A Gorgeous Day

Today was gorgeous, with sunny skies and warm weather. I saw my youngest niece for the first time since Christmas. She turned four last month, and is more talkative than before. A few minutes after I got home, I heard this exchange in the other room:

My mom: "Hop in the bed. Go on, get up there."

My niece: "Can we watch cartoons while we go to sleep?"

mom: "No."

niece: "I want my mommy."

mom: "She's not here right now, so Granny will have to do."

niece: *half-hearted crying* "I want my mommy."

I understood this to mean, "I want to watch cartoons." Within a few minutes, both were asleep, and the house was quiet. The house was very bright because so much sunlight was coming through the windows.

I just relaxed and enjoyed the atmosphere. Sunlight. Having other people around, but not having to make conversation. I enjoyed a silence that was full rather than empty if that makes sense.

I'm hoping tomorrow is just as pleasant.

Fools

I believe there's some credence to the old saying "It takes one to know one." So, I'll refrain from calling anybody a fool in this post.

Charles Taylor, former President of Liberia, has been charged with crimes against humanity by a U.N. backed war crimes tribunal. More specifically, he is charged with directing soldiers to hack off arms, legs, ears, and lips of civilians. He is also accused of using children as soldiers, and other heinous crimes I don't feel like describing at the moment.

Mr. Taylor holds an economics degree from an American university. He was trained in guerilla warfare in Libya. He escaped from a U.S. prison by using a hacksaw, and knotted bed sheets. No ... really. Then he returned to West Africa, orchestrated a coup, and became President of Liberia. So I think it's safe to assume the guy has a brain and is willing to use a gun. I think we can also assume that he isn't fond of prison, and is willing to take steps to avoid being there. While we're at it, let's admit that he's politically savvy, and has a knack for mobilizing people.

Last week, Nigeria finally agreed to bring his asylum there to an end, and hand him over at the request of Liberia's current president, Ellen Johnson-Sirleaf.

Ok, here's the funny part. Well, actually it's not funny. It's so ... frikkin sad I could just ... vomit.

Last weekend, Nigeria said that Ellen Johnson-Sirleaf was free to send agents to take Mr. Taylor back to Liberia.

President Johnson-Sirleaf said that would be unwise, as Mr. Taylor's presence in Liberia could destabilize the region. She suggested that he be sent to Sierra Leone, where the war crimes tribunal sits.

Nigeria said that Mr. Taylor was not a prisoner in Nigeria, and would not be taken into "custody" by the Nigerian government.

One official involved in the process said that the matter of how to transport Mr. Taylor to Sierra Leone would be figured out in "two or three days."

Ok ... so you see where this is going, right? I'm not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but even I could see that Mr. Taylor wasn't about to suffer any serious consequences as a result of Nigeria's decision to end his asylee status.

As of today, nobody knows the whereabouts of Charles Taylor. He has "disappeared."

Nigerian Information Minister Frank Nweke said that Nigeria's President Olesugun Obasanjo was "shocked" to learn of Mr. Taylor's disappearance. Shocked? Yeah, shocked. Shocked.

A college educated, guerilla trained, escaped convict who is wanted for crimes against humanity disappeared when his asylee status was revoked without placing him under guard. And it was publicly stated that the situation would be worked out in "two or three days." Read: "Run, Charles, run!! You've got at least 36 hours to pack your bags. Here's a hacksaw, and a few extra sheets just in case you need them."

Olesegun Obasanjo was "shocked." Nigeria's Information Minister has got to be kidding. No, probably not. That was his official statement.

I wonder if he takes us all for fools. Sometimes it takes one to know one.

Love Poems

Let's write love poems. No, not to each other. Write yours, and give it to the person that you love, or like. Or you can just put it in a safe place and save it for later. Here's mine:

Rest here in the crook of my arm,
relax yourself in my embrace,
remember this moment always
your very presence gives this place
permanent registry within my mind
unnatural ability to confine
our hearts, our very essence,
together in a life-giving,
rhythmic dance.

Rest here in the crook of my arm,
let me relax in your embrace,
remind me of this moment always
never remove your presence from this place
this redeemed realm within my mind
which resonates with warm echoes
of your voice, your touch, your smell.

