in your voice.

My voice? I am sure He has heard my voice. When have you known me not to speak my mind?

No, not that voice. The voice that sang praises as a child with the belief of innocence. The voice that reached others in song through the pain of a struggling marriage, where is that voice?

Oh, that voice.

Why have you silenced it?

I am afraid to sing again. My voice is my soul and I feel I must hide my deepest, painful emotions from this cavalcade freak show.

You can try and hide them, but they are the key to living.

I know...but I feel that once I begin to sing, I just might fall apart.

Then fall apart and let Him pick up the pieces. He feels your pain, He sees your tears and He longs to hear your voice.

Ah, my voice…funny, but I long to hear it too. Can it be that simple? Can it be that this is how this frightful passage ends?

I believe it does.

So, you do see me.

Yes, right here in my reflection…just look at me.

Copyright by Karen Cross 2010

Illustration reference:

http://www.1212galleryrva.com/.a/6a00d834526ca869e20120a55c20e2970c-320wi

Karen Cross is a 40 year old mother and wife. She has three intelligent, sensitive and funny boys and a wonderfully amazing husband. Currently, Karen helps adult learners find their way down the educational path to graduation at University of Phoenix and is one year away from graduating herself with a bachelors in psychology.

As a student recovering from breast cancer, she was provided an outlet for her emotional struggles as she returned to school after her mastectomy to a cathartic course in creative writing.

In that class this piece was born, and Karen hopes it will inspire, touch and maybe evoke the healing sought by all who travel the breast cancer journey back to emotional health.

________________________________________

Romancing the Stone: Reunited with Michelangelo's "David"

2010-10-03T10:16:00.000-07:00

Returning to Florence, Italy, meant seeing Michelangelo's David again.

I remembered the impact he had on me at 25 and wondered how he would affect me this time, some 40 years later. I had kept him close to my heart since our first encounter.

I've always had a special place for David 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.

Would David 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?

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.

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.

At 25, it was love at first sight; at 67 I am totally smitten by his gentle, powerful figure and adore him all the more.

Next time I see him, I will place a "love is eternal padlock" (L'amore è eterno dei lucchetti) 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.

Till we meet again. Ciao.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

L'amore è eterno finchè dura photo by Veronica

http://villavita.net/workshops/creative-travel-writing-workshop/

"Stand Up" Biology by Guest Blogger Brian Leiken

2010-08-29T12:16:00.000-07:00

Third block biology is a bitch.

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.

At first they dropped the refuse into the two foot deep lab sinks, treating the wash basins like trash pits.

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.

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.

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.

I've never had to follow the same kid twice.

Even then we had to call in the Dean and threaten to expel five of them.

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.

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.

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.

"Mr. Leiken, I've got an important question! Who would win? Iron Man or the Hulk!"

"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.

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.

"Okay, who would win, Superman or the Hulk?"

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."

"Okay, who would win, Batman or Superman?"

"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."

"Okay, who would win? Iron Man or Batman?"

I pause. That is a good question. "I'll tell you.... after you finish this worksheet."

The boys let out a collective awwww.

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.

"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!"

"There is one of me and forty of you. What is it?"

She thrusts the worksheet out in front of her. "I don't understand it!"

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.

"Did you even read it?" I ask her.

"No."

"Why not?"

She actually looks embarrassed.

"Hey, Mr. Leiken! Yo Momma so fat when she gets on a scale, it says to be continued!"

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.

But I can't let that pass. My mother's honor must be satisfied.

"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."

The class cracks up and lets out a giant oooooohhh!

Unlike the kids, I've got fresh material. I think of yo momma jokes on the way home.

Don't ever mess with a writer.

"Yo momma so big," I continue, "they had to put in a double wide garage just to let her in the house!"

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.

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!"

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," or "pussy."

Who knew that my years of doing "stand up" would someday be useful?

Copyright 2009-10 by Brian Leiken

Biology 9 photo by Sabrena Carter
Hulk photo by Mauro Martins
Man with Michophone photo by Michal Zacharzewski

LA Teacher Blog
http://leiken.blogspot.com/

Brian Leiken is an L.A. inner-city, special ed teacher and author of Crossed Out, a book about and for his students. Oh yes, he's also my son:)

Crossed Out by Brian Leiken at http://www.lulu.com/

Rooms R Us

2010-08-25T14:29:00.000-07:00

My own room for the first time ever. I could hardly wait!

I didn't have to sleep with other people in the room anymore...a place where I could close the door and escape into daydreams, fantasies, and PRIVACY.

My parents even found a used vanity table with a mirror and chair for my room. The cosmetics on the vanity crowded my stuffed animals. I knew sooner or later there would not be room for both.

I felt so feminine and grown-up in the vanity's mirror seeing the reflection of a future acclaimed actress or best-selling author.

The closet held only "my" things, no one else's.

My storybook dolls, timeless princesses adorned in beautiful gowns and tiaras, slept undisturbed in their plastic, see-through boxes, unspoiled and forever perfect. Like Sleeping Beauty, they awaited the kiss of the handsome prince to awaken them.

I would transform my room into a sanctuary, dreamscape, and bigger-than-life movie starring me. Sometimes the room became a time machine transporting me to a wonderful future filled with love, romance and riches.

On my fantasy stage, I would confront my parents and win; accept the Oscar graciously; be crowned Miss America; and passionately kiss the senior class president.

It was here where I rehearsed for life; and, all my stories had happy, victorious endings written, produced and directed from the theatre of my mind.

Years later, I shared my room, this time with my husband. How strange to be lying there beside him with my parents in the next room. I felt self conscious about the squeaky bedsprings and refused to make love, for somehow that would be sacrilege.

