Earth Day Confessions

Eighteen years ago I wished Earth Day could actually be a holiday for the Earth. Today I felt both sad and satisfied that April 22nd now verges on that reality, and has at least become a mainstream day of awareness and reflection.

I started the day with the best intentions. I remembered to take a cup to fill with fair-trade coffee. I walked my son to school, rode my bike to pick him up (felt like a third-world family on the way home, with on the back rack trying not to get his shoelaces caught in the derailleur). I started dinner in the solar oven at 2pm.

A day without the TV gives a person lots of extra time to wonder about stuff. I wondered what Earth Day might be like in 20 more years. Or 200. Or 2000. Will organic become the kosher of the future? Will our descendants consider it an actual sin to flush the toilet for pee? Will wearing clothes made in other countries be a mitzvah of connection, or require atonement? Will a Blade Runner future come true, where it’s illegal to have a wallet made of real leather?

Forgive me Mother, for I have failed. I threw four plastic bags away today. I ran the electric vacuum for a long time (it’s also spring cleaning), and put two dustpans of dirt in the trash, not compost or outside. I had to use the car to drive Donald to piano lessons when we got halfway there on bikes and realized he’d forgotten his music. I let shade creep over the solar cooker and had to run the microwave for two minutes to finish cooking the cauliflower. I killed a few bugs.

It’s nice to know people care more now, and more people have the vocabulary to discuss the whims and plans of nature. It’s nice to have a conversation about conservation without revealing I'm way beyond granola (prefer müesli). But it’s scary that we are way beyond 350. It’s sad to see dead honeybees, more every week, on my stairs when I sweep. I wish people had taken Earth Day seriously 18 years ago. I hope it’s not too late. I have to believe every little bit helps.

New Beginnings Like Crazy

On 1/21, an important person sat down at an important desk for the first time: my new intern, Caitlin "I've always wanted to be a minion" Ayers. Welcome, Caitlin! Can you schedule me a neck massage? I've got whiplash from this sports-car of a new president. He went from zero to OH MY GOD, DOUBLING THE EDUCATION BUDGET? In just seven days!
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Scenes far from D.C.

It was impossible to watch the inauguration aftermath alone. I called my mother-in-law Barbara for a gush-and-elate session. It just made me miss Dave. After watching so many Daily Shows, sharing so many tears, buying our first O'Bama t-shirts and then becoming progressivly involved, impressed, and excited, how could we not share this moment? On impulse I drove down to his school with the burning desire to give him a hug.

I spotted him on the playground as I drove up. It was business as usual for a Tuesday; he was surrounded by kindergartners. He was as far away from the front office as a teacher could be, and with this world-bursting hug building up inside of me, I didn't want to make the trek. I pulled on my parking brake and clambered up the hill to the patched chain link fence. "It's Mrs. Caven," he said in disbelief, and his Simon Says game went to pieces. Twenty little heads turned in my direction; forty little feet drifted away from his sphere of control. Little warm bodies flowed across a small expanse of asphalt towards me, then lined up at the fence, like jetsam caught at a log in a river. Little faces pressed up against the fence, staring into mine, twenty shades of brown and tan. "When I get home from school," says one with bead-bangled braids, "my mama says there's going to be a new president." Dozens and dozens of wide and eyes, innocent of the day's significance behind long, babylike lashes, and open, trusting smiles. "Surprise," I smile, "he's here already." They are not as sliced open with emotion as all the adults I have seen or talked to today. They are just happy to have someone new to look at. Pretty. Shiny. New. But Dave does not seem to mind the awkward distraction.

You can't hug through a chain link fence. Dave and I had to stretch our lips through the metal to touch. Half a dozen little voices went "Eeew."

"Simon Says, back to your spots," Dave calls, a good teacher who understands the tenderness of his tinies. One lingers behind, one with the DNA of Mayan mathematicians showing in the bones of his face. He links his small, warm fingers with mine through the fence, mouth open, gawping happily. "Maybe you'll be president someday," I say, thinking how he will never know a world where color lines are drawn just below the top. His face pulls to one side as he considers what I just said. He clearly thinks I'm insane. "I can't be president! I'm just a little kid," he says. As if the thought of being a grownup had not yet occurred to him.

As I turn away, Dave (Mr. Caven) opens a parachute as colorful as the children around him. What a great metaphor. For what schools should do for kids; for what society should do for its sick, poor, frail and unfortunate; for what we all should do for each other. I wish the world a safe landing from the past eight — and eight hundred years.

(Also read: Ding, Dong, the Witch is Dead)

Ding, Dong, the Witch is Dead

At 9:01 PST, I was sitting in a crowded auditorium full of enthusiastic urban middle-schoolers. The teachers and students had managed to project live feed of the day's events onto a large screen, but all the traffic had crashed the school district's servers, so everyone had to squint to focus on the two old-fashioned (rabbit-ears) televisions that flanked the stage. A giant boom-box broadcasted the NPR feed into the room, but there was a seven-second delay so the sound never matched the pictures. The stage was piled with red, white, and blue balloons, and streamers decorated the giant screen, which showed a slideshow of the Obamas some teacher had thoughtfully created as "plan B."

A voice on the radio, interrupting the lovely musical tribute, mentioned that President Bush's term was officially over, even though inauguration proceedings were behind schedule. The adults near the TV burst into cheers, which soon took over the whole room. Moments before, Joe Biden had been sworn in, and I had naughtily cupped my hands and shouted "No More Cheney!" Moments later, Obama takes the oath of office, and the custodian is out of her chair, dancing like we all feel like dancing. When he says, "pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off..." I am thinking about Fred Astaire and Ginger Rodgers. Before the day is over I will have started a booster club to manage all the volunteers that will soon pour into this school (hopefully).

The principal (scary lady) gets up to tell the students what a significant day this is, and invites them to write a note to send to the president. She tells them about their special history-class assignment to write down all their impressions of the day, which will be collected, copied, laminated, and sent home for them to stick under their mattresses for the rest of their lives. When she announces that second period has been cancelled, the crowd really goes wild. That's even better news, for them, than a new clear-headed, idealistic, and--did anyone notice?--African American president. When she tells them they still have to go to third period, the boos and hand gestures of the mini-mob scene are even louder.

We've come a long way, America... but we've still got a long way to go.