Rest here in the crook of my arm,
relax yourself in my embrace,
I'll recall every detail, the perfect particulars,
the finer features of your face
from this moment to the next
as time passes, seasons change,
and we grow old together.

Words, Words, Words

This weekend was filled with words. I talked on the phone, I emailed, I "mingled" with acquaintances and strangers. I gave two people advice (I hope it was good; I think it was).
Right now, I'm a little tired of words. But I need them to write this post. The irony.

Words tend to carry weight when spoken by a loved one. I will share some words that I carry in my memory. Sometimes they come back to me as I lie in bed waiting for sleep to come, or when I sit in silence at my desk. They are stirred up from the recesses of my mind as I iron a shirt or shave or drive to the grocery store. These words are heavy with meaning/significance (at least to me) and I think I will carry them with me for the rest of my life.

"I didn't care if you were a boy or a girl. I just wanted you to be healthy." --Dad

"I wanted a little girl." --Mom

"You and that temper!! You get that from your mother's people ... they're all like that."-- Dad

"You're acting just like your father."-- Mom

"Always be good to your mother." --Dad

"Don't talk to your father that way." -- Mom

"What did your daddy tell you about using hand signs!!" -- Mom (when she saw me give a neighbor girl the bird.)

"Stop digging in your nose. Go wash your hands!" -- Ms. Green, kindergarten teacher, in front of my entire class.

"French kissing is when you suck on her tongue, and she sucks on your tongue." -- B from sixth grade.

"How come you don't hold my hand anymore?" -- S from eighth grade

Sixth grade substitute teacher: "Does anyone know what the saying 'Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free' means?"
My sixth grade classmate: "No, but I know what masturbation is."

"They're all God ... Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. It's like Kool-Aid. You need water, sugar, and Kool-Aid mix. You mix them all together, and then you've got Kool-Aid. It's the same with God." -- some guy in my Boy Scout Troop.

"Oh my God!! Oh my God!! Is he okay!?!??!" -- some teenage girl after I got kicked in the eye at Tae Kwon Do when I was about ten. It honestly didn't hurt much, but a bunch of people ran over to pick me up from the floor.

"I really want to be at prom with you, but I just think we should each have our own dates." -- K from 12th grade.

"I saw that." -- college friend who caught me looking at her chest.

"Will you just ... RELAX?!!??" -- same college friend the first time we made out.

"I can't believe you asked me to be your girlfriend while I was sick with the flu." --same college friend after she became college girlfriend.

"I'm so very proud of you." -- Mom

"I'd trust you to represent me in court. I wouldn't trust just anyone." -- J from law school

"You're beautiful ... seriously." -- KT senior year of college

"I can spell Mississippi. *rapidly* M-I-S-S-I-S-S-I-P-P-I!!" -- my nephew

Saturday Night

I hope you're doing something fun tonight. After all, it is Saturday night. I'm going to the Barrister's Ball, and will be wearing my bow tie. I usually have to tie it about three times before I get it right.

Well, enough blogging. Time to prepare for Saturday night. Please do the same, and whatever happens, enjoy.

Multiples

My brother and sister are twins. My dad's sisters are identical twins. My mom has a brother and sister that are twins. My first cousins are fraternal twins, and they have older sisters who are ... triplets!!!

Anyone care for a stick of Doublemint gum? *badum bum krrrrssshhh*

Remember those commercials with all the twins chewing gum while skiing, swimming, or riding roller coasters? Aah the 80's. Anyhow ...

I can tell my nephew is brilliant because when he was a toddler, he saw twins, and said "Oh look, a pair of duplets!" As far as I can tell, duplet (pronounced "doo'-plet") is a pretty rational word choice. I'm not sure it's in the dictionary though.

Blue Like Jazz

Tonight I sat and talked with L. She just returned from a trip to Japan, and brought lots of cool souvenirs to show me. She also brought a couple of Japanese snacks for me to try. One was chocolate with green tea flavoring. You have to wait a couple of seconds to taste the green tea, but it's definitely in there.

