Just over five years ago, I visited England for the first time. In January 2017, I was there again. Both times it was with students on a tour of the country that connected to the curriculum I teach; in the case of the former, it was to see Milton, Shakespeare, and Austen in an English Literature Tour, while the latter saw me there in order to study the World Wars. Both times I was there, I felt like I was home.
If the records are correct, about 47% of my ancestry come from the United Kingdom (almost all of it from England). And though we could, assuming we had enough information, trace whence my English roots grew, it suffices me to think that "this sceptered isle" is enough a part of me to mean that I am, in some ways, actually English. And I do wish I could live in Great Britain. It's a feeling that waxes and wanes, but never really disappears. I would never simply move there--I have too many responsibilities, too many connections in my frigid land of Ut to relocate. And, looking at the modern politics of England and their inexplicable choice to leave the EU, I'm reminded of Hamlet's conclusion that it is better to "bear those ills we have/Than fly to others we know not of" (3.1). There would be so many unknowns, so many questionable decisions, so much money that turning into an American expat in the land from which we liberated ourselves not even three centuries ago would be a foolish venture at best, and potentially catastrophic at worst. And yet… I pine for another return to England. It's not a perfect idyll; I know that, at least intellectually. But the less rational part of my mind whispers about the green-grown homes, quaint and tucked together, the winding Roman roads, the endless history beneath the ground, the constant reminders of a vivid past on almost every building. These are the icons of a part of the world that I've dedicated a great portion of my life to better understanding, so I think it's natural that I would want to be among them more often. Every time such pangs pinch, however, I remind myself of a couple of salient facts: I'm quite settled and content with where I am and what I do. I truly love my job, and while my home may not have as much storage space as we could truly use, it's in a good place and we're building a life there in New Place. To move to another city is daunting enough--to move to another country is beyond the scope of my abilities, I think. (Heck, I can't even muster the energy necessary to shift my life enough to earn a Master's degree, something that I've wanted for years.) My wife is agonizing over changing schools in a year or so--a decision that is important but fraught with questions and difficulties. If this comparatively easy decision requires so much emotional agony, how would I be able to ask her to uproot the entirety of our lives simply so I could live in a country where they drive on the left side of the road? The second thing that halts my too-deep consideration of the possibility is the utter lack of skills that could transfer to England. What would they need me to do? Teach English history? The average teenager in England probably knows more about British history than I do, and as far as my language teaching abilities, I'm heavily trained in the American way of doing things. I have, essentially, nothing to offer to another country--or, for that matter, other business. There's a reason I teach what I teach where I teach it: Though my skills serve very well here, they're not particularly useful in almost any other forum. Those considerations are strong in my mind and they're compelling enough that I have never seriously given any effort to trying to convince my wife that we should move. Joked about it? Sure. Wished it? Yeah. Done anything substantial? Nope. The closest it's come is looking at the admission requirements for Cambridge (though I prefer the town of Oxford, Cambridge is where John Milton studied--hated it, but studied there--and that's too strong of a pull to my easily-swayed heart). So, no, I don't--and don't anticipate I ever will--have an English home. But that doesn't mean that I wouldn't want one. ==== Hey, friends. I have been releasing essays on my website for a couple of years now at a pretty steady rate. I'm happy to do so, as it benefits me as a writer and (I hope) you as a reader. I also think that, as a writer, it's okay if I believe that my work has some value monetarily as well as emotionally. To that end, I've created a Ko-Fi account, which is basically a way to give an online tip to a creator whose work you appreciate. The idea is, you can buy them a cup of coffee. (That's what the name of the website sounds like, if you're curious.) I'm not charging for any of the content on my website; instead, if you'd like to toss me a cup-le (see what I did there?) of bucks to show your gratitude, that would be cool. I'd totally appreciate that appreciation. If you don't? No problem. We can still be friends. As always, thanks for reading! Note: There is a small chance that I can convince the Normandy Institute to take me and one of my students to France so that we can study Operation Overlord. One of the things it requires is a personal statement about why I would be a good candidate. Since life is busy, I figured that I would share what I wrote to the institute. It's a bit of pandering, I have to admit, though I don't feel I was dishonest about any of it. At any rate, this is what I said:
Albert H. Small Normandy Institute Application As a history teacher, I do everything that I can to help my students make an emotional connection to what we’re learning. The more important an event, the more I want my students to find a way to connect with it. Few things in the course of human history have made as large an impact on the world as the Second World War, and it’s undeniable that Operation Overlord is the moment when the Allies began to turn that war firmly in the direction of victory. I feel that participating in your program would be the perfect way to improve my own emotional connection with the events of World War II--a connection that I could then share with my students and community. When students study World War II generally--and D-Day specifically--there’s a tendency to assume a fatalistic approach; that is, because we won, we were bound to win. Too often, history can be read with this deterministic assumption, as if the people involved didn’t have the capacity to choose the courses they would take. What helps to implode that assumption is interacting with historical artifacts--and, even more importantly, historical locations and people. Because I teach in Utah, the sense of historical scale tends to get warped. Unlike the East Coast, the deepest history we can see are buildings built by the first settlers, who arrived in 1847. In other words, state history is what has happened in the last century and a half. If a building was erected in 1899, we Utahns feel like it’s as old as the mountains. While there’s nothing wrong with this sense of local history, when it comes to the deeper time that the world--and, most specifically, Europe--has, the Utah-view needs expansion. Visiting France is a chance to step into an older world, one that is historical from its roots to its rooftops. I hope to attend the institute not only to gain a greater appreciation of what happened on Normandy in 1944, but what France was like because of that conflict--and even the great conflict that preceded it, World War I. Ideally, I would take all of my students, every year, to the hallowed ground of Normandy American Cemetery and Memorial. Since I can’t, I would like to go there again and remind myself of the power of selfless sacrifice in the hopes of being able to transmit some of the spirit that’s felt there to my classes. This unique opportunity is one that I don’t want miss, if only because I recognize that memories fade all too easily. I teach the World Wars every year, and every year students express their gratitude at having been able to learn about the immense struggles our country went through. Many have grandparents and great-grandparents who fought in the Second World War, and hearing about the immense scope that their forebears participated in gives them a sense of connection to history that is lacking when talking about the Renaissance or the Enlightenment. For me as an instructor, I have to fill my well, as it were, of feeling and knowledge so that there’s a reservoir from which I can draw when I'm teaching my classes. This Institute will give me the chance to do that very thing. Not only do I want to return to Europe and visit important places there, I love research. I love to learn. The idea of having a valid, compelling reason to dedicate to learning more about a veteran--possibly even being able to talk to him in person--is an exciting prospect. Using the Institute's connections and program to improve my research and explanation skills is one that I don't want to miss. At my school, we strive to "better ourselves and our community", and I think the sort of education provided by the institute would be a perfect example of doing both. Teaching is very often modeling behavior--whether it's how to apply mathematics in one's daily life, or how to annotate a book--and I hope that, by attending this program, I can be a model of life-long learning. Lastly, though I do not have direct ancestry in the European Theater (one of my grandfathers helped the cleanup of the Pacific, while the other served later as a translator during the Korean War), it is a part of my family's history. Five of my seven maternal great-uncles fought in the Second World War; my grandmother, living near Oakland, California, celebrated her ninth birthday the day before Pearl Harbor was attacked. While that is not the same as having a family member storming the beaches, I feel that small pieces can feed into broader appreciations. If, through my own personal experiences on the beaches of Juno, Sword, Gold, Utah, and--most powerfully and importantly--Omaha, I am able to help convey the quality of sacrifice and what it truly meant to so many people "back home", then I think that the effort would be worth it. I believe that my attendance would benefit me, my classroom, and the future of our country--albeit in the small ways a teacher can expect--as I look for any way of improving my teaching techniques and filling my reservoir of knowledge. Personal experience in places that have made global differences are the best way I know of to do all of that. I would be deeply grateful for the opportunity to participate in your program. Thank you. 14 July 2018