In this place, nothing in reality could compare to the exquisite romances of my girlhood fantasies.

After my divorce, I stayed in my room for the last time. The house was empty. My parents had divorced long ago and my mother had passed. I went there with a man I cared for but had no plans to marry.

As I lay beside him, memories and ghosts swept over me. I wept as I realized my lovely, girlhood dreams had shattered in the outside world.

Now I possessed wisdom and experience, but the innocent girl imagining her first kiss was gone forever.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2009-10 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Georgie’s Girl

2010-08-15T15:09:00.000-07:00

All the girls adored him.

Georgie was cocky, mischievous, wore his jeans slung on his hips without a belt, a black leather motorcycle jacket with his collar up…an irresistible mix of James Dean and John Travolta with thick, blonde, wavy hair and blue eyes that made me melt.

Georgie was the leader of the eighth grade boys. I was the new kid in seventh grade in the suburbs of Chicago.

Georgie was king of the school and everybody tried to please him, except me. I was so shy that I wouldn’t talk to him and only looked at him when he couldn’t see. The others thought my awkward standoffishness was what they called “stuck-up.”

I fantasized about Georgie but never dreamed he would notice me. I’m not sure what attracted him to me, except that I was the only girl not fawning over him. One day, his simple “hi” broke our silence as he walked me to my locker.

After that, we were “a couple,” and he escorted me to my classes regularly. Of course, I was thrilled as if my dream had come true. Georgie also started riding his motorcycle to my house, the ultimate display of affection to a girl who never had a boyfriend before.

Since Georgie liked me, the eighth grade girls’ clique called the Sub-Debs (like the Pink Ladies in Grease) invited me to their lunch table, and soon I became one of them. We wore identical yellow jackets and rolled down our bobby socks an inch at the top to look cool.

I cut my hair short in a slick DA shaped into a duck tail in the back with side curls that I taped to my cheeks at night to train them to lie plastered against my face during the day.

Though Georgie looked like a gang member from West Side Story, he was always a gentleman with me. Our relationship was innocent and delightful, just handholding and closed-mouth kissing. We never “made out.” I was still very shy, and he never tried.

I remember his asking me to “go steady” on a summer day on a bench near the park at the end of our street.

He even gave me his engraved ID bracelet to wear so everyone would know I was Georgie’s girl. After that, I gained new status in the school and became the envy of the other girls.

Other than a few sweet kisses, my first love and I only shared socializing at school and some parties at other kids’ houses, usually in the basement, the knotty-pine, paneled party room for working class families in suburban Chicago homes.

I’m not sure when Georgie and I went our separate ways. We seemed to drift apart when I went to high school. I started spending more time with student leaders and other teens that wanted to go to college.

That didn’t interest Georgie. He was street smart, savvy, and in a hurry to make money.

We no longer had much in common. He still had a following of the boys from Berger Elementary School, but was not a high-school achiever in sports, scholastics, or extra-curricular activities.

I lost track of him in our overcrowded high school of 4,000 students. The following year I was elected the first girl president of the sophomore class.

After I graduated and moved on to the University of Illinois, I came home for the summers and worked in downtown Chicago. One day I ran into Georgie on the street in my hometown.

It felt awkward. We really didn’t know what to say to each other. It had been much easier in seventh grade. We were now in very different places.

I was dressed for business and he was still in his construction coveralls. Working in the sun made him blonder, rugged, and more handsome. He was still mischievous and his confidence was disarming.

We made small talk and scanned each other. I felt sexually attracted to him at 19 and wondered what it would be like to be intimate with him. I sensed that the feeling was mutual but neither of us tried to revive our lost love.

I never saw Georgie again. I married my college sweetheart and moved to another state to teach near where my husband was attending law school.

My father later told me that Georgie married one of the quiet, pretty girls from my class who never went to college.

They seemed to be doing well: big house, cars, boat, etc. I knew Georgie was a hustler and was not surprised that he was earning big money in the construction business. He always had to be number one.

A couple years later, I heard that Georgie was in prison. His ambition had led him to his own private plane, major drug deals, and connections to cartels smuggling drugs into the country. As always, he did things in a big way and never stood for being second best at anything.

Many years have passed, but the memory of him as my first love remains tucked away in my heart forever. He made an awkward, young, skinny girl feel pretty and special. I will always be thankful that I was Georgie’s girl.

http://justdoingmythingcom.blogspot.com/

Motorcycle boy photo by Michal Zacharzewski
Corrente2 bracelet by Felipe Skroski

The Halo Lounge

2010-08-06T21:30:00.000-07:00

At age 13, as if by divine intervention, I was chosen to represent the Presbyterian church on a local TV quiz-kid show aptly named, “This Way Up.”

I attended Sunday School in the Chicago suburbs and was their star pupil, an aspiring missionary, who saw God through shafts of sunlight seemingly directed at me.

Looking at the heavenly skylight, I felt a special connection to my maker, and my church nurtured it.

Though my parents never visited the church, nevertheless, I was recognized in front of the congregation for memorizing more of the Old Testament than anyone else in my class. I basked in the glory.

Little did I know that my Old Testament Bible knowledge would lead to bigger and better things.

In the mid-50s, TV programming in Chicago kept viewers captivated with cooking demonstrations, Howdy Doody puppets, Uncle Miltie, and quiz shows. Being chosen to compete with other churches’ Sunday school contestants was an honor.

Besides appearing on TV, I had a chance to win a $25 bond for the church and a white leather Bible with gold trimmed pages.

