“I see a voice: now will I to the chink….”

IMG_5942

We have been practicing, day by day, for the May 31 Shakespeare event–just a week away now–which will include three excerpts from A Midsummer Night’s Dream, two excerpts from Hamlet, a simple Renaissance dance, and a few introductions and interludes. The rehearsals have built and built; each time, something has improved, and the mistakes have made memories too.

It has been fun to pull costumes together; a homemade lion costume (in the works–thanks to a student’s mom), plastic wreaths and vines, a lanthorn, a not-so-thorny thornbush, a (stuffed) dog, some crowns, and other props and accoutrements.

Here’s a dialogue from A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act 1, Scene 1 (recorded May 17):

Here’s one from Act 3, Scene 2, with a different Hermia and Helena (recorded May 22):

Here’s the Wall (“In this same interlude it doth befall / That I, one Snout by name, present a Wall….”)

IMG_5939

I don’t have any Hamlet photos or videos yet (aside from the drawings I posted recently), but that may change soon.

“If I should say I have hope”

amos211Most of the time I do not know the full meaning of what I and others do and say. These actions and words have many rungs; even at my strongest, I climb only a few. The Book of Ruth has something to do with these levels.

Shavuot involved many preparations. People brought food, flowers, and more; they helped with setup, cleanup, and details of the service. I prepared to lead a study session and two services (Kabbalat Shabbat and Shavuot). The Shavuot service included a Hallel (with many melodies, including Shlomo Carlebach’s “Ma Ashiv“), the Aseret haDibrot (Ten Commandments), and the first chapter of Ruth. So I was studying and practicing up to the last minute.

When preparing to chant Ruth, I came to understand Naomi’s words in new ways. She pours out grief and despair but also, without knowing it, keeps hinting toward hope.

She loses first her husband, then, about a decade later, her two sons; on the way back from the fields of Moab (where they had been living) to Bethlehem, her home, she urges her daughters-in-law, Ruth and Orpah, to go back to their mothers’ homes, since there is nothing for them here.

ח  וַתֹּאמֶר נָעֳמִי, לִשְׁתֵּי כַלֹּתֶיהָ, לֵכְנָה שֹּׁבְנָה, אִשָּׁה לְבֵית אִמָּהּ; יעשה (יַעַשׂ) יְהוָה עִמָּכֶם חֶסֶד, כַּאֲשֶׁר עֲשִׂיתֶם עִם-הַמֵּתִים וְעִמָּדִי. 8 And Naomi said unto her two daughters-in-law: ‘Go, return each of you to her mother’s house; the LORD deal kindly with you, as ye have dealt with the dead, and with me.
ט  יִתֵּן יְהוָה, לָכֶם, וּמְצֶאןָ מְנוּחָה, אִשָּׁה בֵּית אִישָׁהּ; וַתִּשַּׁק לָהֶן, וַתִּשֶּׂאנָה קוֹלָן וַתִּבְכֶּינָה. 9 The LORD grant you that ye may find rest, each of you in the house of her husband.’ Then she kissed them; and they lifted up their voice, and wept.

 
She probably does not understand, as she speaks, that her words can be heard in more than one way. Orpah hears the literal meaning of “mother’s house” and eventually obeys Naomi’s command. Ruth perhaps hears the words differently; perhaps she sees Naomi as her mother–not the mother who gave her birth, but her mother in adulthood. She insists on staying. So, both Orpah and Ruth obey Naomi, but at different levels of her words.

Before Orpah and Ruth part ways, Naomi continues to make her case (in verses 11-13). “Turn back, my daughters, go your way,” she says, “for I am too old to have a husband.” And then: “If I should say: I have hope, should I even have an husband to-night, and also bear sons; would ye tarry for them till they were grown? would ye shut yourselves off for them and have no husbands? nay, my daughters; for it grieveth me much for your sakes, for the hand of the LORD is gone forth against me.”

“I am too old to have a husband” (“ki zakanti mihyot le’ish”)–those words immediately bring to mind Sarah’s words–and especially God’s paraphrase of them (“Ha’af umnam eled, va’ani zakanti”)–in Genesis 18:12-13. Through this echo, Naomi suggests unwittingly that she might have a second husband (and a child) yet; in the second part of the verse, her hint grows even stronger, “If I should say: I have hope….” We know from the last chapter that she will have another child–not her own, but Ruth’s, whom she will nurse.

