Where I Live, er, Write

The smoothest, richest coffee in the world, in the sleekest building, served by the most talented, friendly baristas, is on Fourth Street in Ashland, Oregon, at Noble Coffee.

This is where I sip, where I write, where I meet my friends to talk over pretty mochas while Sam roasts beans behind the glass.

There is a story to be written here and about here every day.

Today, for instance, I sipped a hot chocolate, a real hot chocolate, between a seasoned monk and a student from Afganistan.

Today, Caleb gave away drinks to Daney and me. "How many people did you bring in here over the holidays?" he asked. And we both chuckled, because it was a lot.

I've been given business cards, a job offer, and an almanac in Noble.

I've given out praise and tips and half of a carrot muffin.

Noble is where I met my inspiring writing partner. It's where Dave takes me when he gets off shift on the weekends, after I've been with the kids all day and night. It's where I've swapped curriculum with Polly.

Caleb, Kelly, and Jared deserve the success of their booming business. Before they opened (last spring), I didn't drink coffee. And I still don't, really, not unless it's Noble. It's an original blend: smooth, rich, and bold. It's environmentally savvy, too: organic and fair-trade.

I've shared my addiction, sending the World Tour roast all over the nation, and am going to ask about how to get a pound or two to Rwanda.

If you can't get yourself to this amazing place, order some beans by mail. You can grind them up and drip yourself one life-changing espresso.


(pictures from Marisa Haedike at creativethursday.com and from noblecoffeeroasting.com, respectively)

The Winningest Losers

As President of my newly formed "Glee" Club (number of members: 1), I nominate the following for Best of "Glee":

Wittiest Female Character: Sue "That's how Sue C's it" Sylvester

Biggest Up-and-Coming Talent: Artie

Most Clever Choreography: The Football team's "All the Single Ladies"

Unforgettable Kurt Scene: "All the Single Ladies"

Finn's Smoothest Song: "Somebody to Love"

Most Hoped-for Showtune in Season 2: "Wig in a Box" from Hedwig and the Angry Inch

Please MORE! of: Finn's mulleted dad. And Emma

A Gem, To Me

Time online claims that "Precious" is "too powerful for tears."

I disagree.

The way Precious' mother Mary (Mo'Nique) belittles and berates her teenage daughter killed me. And it was nothing compared to the crying I did with Mariah Carey, Precious' social worker, when Mary explains and excuses her abominations.

It is exactly this abuse, this smashing of self worth, that teachers combat daily.

So when Newsweek whines that "Precious" is another movie that keeps down African Americans, I was livid.

What about the essence of the story: how Precious takes back her child? Where she chooses to try, despite her lack of education and skill, to be a good parent? That although, yes, the odds are not in her favor, she is willing to give it her best shot.

How is that unlike the spirit of the first African Americans?

It's the same struggle, is it not? For freedom, for children, for education.

"Precious was lucky to find the alternative school that could help her," Newsweek states. "But that's fiction. In reality, there are far more Preciouses than there are teachers to help them. Movies such as this one allow us to forget that."

How sad. And untrue.

I thought a valuable movie like this reminded us that there are indeed helpful teachers.

Because there are.

A lot of them.

My writerly partner and new good friend, Anjie, talked me into submitting to Skirt magazine's Holiday Writing Contest.

I trust everything Anjie says. Even though I only met her this summer. In the World's Sleekest And Mocha-Yummiest Coffee Place, though. Which added major credibility.

We started talking. Okay, I started talking. Anjie ripped the earphones out of her ears and listened to my diatribe on tailoring curriculum toward clientele, and she handled my interview with grace and wit.

We were both college writing teachers! We were both writers! We both had eight year-olds and had lived in San Francisco!

No way!" I said, "Is your husband a firefighter, too?"

He was a dentist.

But husbands didn't matter, anyway.

Anjie was smart, and I'm a sucker for smart.

So I did the logical thing. I told her I didn't want any more friends.

Then I ran into her in Albertsons. She was with two toeheads. I was in a pirate costume. When I saw her next, it was in the middle of the street. She had green skin and a pointy black hat.

Today Anjie and I wrote together for the sixth or seventh time. When my man came off shift, there we were, on opposite ends of my kitchen table, plinking away on our computer keys and sobbing silently to ourselves.


Anyway, I did as Anjie told me. About the contest, and everything.

Aaannnddd...

I got Runner Up!

To see the story that Anjie helped me tweak to win, click here and scroll toward the bottom.

And to see why she and I are serious birds of a feather, check this out.

A Socratic Perspective on Ethics in Education

My old school district was recently rocked by scandal. It seems there was some infidelity among teachers and administration.

Colfax, California, might be small, but allegations of affairs should not have been plastered all over the papers. Careers were ruined and marriages ended.

These were people I went to high school with. Instead of moving to bigger cities to become business reps or doctors, they got their credentials and returned to their communities.

They've gone to every Falcons football game, twenty years running. In their classes are their own teachers' grandkids. They've bought houses by their old bus stops.

If these were not teachers, though, would their private lives have mattered? Would they have been publicized?

If these were insurance agents, or nurses, or lawyers, would anyone care about the "news?"

It's been my experience that for some reason, teachers are held to the highest moral standard.

Why is that?

Is it not enough that educators sacrifice salary to care for kids and nudge them toward the benchmarks?

After five or six years of college, with graduate degrees, teachers begin working for maybe forty grand. They'll top out at sixty after thirty years of collecting homework, grading essays, and chaperoning dances.

And they are never to be seen in a bar, or on a date, or getting a speeding ticket. If they cross a moral line? Devastation.

In essence, society is expecting a highly educated yet severely underpaid population to provide an ethical example.

Is that fair?

Mairy Godmother

My mom knew what she was doing when she picked her younger sister, Mary, to be my godmother. Since the beginning, Mary and I hit it off. She had this chest in her room in San Francisco; it was filled with toys, and every time I visited her, I'd choose one.

Each Christmas Eve, when we were allowed to open one gift, I'd find the present with Mary's round writing. Before I could even read.

When I was seven, Mary and I took Muni to Macy's downtown. We rode the escalator to the second floor, where Mary bought me a brown paisley-printed skirt and a Betsy Clark watch. I wore the skirt and the watch down the escalators and out of the store, feeling excited and happy and special.

I stayed with Mary in her flat on Lawson Street, in her red-carpeted apartment on Dolores, and in her house in the Sunset.

Mary made peppermint cake and black-bottom cupcakes. She worked in a hospital and had a son, Greg, for whom she baked tiny treats to go inside his eight-inch Cookie Monster delivery van.

We would take walks, sometimes at Ocean Beach. We went to doll shows and listened to Neil Diamond's "Coming to America" over and over and over.

Today we sang "Sweet Caroline" together into ceramic salad tongs in my kitchen. Our birthdays are this month: I'll be 39, and she'll be 50-something.

It's been almost two generations of singing and laughing and crying, and an almost impossible amount of talking. We talk books, and men, kids and corn. We talk chocolate and coffee and sex. We try to figure out my mom, who's been gone twelve years now. We miss her.

When Dave and I moved to Oregon sixteen years ago, we thought it was accidental. It wasn't. Mary lived a couple of hours up I-5.

Mary is the grandma my babies don't have: she checks in with their math, sends them books, and reminds me to be patient.

This evening, Mary and I took the kids to Toys R Us.

When Rees strutted out with the Lego Battle of Endor tucked under his arm, I knew exactly what he was feeling.

Happy New Year!

You deserve the best 2010 ever!

What do you hope will happen in the next 365 days?