Now that's applied learning.

* * *

Also today we had a short but nasty situation involving sexual harassment. Three of my female students were the first to blow the whistle on one of my male students, who was grabbing asses indiscriminately. The issue went all the way up, of course, and the boy was given a five-day suspension.

I first became aware of the situation when two of the girls failed to show up to class. One was crying in the washroom and the other was with her. Over recess I made a point of finding the girls because I wanted to find out if I could help in any way. They were fine, surprisingly. But in my third period class, there was another girl crying. I took her out into the hall and she told me how sorry she was that he had been suspended for five days and how afraid she was that her mother would never trust her again. We had five minutes of "it's not your fault" before I sent her down to the guidance counselor. (I figure that the guidance counselor has more experience in broaching delicate matters to parents than I do.)

It's one of those shitty situations where everything is unfair and wrong. But at least this kid is twelve and he just might learn that it isn't okay to treat girls like sex toys. Boy, I wonder where he got the idea that was acceptable behavior. *coughmediacough*

Teaching makes you cynical, some days.

* * *

After school I met the Boy in the Coffee Merchant, where he was enjoying his third hour of consciousness (the slack ass). Miri & J were moving across town yesterday, so we took Mustang Scotty and offered our services. It was a hippie move, which means that there were little ornaments, candles, feathers, potted plants, instruments, bedding, tents, and all kinds of other crazy things for us to stack & haul. When we began my feet were aching from a long day of slaving over a hot blackboard, but somehow the move cured them of their ache. I suppose it was the happiness of being with friends combined with the psychological charge of moving a household combined with the glorious self-righteousness of helping someone move. Because that truly is the last bastion of friendship. You find out who your real friends are on the day that you have to move a futon up three flights of stairs. Helping Miri & J made us feel good about ourselves.

Also along was Asana, a girl who we run into here and there around town: at yoga, at drum jams, at certain parties. She's from Ontario originally and she's one of those beautiful dyed-in-the-wool hippie chicks. You know, flowing clothes, curly torrent of hair, soft-voiced, quietly listening...that kind of girl. This is the first night we have ever spent more than five minutes together, and I found myself really liking her. She'll be in Toronto for the summer, and we have promised to hook up.

After we finished the day's move, we grabbed some food from Paddy's (their vegetarian menu is outstanding!) and came back to the Rockethome to lounge about on the floor. We played Candyland, drank the traditional moving day beer, and sat in the dark so that the fabulous lightning storm would show up outside our living room window. It was a pretty sweet time and I'm so glad to have had a space full of beer and laughter and food and music and natural lightshows. Makes me happy to be here.

* * *

This afternoon we went to Halifax for the first time since October. I do so enjoy my time there; it is such a lovely city. We found a huge used bookstore stuffed to the gills with good books, and although I didn't find the titles I had walked in to get, we managed to snag a book of Medieval Morality Plays, Fishwhistle by Daniel Pinkwater title and another copy of the Boy's grandmother's novel A Higher Hill.

The plays were in honour of the York cycle, of course. We already own a copy of A Higher Hill, but two things attracted us to this one. The first was that there was a dust jacket still with the book. The novel was published in the forties, and since she was a popular but by no means classic writer, not many copies were specially preserved. This was the first time I have ever seen the big black-and-white author's photo (she looks just like the Boy's grandfather!) and the complementary pull-quotes from various literary minds. The second thing was that the owner of the book had taped Grace's obituary inside the back cover. We both felt strongly that the woman who had owned the book had loved it very much, and we wanted to honour that love...so we bought it.

As for the third and final book, I always look for Pinkwater in used stores because it is so difficult to find his books anywhere. This time I was richly rewarded, for the book is a collection of pieces he recorded for NPR. Some of it is beautiful, some funny, some sad. Here's a little bit of the title piece:

My father spoke no known language. "Mine Yinglisch iz atrootzgious," he would say. An understatement.

He started out speaking Polish-I guess. When I went with him to Warsaw one bitter winter in the early sixties, I saw him confound the Poles by speaking to them in what he regarded as their common native tongue.

This is not to say that he could not be understood. One generally knew what he was talking about-but one didn't know how one knew. This could be unsettling.

Once he said:

Sonnye, I vant you should inwent a fischvhistle.

So vhan you blawink deh fisch vhistel, come deh fisch. Azoy vhen you callink ah cow, compass, compass, compass.

Out with the pencils and paper, and to the kitchen table, to work it out, my brother and I. This was actually an easy one.

What he had said was:

Son, I want you to invent a fishwhistle. When you blow the whistle, fish will come. (simple so far) As when you call a cow, Come Bossy, Come Bossy, Come Bossy.

I have to give my brother credit for that one. "Come Bossy" from "Compass" was an inspiration. If it had been up to me, I'd still be trying to figure it out-like so many things my father told me.

* * *

4 years ago today: many references to pages I left behind at the geocities site