Naomi’s words may also carry a trace of Psalm 37, verse 25, (“I have been young, and now am old [na’ar hayiti–gam zakanti]; yet have I not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread”). This allusion seems likely especially given the importance of Bethlehem, the “house of bread,” in the first chapter, and given Naomi’s very gesture (mentioned in Ruth 1:6) of returning to Bethlehem because she had heard “that the LORD had remembered His people in giving them bread.”

Her words of despair in verse 13–“ki yatz’a vi yad [Hashem]” (“for the hand of the Lord has gone out [to/for/against] me”)–suggest a direct relation with God, not a state of abandonment. In her grief she feels God physically touching her. It is these relations between two–between Naomi and God, between Naomi and Ruth, between Ruth and Boaz–that bring forth unexpected joy.

In this sense, Ruth’s words bring out hidden meanings of Naomi’s own:

טו  וַתֹּאמֶר, הִנֵּה שָׁבָה יְבִמְתֵּךְ, אֶל-עַמָּהּ, וְאֶל-אֱלֹהֶיהָ; שׁוּבִי, אַחֲרֵי יְבִמְתֵּךְ. 15 And she said: ‘Behold, thy sister-in-law is gone back unto her people, and unto her god; return thou after thy sister-in-law.’
טז  וַתֹּאמֶר רוּת אַל-תִּפְגְּעִי-בִי, לְעָזְבֵךְ לָשׁוּב מֵאַחֲרָיִךְ:  כִּי אֶל-אֲשֶׁר תֵּלְכִי אֵלֵךְ, וּבַאֲשֶׁר תָּלִינִי אָלִין–עַמֵּךְ עַמִּי, וֵאלֹהַיִךְ אֱלֹהָי. 16 And Ruth said: ‘Entreat me not to leave thee, and to return from following after thee; for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God;
יז  בַּאֲשֶׁר תָּמוּתִי אָמוּת, וְשָׁם אֶקָּבֵר; כֹּה יַעֲשֶׂה יְהוָה לִי, וְכֹה יוֹסִיף–כִּי הַמָּוֶת, יַפְרִיד בֵּינִי וּבֵינֵךְ. 17 where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried; the LORD do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me.’

 
Naomi says, essentially: “Do what your sister-in-law is doing: return to your people and your god.” Ruth replies with both a “no” and a “yes”; she asks Naomi to stop entreating her to leave, but then explains that Naomi’s home will be her home; Naomi’s people, her people; and Naomi’s god, her god. In other words, she is returning home, just as Naomi begged her to do; she is joining with Naomi so that the two will  be one.

Now the two proceed to Bethlehem, where all the city take notice of them, and the women ask, “Is this Naomi?”

Here Naomi invokes a Biblical motif of renaming; she asks them to call her not Naomi, but Marah, since the Lord has dealt bitterly with her. This request carries hubris–who is she to rename herself?–but also a recognition. To my knowledge, renamings happen only three times in the Torah: in Genesis 17, when God tells Abram that he will henceforth be Abraham and that Sarai will be Sarah; and in Genesis 32, after Jacob wrestles with God all night long, and God tells him that his name from now on will be Israel. In asking for a renaming, Naomi senses not only the presence of God but the catastrophe of the moment (“catastrophe” not only in the sense of “terrible occurrence” but also in the sense of “overturning”). The renaming does not occur, but the overturning does. A new life begins to form, but not as she imagined it.

Thus Naomi does not hear the full meaning of her own words; they hold more than she can know in the moment. Some might dismiss her as a complainer, as a bitter old woman, but in Hebrew her words break  the heart: “Al b’notai,” “no, my daughters.” She carries not only grief, not only hidden hope, but tenderness. I imagine her magnificence and courage. Ruth recognizes something in her; so do the people who have not seen her in years.

In the Shavuot service, as I have done before, I brought into the liturgy the melody of “Szól a kakas már” (“The Rooster is Already Calling”)–following the example of Rabbi Ariel Pollak, who leads services at Szim Salom about once a month.

