AP Literature Teacher – former MN Legislator – Happy to be alive human being!!
Some say he’s mad, others that lesser hate him Do call it valiant fury. But, for certain, He cannot buckle his distempered cause Within the belt of rule. Act V Scene 2 It’s true. I’ve read a…
Source: “What does the tyrant?” Donald Trump from William Shakespeare’s Perspective
http://Some say he’s mad, others that lesser hate him
Do call it valiant fury. But, for certain,
He cannot buckle his distempered cause
Within the belt of rule. Act V Scene 2
It’s true. I’ve read and taught too much Shakespeare. I see parallels to the present where others may only see the events in front of their eyes. But this I know, William Shakespeare understood human nature far better than some of our more esteemed psychologists. Pride. Ambition. Haunted by imaginary phantoms of the mind, Macbeth is but one example of Shakespeare’s keen insight into those who become drunk with power.
Macbeth rose to power by murdering King Duncan as he slept. He struggled briefly with feelings of guilt for killing this kind and just king. However, the three witches’ prediction that he would wear the crown, kindled his unbridled ambition. Dark desires filled his mind and led him to a frenzied decline into miserable dictatorship. His paranoia led to further murders and destruction. When he orders the killing of his friend Banquo and his son, we see the numbing effect of evil deeds to maintain his power, tempered only with the appearance of Banquo’s ghost. When he orders the murder of MacDuff’s wife, children, and servants, we see a tyrant who no longer values human life.
*****
We have entered a new world since January 20th. The America that we knew…a land that adheres to the Rule of Law seems to be under siege by the manic ravings…Tweets…of a madman. Some are claiming that he is a narcissist. True. Empathy seems a distant concept to the machinations of Donald Trump. Historical accuracy is lost on him. No mention of the Holocaust on Holocaust Remembrance Day. No acknowledgment of the CIA wall honoring those who gave their lives for this country. Frederick Douglas spoken of in the present tense…does Donald even know that we once had slaves in this country? Is it his lack of curiosity that leads to this kind of ignorance and insensitivity? He doesn’t read. He watches T.V. for his understanding of the world. Too much Rambo and not enough Thoreau. His all-consuming concerns for ratings and crowd sizes are indictments of his fragile ego.
During my thirty years as a teacher, I preached the gospel of “critical thinking.” I tried to help my students understand the idea of “credible sources” to gain information about issues that face our world. I encouraged them to examine both sides of an issue before coming to a conclusion. Propaganda is born when a lie is repeated often enough that people see it as truth. We need critical thinkers now more than ever. My hope that those caught in the spin-meister’s twisting of facts begin to use clear-eyed thinking and reasoning. Those two things are lost on the man who would be king.
As Macbeth’s world begins to collapse on him and the English army marches toward his castle, he muses over the body of Lady Macbeth who committed suicide:
Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing. Act V Scene 5
Last weekend I tried to catch a plane from the Los Angeles airport. Traffic was backed up for miles because protesters came to reject the decree that Muslims from seven countries were not allowed to enter the U.S. I was inconvenienced, yes. But, I made the flight. No one questioned my right to freedom of movement. But at that same airport, people with the correct papers to enter the U.S. were being detained. In some instances expelled.
I urge all who value the ideals of this nation to stand against tyranny. Let this period of “sound and fury” signal to those who believe in our Constitution to stand firm and to march forward into a new era of justice and freedom.
Continue reading ““What does the tyrant?” Donald Trump from William Shakespeare’s Perspective”
Delivered Sunday June 4, 2016 at the Woodbury High School graduation ceremony.
As I look out with such affection at this sea of blue, I‘ve reflected on some of the lessons we’ve tried to teach you during your four years at Woodbury. Things like:
But then…the irony sort of hit me… today all of you who want so much to create your own individuality are sitting here dressed identically alike!