To prepare for my TV debut, I carefully picked my hat and slipped my fingers into my pristine, white fitted gloves to be properly dressed in my Sunday best for the auspicious occasion.

There I stood in front of the camera answering all the Bible questions confidently and winning easily. I took home the white leather Bible autographed by the TV host and carried the bond safely back to the church.

The televised event was an epiphany, a transformative experience.

I ascended from Sunday School starlet to full-fledged celebrity status among the Presbyterians. I was their Junior Miss Achiever.

“What next?” I thought. I was on my way to God, and a door had opened to my fantasy adventure to become “Nancy Drew, Missionary.” It all seemed to be falling into place until one unforeseen afternoon.

After Sunday School, the minister called me into his office to congratulate me on the honors I had brought to his parish. After some polite conversation, the head of the church asked me why my parents never came to services.

Since my parents were of different religious denominations (Greek Orthodox and non-practicing Jew), I had tagged along with friends to find “my church.”

As always, I attended on my own with neighborhood kids. By 13, there was already an assorted list of churches in my repertoire: I had spent time with Methodists, Lutherans, Baptists, Episcopalians and occasionally Catholics.

The minister continued his interrogation. He wanted to know my father’s occupation and where he worked. Suddenly, I felt hot and clammy as my perfect holy life began to crumble. I didn’t want to lie or tell the truth.

The time of reckoning had come. I knew if I disclosed my father’s work, I would fall from grace and off my sacred pedestal.

As if confessing, I stammered that my father was a… bartender at the Halo Lounge… a local bar with a blinking neon halo above the sign of the establishment.

The minister became silent, looked away, made some unrelated comment, and wished me a good day. It was over. I was exposed and embarrassed not knowing what to say in that awkward moment of truth that seemed like it would never end.

My short-lived fame was deposed by a neon halo. I could no longer reign as the Sunday School queen. Like a golden calf from the Old Testament, my holy tiara was toppled by a neon halo.

God works in mysterious ways.

Guest Blog: "Dating L.A." by Brian Leiken

2010-07-29T15:53:00.000-07:00

L.A. is a goddess.

She is the daughter of Apollo and Lilith, forever chic, eternally young, phone glued to her ear as she veers down the freeway.

Like all gods, she goes by many names: Hollywood and Tinseltown. She is the American Idol.

Dating in L.A. is notoriously difficult. People who move here often go for years finding no one, then move away only to discover a "soul mate" and marry six months later.

It's a paradox. How can a city known for its youth and beauty, a city crammed full of party loving singles, a city like L.A., be so difficult for finding love?

The problem is the nature of L.A. herself.

She's elusive. Her whims are fickle. She wants everything but promises nothing. Many come to L.A. seeking her, yearning for her approval.

She is mesmerizing, Narcissus reborn; those who seek her unable to tear themselves away, hoping, praying, even begging for the briefest hint of her acknowledgement.

She's beautiful, the essence of desire; to have L.A. laughing on your arm is to have every aspiration fulfilled. Her silhouette covers the city in sequined glamour.

People who look in the mirror do not want to see themselves - they want to see her gazing back at them with longing.

She is terrifying, this goddess. Those lucky few who bask in her glory often get too close to her divine flames, burning up, enraptured by all that she offers.

Those who lose her interest are the wash outs; has-beens who frequently debase themselves on game shows and reality TV in acts of public self-flagellation, all in the vain hope of regaining her approval.

Within six months most who come to L.A. realize she doesn't exist, no more real then a mirage, no more attainable than a bowl of Cezanne's fruit. You can only gaze at her illusive beauty.

She is untouchable, but her captivating splendor remains alluring and tempting.

It is because of this goddess, this siren of desire, that dating is impossible in L.A.

No one wants to date who they are with - they want her. She is the collective consciousness of the modern world's dreams, a broadcast of mass marketed fantasy.

L.A. is lust and passion, wealth and romance, ecstasy and bliss. No mere mortal can match up to the promise of L.A; no one person can fulfill all the dreams and endless possibilities she evokes.

It is only after becoming numb in the land of collagen and silicon enhanced bodies that the realization dawns - not even L.A. can satiate all that she promises.

No matter how much you are with her, L.A. leaves you hungry and desperate for more. More fame, more success, more praise, more self-adoration.

L.A. doesn't bequeath dreams, L.A. bestows hallucination.

Natives born in her womb are impervious to fever induced charms. Birthed with immune systems incapable of substance, L.A. natives accept her artificiality with a zen like Buddhism that mystifies outsiders.

For the natives do not date; they "hook-up." For them, it is enough to have a look and the appearance of a relationship.

For true initiates of Hollywood, the image is the person, what you look like is who you are. They accept that when you are in a relationship, you aren't just a boyfriend or a girlfriend, you're an accessory.

In most places, it's what you bring to the table. In L.A. it's not what you bring, it's who you bring to the table.

In L.A. an image isn't skin deep because there is nothing beneath the skin. Dating in L.A. isn't about love or commitment. It's about creating an image, all in an attempt to be closer, to be closer to her.

It's why as a "broke" writer I did better dating than as an employed teacher - a writer has the potential of launching a career, catapulting an individual into her hands.

A teacher? A teacher might be able to add you to his PPO.

It's why people in L.A. can have one night stands, but are incapable of sustaining a relationship. In a relationship, your image might not be compatible with theirs.

People often say to me, "Leiken, you are too picky. You won't bend, you won't compromise. You expect too much. You don't put yourself out there enough...you won't change your look."

To date in L.A. you have to find your niche, you need to have a "look."

Because when you are dating in L.A. you are dating two women. The girl you are with, and L.A. One I can handle, the other can never be satisfied.

