The Next 48 Hours

 

Thanks, Katie Howland.

Last night my sister made a batch of Pakistan goulash, a favorite food from our childhood. She said she plans to eat this cheesy comfort casserole for the next three days.

I'm buffering myself in a Harris-blue shirt (today) and a new (Harris-blue) blouse and patterned slacks tomorrow. I'm ready to wear my Harris-blue RAYGUN "Books Build Better Brains" T-shirt on Wednesday.

I'm also giving myself, my students, and those around me all the grace I can muster.

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We are tense. 

This feels like applying for a new job: We have to convince ourselves the work and effort are WORTH it, while simultaneously reminding ourselves that if we lose, we'll be okay.

Or will we? 

Serve me up some of that Pakistan goulash.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

It's Not Over

We know it won't be over on Tuesday. 

This from Reuters :

Nov 1 (Reuters) - Democrats are readying a rapid-fire response to flood social media and the airwaves with calls for calm and patience with vote-counting should Donald Trump try to prematurely claim election victory, as he did in 2020, Harris campaign and party officials told Reuters...

It has been eight years since a presidential candidate has delivered a conceding phone call to the winner and a concession speech to the nation, modeling for the free world what Democracy looks like. Hillary Clinton, despite winning the popular vote by almost 3 million, called Donald Trump :

"I congratulated Trump and offered to do anything I could to make sure the transition was smooth," she wrote. "It was all perfectly nice and weirdly ordinary, like calling a neighbor to say you can't make it to his barbecue. It was mercifully brief ...."

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Four years later, the tradition of conceding an election was jettisoned when Trump not only refused to make "the phone call" and "the speech," he also refused to attend Biden's inauguration or assist in the peaceful transfer of power. 

You all know this. 

But think of our first-time voters. They were in the fifth grade in 2016. They likely don't remember watching the Obamas, with utmost grace, welcome the Trumps to the White House in January 2017. Watch it here, but you might want to have Kleenex handy.

Our youngest voters have grown up seeing a good chunk of America decry its democratic principles during elections. To them, our elections do not come with calm assurance that this nation can move forward, guided by Lincoln's better angels of our nature.

I don't think Trump will concede a loss tomorrow night without months of fractious, litigious post-election disruption. He has already told us what he will do if he wins--which frightens me even more.

Regardless of the outcome of the vote, nothing will be over for some time to come.

Peace be with you.

Allison 

A Golden Ball

A gold mirrored disco ball hangs in the center of my classroom. It is there to remind students that we are in a place where we are kind to all, welcoming, forgiving, and patient. The expectation is civility, and students get it. 

This doesn't mean we never hear an insult or see rudeness. But such behaviors are the exception. Students even admonish each other: "Look at the golden ball!" which is a happy way of getting us back on track.

It's taken me years to hone an effective classroom management style, and besides my selfish preference to work in a peaceful space, there is a pedagogical reason for my attention to decorum. You see, when students feel safe from ridicule, they are more likely to share their opinions, try new learning, and explore their creative selves. 

This is also why civilizations have developed expectations for public interactions. We (generally) do not accost one another in the grocery store or at work or in the library-- We agree to behaviors that allow us to go about our business with some confidence and security.

Which brings me to Saturday, Nov. 2, 2024.

In the preceding 72 hours (not to mention the preceding 72 months) our news cycle roiled with "he saids--" and "she saids--" There no longer seems to be a basement to abasement. 

We've heard "comedians" riffing on ethnicity and gender; news anchors excusing racism; "serious" politicians condoning violent rhetoric; we've even seen a candidate for president miming a sex act.

The current atmosphere of public political exchange is the polar opposite of what I work to create in my classroom, where ideas are expressed with supporting evidence, with respect to people with opposing views, and with adherence to social norms.

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It used to be teachers taught students the civility they needed to function as adults in the world beyond the schoolhouse gates.

Now it seems we have turned this model on its head. I am preparing my students for a civilized public sphere that no longer exists. There is no golden ball.

Enough.
Enough.
Enough.