As many of you know I am retiring this year…a “super senior deluxe.” Where it only took you four years to get to today, it took me thirty. Over those many years I tried to impart lessons about things other than literature and writing…life lessons that somehow shaped who I am and possibly might have meaning for my students as well. I’ve told endless stories about my life, my adventures, and my own set of shenanigans. (Having said that, students, I need to remind you that you raised your hands at the beginning of the school year and swore…”Swailsie, what happens in Room 261 stays in Room 261 so help me Shakespeare.” I am counting on you to keep those shenanigans to yourselves!)
So…I thought today I would teach my last class. No…you will not have to explicate anything, AP students … and no….there will not be a quiz when I finish.
I would like to share some things from the best teacher in my life, my mother. She passed away six years ago, but her sweet southern voice is still in my head and mostly in my heart. There’s not a day that goes by when I don’t miss her.
Often when I would screw up. She would start out by saying… “Marsha Gail, I didn’t raise you that way! What will the church people say?!!!” But then…we’d get to the lesson.
Lesson number one. “Kindness is free. There’s just too much meanness in the world.” It’s true. The law of karma says this best. What you put into the universe the universe gives back to you. I’ve learned that when I am kind, caring, and compassionate, people around me react similarly. And when I’m cranky…well let me just say…it’s better to be kind.
Moma would also say, “Happiness is a choice.” Now I know that being sad and down are normal emotions to have. But we do have the ability inside of us to choose how we react to life’s challenges. It’s kind of like the frog that leaped into the farmer’s forgotten milking pail in the barn. Instead of giving up and drowning, the frog just kept on kicking. The next day the farmer found a very happy frog sitting on one big lump of butter.
Moma would also say, “The reason you need a big vocabulary is so you can tell someone to go to hell and make him look forward to the trip.”
Besides that one sentence, she never swore in her life and often commented that people were becoming too vulgar. When I first started teaching…you know…back in the olden times, if a student swore he or she would end up in the principal’s office. I remember my first year as a teacher, a 9th grade boy returned to class and sat very gingerly at his desk. It was the era of “the paddle” and the principal evidently applied one swat with precision to this young man’s hindquarters. I believe… that boy could have benefitted by workin’ a little harder on learnin’ some bigger words.
This next one was huge to Moma. “SEND thank you notes. “ Now…I know that sounds like a lot of work. But, there are people seated in this arena and many many more who will be giving you cards, gifts, and money for your graduation. They took the time to go to the store, to pick a special card or gift or to write out a check, just to let you know that you are special.
So…as Moma would often remind me… “Marsha Gail you can take two minutes and write a note.”
I know what you’re thinkin’…“But, like, I said ‘Thanks,’ when I, like, opened it.”
No…no…no…no…GO TO Target. Find some cards in a box that say “Thank you.” And then this is what you write ….”Dear…blank…for instance blank is Grandma…Thank you so much for the …blank… Now be specific about whatever blank is… $50. Then throw in a sentence like this …”But most of all, thank you for being part of my life. Love …. your name. Get some stamps. Go to the post office and MAIL THEM.
Now, I have a couple of my own life lessons to add. “PUT DOWN YOUR STINKIN’ CELL-PHONES” This addiction to electronic devices is another irony. We hear so much about “social media’’ and yet cellphones are creating some of the most anti-social behaviors ever. I was at a restaurant the other day and saw a family sitting together and no one talked. Each person was on his or her phone. Conversation…real conversation…is a becoming a lost art. Don’t let your family feel that your cell phone is more important than they are.
And last…never let a day go by where you don’t tell the people most important to you that you love them. Losing Mother actually taught me that too. You never know what is in store. Let those last words someone hears from you before you take off somewhere be ones that that they will hear in their hearts just in case something happens.
I want to tell you one last thing. You are some of the most wonderful human beings I’ve ever known. You have touched my life deeply. Many of you have dealt with some tough things this year. You’ve lost loved ones. You’ve worried about where to live. You’ve stressed over money or jobs or relationships. And…those many other stresses seniors face…simply passing…choosing a college…writing scholarship letters…battling the disease called senioritis. Yet, you showed how strong you are and how determined you are to create your life and your future so that someday you can live purposefully and meaningfully. And you will. You are graduating from one of the best high schools in the state of Minnesota. You have been given wings to soar.