This is no ordinary song. The lyrics are in Hungarian and Hebrew. According to legend, the first Kaliver Rebbe, Yitzchak Isaac Taub (1751-1821), learned and purchased it from a shepherd, who, after teaching it to him, forgot it completely. The Rebbe (once a shepherd himself) would often walk among the shepherds and learn songs from them. Because of its Messianic longing and grief, the song later came to be associated with the Holocaust. Still it goes beyond time and place. Once you have heard it, it goes where you go.

Here’s a beautiful rendition by Zalán Lehner (listen also to Márta Sebestyén and read some history and commentary).

I sang the melody only briefly; after I stopped, I could hear people still humming it. The humming lingered, turning thinner and thinner. Then it disappeared into the quiet.

I have known this for some time, but now I understood it more fully: to lead a service, you listen to it. You hear and carry what it already holds: the day and its meaning, the cadences of the text, the dimensions of the words, the people in the room, the person in front of, behind, or beside you, the hope in Naomi’s cries, the thing you awkwardly call faith (when you call it anything), and histories, melodies, losses, yearnings that go so far beyond you, on all sides, that all you can do is walk along and learn.


Art credit: Hajnalvárás (Waiting for Dawn) by Imre Ámos (1907-1945). Oil on canvas. Image courtesy of Wikipedia.

The quotations from Ruth are courtesy of the Mechon Mamre website. The interpretations are my own, but I imagine that many others have made similar points.

I have recorded Ruth 1:11-13 so that anyone interested can listen to these verses.

I made a few edits to this piece after posting it.

Birches and Books

IMG_5893
William Blake got something right in his ruminative “Auguries of Innocence“:

The Princes Robes & Beggars Rags
Are Toadstools on the Misers Bags
A Truth thats told with bad intent
Beats all the Lies you can invent
It is right it should be so
Man was made for Joy & Woe
And when this we rightly know<
Thro the World we safely go

What a strange and persistent poem; it seems like a long procession of lanterns. I think of it in light of the sad international news of the past few weeks, the joys in my life, the mixture of meanings everywhere.

Today many students were out of the classroom, attending a special event, so I took my eleventh-grade classes to the park, where we went in different directions, looked at something for five minutes, and then converged again to show each other what we had seen. In one session I found roses blooming upward; in another, a weeping birch in the wind.

IMG_5883

During this time, things have been coming along with the book, which now has a jacket design:

mindovermemes

To top it all off, or to lift it up from the foundation, the CONTRARIWISE copies arrived here in Szolnok today! A copy goes to each of the contest winners from my school, another one to the school, and one to me. CONTRARIWISE prevails. I will say more soon.

contrariwise

 

Forms and Meanings of Praise

Last week, while some of my tenth-grade students were taking a make-up test, the others illustrated scenes from Hamlet, in preparation for our event. I had compiled a list of possible quotes; many students chose quotes of their own. There were drawings of Ophelia, the ghost, King Claudius, the play within a play, the slaying of Polonius, the “Words, words, words” scene, and many more.

As I walked around the room and pointed out what I saw in certain pieces, I often met with the response, “No, it’s terrible! I can’t draw!” Some students explained what was wrong with their pieces; some burst into giggles; some stared at the emerging arm on the page, erased it, and stared at the blank page. Here I saw a cultural difference between the U.S. and Hungary; while everywhere you will find students who take pride in their work and students who do not, the proportions differ, with American students being, in my experience, a bit prouder of their work than Hungarians. This difference has something to do with the messages they receive from teachers and others.

First of all, in American schools, just about anything may go up on the wall. Teachers are required to display student work on bulletin boards around the classroom and in hallways–so anything from a Venn diagram to an algebra proof to an essay can end up in public view. Second, there’s an underlying belief that all student work–at least in its final form–should be celebrated. Every student has talent and a voice, according to popular wisdom; all voices should be seen. (I am channeling Pyramus here: “I see a voice.”) Here in Hungary, from what I have seen, not everything gets displayed and celebrated; overall, student work receives more criticism than praise. There’s a basic assumption that all students need to improve (and that they have a long, long way to go). There are exceptions to this–but that’s the overall tendency, at least in comparison with what I have seen in the U.S.