Allison

Family Matters

This afternoon one of my sisters sent me an unsolicited text, asking me to explain how farmers, teachers, and rural Iowans could possibly vote for Trump, given his history (and promise) of tariffs. The last line of her text read "What is the thinking of the men who seldom talk, but vote Republican?"

This sister and I share space on the same end of the political spectrum, yet she riles me with such messages. (This is not her first.) It seems as if she wants me to explain--and justify--tariffs and subsidies and all things agri-politcal.

Her line about "men who seldom talk" is code for my husband Dan, a reserved man who--until 2016--voted Republican. 

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Two weeks ago I sent a text to Dan's brother, asking if we could post a Harris sign at the mailbox of his property. He lives out of state and is on his Iowa farm a few days a month. He responded saying he'd prefer we don't. "We try our best to seem politically agnostic...I'd rather stay off the radar of the nut jobs." I responded with "Gotcha," but I felt betrayed by his unwillingness to take this small stand.

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In both of these examples, the upcoming election incites family tension--even when we (basically) agree. Many families feel such fissures break into crevasses, polarizing dear ones, freezing out once-warm relationships. 

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I'm thinking back to learning about the Civil War in Mrs. Housman's room. "Brothers fighting against brothers" was a possibility my fifth-grade brain could not accept. I could not mesh war with family into a cohesive narrative.

I lived another 55 years before I began to see the hairline cracks.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

On Staying Above the Fray

I've taught George Orwell's Animal Farm to freshmen for the past several years. If you haven't read it recently, it deserves a re-read. As an allegory for the Russian Revolution and Stalin's rise, the story is unflinching in showing how those in power, repeating lies and hoarding resources, bring the masses into submission.

There is complicity enough to go around (the church, the press, the enablers, the "allies") as the pigs in power benefit from the other animals' loss of freedoms. 

But the character I've been thinking about today is Benjamin, the donkey.

Benjamin is an aloof, crotchety beast. He can read, a sign of his intelligence, but he doesn't use this trait as leadership or speak out against what he clearly sees unfolding. Instead, he says "Donkeys live a long time. You've never seen a dead donkey." His cynicism holds him above the fray, where he seems unfazed by the crumbling hope of prosperity for all.

Until. 

Until the climax of the book, when Benjamin's best friend Boxer, the hardest working plowhorse on the farm, is sold to the knacker. As the rendering truck rumbles down the road, Benjamin roars to life, chasing after the knacker and shouting to the other animals: "Fools! Fools! Do you not see what is written on the side of that van?" (It says "Horse Slaughterer and Glue Boiler," although the pigs had told the animals it was an ambulance taking Boxer to the hospital.)

Benjamin's belated spur to action cannot save Boxer. While he rails against the "dumb brutes" who failed to realize what was happening, he himself is not without blame. His failure to speak out, to act, or to use his years of wisdom to speak against tyranny makes him a silent accomplice to the fall of Animal Farm.

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Whew. I didn't mean to rehash the whole book. But I understand Benjamin. He wants to stay above the fray. He wants to ignore the pettiness of politics. To keep his hooves clean, so to speak.

Over the past months and years, I've seen good-hearted people hover above the squalor of political squabbling. Who can blame them? Paying attention is exhausting. And expressing an opinion in this current climate veritably invites a vitriolic response. I myself have deleted social media posts after finding myself on the receiving end of incredibly hateful insults ("Menopause got that ghoul good" one man said when I posted in support of women's reproductive healthcare. It was almost funny, but mostly just cruel, especially if you know menopause "got me" during my breast cancer treatments at age 45.)

So I understand Benjamin's desire to stay quiet. Stay cynical. Stay aloof. It's easier that way.

Until it isn't.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

From Nobelprize.org

Paying Attention

I awoke this morning with a sense of existential dread. But it wasn't a vague dark curtain or a bleak anonymous doom. It had a name: election. It had a date: Nov. 5. 

Last Sunday I knocked on doors for the Iowa Democrats. I have been donating to campaigns, putting up yard signs. I've already voted. But last week's phone scrolling was wrecking me. I needed to do something proactive with the jitters of my pulse. So I joined one of my daughters canvassing.