We talked about a bunch of different things, and at some point I said something (I can't remember what it was), and she said "Oh! That's in Blue Like Jazz." I hadn't heard of it, so she went on to explain that it's a book.

The title was easy for me to remember because I'm a drummer. When I was growing up, my teacher made me study lots of jazz. A few years ago, I sat in with some guys at Baker's Keyboard Lounge; it's the oldest continually operating Jazz club in the world. I told the piano player, "Don't make me do a solo. I'm not really comfortable with that."

He said, "Naw baby. That's how you learn."

I said, "Seriously, don't make me do one."

He gave me a funny look and said, "We'll see."

When I got the chance to go on stage, the band started playing a tune I didn't know. I decided I wouldn't worry ... I had made it clear that I wouldn't/couldn't/shouldn't solo. I was doing an okay job of faking it as we played; I figured the audience wouldn't be able to tell, but the other musicians on stage would know. They wouldn't make me solo.

Wrong. I was playing, and all of a sudden, everybody else stopped. The other people on stage were all looking at me. I realized I was supposed to be "trading fours" with the others. "Trading fours" means four bars (measures) of drums, then four bars of piano, then four of drums, then four of bass, then four of drums, etc. I caught on to trading soon enough because I understood the basic concept.

But ... I didn't know the melody. I had never heard the tune before.

Jazz is about improvisation. But the spontaneity falls within a framework. When you have a drum solo, you're supposed to sing the melody in your head, and make the drums "sing" the melody too. The best jazz drummers can play melodically, even though snare and toms don't sound off in C, E, or G.

It was awful. I didn't know how long we were supposed to trade fours. I lost count. I started doing a roll, and looked at the bass player. I started nodding at her, wanting her to play. She looked really confused, agitated. She finally realized I was lost, and started playing, and nodding to everybody else. I remember looking out into the audience, and seeing a couple of faces that had a most memorable expression.

It was the look people wear when they're thinking "WTF is that kid doing up there?"

I felt like crying. I couldn't get out of that place fast enough. Talk about having the blues.

So, Blue Like Jazz was an easy title to remember. The author is Donald Miller. That name made me think of Donald Byrd, the trumpet player.

Blue Like Jazz, by Donald Miller. I can remember that without writing it down. It's about Miller's understanding of Christian spirituality. I plan to read it soon.

Anonymous Commentators

The other day, after coasting from one blog to another, I came across some pretty mean spirited comments. These comments were left on a blog that discussed (vigorously, I might add) what appears to be a growing trend among conservative Lutherans. They are taking a more serious look at Eastern Orthodoxy, and apparently some other Lutherans find this offensive. Some of you may remember that I first visited an Orthodox parish at the suggestion of a Lutheran pastor.

Anyhow, I think most of us who read blogs with any frequency are sort of used to comments that are a little ... tactless. Sometimes it's difficult to decipher the tone of the comment; we have different senses of humor, different vocabulary, different backgrounds that shape our understanding of what should or shouldn't be offensive. I've seen some folks get offended when no offense was intended, and it took a few comments back and forth to straighten the mess out.

That's not what I saw on the blog discussing Lutheranism/Orthodoxy. The comments were patently offensive and mean. Whoever wrote it was being decidedly rude. But that's not the part that I find so troubling. The thing that is most troubling for me is the fact that the hostile comments were posted anonymously.

I realize that not all bloggers use their real names. A screen name provides a certain measure of anonymity. But when one posts using the name "anonymous", the person posting cannot be distinguished from any other person who posts as "anonymous."

While some people post anonymously to protect their privacy, others do so because they are weak and don't have the courage to make a statement, and stand by it. If you purposefully insult someone without provocation, and then can't find the vertebrae to stand by what you said and identify yourself ... that's sort of sad. It suggests you are a small person, with flimsy character.

Never mind the fact that the debate was about Christian theology. I sort of expected some sense of charity to accompany the discussion. You know ... as in "we disagree on some significant issues, but we all love and belong to Jesus, so we'll treat each other with some respect."