Finally, after thirty years, I get to toss my cap into the air alongside you! I wish you every success and happiness.
Honor Faculty speaker – Marsha Swails, MFA Writing, English Department
In a country where few of us have a national “pedigree,” we are all mutts to lesser or greater extent. Unless one can look to a native American ancestor, all of us share the same heritage. People left their homelands, boarded ships, and stepped off the gangplank breathing American air and dreaming of a life that would be better than the one they left.
My eighth-great grandfather did just that. He sailed from England settling in Culpepper, Virginia in 1728. For seven years he worked as an indentured servant building barns, sheds, and houses as a carpenter. He married, had children, and died fighting in the French-Indian wars. Another great-great grandfather sailed from Germany as a Lutheran pastor. He served as a chaplain in the Civil War and is buried in Wright Patterson Field military cemetery near Dayton, Ohio. Heck, on my in-law’s side, a Welshman was elected to the Maryland legislature. He was kicked out for drunken brawling. Who doesn’t have someone like that in their past? My family is no different than the vast majority of American families. They came. They settled. They built a life. Some even screwed up. No green cards. No Immigration officers. No chanting “USA!…USA!”
Witnessing the ugliness of many of my fellow citizens, I wonder about their lack of curiosity about their own stories. Should we build a wall along the Atlantic seaboard to keep out Scots? (Oops…that would be The Donald’s family.) Yet, many have become a jingoistic, xenophobic, egocentric, and bombastic 21st Century brand of gun-toting hatred. So, what do we do America…with this mixture of cultures, languages, races, and journeys? I think I have a solution.
Perhaps its time to bring back the more civilized way to settle disagreements…dueling at dawn. Now I propose this as a natural next-step in America’s passion for the Second Amendment. Just because Aaron Burr gave dueling a bad name doesn’t mean it shouldn’t make a comeback. It would certainly be a more efficient way to clear the over-populated field of Republican presidential candidates. The endless shrill debates should have been outlawed by the Geneva Convention. (Oops again…that’s a foreign thing.) We’ve been tortured enough!
As a capitalistic venture, we could sell tickets as a means of publicly funded campaigns. This would be it. One chance. As they say in the fashion industry, “You’re either in or you’re out.” An immediate benefit would be the end of “And I approve this message” TV ads. People could finally watch Wheel of Fortune without all of the doomsday music and frenetic flag-waving. More importantly, families divided by political skirmishes at the Thanksgiving table could reunite! They could “friend” one another again on Facebook. No longer “unsistered”and “unbrothered,” Americans could get back to Football and yell at their TV’s…together!
The political questions at stake would be quickly addressed by the politicians standing back to back. Ten paces. Turn and fire. Ahh…not to see Carly Fiorina’s face twisted in self-righteous anger when she doesn’t like a reporter’s question. Not to hear Ted Cruz whine in condescending ire at Marco Rubio’s attack during a debate. No more about Hillary’s emails. No more “It will be HUGE” from Donald. We can settle this right now…ten short paces and then quiet.
My proposal reinstating this time-honored contest of cool-headed bravado is the perfect remedy for such pent-up macho, Rambo-like testosterone. However, AK-47’s may not be used. No semi-automatics. No fancy-schmanzy high calibre gun-slinging. We will do it the old fashioned way. Colt-45’s in holsters. One bullet in each gun. The winner pays for the other’s funeral. Everyone retires to the local diner for an all-you-can-eat breakfast of eggs, bacon, hash-browns, and pancakes.
It’s the American way.
Source: The Syrian Woman
Exactly one year ago, I left Istanbul after four wonderful days. This encounter will always be etched into my memory of that lovely place and its people.
She stood on a grimy street corner in Istanbul. The old shops with dark windows smelled of spice and ancient wood. Narrow sidewalks with broken pavement lined the narrow road where cars parked on both sides, leaving a precarious path for moving traffic. An old city wall careened up a hill toward the historic Blue Mosque, one of the most beautiful sites in Turkey. But this woman, this refugee, possessed none of the airs of grandeur carried by the once proud sultans who trafficked this ancient road with their royal entourages, jewels, silks, and splendor.