Copyright 2010 by Brian Leiken

Long hair photo by vassiliki koutsothanasi
Narcissism photo by lu tb
In the sun photo by Ulrika Bengtsson

LA Teacher
http://leiken.blogspot.com/

Brian Leiken is an L.A. inner-city, special ed teacher and author of Crossed Out, a book about and for his students. Oh yes, he's also my son:)

Crossed Out by Brian Leiken at http://www.lulu.com/

Also see my initial impressions of L.A. after moving from Washington, D.C.:
D.C. to L.A: A Monumental Change http://justdoingmythingcom.blogspot.com/2009/09/dc-to-la-monumental-change.html

Erana in Wonderland

2010-07-17T12:49:00.000-07:00

Sometimes my mind is in a hurry and races along like the White Rabbit eager to get to the next new idea.

The mind is a wonderful thing. It takes us anywhere, anytime and lets us frolic through ideas, memories, fantasies, reflections.

My mind loves to play. It can also overwork and sometimes refuses to shut up like the Mad Hatter.

When I daydream, my mind flits from thought to thought as if I were a busy bee pausing at each mind flower to sample its nectar.

As my mind wanders, it discovers, it lingers, and it bolts. Some thoughts enter and leave right away. “Hmm, that’s interesting.” “Don’t go there…you know what happens there.” Others are obsessive and won’t let go. “Why did he do that? When will I ever learn?”

My mind takes me places where I laugh, cry, and get mad.

I have states of mind that can spiral me into fear, dread, and anger or joy and contentment. My mind conjures up faces, conversations, replays and even re-records events as they happened and as I wish they had happened. “Why didn’t I say.”

My mind acts like a child: “Go ahead, try it. Have fun!” Like an adult: “Are you crazy? Do you know what will happen if you do that?”Like the Queen of Hearts, my mind becomes tyrannical as it imagines “off with my head.”

Sometimes I over think, analyze to the nth degree, and put myself in a riddle like the Cheshire Cat. Sometimes I misconstrue, think it’s one thing when it’s not that at all.

Mind tricks and mind games can be misleading and create doubt and distrust. I have to catch myself from going into dark alleys and trying to avoid trouble I’m creating.

I’ve tried mind control. “Stop thinking about it.” Sometimes it works. Other times the mind has a will of its own and refuses to be corralled. It mostly wants to be untethered and act on its own accord.

It’s interesting and often delightful to let it wander, play with ideas as if they were friends, and explore new thoughts.

When I let my mind be free, I often discover creative ways of seeing things. It helps me problem solve and reframe situations and issues.

I am mind “full,” too much at times, and even capricious. When I let it rest, it takes time out for awhile during meditation, a sort of spa for the mind to get refreshed and start anew.

During meditation, I need to protect my mind from reality, the lists, tasks, chores of everyday life. We both need a break.

The rewards for taking a mind break often lead me to inspiration and creative breakthroughs. Today I took a mind break.

Illustration by Peter Sheaf Hersey Newell

Alice in Wonderland by DGBurns

Wonderland by A-D Passion

Guest Villa Vita blog: Ciao for Now, Il Borgo

2010-07-11T17:41:00.000-07:00

Sharing the Beauty of Travel in Italy and Beyond

by Gina Ruggiero, Villa Vita Blog

I am sitting on the plane en route back to the U.S. after another absolutely wonderful stay in Tuscany thinking to myself “how can I be so lucky”?

I believe a large part of my good fortune can be accredited to learning about Il Borgo Villa di Bossi Pucci. Since I first entered through the grand gates last year, I (and everyone I bring here) have been treated with such good care.

The apartments are simple and elegantly furnished with full living rooms and breakfast kitchens. Each building is restored to reveal its original typical Tuscan architecture.

The views from the terraces in the 2 bedroom villas are stunning. I must admit I spent a great deal of time here admiring it all during my stay.

The fog rolling down into the valley in the morning, the late afternoon cloud burst and thunderstorms, and the sunset (after 9 PM in June) turning the valley to a gold and green paradise is as much a part of the holiday as is the trips to all the charming hill towns and restaurants.

The owner of the estate is a former CEO of Hilton International and American Express which helps to explain the top notch service and quality accommodations. Daily management of the property is under the capable hands of Alessandro Guerrieri. He, his wife Julia and their two sons all live on the estate.

On a quiet afternoon in the summer, you can catch a glimpse of the boys playing soccer in one of the many grassy fields surrounding the estate.

On special occasions, the large central courtyard plays host to classical concerts with local musicians and other such venues.

The pool boasts the same fantastic views as the 2 bedroom villas with Poppiano Castle to the left and Montespertoli in the direct distance just past the vineyards and olive groves.

Walking paths and quiet country roads lead in all directions from here taking you further into a Tuscan dream.

The landscaping is abound with rosemary and roses, terra cotta pots brimming with blossoms and of course, olive trees and cypress.

There is a little ancient chapel on property tucked away in a small wooded area just past the pool. It was very common for larger estates to all have their own chapel centuries ago.

Just below the pool, a grassy pathway leads to the small town of Montagnana. Here there is the general store, (alimentari) a wonderful pizzeria, un ristorante, café, hair salon, gas station, post office, and real estate office.

I could not resist taking a look at the few homes and apartments for sale, after all, this is a slice of paradise. Many of the apartments in Il Borgo are for sale as well if you are like me and would like this to be a more permanent holiday.

In the meantime, staying at Il Borgo and participating in the Lessons of Tuscany program is the next best way to experience all the splendors of Tuscany.