Fatigue

For the first time, I deleted one of my posts for this blog. It was a draft actually; it never actually became an official post. But I'm a little traumatized nonetheless. I tend to keep things I write, no matter how stupid they seem. I tend to believe most pieces can be redeemed in some form or fashion at some point. But today, I'm tired. Physically and mentally.

I've been subbing at a Christian school this week. Not every day (I can hardly imagine doing it that frequently). I realize that I no longer have the patience for children that I once had. I feel like I've sort of lost my knack for teaching. Most specifically, my knack for classroom management. I can still do it, but I'm just so exhausted afterward.

We all know the routine: subs usually get dissed. Good kids aren't going to do anything really bad, but I mean, come on! What was your mindset when you walked into a classroom, and saw that your teacher was absent? What's the first thing that crossed your mind when you saw the unfamiliar name written on the chalkboard, and saw the unfamiliar adult sitting at the desk normally reserved for your teacher?

As a student, my first thought was "Hell yeah. It's time to par-tay!" And if we were lucky enough to have a sub on Friday? Sheeeeit. That was a three day weekend.

Unless ... you were unlucky enough to have one of those crazy subs who: a) actually wanted to be a real teacher, or b) used to be full-time teachers, but retired or something. Those types were always difficult to handle. Sometimes they were worse than the actual teacher.

Is that what I've become? No, no. That can't be right. I'm too cool for that. I'm fun. The kids like me. I'm just structured, and really want them to learn instead of wasting time. I think. I hope.

Whatever I've become, I spent today saying things like:

"Someone's still talking ... I'm waiting. *pause* I'm still waiting. *pause* I can't give directions until everyone's listening."

"Everyone should be in his/her seat."

"David is ready, Caitlin is ready, Anthony is ready, I'm ready ... but some people are touching their neighbors, or out of their seats, or writing notes. So we'll just have to wait."

"Put your heads down. It's too noisy. I guess I won't be able to read you a story after all."

I've said things like this over and over and over today; I'm so tired I could scream. Or just go to sleep, and it's not even 7 pm yet.

Questions

What do you want? What's the deepest, strongest desire of your heart of hearts? Does it motivate you, drive you forward? Or does it preclude growth, while slowly turning you into something unbecoming or even horrid?

What do you yearn for? Is it something that you must leave behind when you die? Apart from your desire for it, is it good for you?

Is it a person, a place far away, or something completely intangible? How much does it cost, in dollars or slivers of personhood? Will you lie for it? Tougher question: will you tell the unabridged truth for it?

Will you say "Odds be damned, I will have this" and stand face to face with God, and wrestle with Him for it? Or will you just ask Him for it, and if He says "no," be willing to shrug your shoulders, and move on to the next adventure without holding a grudge?

March 10

Today's date in history:

Yours truly was born prematurely at Oakwood Hospital in Dearborn, MI. I weighed in at 3 lbs, 6 oz. Doctors told my father that my mother could not handle another pregnancy, and that it would be fortunate if either mom or I survived. Expecting both of us to survive was considered unrealistic.

Mom and I were separated because she had a fever; they put me in an incubator. No one was allowed to hold me except for hospital staff. Only two visitors at a time were allowed to come and look into the nursery unit through the glass window. My older sibs didn't want to wait, so they would sneak up the back way. By taking the steps up to the seventh floor, they could avoid walking past the nurses' station where visitors were supposed to sign in. Once they got to the nursery, and looked through the glass, I was easy to spot. I was the only black baby in there.

A trailblazer from day one. Not really, but you know ... it's fun to spin it that way.

Mom survived, and obviously, so did I. Mom was released from the hospital first; I followed some weeks later. My grandma had come up from Chattanooga to help out, so that made things easier for my family.

I get such a kick out of looking at the pictures from that time. Everybody looked so young, with afros, and sideburns, and shirts with big collars. And oh yes, pants with funky plaid patterns and bell bottoms. I was just a tiny, tiny person, wrapped in blankets.

Everything and everyone has changed so much in the past thirty years. I wonder what things will be like thirty years from now.

Zeal

Some nations are stuck in the mire of poverty and violence, never really moving forward in the areas of human rights, democracy, or quality of life. For a long time, I thought the answer was education, but now I am not so sure. One of my former professors explained that the situations in developing countries are far more complex and difficult to assess.