She stood there…in a worn dark blue dress that swept the ground as she moved. A long plaid scarf draped her black hair illuminating her pleading dark eyes. A sleeping child, hair plastered against its face with sweat, lay across her outstretched arms his feet dangling on one and his head dangling on the other.“Syria…Syria…” was all she could say as her eyes connected with mine.
She stood there…begging, pleading not just with us as we passed. She pleaded for her home…for her memories…for a life where laughter and food and a bed in which to lay her sleeping child had once been hers.
She stood there…one of the four million refugees who fled their war-torn country. Two million found refuge across the border in Turkey, our closest ally in the region. Within this country 25 camps were created; yet, 1.7 million Syrians are trying to survive on their own scattered among 82 cities. This Muslim country as well as a secular democracy, pledged to provide aid. But the crush of people has put a strain on everything…housing, education, food, medical care. Over half of the refugees are children. Meanwhile in Syria, Assad’s regime has decimated their country. Nothing much is left to go home to.
As the politics of fear and hate fill the echo chamber of around the clock news, two things in particular brought back this moment in Istanbul motivating me to write this piece.
“I am not OK with Syrian refugees. I’m not OK with terrorists. I’m OK with putting them down, blacking them out, just put a piece of brass in their ocular cavity and end their miserable life. I’m good with that.”
“Refugees from Syria “could be ISIS … and by the way, it is turning out that they probably are ISIS,” said Trump in Rock Hill, South Carolina. “There’s so many men, they’re so young, they are very strong. Where are the women? Where are the children?”
We crossed the street and approached her… standing there… far from her home. Curt reached into his pocket and put 50 Turkish lira in her hand. I touched my hand to my heart trying to say with this simple gesture that we saw her and that we hoped to help. Her eyes…and mine…filled with tears. She raised her arms with the dangling sleeping child and looked to the sky hands upraised thanking Allah… and in her own way… she spoke the words that needed no translation for her gratitude to us.
Of all the images during those four days in Istanbul, that particular moment remains the most vivid. Putting a face…her face…on the turmoil in that region made the struggle more real. It became personal. Everything I believe about my country is that America is based on our common decency and that our role in the world is to demonstrate that democracy leads to a better life. It was the grand experiment of our Founders that made America a place of opportunity, a place where anyone can achieve his or her dreams. Our freedom is not threatened when we accept the oppressed, the lost, those “yearning to be free.” We are enriched with this colorful tapestry of cultures and races woven with the bright gold thread of hope.
This is an address I gave to our students at an academic awards ceremony in the fall two years ago. It remains my conviction about education…especially now…the last year of my teaching career.
I’ve always wanted to drive through the western states following the route of Lewis and Clark. This summer over the course of three weeks, I made this trip a reality. Although I wasn’t able to visit each of the places those famous explorers experienced, I was thrilled to see the vast and magnificent landscape of plains, rivers, mountains, and forests that drew them westward.
In May 1804, they began their journey on the Missouri River in St. Louis. President Thomas Jefferson clearly believed that this undertaking was necessary for the expansion of our country. Their mission was clear:
But the President also wanted them to address additional goals:
They followed the Missouri River to its headwaters in North Dakota. After a hard winter in an Indian village in Mandan, they continued westward and descended the Continental Divide in dug out canoes. The hardship of dragging the canoes and provisions over mountain passes is beyond what most of us could imagine doing today. Their kindness and good will toward the local native tribes … the Sioux, Shoshone, Blackfeet, and Nez Perce… earned them continued safe passage. At long last, they followed the majestic Columbia River to the Pacific coast. However…it was again time to settle in for another winter.