I see promise and problems in both ways. The American attitude (or collection of attitudes) can become too blithe and exuberant, too fixated on the “wonderful.” (When everything is “wonderful,” there’s not much more you can say.) The Hungarian attitude (or collection of attitudes), in contrast, can leave some students thinking that they can’t draw, write, etc., at all. Yet both approaches hold a possible middle way: looking at what is actually going on in the students’ work and considering how to challenge it. Here, in this class assignment, I found an abundance of interesting things. (All the pieces that appear here are posted with the students’ permission.)

Consider the clowns: I am struck by the symmetry between cross and spade, the contrast between the standing and sitting clowns (one big, one little; one with spade, the other with flower); the solemnity of their faces, the colors, and the quote itself. Or the two praying scenes–how did those stick figures become so evocative (in the first) and the crown and cross so luminous (in the second)? Or Hamlet and Horatio: Hamlet with his eyes closed, as though he were seeing a world no one else could see, and Horatio, troubled, looking askance. Or the ghost scenes, ordered and unnerving. Or Ophelia, her thoughts full of water.

If I were an art teacher, I would have more to say, possibly, about the proportions, shading, and so forth–but I am bad at drawing and have little sense of how to improve it. Rather, as a language and literature teacher, I would take cues from the pictures and devote lessons to Shakepeare’s clowns and ghosts. Here, given our time constraints and upcoming event, I have worked to incorporate “pictures” into our rehearsals–that is, to help students imagine and work out the details of the scenes, with attention to every word in the text.

What kind of praise is appropriate in the classroom? Those of the “growth mindset” persuasion often say that teachers should praise students for effort, not for ability or accomplishment. That strikes me as too rigid; different situations call for different kinds of praise. Sometimes students do need to hear that they have a particular ability or that their work stands out. What matters is that the teacher praise and criticize thoughtfully, not automatically, and that she avoid using praise (or criticism) as a way of exerting control. When students depend too much on teachers’ praise or take it too much to heart, they lose their own critical sense. A teacher’s praise should help students find their way.

Praise, like criticism, can do good or harm; what matters is that both teacher and student keep it in perspective and turn it toward the good. It is not an ultimate decree. A teacher can point out what she sees without claiming the last word.

Image credit: The eight drawings are by students in class 10C at the Varga Katalin Gimnázium in Szolnok; they are posted with the students’ permission.

Happy Volume 5, CONTRARIWISE!

VOL 5

Last Thursday I received word that the fifth issue of CONTRARIWISE had just arrived at Columbia Secondary School! Soon we will receive copies here in Szolnok. At that point I will have more to say; for now, congratulations to the writers, editors, faculty advisor, and everyone who brought this about. The journal thrives.

As many readers know, Barnabás Paksi  (Varga Katalin Gimnázium, Szolnok, Hungary) won first place in this year’s CONTRARIWISE International Contest; Gábor Medvegy (also from Varga Katalin) shares the second place with Hakan Urgancıoğlu (Sainte Pulchérie Lisesi, Istanbul, Turkey). Their pieces appear in this issue.

There will be a CONTRARIWISE event at Book Culture (536 112th St., New York City) on Sunday, June 3, at 3 p.m. If you are in the vicinity, go! It’s an incomparable experience. Here are photos from the 2014, 2015, and 2016 events (at Word Up, Bowery Poetry, and Book Culture).

Life near the Zagyva

IMG_5846

Every day, when I bike or walk to school along the Zagyva, something catches my attention: a blackbird’s song, a stork, a row of fishermen, a family of ducks, a red poppy among the dandelions. There’s a fisherman in the picture above. The bridge is the one I cross to do my basic shopping; I just walk across the river.

Right now a storm is starting; here’s the balcony view from just a few minutes ago. I have the balcony door open and am enjoying the sounds of thunder. Minnaloushe is relaxing on the coffee table.

IMG_5848

There’s a strange simplicity about life (along with a complementary complexity) when you don’t really know the language that is spoken around you. On the one hand, you walk in beauty. On the other, you know you’re missing a few fathoms of reality. I am understanding more and more, but it’s like taking an eyedropper to the sea. I would rather have the eyedropper and sea, though, than one without the other, or neither.