Join us in September for a creative writing workshop, "Postcards from Italy," taught by Erana Leiken, and capture Tuscany with your pen and your heart.

http://villavita.net/workshops_adventures.htm

http://www.villavita.net/experience.htm

Testimonials from Our Travelers
http://myvillavita.com/travelers/

Guest blog: Being Grateful by Bill Bruner

2010-06-30T10:10:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I mentioned that one of the easiest first steps for moving from a place of negativity to being more positive is by expressing your gratitude.

I believe that by finding ways to be grateful in our lives we open ourselves up to a whole new world of possibilities. This small step, that I practice daily, is an exercise that is well worth your time.

For those of you who don't know this practice, it's really very simple. Every morning I sit and think of things from the day before to be grateful for. I try to write them down to have a record of my expressions.

It can be as simple as: I am grateful for all the wonderful people I've met on Twitter or as personal as: I am grateful for the love and support of my wife.

What you are grateful for isn't as important as going through the process everyday. The more routine you can make this process the more you can begin to open yourself up.

What I have found over the past several years of doing this is that what you are grateful for begins to show up more in your life. There are many reasons for this but the simplest way to explain it is that we are all connected, and your thoughts have power.

Even the thoughts you don't express are heard by the universe/God, and those thoughts create actions without you ever knowing it.

I like to think of this process as being similar to throwing a stone into a pond. A single thought grows outward from its source (yourself) till it is heard throughout the universe. There have been many studies that show that this process does actually work.

One of the most dramatic for me was the effect of thoughts on water. By thinking about the water no matter how far apart the people thinking of the water were the water actually changed its shape and structure.

Know that we live a beautiful universe where love is the greatest gift we can give, and because of this the universe/God wants to give us back what we desire.

If we only think negative thoughts, we will continue to bring negative things into our lives as the universe/God only knows to give us what we ask for.

The journey to leading a more positive/joyful life is different for everyone. The first step of bringing more joy into your life is to start each day with morning "gratefuls."

The process of being grateful opens you up to the good things in your life rather than focusing on the negative. This shift of consciousness is the beginning of leading a more positive life.

It is this change in the way you look at things that opens you up to more and more positive things in your life. For some this shift is easy, and just taking the first step of doing the gratefuls leads them to the next step.

For others the process is more difficult and the shift takes more time. The main reason for this is in the acceptance of the feelings that the "gratefuls" lead you to.

Take time after writing your "gratefuls" to realize the way these things make you feel. Internalize the joy that is now a part of your life. This extra step of feeling what you write helps to move the process out of your head/ego and into your soul.

The ego will always hold you back, and we will explorer the traps of the ego at a later time. For now, know that the willingness to feel and continue to open yourself up is what codifies the process and moves you forward to the acceptance of more good and positive things in your life.

It's in this realization that you will begin to see things change in your life. As in the example I gave yesterday of the stone in the pond, your acceptance of joy from the smallest things in your life will be sent out over and over again bringing you back more and more things to be grateful for.

Release the fear and all the negative feelings in your life, even if it's only for the time it takes to write your "gratefuls." Every move toward the positive will bring you more joy, and the process will become easier and easier and more and more fulfilling.

Today start the practice of being grateful, reflect on what you are grateful for, and know how that gratitude feels to you in your heart and soul. Believe it even if it's forced in the beginning.

Together we can do anything, and if we all start to move to a more positive place, imagine how great this world will be.

Accept, let go and enjoy life.

Till tomorrow,

Bill
http://journeytojoy-timberwolf123.blogspot.com/

Quote of the day:

"Life is about love, if we all loved more the world would be a better place. Expand your comfort zone and love someone new today."

Guest Blog: "Cap and Gown" by Brian Leiken

2010-06-24T22:38:00.000-07:00

Six years, five graduations, nine hundred school days.

A relatively short period of time in the lifespan of a human, 900 days.

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.

Six years teaching and I'm still just a baby.

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.

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.

"Looking forward to graduation?" I ask rhetorically.

"I'm not going to walk," she says flatly.

"Why?"

"I don't want to walk. It's stupid."

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."

"No, Mister. I don't want to, it's embarrassing."

"Embarrassing? Everyone is walking across stage. It will be over in like a second."

"No, it's okay. I don't want to. Graduations are boring."

"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!"

The girl looks at the floor, unwilling to meet my gaze.

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. "If you don't do this," I continue, "you may live to regret it."

The girl mumbles something. I ask her to repeat herself, leaning in.

"I don't have the money, Mister."

"Money for what?"

"It's a hundred dollars for the cap and gown."

"A HUNDRED DOLLARS! Cold hard cash?"

The girl nods, quietly embarrassed.

"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 Eclipse. "Do they want you to go?" The girl nods, gaze furtively darting about the room.

"I want you to go the rehearsal today at lunch. You are going to graduate."

"But I don't have the money."

"I'll take care of it. Don't worry about it."

"But, I don't have the money."

"I'll get you your cap and gown. Go."

I go the special ed department first, explaining the situation. Borquez and Khazani immediately start asking their students; 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.

Nothing.

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 the 2010.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Two hours later she enters my room with a small plastic bag containing the gown, cap, a black sash embroidered 2010, and a small medal. (In today's world, graduation is worthy of a medal.)

"I have my cap and gown, Mr. Leiken."

I nod, looking up from where I am helping a student finish up a paper. "Awesome, so how was rehearsal?"

"It was okay."

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.

"Aren't you going to join the seniors for the photo?"

"No. It's too hot."

"You should go. Be a part of it."

"No, I don't want to." she answers, staring at the crowd outside.

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.

The bell rings, and the girl turns. "Goodbye, Mister," she says, exiting the room.

It's her way of saying thanks.