He said that when the problem solving is focused primarily on education, the people who become educated leave as soon as they can. They work hard, save their money, and take the first opportunity to move to the U.S., the U.K, Australia, or Canada.

Then I began to think in terms of a two-pronged attack on the ills that plague developing nations. How about focusing on education and economic development simultaneously? I thought, "yes, that should do the job."

Unfortunately, there is another factor that must be considered: culture. Culture is shaped by the educational level of the masses, and it is shaped by economic conditions. But the situation is complicated by the fact that culture also plays a major role in determining how the masses define education, and it determines the prevailing economic philosphy (or philosophies).

Talk about circular! Which came first, the chicken or the egg?

Does the culture of Nation X preclude competitiveness in a global economy? Does the culture dictate that suffrage for women will never become normative? Or does the constant stench of poverty and despair mean that the people of Nation X are always fed up, agitated, living on edge, and therefore prone to violence? I guess it just depends on whom you ask, and when you ask. Republicans say one thing, and Democrats say another. We have to be mindful of the fact that a party may change its tune when it no longer has control of Congress or the White House. Find the requisite number of lobbyists, and ... voila! ... instant policy change.

Let's see ... education, economic development, culture ... what are we missing? Ah, I know. We haven't considered health and environmental issues yet. *sigh*

I haven't read enough. Some of the stuff I've read, I can't understand. And I've never even set foot in a developing nation, so I wouldn't really be sure how to apply whatever I learned.

Thinking about these issues makes me really believe that the men who wrote the Constitution really had a clue. I think they understood that in order for a nation to meet its potential, the people had to have a meaningful role in the process of governing. They understood that the people needed to be free to speak their minds publicly, without fear of reprisal from the government. They understood that the system they were setting up was flawed, and would probably be subject to much needed change at some point; so they strove to create a document that was both flexible and durable.

A good foundational document is a good start. But that's just the beginning. Do the people embrace it? Do they hold its ideals close to their hearts? Are they willing to face extreme hardship or even death so that the ideas espoused can be brought to fruition?

As far as I can tell, the answer to these questions is more likely to be "yes" when the document is a creation of the people, is implemented by the people, and functions for the people. That's what happened during the seminal stages of the United States. The overwhelming majority of movers and shakers really believed that the Revolution was good, right, and necessary. They were true believers, zealots.

Who can extinguish the fire that burns within a zealot's chest? It seems that more often than not, the flame is not even quenched at death, but instead, is passed on to another, someone even more eager to bear a glorious burden.

Out of the Mouths of Babes

I interviewed today for a position as a substitute teacher. It's not my first choice for a job, but ... there are bills to be paid. Plus, I sometimes miss teaching. It'll be good to stand in front of a chalkboard again, at least for a little while.

While I was waiting, there were two little girls standing nearby. I think they were third or fourth graders. One girl was with her mom, and the other stopped by to visit. I think parent-teacher conferences were being held because I saw a few parents waiting around. Anyway, I didn't have anything to read, so I began to eavesdrop. Here's what I heard:

Little Girl A: "Do y'all have jobs in your class?"

Little Girl B: "No."

Little Girl A: "We do. We have a bunch of jobs. And they're fun too. We get to clean up the classroom, pass out the papers, wash the chalkboard ..."

Little Girl B: "Oh! Yeah, I got two jobs. How many you got?"

Little Girl A: *gesturing with her hand* "I got four jobs, girl." She really emphasized "four", and had this look which I took to mean: that's a whole lot of responsibility.

A few minutes later, Little Girl A, who has far more jobs than I, began to flip through a magazine. The cover had a picture of Congresswoman Carolyn Cheeks Kilpatrick, D-MI. Her mother said: "That lady on the cover ... that's the mayor's mother."

Little Girl A: "Oh yeah ... what's his name again?"

Mom: "Kwame Kilpatrick."

Little Girl A: "Yeah, I didn't vote for him."

Our Paths

I've been thinking a lot about the "journey of life" lately.