They allowed all members of the expedition to vote on where to camp for those months…allowing Sacagawea (an Indian woman who gave birth during the trip) and William Clark’s slave York to vote as well…This is remarkable… they were the first woman and slave ever to actually vote in America. They built a small encampment on the south side of the Columbia called Fort Clatsop. It sits in deep damp woods with huge old growth trees shading it from the rare sunlight. Rain is a constant there during the winter months.
When we arrived at Fort Clatsop, I marveled at the history of the place…thinking about how my feet were walking the same paths that theirs had trod. I peered into the replica cabins and envisioned these dedicated explorers planning their voyage home. When spring came, they returned east…it took them only 6 months rather than the 18 months of toil to get to the Pacific.
Four years later a steamship arrived and the the town of Astoria was founded not far from where they camped … only four years…such a short time. What is even more remarkable is that it was only 210 years ago that all this took place. In the scope of human history…that is so recent.
Why is it that I felt compelled to talk about Lewis and Clark today? Well…it’s simple. I see a parallel to you.
It’s because each of you have joined our own Corps of Discovery… right here at Woodbury High School. You are on a journey that will alter the landscape of your lives. Your exploration will lead you to remarkable events ahead of you. Like Lewis and Clark you are learning the history, boundaries, and culture of our nation as well as the vast expanse of the world in which we live.
You are exploring the mysteries of science and math…learning the elements that make up our world, the life forms that inhabit it, mathematical thought that drives it, and how physics impacts our universe.
You set sail on the sea of language… creating metaphors, crafting arguments, researching the thinking of experts, as well as finding your own voice as a writer and speaker. You have looked at the world through the eyes of authors and poets … and found that the human condition longs to be expressed.
You are ready to engage the world…in Chinese, Spanish, French, German, and sign language.
You have found a place to express your inner being through art, music, acting, and sports.
The direction for your life is a map that you are drawing, one that is imprecise perhaps with mountain passes to climb…rivers to ford. And, of course,…there will be new tribes, those you encounter in college and careers and eventually a family…to negotiate safe passage.
But…here……here……in this safe place you are finding the tools to do those things on this journey. You may make mistakes, but we only ask that you learn from them and grow.
Today is a celebration of your voyage. Those of us who are in this place with you … teachers, administrators, and staff… we pledge our support and care as you take to the river and find that passage … the one leading to the life that will bring you fulfillment and an opportunity to serve others.
Corps of Discovery… we are proud of you and wish you a successful school year.
Three years ago this week I was diagnosed with Breast Cancer. Teaching at “August Academy,” a two week summer session for students wanting to take the Advanced Placement track of classes, I started the morning off with a fun and physical activity. I was on a roll!! They liked me! They were excited! They couldn’t wait for school to start! The best morning I’d had all summer!! Ten o’clock. Time for a break.
I glanced at my cell phone and saw that I had a message…Allina Clinic. Just the day before I had gone for my annual mammogram. Okay…not so annual. I always have my yearly physical in April near my birthday. I had the physical, but didn’t remember to schedule the mammogram. Even remembering to schedule it for early August was a fluke. You see, I also taught two nights a week at the Diploma Center for our school district. This three year stint was in addition to my full-time teaching position. Students who couldn’t finish high school for a variety of reasons spent months finishing up credits so they could move on with their lives with a Diploma in hand.
One night in June while pounding out the various strands of curriculum for a course, someone in the room asked me a question. I looked away from the computer and everything turned blurry. It took a while for my eyes to focus. I answered the question and thought…wow…I haven’t had my eyes checked in ages. Time to make an appointment. And then…home…the incident evaporated from my brain.
A month later a similar event happened. Typing away on the computer, I was again interrupted and again…everything blurry. That was it. I would call the clinic the next day and get my eyes checked…oh…and while I’m at it…I might as well get the mammogram. I called and made both appointments back to back.
The following week I had my eyes checked first…ugh…the stinging yellow drops that make one look zombie-like and nearly blind resulted with “…things are fine. Keep wearing the glasses you have. No need to change yet.” Then to radiology. I checked in, was escorted to the changing room and then to the exam room. It’s a miserable test and one that I quickly put behind me. After all…they are always negative. Nothing to worry about.
