Yesterday, I signed up for a free trial at what my roommates affectionately term "the fancy-pants gym."

So today, before I left for my AP conference, I packed a gym bag.




Yes. The thought is funny to me, too.

I highly recommend this book:




Also, I am growing increasingly excited about the coming school year. Ninth grade non-fiction is going to be superb! So much fun to teach! And though tenth grade US History is less organized at present, it's shaping up in some fairly compelling ways as well. This week, I'm being sent to an AP US History conference on behalf of MATCH. (And yes, I routinely pinch myself and wonder how it is I'm living this life!)

doors of opportunity

Today, for the ninety or so lucky freshmen whose names were drawn at random from a much, much larger pool, the month-long summer academy begins. While their peers are watching TV and swimming and flirting, these kids will be doing fun-filled academic activities like math tutorials. Some of them, I learned today, may even commute nearly two hours each way to get here.

Students at MATCH have to dress the part. They wear khakis with white collared shirts or official MATCH tees, or, if they like, they can sport a shirt with a college logo on it. In the sea of white shirts, one lone red Harvard tee stood out, symbolic of the courage and hope each kid must nurture to get through these doors, hinting at the hope that these doors will nudge others open.

I watched these students as they tried to focus on their work, eyes shyly darting around the room sizing up possible friends. All so nervous. And I thought about how much each kid must commit -- not just 8-5, two hours more than their peers. Sometimes they're looking at staying until nearly 8pm, and then commuting home. Students admitted that staying in school can be tough, what with the strict discipline and high standards and financial and social pressures from home and friends. But they also said they dreamed of owning their own businesses, becoming doctors, lawyers, architects, forensics specialists, and teachers.

I know nothing of this level of commitment. Nothing. Together the students read and analyzed an excerpt from a speech by Martin Luther King, Jr. My eyes could not help but well up as they read these words:

And I say to you, my young friends, doors are opening to you--doors of opportunities that were not open to your mothers and your fathers — and the great challenge facing you is to be ready to face these doors as they open...

This hasn't always been true — but it will become increasingly true, and so I would urge you to study hard, to burn the midnight oil; I would say to you, don't drop out of school. I understand all the sociological reasons, but I urge you that in spite of your economic plight, in spite of the situation that you're forced to live in — stay in school.

And when you discover what you will be in your life, set out to do it as if God Almighty called you at this particular moment in history to do it. Don't just set out to do a good job. Set out to do such a good job that the living, the dead or the unborn couldn't do it any better.

- Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. "What is Your Life's Blueprint?" to a group of students at Barratt Junior High School in Philadelphia, October 1967

the comparatively minor molasses fiasco of 2008

Once upon a time, there was an intrepid girl. She got up early on Sunday to check out one of several churches she'd earmarked in her Newcomer's Handbook for Boston. While waiting for the trolley, she bought a beverage at the convenience store.

Alas, alack, there was a five dollar minimum for using a debit card. So, visions of bran muffins dancing in her head, she bought a jar of molasses to raise her total. No, no, I don't need a bag, this would-be eco-friendly girl informs the clerk.

(You see where I'm going with this, don't you. Sadly, intrepid girl does not.)

She disembarks the trolley, follows the map from the church's website, and notes the site of a lovely coffee shop. I shall stop at this charming establishment on my way back, she thinks.

When she finds the church, she is pleasantly surprised by two or three youngish women who greet her enthusiastically. They chit-chat and shake hands, and then find their way to some seats. It's nice to have someone to sit with, the girl muses.

Then she happens to brush her dress with her hand. How odd! I could have sworn this was a clean dress, but it seems strangely sticky.

I know, dear reader that at this point you've ascertained the direction of our lamentable tale, but our heroine is yet unaware.

Sometime during the middle of the worship set, she reaches down into the yellow cloth bag she's comandeered from her roommate until her own purses arrive. Her hands come out covered with brown goo. She looks at the bottom of the bag. There is a pool of molasses. At least a cup's worth. She is in church, she remembers, so she contents herself with whispering Drat! under her breath.

During greeting time, she warns all prospective hand-shakers that her hands are covered in molasses. They look at her quizzically, but don't ask. Undaunted, they shake her hands anyway. Hopelessly embarrassed, she doesn't explain.

After church, she lifts her bag. A foot-wide circle adheres it to the floor. Despite being invited to stay for a church picnic, she wants out of that place. So she finds the bathroom and methodically removes every last item: cell phone, ipod, brand new greeting cards (ruined), camera lens (fortunately unharmed), book, wallet, various receipts and writing implements. The earbuds are shot, as are the greeting cards, but nearly everything else cleans up painlessly. Then the girl rinses and re-rinses the bag as women and children filed past, clearly wanting to inquire but opting instead to wash their hands silently.

Except for one lady who regales intrepid molasses girl with the alarmingly true story of the Great Molasses Flood of 1919.

She learns that in 1919, a tank containing more than two million gallons of molasses exploded in Boston's North End, flowing through the streets at roughly 35 mph. I wonder who stood there and clocked it, she wonders to herself. Twenty-one people died and 150 were injured. She cannot help but wonder how the obituaries were composed.

But in the end, as she treks back to the trolley station with her wet, earthy-scented bag, she feels connected to Boston in a whole new way.

first days

Day one was a bit rough. I was tired, emotionally overwrought, and dehydrated. But I took my mother's advice and slept it off, and days two and three have been infinitely better.

This is my school, the nexus of my universe after July 21. I believe it is roughly a twenty minute walk from my apartment. Yesterday I put on comfy shoes and hiked all up and down this road, checking out furniture stores and restaurants and supermarkets and bicycle shops.


Today I decided to broaden my exploration. I took the "T" (Boston's subway system) about thirty minutes to the public library. My geekiness paid off, though, when two sixty-year old Italian men stopped me inside to tell me first in Italian, and then in English "You're gah-geous!" And as I walked away, one said to his friend very loudly, "Now that was a woman! Did you see that woman?" Ha! Inappropriate, probably. Flattering, absolutely.

Anyway, I successfully got myself from the library to a stationer a few blocks away, and then popped in a few tantalizing but pricey stores (Anthropologie, Crate & Barrel) before the blisters on my feet became prohibitive. Here I am at the T station, waiting to return home. And yes, my eyes always have circles under them, even when I'm well-rested.

And later, I met Susan Bensen for dinner. We went to this tiny little sushi bar called Snappy Sushi. It had few but fabulous vegetarian options including portobello mushroom sushi with basil and red peppers. Yum! And all their sushi is made with brown rice - a first for me! I finished off the evening with the chocolatiest chocolate ice cream I've had in my life. On the whole, it's been a splendid day.

Soon I'll give you pics of my roommates Eva and Nikkii (delightful women), and of my room (beautiful in essentials, but sorely lacking furniture),

Wish me luck! Tomorrow the great and terrible church hunt begins. I deplore this process.

in transit

My nail polish is a garish red, and it's chipped around the edges so that each little nail looks like the bloody inside of a shark's mouth. As the day wears on, the white teeth close tighter. This is what I'm thinking about as I sit at my gate in the Detroit Airport, waiting to fly to Boston.

A silly fixation, but today it seems sinister.