Our door-knocking was aimed at helping registered Dems make a plan for getting to the polls, so the interactions were positive--joyful even--as we chatted with the sprinkling of like-minded Harris voters in this deep red county. But two of the women we talked to said they were scared. Scared. 

I've knocked on doors for previous elections, but have not heard those words from voters. Both women (two different houses) were over 70. And they were scared. 

So this morning's anxiety was not unexpected. But what had been edginess last week felt like gut-gripping alarm today. Ten more days. 

Until?

That's what I'm realizing. None of us knows what will happen after the election. What I do know is that it will be something. 

When my school shut down for COVID, I came to this space. None of us knew what would happen, what would unfold. But I thought I'd better sit up and take note. This page gave me a place to sort out a chaotic experience. It gave me a needed focus throughout the day: a command to pay attention. The uncertainty, the unknown, the ominous sense that our world is about to shift that I'm feeling today feels a lot like those first days of COVID.

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I didn't knock on doors today because I have somehow strained my back. I visited my neighbor. I read a book. I caught up on the laundry. I tried to stay away from my phone. 

Tonight at supper I asked Dan: Are you scared about the election?

Well, he said, I don't think anyone's going to come shoot us. 

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I'm not writing in this space to push my politics or persuade anyone to adhere to my beliefs. I am here to process what I'm experiencing in rural Oakfield Township, Audubon County, Iowa, in these United States of America.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

And Meredith

When the world shut down in 2020, I used this space to chronicle the months I spent with my aging parents, who'd moved into my basement to isolate from COVID-19. Our time together was an unexpected, tender gift. With life as we knew it on hold, we found our way through days of poems and puzzles, reacquainting--forgiving--each other 40+ years after I'd left home as an angry, stubborn teen.

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My parents returned to their care center in the fall of 2020, when school resumed and I could no longer ensure their protection from the virus. Shortly after that, one of my sisters moved in to provide caregiving that allowed our parents to live together despite our mother's increasing dementia. My father died in September of 2022. The following March it became clear that our mother Meredith needed to move to the dementia unit. 

Meredith has been at "Journeys" for the past nine months. The caregivers are skilled, cheerful, and well-intentioned. Any concerns we've had (Why wasn't her clock adjusted at DST? Why is she in bed with her shoes on?) say more about us as anxious (guilty?) children than about her quality of care. 

My mother voiced a repeated wish while transitioning into memory care. She wanted to attend Sunday school and church each week. My sister who lives in Ft. Dodge manages this request with fidelity, and we other siblings fill in when needed.
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Last summer, I drove to Ft. Dodge weekly with my accordion in tow. I played old-timey tunes on the patio or in the common room, and residents tapped their toes and sang along. Meredith beamed. She was making a gentle adjustment to her new living space. 

When school began in late August, I slipped back to monthly visits. This worked for a month.

Then, as life does, mine unraveled: I was needed in New Zealand, where two of my sons live. Within days of my return to the States, my mother-in-law, 94, was hospitalized for an infection that ultimately necessitated her move from her beloved farmhouse to an assisted living facility. 

A week later I headed to Utah to welcome a new grandbaby and offer a pair of hungry grandma arms.
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The short of it is this: I only visited my mom once between November and January. I excused myself with the sad truth busy children of demented parents lean on: She didn't know I wasn't there.

It was the third Sunday in Advent that I was again in Ft. Dodge. My sister and I took our mom to Sunday school. Meredith only speaks when the class (usually about five people with an average age of 70) reads in unison short prayers from the study book. Her classmates are generous to our vacant mother: "You pointed this out to me once, Meredith," one says, noting a scripture.

After class, we moved into the sanctuary for the service where my sister and I sat on either side of our mom. Throughout the service, we held her hands.

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Three weeks after my advent visit, my sister sent me a text:

In church today there was communion, and Mom didn't remember what that was. I had to whisper instructions to her, like "He's going to give you a little piece of bread to eat." "Drink that juice and put the cup in here." "Now we go back to where we were sitting." She literally had no idea what we were doing. It was surreal and sad. It reminded me of that day Mom forgot what commemorative stamps were. Communion and commemorative stamps are two things I thought would be in her brain forever. 

Commemorative stamps. 

Communion.

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Enough.
Be well.

Allison