My life runs along a path, with twists and turns, portions that run smoothly downhill, and rocky stretches that are up the steepest inclines. Sometimes it feels like I can see for miles ahead, and other times, there are branches, boulders, or tangled roots that hinder my steps and block my vision.

During difficult portions of the journey, I get exasperated. I think to myself, "Jesus Christ! Every single time I get through a rough patch, there's another one a few yards down." And then I wonder if I was cursing or praying when I said "Jesus Christ!"; sometimes it was definitely a prayer, and sometimes it was something more akin to cursing.

When it's the latter, I feel bad. I tell God that I didn't really mean it, that I'm just really tired. I tell Him that I really need His help, and that I can't take this journey by myself. I never really hear Him say anything in response. Instead, my situation changes. Sometimes dramatically, but more often it's quite a subtle change. There are times when the change takes place immediately; other times it takes a long, long time. I remember one situation took years to become tolerable.

I guess we're all pilgrims on this journey. Your path is your own, and no one else can walk it for you; the same is true for me. But if our paths happen to run parallel to one another, or even better, actually cross, let's be sure to share some words of encouragement with each other.

Comfortable Shoes

M and R flew out to Michigan last week from NYC. During dinner, we talked about stereotypes, and M mentioned the stereotype about lesbians and comfortable shoes. I said, "what do you mean?" She went on to explain that a lot of people associate lesbians with comfortable shoes because a high percentage of lesbians are feminists, and feminists often refuse to be burdened by high heeled shoes, or other uncomfortable clothing for the sake of fashion. I hadn't heard that before, but I was willing to admit that it made some sense, if not complete sense. After all, we were talking about stereotypes.

I thought about women who wear comfortable shoes. M wears comfortable shoes. I think she said that people assume she's a lesbian. She's not, and as far as I can tell, she has a happy, heterosexual household with R. I like M a lot, because she's ... real. I think this is one of the reasons she prefers comfy shoes. I can't imagine her walking around in heels. I've decided I really appreciate women who wear comfortable shoes. I'm not dissin' the ladies who wear heels; I'm just saying that I really appreciate a woman who can find a fashionable or stylish pair of truly comfortable shoes. To me, that's a sign of being well grounded.

Today, I sat in my favorite coffee shop and read the newspaper. There were two women sitting nearby, but they weren't sitting together. One woman kept getting up from her table and walking past my table. She had on high heels, and they were loud and her footsteps made my table shake. She got up a bunch of times within the span of ten minutes, and it was driving me crazy. She seemed agitated, and there was something different about her. I couldn't put my finger on it. She was sort of pretty, but I found her features a little distasteful or something. It's difficult to explain. Anyway, the third time she got up, I was really curious about her. Why was she stomping around in those heels like that? And why was she pretty, but ... not pretty? Then I saw the adam's apple. I'm about 95% sure it was a dude. Yeah, some dude was stomping around in heels, breaking my concentration as I tried to read.

The other woman sat quietly reading a book. She was really pretty, and had a cool haircut. Kinda artsy, but not exactly alternative or flamboyant. She was reading the book pretty intently, and then she'd sort of look up and think for a couple of seconds. I do that too; I think about the passage after I read it. I tried to see what book it was, but I couldn't see the cover. I also couldn't see her feet. Yeah, I started to wonder what sort of shoes she was wearing. Were they comfortable? Or were they heels? I had a feeling they were comfortable.

I had about a million empty sugar packets on my table (you know me ... I like a little tea with my sugar), so throwing them away was the perfect opportunity to get a glimpse of those feet. Like a true professional, I gathered the empty packets in my hand, stood up, and casually walked over to the trash can. On the way back, I got a good, long look at her feet.

Comfortable shoes. Totally comfortable. And stylish.

That's hot.

A few minutes later, she got up and started putting on her coat. As she was walking past me, I said "Ms., what's that book you were reading?" She smiled.

Comfy shoes: "It's a collection of short stories by Tolstoy. They're actually pretty long stories."

Me: "Are they good?"

Comfy shoes: "Oh yeah. I love them. Have you heard of Tolstoy?"

Me: "Yeah, but I haven't read him."

