From the Land of the Midnight Sun

So here I sit in the late afternoon sun (which will STILL be late afternoon sun at 11:oo p.m. tonight), typing on a computer that has at least two extra letters that clutter up the keyboard, and knitting socks just like an old Norwegian lady! And I feel strangely at peace and at home (except for the obvious fact that my other half is in America).

I've never been one of those people who gets depressed in the rain, and I'm more and more becoming someone who hates the heat, so the fact that it rains here almost every day isn't a problem for my psyche. I guess that's easy to say when I only have to deal with it for a few weeks at a time. Who knows? An entire year here might drive me stark raving mad. I'll tell you what DOES drive me stark raving mad....it's not being able to understand what people are saying as I pass by them in stores, or when they have conversations when I'm in the same room and I feel invisible or stupid (or both) because I don't have a clue what they're talking about. I fear even my grandkids think I'm a little bit stupid because I don't understand both languages like they do. Even Amanda, who just turned 4, says, "But Grandma, how come you don't know what they said? I know what they said. Emma knows what they said. Daniel knows what they said. Daddy know......" Yeh, Yeh, Yeh, Amanda, I get it!

So I figure I need to set myself a goal. Am I too old for this, or can I learn a new language at this late stage of my life? For the first couple of days that I was here, Amanda would only speak to me in Norwegian. Apparently, Mom is the only adult she speaks English to. It's fine when they come to the States because they can all switch to English on command, but I do plan to come here to visit, and I can see it's becoming more and more difficult. And it's not one of those languages like Italian or Spanish or German where you can buy tapes and teach-yourself books at any Costco or Barnes & Noble. So....I'm seriously on the prowl for someone who knows Wegie talk. Any old viking will do.

I'd attach some pictures, but you know how it is when you switch to somebody else's computer and you don't know their system and such. As it is, I'm having a hard enough time not putting one of these "æ" or "å" or "ø" in the middle of my words because they're located right where I'm used to finding other letters.

So anyway, you'll just have to believe me when I say it's lush and green and beautiful in Norway. Every square foot is some shade of green, and every hillside has water running down it somewhere. Almost every bend in the road offers a lake, large or small, and flowers bloom until midnight. Women over a certain age always have short hair, and no one wears shoes in the house. Food is spicy, but salt and pepper donæt (see???) usually show up on the table. Fruits and vegetables are plentiful, and fish is served as a main dish, a casserole, a soup, or a pudding. You never drive if you're going to have even one glass of wine, and dinner at a restaurant requires a no-limit credit card. Virtually everything is recycled, and you go to the market every day except Sunday (because they're ALL closed on Sunday). The roads are narrow, and roundabouts are plentiful, but you better know what you're doing or people will honk you off the road. It doesn't cost anything to see the Doctor, but they all go on vacation at the same time, so you'd best not get sick in July. Moms love their kids, and kids love their grandmas. That's the best part......at least for me.

Emma thinks I'm always cool; Daniel thinks I'm okay unless I want to hug and kiss him; and Amanda tolerates me most of the time except when she's honery and says, "I don't like you much, Grandma!" But I know she doesn't mean it, she loves me through and through......or else!

Punk and Circumstances

Did y'all think I abandoned this little corner of my life? Well, for a while, I guess I did. Sometimes it's so hard to keep up with the things that really do make me feel better. Some of those things include (but are not limited to) exercising, eating right, limiting my intake of chocolate, keeping in touch with friends, and.......writing. It's always been therapeutic for me, and I tend to hate my life when I think I'm too busy to take care of me.

The last 3 weeks have been murderous (as in I wanted to murder some of the people who populate my day-to-day life!) The month leading up to Graduation is always stressful, but this year it's been over the top. I spend months trying to make a plan for each inmate so that he's constantly moving ahead toward Graduation. You'd think I'd know by now that a plan is only that -- a plan. It doesn't motivate the unmotivated and it doesn't interest the uninterested. Okay, fine....I can accept that they can't be forced to do the work.