But certain things, like the strutting of a stork, speak their own language, leaving us poor humans agape in equality.

 

Image comment: Some of the trees in the first picture appear in the blog’s banner photo. A month ago they stood in water. Now they are grounded and green.

Panaceas and Toxins (and Their Discontents)

IMG_5836 (2)

Throughout my adult life (and some of my childhood as well), I have objected to the worship of panaceas and toxins, which now has reached screeching peaks in private, social, and political life. There’s a human temptation to swoon before all-encompassing solutions and all-destroying poisons, or things that claim such status. In reality, grand solutions and grand destructors are rare; most things fall short of such extremes.

I have known people who believed in a single answer to all of life, be it Amway, herbal medicine, or a political stance. Similarly, I have seen national leaders blame a single enemy (say, George Soros or the media) for many if not all of the country’s ills. I have seen self-help books by the dozens that claim to help you get rid of toxic people, find your true fulfillment in six steps, and so forth.

It is easy to see how sweeping solutions can do more damage than good. It’s more difficult to figure out why they have such wide and profound appeal. Part of the reason is obvious: people want answers for the difficulties they encounter in life. Big answers seem to promise big relief. But there’s a more fundamental reason: such solutions offer their believers an identity. If you believe in a panacea, then you automatically become part of the in-group, not part of the problem. Likewise, if you call out a “toxic” person or thing, then you are one of the non-toxic, one of the worthy members of humanity. In both cases, you get to identify with a group of “acceptables” and to join with them against the enemy. Such group membership, whether subtle or overt, offers definition and comfort.

No one escapes this entirely. Probably everyone, at some point, has subscribed to some solution or pinpointed some enemy. Nor is this always wrong; such clarity and simplicity can allow for important action. The danger, or part of it, lies in doing this for the sake of an identity rush or a sense of vindication. Identity does not come from here, and vindication can bring new grief.

Worldviews that depend on panaceas and toxins leave no room for “discontents”–that is, those who object and those who fail to be contained. Throughout history, the dissident who has said “I am not contained, and I refuse to be contained, in this plan of yours” has revealed an ideology’s narrowness and insistence on conformity. There are dissidents today whom few recognize as such; they speak courageously against false formulas. (I do not herald myself as one of these; to be a dissident, I would need to speak up a bit more.)

A few of the essays in Mind over Memes–“Take Away the Takeaway,” “Social and Unsocial Justice,” “The Toxicity of ‘Toxic'” (also the title of a blog post), “In Praise of Mixed Mindsets,” and “A Good Misfit”–challenge our penchant for big solutions and ostracisms. I take it up elsewhere as well: for instance, in “The Folly of the Big Idea.”

Yet my contributions are minuscule compared to what has been done; literature, by its nature, resists reduction, whether subtly or explicitly, whether thematically or through its syntactic turns. I think of the ending of Thomas Hardy’s The Mayor of Casterbridge:

Her teaching had a reflex action upon herself, insomuch that she thought she could perceive no great personal difference between being respected in the nether parts of Casterbridge and glorified at the uppermost end of the social world. Her position was, indeed, to a marked degree one that, in the common phrase, afforded much to be thankful for. That she was not demonstratively thankful was no fault of hers. Her experience had been of a kind to teach her, rightly or wrongly, that the doubtful honour of a brief transmit through a sorry world hardly called for effusiveness, even when the path was suddenly irradiated at some half-way point by daybeams rich as hers. But her strong sense that neither she nor any human being deserved less than was given, did not blind her to the fact that there were others receiving less who had deserved much more. And in being forced to class herself among the fortunate she did not cease to wonder at the persistence of the unforeseen, when the one to whom such unbroken tranquility had been accorded in the adult stage was she whose youth had seemed to teach that happiness was but the occasional episode in a general drama of pain.

Here Hardy does much more than to say that “people can find sustained happiness in adulthood, even after unhappy childhoods.” He takes the reader through subtlety after subtlety: Elizabeth-Jane recognizes her good fortune but is not demonstrably thankful; her life experience does not call for effusiveness, yet she also realizes that others have deserved far more than they received. She is thus “forced to class herself among the fortunate,” but even within this stricture, she wonders “at the persistence of the unforeseen.” Even this tracing of the paragraph does little justice to it; the phrase “Her teaching had a reflex action upon herself” must be understood in light of the previous paragraph, which in turn reflects on what comes before.

