"That would be interesting if it were true," I said. "Do you really think that the Tea Party conservatives are all Jewish?"
"I know they are. I guarantee you."
This conversation, it seemed to me, came out of the blue. But because there's a wooden cross my Dad made me years ago hanging on the wall outside the bathroom, I guess the concept of religion was already out there and he was just adding to it.
My poor students, landlords of tomorrow. Because of Walleed's unqualified remark, this week they'll get a double barrel right between the eyes of: "Your opinion is only as good as the data you have to support it." Teachers. Keepers of democracy.
More free speech
Today I was scurrying across a pedestrian crosswalk in busy Journal Square after 5 p.m. with horns blowing obnoxiously all around. A woman crossing with me grabbed me by the shoulders mid-way and squared me to the facing traffic, yelling authoritatively: "Fuckers! We be crossan' an' you be pumpan'. Yo wait yo turn." Women. Always speaking truth to power.
***
Picture this: I pass the firestation. Men in blue tee-shirts and slacks like leaning storks relax against the sandstone doorway, awaiting the next adrenaline fix. Across from the fire station, in the spare space for a car out front of a tattered rowhouse, a canvas canopy is pitched, lashed onto the aluminum stair railing. Underneath is a man seated ramrod straight on a folding chair. He plays a violin. Facing him, two young boys at the edge of their seats, chins cocked, bows wielded, carve music out of the street.
***
At rush hour each morning and evening, I notice a lot of 20-and 30- something White people on Razor scooters enroute to and from the PATH mass transit to NYC. Only at dawn and twilight, and dressed in office clothes, they whiz by. I don't see them any other time of the day or weekends, the Razors or the White people. I'll have to walk over to the PATH station and see if they chain the scooters to the turnstiles during the day or if they fold them up into their briefcases and tote bags when they go to work.
***
I live like a celebrity or a sports team in my apartment. Every time I turn on the TV, a voice inside my head announces, "Brought to you by Sandi and Jeannine." I make a cup of tea and think: "Sponsored by Martha." "This microwaved meal made possible by Jamie." "Today's blow-dried look compliments of Paula." "Flowers by Ada and Vonnie." The books I read, the dresser in the bedroom, frequent flyer miles, wine stopper, lamps, clothes and first aid kit--all lent or given to me by friends and family outfitters. I'm surrounded by love.
Not yet
I know you want to read about the school, the kids. The reason I came. You will. Just not yet. I haven't hit my stride--the days are long and absolutely unpredictable. There's no discernable rhythm yet to anything I do. I'm getting to know the students, and I'm out working the crowd at each passing period, the frenetic four-minute delerium that punctuates every 40 minutes of closed door containment. My "people" right now are the teachers, for whom I would already take a bullet. Their names should be in lights along Bergen Avenue and they should be signing endorsements rather than autographing lavatory passes. Here is an open invitation to every critic of public and private education: You do it. Seriously. See if you could be equal to or better than these 180-day heroes.
***
Did I mention Margaret's coming to visit me in two weeks and four days?