But then, about 3 weeks before Graduation, they realize they've wasted the last 7 months and need to get with the program. In their twisted egotistical minds, this means that I'm supposed to suspend MY plan and get them graduated. They want to spend double and triple time in my classroom (even though every class is already full), they get offended and testy if their work isn't corrected and graded within a few hours of completion, and they somehow want to make it MY fault that they've wasted time and gotten behind.

I can hear you......you're saying something like, "It's not YOUR problem, just ignore them. Go on with your program. If they get it done, great; if not, oh well." I hear you. Let me just say, "It's not always that easy." Remember they're experts at manipulating, making excuses, and appearing to be victims.

I said to one guy, "Have you ever heard the saying that poor planning on your part doesn't constitute an emergency on mine?" He looked at me blankly and said, "Huh?" I said, "Get the fuck out of my face!"

When one guy finally finished, he said "So, what do I do now?" I said, "You go away. Get the fuck out of my face."

Another guy told me, "All I'm trying to do here is graduate. The least you could do is be here to correct my work." I said, "It's a holiday! I'm not coming in on Memorial Day to correct your damn test. I already have my diploma. Get the fuck out of my face!"

I'm exaggerating of course. I've never said (outloud) Get the fuck out of my face. I've thought it on several occasions, but I've stopped short of actually saying it.

Anyway, I'm looking forward to Graduation as never before. Four more years of this? I think I need a therapist. I'm too old for this. I care too much. I need to WRITE more often. Hang in there with me.

Go Ahead.....Decipher This One!

I get a myriad of notes and letters from inmates on a regular basis. A few, because I've asked for a written response to something I've thrown out there, but mostly they're spontaneous and random. A guy needs to vent, or he needs to reach out to someone, but sometimes it's just a matter of expressing gratitude and caring.

So, I offer the following letter I received from a very memorable student. As a matter of fact, he's the first inmate that referred to me as "Queen LaTeacha", and it just seemed to stick.

A little background on this particular felon is in order. He's big, tough, black, clearly gang affiliated, tattooed from head to foot, including a blood-dripping "Compton" across the front of his throat. He's incarcerated on a homicide charge and a slew of drug-related offenses. But he has this uncharacteristic soft side and a penchant for memorizing vocabulary words he never uses in his everyday language. It's like he knows a whole lot more words than he uses. He can recall a hundred multi-syllable, high-falootin', really kick-ass words, but most often he expresses himself with down-home ebonics laced with a variety of four-letter words.

So, here's the letter: (The penmanship is beautiful, and the change of ink color is true to the original letter)

Dear Miss QueenLaTeacha:

I'll like to take this opportunity to present you my meaningfulness Gratitude for the "knowledge" you are Donating to us, and the time you're sharing with us. It takes a real woman with enough quality to penetrate through the intimidation of this Hell on Earth place, to conceal your fear from being expose to darkness due to the nature of this environment. We are not only appreciated your time and teaching, but we also appreciate the captivating scene of your everyday performance, "thank you".

I was born and raised in Compton, California. So you can say I seen more then our eyes can bare. No man alive can witness the struggle that I survived, and I must admit that life on the street taught me how to cut through the toughest air to remain alive. And life in the prison is to recorrect my poor decision from its own darkness to take life seriously.

I was one of the kid that never have much, and my schooling was so poor it still effected it me to this days. The truth is, I gained more knowledge in prison then it was on the street. The only knowledge I possess at the moment it's a self-taught knowledge picked up from experience behind these walls.

During my upcoming life, I never thought that school was so much of a Guiding Star to our lifes. Now that I'm facing the everyday challenge that come within the approaching fate, and the only weapon to bring Victory against those challenge it's in those books that I intendedly lefted dusty on the side of the door of my 6-grade classroom. I wish that today's Generation will recognize the error of my early age, because life don't take kindly on those whos going to refuse to capture what is inside of those books. The lack of schooling can make life worser then the street of Middle East.