I think of many other stories, poems, songs–Rilke’s “Archaic Torso of Apollo” comes to mind now–that in some way break out of their summaries. When you read them,  you break out of your own, “for here there is no place / that does not see you. You must change your life.”

I took the photo yesterday.  Please click on it for the full-size image; if you zoom in, you can see the stork in flight. At least one stork frequents the Zagyva these days; he (or she) pecks at things in the water and grass, struts around, and soars over the water.

“Sunrise, sunset”

IMG_5795

As I enjoy coffee, birdsong, and breeze (the balcony door is opened wide) and think about the coming week, I thrill over the extra bundle of time that got dropped into my lap. Last week, we had the graduation ceremony; this week, the seniors take their finals. While I have many things to do at school, this Monday through Thursday I have no classes until afternoon. Thus I have some morning time for two big projects: reviewing the page proofs for my book and learning the liturgy and texts for Shavuot.

There were two graduation ceremonies: one in school (on Thursday), and one outdoors, throughout Szolnok (on Saturday). I couldn’t attend the second, since I was in Budapest–but the first was unlike any I had seen or heard before. With their form teachers at the front of the line, the seniors walked hand in hand, class by class, through the halls, carrying flowers and singing songs in unison (including “Gaudeamus igitur”). The faculty stood outside the teachers’ room and listened to them as they wove by. It was so beautiful. Then we went out into the schoolyard for the speeches and awards.

These rites of passage have meaning, but only if we recognize that life does pass by.

In the U.S., women (and men) over 30 are continually urged to conceal their age, to make themselves seem younger than they are, to knock off a decade somehow, as though one’s true age were a source of shame. I reject this shame. It is in my fifties that I find things coming together: meaningful work and projects, self-knowledge, a few insights into the world around me, a sense of fun, and a tolerance for the many things that I do not know or understand. I was not there in my twenties, thirties, or forties; why hide from my age, when it has allowed me to build things? One day I will be older still. In fact, that will happen right now.

Each age comes with its responsibilities too. They are not spelled out and absolute–they vary from person to person–but they make themselves clear. I see the fifties as a time of ordering. The house is built; now put things in place. For some, this happens much earlier; for others, later; or maybe different parts happen at different times.

When preparing the Torah portion for this last Shabbat, I struggled with the text (Leviticus 21), which discusses how the priest must keep himself pure. For example, he may marry only a virgin, not a profaned woman, a harlot, or a woman banished from her husband. The judgments of women seem archaic–but as I worked with the text, I saw greater meaning. The priest, in his role, has an obligation to conduct himself in a holy manner, for the sake of the holiness itself. Others might be at liberty to marry a “profaned” woman–but he may not, even if he wishes. There could be many reasons for this: the relationship should not stir up gossip, its status should not be ambiguous, the children should be born into good reputation, etc.–but the larger point is that he must restrict himself for the sake of his role, which in turn serves something larger.

Today’s rules are more flexible–and can vary considerably from one culture or position to another–but like ancient rules, they carry principles. Each office in life comes with its obligations and strictures. In most cultures, a teacher does not socialize with students outside of school, since this would break the integrity of the classroom. Facebook “friending” between teachers and students is common in some places (for instance, here in Hungary) but comes with boundaries. Friendships between teachers and parents are a trickier matter; in some cultures and communities they are common and accepted, whereas in others they break the norm. Yet even where accepted, they must be conducted properly. Even collegial relationships can be tricky, since they come with many unspoken and unofficial rules.

With all the supposed liberties of our era, one of the great challenges is to glean and apply the rules, allowing for appropriate variation. No profession, no way of life can survive long without structure, but what kind does it need? Some parts are obvious at the outset; others take time to figure out but hold equal importance. Part of the beauty of Leviticus (along with its harshness) lies in its offering of structure.

Those who flagrantly disrespect structure (such as President Trump) affect not only themselves but others. The structure is never only for oneself; it sets an example and hints at a form. Throughout my life I have learned from others’ structures and lack thereof.