Back in 1789, the French Revolution really took off (some heads) and majorly changed the world. The destruction of the monarchical reign in France was bigger than we Americans sometimes credit it and it's cool to have been in Washington, D.C. (if only for part of the day) on "the French 4th of July". And that goes along with a lot of what I've been rolling over in my mind whilst in D.C. The ideas of liberty and freedom (which have slightly different meanings) are supposedly writ large in D.C., with the French version an even more radical one than what the Founders envisioned. While I didn't get to read the Declaration of Independence, I did get to sit in the Jefferson Memorial and read part of it; what seems clear and obvious to us now had to be, at one time, set down and explained--carved in stone, as the case turned out to be at the Jefferson Memorial. But what do we even mean by American freedom? I saw a quote whilst at the Capitol Building's exhibition, something about how America was the only place where a person can be free. Yet there are plenty of "free" places: Canada is a quick and easy example, as well as many of the European countries. Japan has quite a bit of freedom, too. Some might argue that we have "more" freedom, as if it's quantifiable. And maybe it is. But there are plenty of things to unpack there: Is more better inherently? Do various types of freedom change the measurement? Is it how equitably the freedoms are distributed? What about the praxis of freedoms? As I write this, I'm in the Baltimore Washington International Airport. To get into this area, I had to 1) purchase a ticket (without money, my freedom of movement is contracted almost to the point of worthlessness); 2) navigate a fairly complicated privatized system of check-in and baggage tagging; 3) process through the security system where I was not free to leave this laptop in my bag, nor keep the shoes on my feet or my phone in my pocket; 4) purchase a subpar meal without the ability to negotiate or barter (corporate policies most likely being the one that impinges there); 5) keep my mouth shut about certain topics (bombs, terrorism, hijackings); 6) refrain from loudly proselytizing while standing on a table of the nearby Potbelly's. While the list is far from comprehensive, it shows that there are a lot of things that an unfettered freedom can't really approach. Some of these strictures are on the federal level; others are on Maryland; some are corporatized; some are social norms that we aren't "supposed" to break. It's a normalized type of world, in a lot of ways: These things are taken for granted and we move on with life. I'm not saying these things should change (except the TSA: Those security lines don't have to be the humiliating process they've become--but since we're addicted to the convenience of airlines, there's little chance at changing it) necessarily, but instead am noticing the small "erosions" of lost liberties (or freedoms, if you prefer) that we get in our country right now. There are larger issues than the fact that money is what's accepted and not the option to barter, but I think it's illustrative that we've normalized so much. Having just come from the World War I training, I'm reminded of how bad it was for some people in 1917 and 1918 who voiced dismay or disgust or anything other than full-throated support for President Wilson and/or the war. In one instance, a grocer was tarred and feathered because, when a person complained about the food quality, he said, "Don't blame me, blame --- ---- Wilson." (The blanks were in the quoted newspaper, so you can fill in whatever you want.) A pastor who preached pacifism was likewise tarred and feathered. There was a genuine paranoia and social expectation during the Great War--one that we saw resurface in the Second World War (most visibly manifest in the Japanese internment camps) and again later during the Red Scare--that caused a much clearer loss of American rights. Fortunately, the Sedition and Espionage Act is no longer on the books--and other heinous laws that have been implemented have likewise gone away--and one can voice discontent without fear of immediate mob violence. But we can't simply say that "America means freedom," because that's too simplistic for truth to be inside of it. I wrestled with these emotions as I went through the Capitol Building today (not as much when I saw the far too small dinosaur exhibit at the Smithsonian). There are dangers in the world and unfettered freedom exposes a people to danger. I definitely get that. But the Sedition Act is no longer--what about the USA PATRIOT Act? What about the continued surveillance of people? What about the clearer threats to our democracy--any and every attempt to disenfranchise citizens, Russian interference, erosion in confidence in the press, a dismissal of truth in an era of "fake news"--that we aren't addressing? It's easy to blame the GOP (as they have full control in Washington) for not doing something, and the change truly should start there, but there are so many other things--small, seemingly inconsequential things--that aren't necessarily as big but can be just as important or worrying. After all, I'm only in line for the airport security once every couple of years. I'm on my phone every day. What freedoms are being impinged by both governmental and corporate entities that I don't even recognize? And what would Robespierre say about what American (or French) freedom today? If he and Washington could come to 2018 and look at their respective countries, would they be impressed by the freedoms we have? Dismayed at what we take for granted? Embarrassed by aspects of their legacies? Desperate to explain themselves after having their descendants interpret their words and deeds and governments for the past couple of centuries? On this year's Bastille Day, as I leave the epicenter of American politics, I think about these questions. And I wonder. Well, I finished up. While I will still be in town for most of tomorrow, the official purpose of my trip here has concluded. It was a really enjoyable and exciting professional development--worth, I should say, the amount of time I put in (though the cost is debatable simply because flying out to D.C. in the middle of tourist season probably isn't the cheapest thing on the planet) by a long shot. Personal experiences are included in this: I feel like I'm a better person and a better teacher and a better American for having been here and experienced this city.