What I Expect out of you and your time. Lace me up with everything you got ma'am. I'm not so much of a perfect man, with the perfection of any edication, no, but to keep it realistic for striving towards happiness and freedom is my only intend in this life. Ima do my best to make up with the books I lefted behind.

Thank you. Sincerely, ______________, Inmate #_______.

Are you touched? I was.

It's Just a Number......

That's what everyone says about the "round" birthdays. That, along with some nonsense about only being as old as you feel, or something like that. Whatever. Anyway, here are some other numbers that went along with my "round" birthday last week:

720 = months old

2880 = weeks old

20, 160 = days old

483,840 = hours old

29,030,400 = minutes old

But here are the real interesting numbers from that week:

1 = Number of daughters who traveled across the Atlantic Ocean to surprise me on my day!

7,315 = Approximate number of miles she traveled from Norway.

150 = My heartrate when I saw her standing on my front porch.

17 = Number of times I said, "I don't believe this! You're here!"

15 = Number of drinks I consumed that day starting with mimosas in the morning, lattes at mid-morning, drinks with lunch, champagne in the limo, wine with dinner, and martinis at the Red Door.

1:00 a.m. = Time the limo driver poured us out on the driveway at the end of the night.

0 = Number of keys any of us had to get into the house in our delightfully drunken state!

Wow! What a birthday! What a surprise! What a girl!! She managed to turn what could have been a somewhat depressing day into what will go down as the most memorable of celebrations!

THANK YOU, JEDA!!!

Please....release me.....let me go......

Do you know the song? Can you sing along? It's an old song; one I thought I was through singing when I left the Mormon church. If you are now, or have ever been, of the Mormon persuasion (good pun there), you'll understand my story. Here it is:

I had been asked some months ago if I would run for the board in my little gated community. The Village needed an idiot, I guess. I respectfully declined, citing job and family priorities. What I didn't say was that I had no intention of getting involved with the politics and personalities of running anything, been-there-done-that, didn't like it. So they sicced one of the brethren on me! He came to the house, talked in that subdued low-key voice they use as they lay on you some guilt trip about "you've been called", and we all have to help where we can,and you mustn't hide your light under a basket, or some such nonsense. I finally told him NO, in no uncertain terms.

So a few weeks later, another neighbor asked me if I would help them proofread the newsletter that goes out monthly. Okay, I can do that, so I agreed. At the first meeting, I got assigned to do interviews on new residents, appointments to the board, couples leaving to serve missions (like I care!), and just generally highlight somebody every month. I tried to back down, saying I'd been recruited under false pretenses, but agreed to do what I could.

I hated it! The older I get, the less of a people-person I am. I don't WANT to call total strangers and ask them how they met, where they vacation, what books they read for God's sake, and what improvements would they like to see in the Village. Oh, and how about this suggested question: "Do you want to tell us about any divorces or diseases you've experienced?" Who the hell thought that one up?

Well, after about 6 months on my new "job", I've had a gut full. So I called the neighbor who persuaded me to get involved with this crap (a guy I really do like -- it's the only reason I agreed in the first place), and told him I wanted to be released from my calling. I told him to call somebody else. Actually, I sicced him on my other neighbor (sorry, Franny!). But really, she likes people a lot more than I do.

I know this seems to be much ado about nothing. Easy for you to say. Maybe you didn't internalize that guilt-thing like I did. When I explained I didn't like calling people, my handler said, "Well, you shouldn't do anything you don't what to do. Don't worry about it. I'll do it. I'll find.....somebody. But you shouldn't have to do something you really don't want to do." My thoughts exactly!! So why do I feel like I left him in a lurch?