Six years, five graduations, 900 days.

It never gets old.

Copyright 2010 by Brian Leiken

LA Teacher
http://leiken.blogspot.com/
Crossed Out by Brian Leiken at http://www.lulu.com/

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:)

Photo of cap and diploma by Mary Gober
Photo of We're done! by Kati Garner

Missing Person

2010-06-13T00:55:00.000-07:00

I think most of us at some point experience feeling lost or invisible, drifting without direction.

Looking back at that time in my life, I remember the discomfort of not knowing who I was any more, because my old life of marriage, corporate career, and family, shifted off its foundation officially when I moved from Washington, D.C. to Los Angeles.

I became a missing person.

I had followed the scripts of the American dream for women of my generation: married my college sweetheart, a successful attorney; raised two children; lived the good life on a house on five acres along with indistinguishable years of beach and ski vacations.

Somewhere along the way, I vanished.

Divorce extricated me from a stifling marriage only to find myself wedded to the corporation that took over my life instead. Bottom lines, deadlines, meetings and management consumed my life along with single motherhood.

And then after my children moved away and another marriage ended, I walked away from it all, quit my stressful job, sold my home of 20 years and moved to LA to be near my children and start over.

I was at a loss without the trappings, structure and patterns that glued my life together before.

I was beginning my life again in my 50's and not sure where I was headed, but I had to discover if the girl who once dreamed of doing something creative still existed. I'd come so far to find me again.

Once the familiar props were gone, I was adrift. I wondered if it was possible to rediscover myself and pursue my dream to write and teach, to be free, true to myself, and be of service.

I decided to pursue my passion without giving in to the fears and insecurities that sabotaged my dreams in the past. I had to know.

I looked for my new identity with other singles, at churches, in classes and retreats.

I had no idea where the search would take me. Dipping into myself for affirmation, I found doubts and misgivings.

Surely, the idealistic, creative young woman I was once was still alive. How could I find her? I refused to believe she was gone forever. I searched on long walks on the beach, in mediatation, reflection and time with loved ones.

Slowly, signs of her began to appear: laughter, joy in writing and teaching, delight in small things. I caught glimpses of her from time to time.

Major life changes required shedding my former life's skin for a new one. Renewal felt unsettling and scary, but I knew there was no going back.

I learned it would take time to reconnect with my former self, return to my internal roots, and get my life back.

I didn't want to be afraid to go it alone, if need be. This part of the journey required being solo to be open to life's possibilities without the distractions of someone else's needs.

It was part of my reunion with myself and all that had gone missing for a long time.

homem invisivel..photo by Jonathan Phillip

Puzzle Missing photo by Michał Trochimiak

Also see: DC to LA: A Monumental Change
http://justdoingmythingcom.blogspot.com/2009/09/dc-to-la-monumental-change.html

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Still Learning My ABC's

2010-06-05T21:55:00.000-07:00

I found some notes I started in 2009 when I jotted down letters of the alphabet and then freewrote words that came to mind from them.

Looking at them now, I see that my word play was really a litmus test for my perceptions about life.

The words I created from each initial alphabet letter told me how I was doing and my perspective.

I never finished the whole alphabet and I created them randomly, not sequentially. They may not be tea leaves, but they are indicators of where my "head" is and a good barometer for how I am seeing things at this stage of life.

The alphabet seeds brought forth new thoughts from my interior garden and showed me how my awareness has shifted over the past few years in spite of job changes, health concerns and the old insecurities that used to run my life.

So I am still learning from my ABC's. They are a rorschach, an inkblot for my life now, freely expressed and good to see on the page.

L for laughter, life, light

A for angels, attitude, advance

J for joy, journey, jubiliation

F for freedom, forward, fun

E for energy, enlightenment, enhance

G for good, grace, gratitude

C for courage, change, choice

P for positive, powerful, productive

As I writer, I could complete the alphabet and the words they prompt, but I choose to let the inspiration speak for itself and for me.

They occurred spontaneously and will remain as they showed up in my consciousness. They are welcome at a more contented time in my life:)

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Photo of magnet letters by guil

Never Too Late

2010-05-31T19:17:00.000-07:00

He led me there. I know that now. I had gone back to Illinois, back to my roots, to the remnants of family still there.

I never really knew my father except through my mother’s perceptions.

On this wet, early morning, Dad suggested we visit my mother’s grave.

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.

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.

As the years passed, the graves seemed harder to find, overgrown under unkempt grass with weeds sunken below the mowing level.

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.

Today my father and I stopped at a small flower stand near the cemetery. Their plant selection was limited to a few shelves of drooping flowers.

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.

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.

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.

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.

He never said he loved her. In fact, he said he was happier with his new wife.

I couldn’t reply. Once again I was in the middle between them.

And then he told me something I never knew… he was always lonely with my mother.

In the quiet rain, I heard his pain and regrets. He said there were things he shouldn’t have done and was sorry for.

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.

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.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Crying Rose photo by Joanna Kopik
Planting photo by Rodrigo Roveri

My Guardian Angel

2010-05-21T20:31:00.000-07:00

I didn’t know where to turn. At 33, my world was falling apart. My marriage was ending and I had two small children to raise and support.

Feeling weary from lawyers and therapists’ advice, for the first time, I turned to a psychic, a spiritual reader, who a friend recommended. And that is how I met Gina 34 years ago.

The rooms of Gina's simple home were filled with angels and Native American symbols and figures. They had a calming effect but were strange to me.

I was leery and skeptical of talking to a psychic, but hoping I would be told by this gentle, humble woman, who possessed gifts I did not understand, that my marriage would survive.