“Marsha, this is the nurse from radiology. We need you to come in for an amplified mammogram. Can you come today?” And so it began.
At noon I drove to the clinic and went through the same ritual as before, only this time I was instructed to wait for the radiologist. A very rotund and bearded doctor appeared who exuded kindness. His gentle manner did comfort me as he showed me a small white tubular object embedded deep in the tissue of my breast showing up against the dark shadows of the x-ray. The next few days are a blur of memories for me…the loud clunking of the MRI machine, lying on a hard metal table with my breast hanging through a hole for a space-age type of imaging, a meeting with my surgical team, and a teary lunch near the hospital with my daughter Ann. Friends called and took me shopping, sailing, walking, crying, praying. And then, on the last day of my summer vacation…surgery.
Cancer is a malevolent thief. He steals from everyone. Over the years he stole my closest friend who suffered a brain tumor. Then, my sweet and loving mother was diagnosed with a rare type that attacked her cartilage and quickly metastasized to her lungs. “Six months” instead became “six weeks” and we had to say goodbye. He steals our loved ones, our peace of mind, our belief in immortality. Cancer seems a distant memory now. My dance with the fiend was quick. Perhaps I was too boring a partner. He twirled me away from him as he grabbed the hand of someone with more pizzazz.
A lumpectomy means that part of the breast is removed which contains the suspect tissue. In cancer speak…”my margins were clear.” I asked my surgeon if I had waited until my birthday in April to get the mammogram, what would have been the result. “Probably Stage 3. Mastectomy…chemo…” Simply because my eyes were giving me trouble and the mammogram was an afterthought, I escaped the ruthless clutches of the more advanced cancer.
I wore a large bandage around my torso for three days. After the incision healed I began the daily trek to the cancer center in St. Paul for seven weeks of radiation. My lunch hour was also my prep hour at school, so the time was enough…an hour and a half to make the drive and then to return to school for my afternoon classes. I only missed 5 days of teaching during this. My fair skin took on the red of a July tomato after a few weeks. I wore heavy layers of “Vanni Cream” under silicon pads designed for burn victims which kept my blistered skin from touching my clothes. My senior students rallied around me. One girl named Jessica was related to a priest in Toronto…Father Andre… a man sainted by the Catholic Church for miracles of healing. She brought me a relic that contained a small part of his robe in acrylic on the back of a brass medallion. Her family here and in Canada were praying for me. I still carry the relic with me.
My final treatment was on Veteran’s Day that November. Each year our school hosts the local veterans’ groups to come for a ceremony. The entire student body is packed into the gym, the veterans sit in a place of honor, and our ROTC conducts a moving ritual of solemn marching and salutes around a table set to honor those who died in the five branches of the service. The choir sings patriotic songs as the band plays along with vibrant drums, trumpets and piccolos. I stood on the mezzanine that morning, listening to the words of the ceremony. I admired the precise movements of the ROTC, their silver helmets, white gloves, blue uniforms. And, I saw the pride of our respectful students as they stood honoring family members…grandpas, fathers, brothers, uncles, mothers, sisters… who served or are serving as a medley of the various service songs were played. And then I noticed something else. Many of the girls in the choir and band were wearing pink dresses or sweaters. Many of the boys wore pink shirts or ties. As my eyes scanned the bleachers, I saw that dozens of students were in pink t-shirts or sweatshirts. I turned to a colleague and commented on that. She smiled warmly at me and simply said, “They did it for you.”
When I returned that afternoon from my final treatment, I walked into my classroom. It was festooned with pink streamers and balloons. On my door was a beautiful poster that said, “Today you are completely radiant!” I received a standing ovation, lots of hugs, lots of tears. And then…life began to return to normal.
