I saw big-time fog on the way to school this morning.
For our last Kiswahili class last night, all the various language groups — Arabic, Cantonese, French, Spanish and I forget whatall — assembled to do end-of-semester performances. Here is part of ours. [Left to right: Carlos, Mow, Moi, Cindy, Aprili and Dawn.] I wish I sang louder. You can’t hear me. Or maybe that’s good.
[flashvideo filename=wp-content/video/t-anthem.flv image=wp-content/video/t-anthem.jpg /]
[Movie by Ryan]
And here we are after our performance, except April had already left. [Photo by Jess or Kim.]
And then I had to run over to be on a panel that my smart and energetic colleagues had organized. The topic was immigrant education. Even though the audience was small, I was nervous because I felt stupider than dirt. The others on the panel had lots of experience. L to R: Manal, Genevieve, Moi and Leslie.
I didn’t get home until almost eight and was going to head straight for my books. But as I walked up the barn stairs I heard glorious music coming from Charity and Dan’s apartment. It was Celtic, with guitar and fiddle, and the lead singer had a stunning voice. I lurked out in the hallway, stalker-like, and listened until the song was over, at which point I realized that the music from within was live. I knocked. I was admitted on the grounds that I am an Irish dancer, and soon found that the incredible voice belonged to none other than Charity. It was Dan on the guitar and bouzouki, and the most handsome young guy (Scottish? Irish? I didn’t hear enough of his talking) playing a bright green fiddle. They played song after tragic song: death, destruction, heartbreak, suicide, orphanhood. Finally I figured it was time to go. “Thank you so much. Now I’m going to go home and slit my wrists.”
I didn’t. Nor did I hit the books. This is as far as I got.
I went to bed and dreamed, as I do nearly every night, that Dad had come back to life. I also dreamed that I was a sweet person.
And in fact, this morning as I wandered around getting dressed, I heard myself sing sweetly,
“Come all ye fair and tender maidens,
A story you shall hear from me.
For I’m the one who sold her sister,
Gave her innnnn-to slavery.”
A poll: Here is how my Vermont friends describe me. Do they know me?
Which of these describe me?
- Exuberant (13%, 4 Votes)
- Wears glasses (6%, 2 Votes)
- Big stupid smelly-head (3%, 1 Votes)
- Spunky (9%, 3 Votes)
- Perverted (0%, 0 Votes)
- Self-deprecating (16%, 5 Votes)
- Wears funky socks and earrings (13%, 4 Votes)
- Blonde hair that she doesn't like because she thinks it's frizzy (6%, 2 Votes)
- Disgruntled (0%, 0 Votes)
- Quirky (16%, 5 Votes)
- Puta (3%, 1 Votes)
- Jumpy (9%, 3 Votes)
- Doesn't take shit from anybody (6%, 2 Votes)
Total Voters: 7
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You believe that language WHAT, Mama? WHAAAAAT?!
You nevertheless made more progress with that night’s homework than I’ve made in the past ten years of my education.
I hate it when people say that they’re “students of life”. That’s not at all what I was implying, but it made me think of it and so I needed to make it clear.
Jason makes food for me and than hurts himself on it.
It’s his new thing.
I didn’t notice right away this last time-just now, really-because my back was turned away; I was reading these last few blog entries to him. It’s a ritual of ours, but you probably don’t believe me, so why should I bother telling you anything, anyway?
You’re so difficult.
Will you please obtain permission to record all them musical people next time so that WE-your dear readers-can hear it, too?
From a distance that picture of you on the panel, with your hands doing something squirrely, makes it look as though you’re breastfeeding a baby-a blurry, malnourished baby.
snow… ooooofff,f.
Your singing of the Tanzanian national anthem was beautiful.
Someone in VT called you a puta? Weird. I think you “Doesn’t take shit from nobody.”
Oleggy: How can you call my singing of the national anthem be beautiful if you can’t hear it? It was beautiful, though. I just know it must have been.
The person in Vermont who called me a puta is someone I’m going to Mexico with, so she was just practicing her Spanish. The one who VOTED for puta, however, was my younger daughter, who has no right. In fact, I am (tragically) the anti-puta.
How’s my Oleggy? Thank you for coming here.
Eeep & Bul: did you vote? Woof.
Hah: ReCaptcha must know I’m going to Mexico: “skewer Mercado.”
I have every right in the world. I mean it only in the most loving of ways, though. Mi putita linda.