owp05

The OWP Experience

This class has been the best writing experience I have had. Because I am a literature person who loves to get lost in mystery novels and historical fiction, writing has never been something I have enjoyed. But suddenly, I find myself becoming a writer with words streaming from my finger tips almost faster than I can think them. I am excited about this, since this class is about writing.

I am trying to figure out what is different about this writing experience versus the other times I have had to write during the last five years. Is it easier because there is no literature to read along with the writing? At this point, maybe it is because I have been in a writing “mode” trying to complete my master’s project. Maybe it is because I have been writing very personal stories which I needed to tell. Whatever the reason, writing has suddenly become easy and enjoyable.

One reason I believe writing has become easier is the group response format we have been using. My group has been very respectful when giving feedback, affirming the worth of each person’s writing with positive comments and helpful suggestions. Having other group members tell me they enjoy my piece is also beneficial. This seems to inspire me to write more about similar topics. One difficulty arises from this type of group setting. It is mostly an issue I must resolve within myself, but “how do I keep writing with the same degree of intensity?” This has caused me some stress, but I have tried to work through it and branch out to other topics.

Another reason I think the writing is easier is because all of our energies are focused on it. Having colleagues model lessons about positive methods they use in their classrooms to get students to write quality papers has shown me many things I can take back to my classroom. At OWP, we are not distracted by the need to read six novels in a four week period while also trying to read four of Shakespeare’s plays. This concentrated effort on writing has improved my writing, as well as my focus.

The Oregon Writing Project is a great place to meet fellow struggling writers and gain constructive feed back about different pieces. It is a safe place to share our ever changing works and branch out to new and exciting topics. Teachers participating in the OWP have also shown me some great ways to teach my students how to write better and concentrate their efforts in more positive ways when the writing becomes difficult.

 

 

Avoiding the Bus

As a kindergartener, I lived with my father in an apartment on Maui. We enjoyed our location across the road from the ocean. My dad had found a child care provider with a first grade daughter who went to my school. She was willing to put me on a bus to school in the mornings and watch me after school.

My usual routine during the week was: get dropped off at the sitter’s house, ride a bus to school in the morning, attend kindergarten, ride a bus back to my sitter’s house, and play there until my father came to pick me up after work. He and I might head to the beach after dropping our things off at home, or just sit on the lanai eating dinner. One day I asked my dad if I could go home with a friend after school. She lived in our complex, and I assured him I would stay with her and behave. He told me I could not go because we would be unsupervised and he had not made arrangements with the sitter. I continued to ask for permission to go home and play with my friend. Each time the answer was no.

One day after pleading with my father for permission, my friend and I were discussing his decision. I told her I still wanted to come, but I was not sure when it would happen. We played during school and tried to take in some information from the teacher. At the end of kindergarten that day, we were heading to the busses to go home. I decided I wanted to go to my friend’s house today.  I did not think this would be a big deal. I avoided my sitter’s daughter and boarded my friend’s bus. We arrived at the complex and ran to my apartment so I could change into play clothes. Apparently my friend’s house key fit our door as well as her own. After returning to her apartment, we began to play happily.

Little did I know, my sitter was panicking. I had ridden the bus from her house to school, but I had not met up with her daughter to ride the bus back to her house. When my father arrived to pick me up, he was greeted by two police cars and a frantic sitter. After explaining that I was not there, she asked my dad if he might know where I was. My father said he had not made other arrangements and decided to call my school. They reported I was nowhere to be found.  My dad had not yet begun to panic because he remembered my desire to play with my friend.

The police asked for a description of me and the clothes I was wearing that day. After giving them the information my dad recounted my desire to the police.  He then suggested they go back to our apartment to see if I was there. My dad jumped into his car and the parade headed to the complex. On the way, the police pulled my dad over and asked him to describe me again. A little girl had been found somewhere and they wanted to see if I matched her description. Everyone decided it was not me and continued their journey.

After arriving at our complex, my father immediately went to our apartment and was relieved to find my school clothes on my bed. Next, he headed across the parking lot to my friends apartment.  Just then, I came outside and shyly approached my dad saying, “Daddy, why are these policemen here?” I thought he might be in trouble and wanted to be sure everything was ok. I think this may have been the first time I had seen policemen up close.  My dad hugged me tightly and assured the officers I was the missing child. Everyone was relieved.

After the policemen left, my father tried to explain to me the importance of him AND the sitter knowing where I was after school. He did not punish me because this was my first big offense. I always tried to be a good girl and remember this lesson, but I went home with another friend later in elementary school; however, that is another story.

Signs

Signs

 The man on the corner has a sign which says, “No Drugs, No Alcohol, Just Need Food.” The one sign that shocked me was: “I want to buy drugs and alcohol. 4:20?” 

 How often do we see these signs and wonder about the person holding it? I always wonder about the dog or small child I see with the sign holder. How can a person support an animal or child as well as him or herself if a job on the street corner is how money is earned? What happened to get this person to the point that the street is what he or she calls home? 

 When I see a person on the corner, my first reaction is usually, “Get a job!” After my mind moves past that, I remember my psychology classes and the information about beggars. Not all of them can hold a job. Not all of them are on the streets because of mistakes they made in life. Sometimes a person is in a difficult situation because life is hard, and the rock in the middle of the path is too steep to climb over. My sympathy kicks in at this point and I begin to wonder, ”What led this person to this corner in Eugene, Roseburg, or any other city?” (It is amazing what can go through a person’s mind while waiting for a stoplight to change from red to green.) 

Sometimes I look around my car to see if there is anything to eat. I wonder if the person asking for money will accept a few grapes in the bottom of the bag or a small package of crackers. Is it enough to get him or her to the next group of cars or does it just tempt the taste buds and make him or her even more hungry? 