Three years go by quickly. I don’t think about cancer any more, but it did motivate me to live more authentically and appreciatively. I’m more fit than anytime in my life. I’m more happy than ever. And…I feel a deep connection to those who hear the words…”we found something.” Every person I’ve met seems to have a story of how cancer came and stole someone they cared about. I don’t really have any profound words to share about being brave. I grew tired of the words “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” But, this I can say…if you have people in your life where the relationship is strained and could use some reconciling, figure out a way to do that. I say the words “I love you” a lot more these days simply because one never knows if that is the last thing someone hears from me. I refuse to let the cancer thief have another dance. However, if he comes back, I plan to spit in his eye and spin to my own music for as long as I can.
Lake Calhoun sparkles in the morning sun as it rises over Uptown in Minneapolis. A southwestern wind gently breathes and the water shimmers. This is what I wake to every day. Living in a condo next to the lake, I watch the city come to life. Lake Street beneath me begins its crescendo of noise…buses, cars, trucks, scooters, the occasional siren…all the stretching and yawning of early morning.
Seagulls skirt the furling waves. An eagle soars past my window, past the lake, surely past Lake Harriet, the next lake below, and onto places that only eagles know. By afternoon the wind will pick up. Sailboats begin their tacking back and forth across the lake. Elegant white sails billow in the steady wind or sometimes sag when the gusts die down. Always alive with standup paddle boards, canoes, kayaks, the water takes on a pattern of traffic mimicking the schools of sunnies and croppies swimming beneath the surface. But…the most elegant lake creatures of all stand on small surfboards, humans planing across the water holding onto neon-colored sails…zig-zagging their dance with the wind.
I’m told that windsurfing is an addiction…but a fading sport…adored by boomers and shunned by the younger set. Expensive equipment…complicated set-up…inconsistent conditions…these things seem to discourage people from taking up the sport. I live with a man who is addicted. He checks a windsurfing app every morning and if the wind blows at 15 miles per hour or more, it is a day for escaping the confines of the office to the welcome expanse of water. It’s because of him that I’ve begun the journey of addiction. So far, I’m only mildly afflicted. Soon winter will come and cure me until the warm wind blows again.
It all started so innocently. A year and a half ago we traveled to Bon Aire, a tiny island off the coast of Venezuela, so I could attend a windsurfing clinic taught by Andy Brandt…a California windsurfing genius. His crew, all experts, divided the group of 24 into classes and I joined my group of one…just me…a true novice, beginner, newby with zilch, nada, zip experience. My instructor, Derrick…probably assigned to me because of his patience, showed me the basics. How to climb onto the board was followed with the most difficult task of all…how to stand up. Ugh…my sense of balance was all off and my butt stuck out leading me to crash backwards into the water for an hour or so. My wounded pride hurt far more than the smacking water.
Bon Aire is a desert island. Wild donkeys and goats wander everywhere and it is a normal thing to be startled awake at night by the braying of donkeys near our cottage window. Salt is the main export of the island and large bays ringed in white pocket the coast. The camp is located in Jibe City…a windsurfing mecca located in a shallow turquoise bay with a steady wind. A stoney jetty protects the bay from the surf and currents of the ocean beyond. Dozens of windsurfers fly across the water…leaning back against their sails, hands holding the boom, tacking and jibing back and forth and forth and back…planing…planing….that moment of zen for the windsurfer when flying is possible and the world blurs into a callidoscope of sun, sea, and sky.
Ahem…you ask? Marsha…did you discover your moment of zen? Five days passed with six hours a day on the water and an hour clinic late in the day reviewing our skills on tape. No. I never advanced to the level of flight; however, I could uphaul, downhaul, beach start, and sail downwind (the easiest), upwind (the hardest), jibe, and tack. Never pretty in the saddle, but I could sail with my butt straight and the boom steady in my hands. Enough to enjoy the gateway drug to something more addictive.
Last Sunday we went out on Lake Calhoun. I’ve done little sailing since that week in Bon Aire. Yet, Derrick’s patience and lessons came back to me. I stood on the board, boom in my hands, and my neon blue and green sail carried me across the sparkling waves. If the wind blows, I look out with awe and anticipation…to my moment of zen.
Marsha Swails - Reflections on Writers, Politics, and Life 