But that’s not what she said. I was amazed and surprised by what I heard. The details were quite specific about my life, and I only half believed her predictions at best; but over time, I came to realize, that this generous and wise person was indeed gifted; and it was the beginning of a long, lifetime friendship.

Though I eventually left the Midwest and started a new life in Virginia with my children, I remained in phone contact with Gina over the years. More and more she became like a surrogate mother to me, someone who always listened and soothed me. There was no one else like her in my life.

Over time, our conversations were no longer “readings.” We became friends with a special bond and understanding. Talking to her was comforting, no matter what was going on in my love life or career.

She was always there for me, someone I could count on, a lifeline and a cherished, nurturing confidante, a connection that went beyond a blood relative.

As the older women in my family passed, I could always call Gina, like a favorite aunt, and talk about anything, uncensored and safe.

Never judged, I always felt understood. She filled an empty space in my life as a crone, a tribal elder whose kind wisdom helped me weather life’s storms, and never refused my cries for help when no one else was there.

Even though my life took me to new places, there was always Gina, just a phone call away. She shared her family and history with me as well. We became family to each other and developed a connection that surpassed friendship. Over the years, we would just call each other to talk and be together in our comfortable way. It always made me feel better.

In the last few years, Gina in her 80’s, was faltering and her health deteriorating. She never complained and always had a smile in her voice for me. I had not heard from her recently, and somehow I couldn’t make the call to confirm what I sensed.

I returned one evening to find my answering machine blinking for my attention. The message was from Gina’s daughter, Lonnie, who called me from Chicago to say that Gina, “our” mom, had passed in February.

I leaned over the sink and sobbed. All I could do was cry. As I wipe away my tears even now as I write this, I miss her from the deepest part of myself. The loss is indescribable.

On Mother’s Day, I received another call from Gina’s daughter, Lonnie, who is learning to walk again. Her mother’s house in central Illinois is being readied for new owners. She had kept some of her mother’s ashes. The rest were sprinkled over the loveliest spot above the river in Gina’s hometown. That pleased me.

Lonnie, as if being prompted by her mother, my dearest friend, Gina, said she had relocated her mother’s phonebook. Lonnie wanted to stay in touch and offered to talk anytime.

Thank you, Gina, for “contacting” me on Mother’s Day. You will always be my guardian angel. I love you and I miss you.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Guardian Angel photo by Robert Aichinger
Life Preserver photo by Paul Smith

The Art of Chianti

2010-05-10T01:24:00.000-07:00

Sharing the Beauty of Travel in Italy and Beyond by Guest blogger Gina Ruggiero, Villa Vita Blog

During the week of August 17 – 24, 2008, while many Italians were still on holiday for Ferragosto –
a few artists from Phoenix took in the Chianti Countryside with their eyes, with their paints, pastels and with their hearts.

We spent a wonderful week once again at Il Borgo Villa di Bossi Pucci located just south of Florence near the town of Montespertoli. Pastel artist Liz Kenyon created this trip to allow fellow artists to join her while she worked on her own series.

On the day we arrived, we all checked into our simple but elegant apartments just prior to a huge downpour which drenched the land and, as quickly as it came, the skies opened back up to bright sunshine and puffy white clouds.

We all enjoyed a wonderful welcome antipasti – which is typically appetizers but always turns into a full blown meal at Il Borgo.

We enjoyed fresh tomatoes picked from the garden, Il Borgo’s own wine and olive oil from their nearby castle estate, hand-made pasta and bread made by Alessandro’s 8 year old son Francesco and much more. Liz helps set the tone for the joyful week ahead.

Ahhhh Chianti!

After a much needed siesta and time to unpack and get settled – we hopped into the van to take a good look at the surrounding beauty which would make it’s way onto the canvas over the next few days, such as Barb’s wonderful interpretation of Il Borgo’s grand front yard shown here.

That evening we all walked over to the community park where we enjoyed a delicious seafood dinner. Our reservations were drawn clearly on the butcher paper which lined the table!

Even our guests who arrived from the U.S. that day were such troopers ignoring the time change and long flight to stay and enjoy this typical local summer dinner – the typical dinner which starts long after what we consider dinnertime to be! There were great cheers when the three-wheeled vehicles showed up with the giant pots of linguini and clam sauce and delicious fish stew!

The next day, the artists found their places around Il Borgo to begin their “field sketches” and record their interpretations of the Chianti countryside.

The artists would create several paintings over the next few days of various sites in and around Il Borgo and the surrounding towns.

The property itself lent many opportunities for artists with its fiascos and courtyards, cypress lined drive, charming chapel and sprawling valley views.

With Florence only 20 minutes away, we always make sure to include a full day visit during our stays at Il Borgo. Our artists opted to visit the Uffizi Gallery and Academia to view some of Florence’s most treasured works of art including Michelangelo’s David and Botticelli’s Birth of Venus.

We strolled along the River Arno and spent some time on the infamous Ponte Vecchio. Piazza Signori is always a focus of attention while in Florence with its grand statues and fountains. We also made some time to view the amazing Duomo and Baptistry as well as enjoy some gelato, of course!

Another wonderful field trip was to the small town of Volpaia just north of Radda in Chianti.

This little gem of a town has a small cafe in the central piazza and a wonderful restaurant called La Bottega both owned by two sisters who have lived in Volpaia for over 70 years.

We had incredible views of the valley from our table and enjoyed a variety of wonderful dishes from the country kitchen such as handmade ravioli and tagliatelle with mushrooms.

In Volpaia, there are no gift shops, markets or tobacco stores and best of all, there is no traffic!