Comfy shoes: "I'm taking a Russian lit class, and it's really good. We read Dostoevsky too."

Me: "I'm reading The Brothers Karamazov now. But I can't finish it. I always feel like I need to take a break from it, and pick it up in a month."

Comfy shoes: "Yeah, it's pretty involved. But you should read Tolstoy's stuff."

We said a couple of other things, but I could tell she had to go, and I wasn't trying to be the annoying guy in the coffee shop who keeps chatting when you don't want to chat. I've met a few of those, and pretty women meet them all the time; I wasn't going to allow myself to become a statistic. So I said, as pleasantly as I could, "Okay. Thanks." Comfy shoes smiled, waved, and said she'd see me around.

January 1974

Mom and Dad cutting the cake. Dad was rockin' the blue suit with red trim. This picture was taken two days after his 50th birthday. Mom was still in her 30's. Yeah Dad!

Road Trips

When I was little, we drove to Chattanooga every summer to visit my mother's relatives. This trip almost always took place in late July or early August. We'd drive south on I-75, making our way through the southernmost part of Michigan, and then began the long trek through Ohio. Ohio seemed to last forever; it seemed like one cornfield after another. The landscape begins to change right about the time that you get into Kentucky. You begin to see hills, and after a while, you start feeling your ears pop. Mountains. Not big ones, but where I'm from, there aren't any, so it's a big deal.

When we crossed a state line, my dad would say "You're in a whole different state! Do you feel any different?" I'd tell him, "Yeah, I think so."

The best part was the animals. We'd drive past a farm, and my mom would say "Look Anson, horses!" Or, "Do you see the cows?" Man, that was a big deal. One time I was really tired, and needed to take a nap. I told my parents to wake me up if they saw any cows or horses. They said they would. I woke up a couple of hours later, and asked if they saw any horses. My dad said "no." I asked if he was sure, because you know, he was driving. And sometimes my mom would fall asleep. I hated to think that maybe he was too busy driving, and mom was sleeping, and I missed the horses. Mom said she didn't fall asleep, and that if she had, it was only for a little while. And my dad assured me that he had been looking, and didn't see any.

I felt like they didn't know what the hell they were doing, you know? Sometimes they'd be talking, and not really looking out the windows properly. Dad would be driving looking at the road, and my mom would be reading or crocheting while she talked to my dad. I mean ... come on. You can miss a number of animals carrying on like that.

I realized I had to stay awake to make sure we didn't miss any. When I saw horses or cows, I'd tell them where to look. If my dad wasn't really paying attention, my mom would say something like, "Anson wants you to see the horses, Pete." And he'd say "Yep, I see 'em."

It was a good thing I could stay awake for so long; they probably would have missed a bunch of animals without me.

Detroit

I love the neighborhood at Seven Mile Road and Woodward, where Chaldeans have settled. The Chaldeans are Iraqi Catholics; they speak Arabic, but also have their own language, Aramaic. Jesus spoke a dialect of Aramaic, and Chaldeans refer to this fact with pride. Unfortunately, it is a language in danger of becoming extinct.

Drive east down Seven Mile, and you'll see signs written in Arabic. I can't help but wonder how many of the people used to live in Baghdad. I wonder if some of them never lived in modern cities before, but lived in tiny villages instead.

If you drive down Warren east of the Southfield Expressway, you'll see signs in Arabic there too. But the merchants in that area are Muslims. I think some are Iraqis, but others are from Lebanon or Yemen. I'm not sure; I should ask someone. Anyway, I like to hear the old men greet each other and say "As-salaam alaikum." Peace be with you.

If a non-Muslim or non-Arab walks into a store and speaks Arabic, the merchant is likely to be surprised. I can say a couple of sentences: "Do you speak English/Arabic?" and "Please speak more slowly." A Lebanese clerk told me my Arabic was difficult to understand; he said I sounded like I was from Morocco. As I'm writing this, I remember that the guy who taught me the phrases studied Arabic in Morocco.

I like Greektown too, but it seems more "touristy." I don't think anybody's actually from Greece (their parents, sure ... but not them). And I never hear anybody speaking Greek. *sigh* I guess I can't have everything.