Well, that's my tiny little suburban crisis. So beware! A "carefree community" comes with strings attached. There's the Social Committee, the Finance Committee, the all-powerful Architectural Committee, the Pool Police, the Water Master, and the Club House Committee. And these are all in addition to the Board of Directors and the Association Officers! And you better be prepared to do your part or face the disapproval of the Village fathers (who are also the Ward Brethren). Is there no escaping it?

Somewhere the sun is shining......Somewhere hearts are light

And last week, I found that somewhere. It's in San Diego! What a great week of getaway for some much needed change of scenery.

I made extended eye contact with this big brute even though the sign told me not to. They find it threatening, or some such nonsense. I tell ya, he and I connected on some really primal level. Everyone else had walked on, and the Beast and I made goo-goo eyes at each other.

It was a week of sunny and windy beaches during the day, nearly non-stop witty repartee with the Hawkes', and evenings awash with martinis and wine. Ah, the good life.

We had dinner one night with Peggy, a friend from my first childhood, who remains one of the nicest and most pleasant people I know. We had dinner another night with Sheri, a friend from my second childhood, who continues to make me laugh after so many years. We dubbed the disembodied voice of the GPS, Sally, with whom we developed a real love/hate relationship. When she got us to where we wanted to go, we thanked her. And if we missed a turn, turned too soon, or tried to second guess her, we called her a sleezy bitch -- and worse. But all in all, we appreciated Sally and wondered how we ever got along without her.

We discussed politics, religion, marriage, family, business, literature, and art. We didn't always agree (the war in Iraq), we had spirited differences of opinion (Hemingway was an asshole), we supported each other's efforts (here dumbshit, let me find that knitting stitch you dropped), and we discussed at length the merits of grandchildren and the failings of old acquaintances.

But alas, the week ran out, and we returned to a snowstorm that started just after we landed in Salt Lake, and continued throughout the night. This morning we had about 5 inches of white reality and were forced to concede that winter's not over yet (which made last week's respite all the more memorable). We had a great time, but now it's back to the grind.

Good Hunting, Will

Like any other teacher, I can't help but like some students better than others. There are some who can't exit fast enough for my liking. But every once in awhile one comes along that gives me hope. Such a one is Will. He's been locked up for a long time -- long enough to go completely gray; long enough to lose whatever contacts he had on the outside. This can be a bad thing of course, but it can also be a good thing. For Will, it's been a good thing.


He finished High School with me about a year ago, but has continued to stop by my classroom to chat and to let me know how he's doing. As his parole date neared, he teeter-tottered between over-the-top anticipation and paralyzing fear of what life was going to be like for him on the outside. As fast as the world is changing, how do you make the transition from being told what to do, how to do it, and when to do it to having unlimited choices as well as unlimited consequences? How do you go from knowing exactly what you'll wear every morning, noon, and night, which is exactly what every other inmate is wearing every morning, noon, and night to having to make a choice about style, color, appropriateness, and all of the subtleties that go along with dressing yourself?


And food.....does he remember how to grocery shop, cook, or eat with something other than a plastic fork? Where does he begin.......again? To make better choices, and better friends, and ask for help when he needs it? These are all things I wonder about when I think of Will. I wonder what he did after he walked out the front gate. How did he spend that first day? Did he sleep well that first night? For several years now, he's been living in a dorm-setting with 50 other guys where there is virtually NO privacy. It was never completely dark; it was never completely quiet; the temperature was never completely right. He had a flashlight shined in his face every hour during the night, and he shared toilet time with 5 other guys.


How does he walk away from that and assimilate back into society? When he came to say goodbye to me, we hugged (against all the rules), he shed a few tears. He told me he had a place to stay, a job waiting for him, and support from his adopted family (volunteers from the LDS church program at the prison). I told him to go buy some cool duds to wear -- NOT white -- and take life verrrrrryyyyy slowly.


When I asked him if he felt strong, he said, "I've forgiven God -- and He's forgiven me -- we're working things out." It's hard not to know the end of the story, but I only want to know it if it has a happy ending. I have high hopes for Will.


Good hunting, Will.