I have come to the conclusion that I will not give money to a homeless person. I have heard too many statistics which report panhandlers make around $ 20,000 a year from the money received from passers by. Do all of them make this much or do some make more? Do they all spend money received on alcohol or drugs? Do some of them use it for food or shelter at the local mission? Is the stereotype so deeply ingrained in my mind that my sympathy is no longer genuine? 

As I drove to class this morning, I saw another homeless man. One thought that came to mind was: “Is Eugene one of those places where homeless people are dropped off to get them out of other cities?” I have heard and read that Spokane, Washington, is one such city. For some reason, Spokane is a good place for homeless people. I’m not sure if there are more shelters there, or if the weather seems friendlier, but Spokane has its share of people on street corners and under bridges. It seems to me that Spokane would be an undesirable place because of the heat in the summer and the freezing temperatures in the winter. (I’m reminded of my previous home in Parma, Idaho.) 

What constitutes a “good” city for homeless people? During the depression of the 1930s, many hobos would create signs informing other hobos about which houses or hotels were friendly and which were to be avoided. Do modern panhandlers have a similar system for communicating this information to those in similar circumstances?I

In Roseburg, Oregon, where I live, I often see homeless peoples near big chain stores such as Wal-Mart, Safeway, or at the end of the I-5 ramp close to Fred Meyer. I’m interested to know how these people choose their spots and if there are fights over territory? How would a person establish territory? What does he or she do when it is challenged? 

I’m very thankful I have never had to live on the street or in a shelter. God has always provided for my needs. Sometimes I have thought I might have to move to my parent’s home, but at least I have always had a home to go to. Why do these people on the street not seem to have the same providence from God? What have I done differently which allows me to have a home?

Signs by Tesla

Signs

Signs

Everywhere there's signs

Blocking up the scenery

Breaking up my mind

Do this

Don't do that

Can't you read the sign?

Green Oregon

 The Grace Nixon Institute has been an exciting part of my summers for the last five years. Each summer I drove six and a half hours from Parma, Idaho to the University of Idaho in Moscow, Idaho, to spend four weeks sleeping in a dorm room, eating dorm food, and walking up the long hills to class. As classes were enhancing my mind and expanding my horizons, the summer of 2002 I decided I also needed a change of scenery. The desert of southwest Idaho no longer seemed the place to be. Grace Nixon not only enriched my mind, but gave me solitary time to fill out applications to teach in neighboring Washington, or Oregon. 

 The first step in this journey was to see what was available. My husband and I explored maps of Oregon and Washington looking for the perfect place to settle. A few conditions were green hills, water close by, trees, and a moderate climate. We were tired of looking at the dry brown hills, enduring the 102 degree dog days of summer, and twenty degree days of winter when snow would sit on the ground for months and the temperatures never seemed to get above freezing. After settling on western Oregon and north western Washington I began to look at web sites listing job openings; several looked promising. 

Classes were in full swing in Moscow, and I was trying to organize my Shakespeare paper, when I was distracted by the applications on the table. I began looking through them and discovered several deadlines close at hand. I decided since Shakespeare was not due for another week, it was time to look for a job. After completing the tedious task of filling out several applications, I began organizing my transcripts, resume, and letters of recommendation. Finally, three applications were done and, seemingly, fifty to go. 

 During this process I had also been in email contact with a couple of the school districts trying to get more information about their locations and openings. Two days later I discovered one application I thought I had sent on time was still sitting in my pile and the closing date had passed. I was disappointed, but thought, “I’m not supposed to have that job.” At the end of that week I received an email from the English department chair at South Umpqua High School in Myrtle Creek, Oregon. (This was the job for the one application I had not sent in on time.) She asked me to reply as soon as possible if I was still interested in a position. I talked to my husband about the opportunity and he suggested I call her that evening. I picked up the phone and spoke with the chairwoman for about an hour and a half. She explained that the original position had been filled, but another had come open because an elective had been dropped. We discussed where Myrtle Creek was located, and my interest in relocating in southwestern Oregon. The chairwoman was a little hesitant to interview me because I was so far away. At the end of the conversation, I had scheduled an interview with her the Monday after classes finished. 

 Friday afternoon I sped home to do laundry, saw my husband briefly, and tried to arrange a place to stay overnight in Portland, Oregon. We finally had an opportunity to leave the desert for a green place. My husband and I had good feelings about this job possibility. He was looking up Myrtle Creek on the Internet to find out about the recreational activities available; I was looking for the scenery and climate. The summer highs seemed warm, but tolerable. The winter lows were definitely better than the Idaho winters. 

 Sunday, I headed to Portland, Oregon and stayed with a friend. We discussed everything under the sun to keep me from dwelling on my pending interview. Monday morning I awoke early because I was not sure how long the drive would take. I was nervous and praying the whole way down. I was mostly praying I did not get lost along the way since I am directionally challenged. 

 I experienced the strangest interview committee I had ever seen. There were students as well as administrators on the committee. The teachers and administrators wanted the students’ input as this new teacher would probably have them in class. They were also great distractions for me and other candidates as they led a tour of the school. The interview was over and I had done my best. I was not sure I wanted to leave the building as the committee had hired the last teacher on his way to the parking lot. I knew other interviews were happening and I wanted to size up the competition. After stalling as much as I could, I finally began the trek back to Portland. I called my husband to tell him about the interview and my not being sure about the job. He reassured me that if it was God’s plan for us to move, He would provide the means. Just then, my phone beeped at me because the chairwoman and the principal were calling to offer me a position. I took it on the spot, not quite believing we would be moving to the green side of Oregon.