Streets and doorways are lined with flower pots bursting with colorful plants and herbs. Here the artists set up their easels in town to capture some of the beauty this town offers.

A small tour group of American students came through on foot admiring Liz’s work and the aspiring artists among them longed to join us!

Poppiano was another very special place just minutes from Il Borgo and her grand castle was always in view from our rooms.

The sunflowers in the foreground had since passed with the exception of a few late bloomers, however, the scene was no less magnificent.

We set up along the cypress line road in front of vineyards, peach, pear, and olive trees with the castle in the distance and Puccini playing in the background courtesy of our laptop. The sun was hot and bright – the colors brilliant.

The clouds moved in giving the artists a bit of shade and offered new hues and puffy clouds for their skies. The interpretation of the scene was varied and interesting. It was another lovely day in the Chianti countryside.

Our visit to Chianti through artist’s eyes has opened my eyes even more to the marvelous beauty, the brilliant colors, patterns, and patchwork this land beholds all which has been created by the fine hands of the agricultural artists of Tuscany and dutifully and respectfully preserved by the creative and talented hands of our artists Liz, Barb, Alicia and Barbara from Phoenix, Arizona.

To view more of Liz Kenyon’s Art, please visit www.lizkenyon.com

See http://www.villavita.net/workshops_pastels.htm

for more information on this workshop.

Also see "Postcards from Italy" Creative Writing Workshop, Sept. 4 -11, 2010 http://villavita.net/workshops_adventures.htm taught by Erana Leiken

Guest Blog: The Seven Faces of Dr. Leiken

2010-05-02T12:33:00.000-07:00

"The Seven Faces of Dr. Leiken" by Brian Leiken

There is an old Japanese proverb:

Every man has three faces...

One he shows the world.
One he shows his family.
And one only he himself knows.

As a teacher, I have many different faces, personas I adopt to cajole and persuade, educate and sway, discipline or embarrass. Personas are my instruments, my tools, mechanisms of behavioral engineering. Each persona is tailor made for a specific job, a character invented to create a desired reaction.

Sometimes I am the Joker, the comedian, part stand up humorist, part clown. The Joker is used to bring levity, to make light of a bad situation or to deflect potential embarrassment.

"Mr. Leiken," one of the girls flirts, eyes fluttering, "have I told you I love you?"

The class leans in, tongues lapping.
Out pops the Joker.

"I know," I respond cooly, checking my nails. "No need to state the obvious." The class laughs, the situation is defused. I love the Joker.

Other times I'm the Performer. Unlike the Joker, he's mostly flash, eager to make an impact and put on a show. I pull out a banana, peeling off strips as I eat it. I explain that in the old days hogs traditionally cleaned the streets, eating all the refuse dropped by people.

I toss bits of banana peel down the central aisle of the classroom. The class gasps. A second later they start giggling.

I ask rhetorically would would happen if no one picked the bananas up?

"The hogs won't eat them!" someone shouts. "People would slip on them!"

"So how would you solve the problem?" I ask.
The class debates this; finally one brave soul calls out, "Have people throw them in trash cans?"

I nod, picking up a wastebasket as I toss in the banana peels. "Correct. The banana was the reason we have laws against littering and public trash cans." The class applauds. Ta da! The Performer takes a bow.

Other times I am the Fixer, solving the unsolvable with workable solutions. He is a faciliator, a negotiater, resolving conflicts through the art of diplomacy and mediation. The Fixer is calm, cool, and manipulative, the proverbial velvet glove surrounding a fist of steel.

Failing a class? Being bullied? Need to change an elective?

The Fixer takes care of it. He doesn't take "no"; he just finds a new solution.

Occassionally I am the Tyrant. The Tyrant can't be bargained with. He can't be reasoned with. He doesn't feel pity, or remorse, or fear. And he absolutely will not stop, ever, until he has removed or disciplined his target.

The Tyrant is a robot dictator, a cold emotionless being with chilly eyes and an icy demeanor. I don't like him much. The Tyrant is a bit of a prick.

At least once a day, I'm the Coach. The Coach is part counselor, part motivational speaker, all cheerleader. The coach never gives up, he constantly encourages and pushes his students to succeed. The Coach is optimistic, upbeat, and relentlessly positive. It's not a role I'm used to playing.

"Mister Leiken, I failed English and Math last semester!"

"But you passed Health and P.E! That's a 50% improvement!"

"But I'm not going to graduate on time!"

"That's what summer school is for!"

"But I don't know how to do my multiplication tables."

I pause. I got nothing. I duck the complaint. When you can't massage the truth, you ignore it completely.

"Try harder!" I grin. "You can do it!"

Rarely, I'm the Critic. The Critic is the fault finder, the muck racker, the smug narrator that writes the blogs you are reading now. He used to appear often, but he gets in so much trouble that in recent years his cries have been largely silenced.

The Critic speaks only in truth, and there is nothing more poisonous than truth in the LAUSD school system. The Critic is a mean SOB. He's the one that makes kids cry.

Truth tends to do that.

Finally, I am the Father. He crosses the line between teacher and parent, possesses unshakable integrity, is eternally patient and just. The Father promotes all that is good in others, he protects his charges and provides the emotional safety net the students desperately crave.

I have never adopted the personality of the Father. It's a persona that's been projected upon me.

It doesn't matter. Because the Father is the Joker, the Performer, the Fixer, the Tyrant, the Coach and the Critic. The Father encompasses them all.

Sometimes you choose your faces, but sometimes the faces are chosen for you.

So it goes.

Copyright 2010 by Brian Leiken

LA Teacher
http://leiken.blogspot.com/
Crossed Out by Brian Leiken at http://www.lulu.com/

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:)