Back to the question of age: I see the fifties as a time of knowing one’s structure, arranging one’s life within it, and treating others with dignity. This does not have to be rigid or final; there will be many mistakes, openings, bendings, and rebuildings. But one comes to see structure for what it offers and means. This can happen earlier and later too–but there’s a special time when structure comes into focus.

This brings me to the title: “Sunrise, sunset.” The days go by too fast; you barely get your structure together, and it starts to creak. All the more reason, I think, to give it honor.

 

I took the photo on my bike trip.

I revised this piece in several stages after posting it.

Shakespeare in the Park

IMG_5809

With the Shakespeare event quickly approaching–the ninth-graders will perform excerpts from A Midsummer Night’s Dream and the tenth-graders from Hamlet–I thought it would be fitting to go practice in Verseghy Park, for a “Shakespeare in the Park” experience. So yesterday one of my ninth-grade classes trooped across the street to the rose garden, and there the rehearsal began. “God speed fair Helena! whither away?”

On Monday, one of my tenth-grade sections finished Hamlet (that is, they performed the final scene in class). Excitement was in the air; even before I began assigning parts, hands of volunteers went up. Today the other section will finish the play. Then we will devote ourselves to preparing for the event.

Throughout this Shakespeare work I have seen several things. First, the multiple rereadings do lots of good; with each iteration, students understand and appreciate more. Second, it has helped to go slowly; although it took the whole term to read Hamlet (with reading in class only, and just one Shakespeare lesson a week), the momentum was not lost; this slowness gave students a chance to take in the language and think about what they had just read. In other settings I would go faster, but here this pace worked well.

There were other things I learned, but I see no need to round off the list; we are not done yet, and even when we are, we will not be. Few projects of this kind are ever “done”; they carry on somehow.

 

 

“Plenty of practice!”

knightMy first kayaking adventure here in Szolnok brought back memories of the White Knight in Through the Looking-Glass. On Tuesday I biked down to the kayak club, opened up the shed, brought out a kayak and paddle (one of the staff had already pointed out which ones I should use), set the kayak in the water, stepped in, and promptly tumbled upside down, boat and all. Not only that, but like the Knight, I was laden with contraptions: regular clothes, sneakers, and a canvas pouch. Some young men rushed over and hauled me out of the water; they seemed amused that I would have even used regular clothes. In the U.S. all my kayaking experiences (“I’ve had plenty of practice!”) were with beginners’ kayaks, those hefty boats that don’t tip easily. It was normal to wear regular clothes into them; you might get a splash or two, but that was it.

I told them that I was ok, explained my situation to a larger group looking on, and set about to try again. Once more: upside-down. So the person who had originally helped me with membership came over and gave me a few tips. He also showed me a locker room where I could leave my things when going out on the water.

The truth is that I don’t know how to kayak (except in those larger boats) and probably won’t get good at it, given my other commitments. But it will be possible to go once a week or so, work on balancing, and reach the point where I can enjoy paddling around.  That’s worth it for me. But this is beside the point; besides the double-dunk in the water, and the silliness of my mistakes, I enjoyed remembering the Knight (my favorite character in Through the Looking-Glass):

Whenever the horse stopped (which it did very often), he fell off in front; and whenever it went on again (which it generally did rather suddenly), he fell off behind. Otherwise he kept on pretty well, except that he had a habit of now and then falling off sideways; and as he generally did this on the side on which Alice was walking, she soon found that it was the best plan not to walk quite close to the horse.

`I’m afraid you’ve not had much practice in riding,’ she ventured to say, as she was helping him up from his fifth tumble.

The Knight looked very much surprised, and a little offended at the remark. `What makes you say that?’ he asked, as he scrambled back into the saddle, keeping hold of Alice’s hair with one hand, to save himself from falling over on the other side.

`Because people don’t fall off quite so often, when they’ve had much practice.’

`I’ve had plenty of practice,’ the Knight said very gravely: `plenty of practice!’

 

Image credit: Sir John Tenniel, Falling off his horse. Wood-engraving by Dalziel. lllustration for the eighth chapter of Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking Glass (1865).