Our day went well. The assignment we were given was to create a lesson plan that utilized some of the techniques and research we'd done. Mine went well--I got a lot of positive feedback and even some cool new ideas to try to implement. How well it will go in a classroom is another conversation entirely…one that I won't get to see until 2019 when I teach World War I again. As soon as the class was over and we said our goodbyes, we rushed back to the hotel to drop off our materials and so that I could change. We then headed to the Folger Shakespeare Library (yes, again) and this time spent some time looking at the display. The current exhibit is talking about the book--how books have been made and how they are, in and of themselves, works of art. (Remind me to write about some of my thoughts on that idea sometime.) While looking through one of the glass panels, I almost breezed past one book…until I saw the title on the spine. "Wait a minute! That's a copy of Paradise Lost!" Yup. My main Milton gets to kick it in the Folger's Shakespeare Library as well. Pretty sweet. Whilst hanging about the First Folio, one of the docents happened by and we started asking her questions. It didn't take long before we dove into some of the more esoteric stuff, and I picked her brain on things like the apocryphal writings and the rarity of the folios. (I didn't know this, but since there are 240 extant copies of Shakespeare's First Folio, it isn't considered a "rare book". One of the others--I think it's the third--is, because there are fewer copies. Like, one. And it's in the Folger's Library.) She led us into the back room where I got to see a beautiful painting of Queen Elizabeth I (a replica, but still stunning) and a Fourth Folio, which was behind glass. The docent then invited us back tomorrow to take a tour of the reading room. I'm very excited and hopeful about that. We stayed there until they kicked us out--and, since we had ended early at the institute, it was a substantial amount of time. We came back to the hotel, not having any place else to be, and waited to have dinner with a mutual friend whom we had bumped into serendipitously a couple days before. Due to some scheduling snags, we decided to meet her at the Eastern Market Metro station instead of the Capitol South one, and I'm glad we did. Whilst waiting for our friend to arrive, we saw a bunch of teenagers dressed in the same outfits--maroon shirts with white lettering on them and black leggings/shorts--dancing in unison in the square. Curious, we went over to watch them dance. I'm not particularly skilled at understanding dance. I'm really glad that people like it, but I don't understand hardly any of it. So they did a great job (I thought) and, when they finished, they descended upon us like a flock of doves, thanking us for watching them dance. As they got closer, I saw that their shirts read, "I am FEARLESS 2 Tim 1:7". "What is this?" asked my friend, wowed and excited. "We're a dancing ministry group," the girls (they were all girls, save for three boys…and, yes, I counted) said, braces flashing almost as brightly as their smiling eyes. Neither my friend nor I had heard of this before. Apparently, it's a summer Bible camp, but instead of just doing camp with Bible themes, they rehearse choreography to Christian rock music and then go around dancing to attract people to the Word. After they dance, they go minister to the audience. It was really interesting. Since the kids were from nearby, being in D.C. wasn't as cool for them, but they loved dancing and spreading the gospel message. One of the girls--the most outspoken one, a girl named Kaiden (I'm making up that spelling--asked us if there was anything we needed that they could pray for. "Uh, that we get home safely! That the flight doesn't have any problems." The girls nodded and bobbed their heads and mentally logged that request away. They stayed and chatted with us for a few more minutes, telling us about some of where they'd been and what they're doing in school and just…normal stuff. We asked what the scripture was. They couldn't remember, so we looked it up for them, which made me laugh. Once they had flocked away, our friend showed up and we headed down to a recommended restaurant not far from the station. We asked for a table for three, and they said, "It'll be about an hour and ten minutes." "Um," we said, hesitating slightly. We didn't have anything on the agenda--catching up with our friend was kind of the point of the evening. "No, it'll be forty-five minutes," said one of the other hostesses. "If you're okay sitting in the booth at the front, you can take it as soon as it's bused," said the first one. "Um, okay." From an hour and ten minutes to thirty-seven seconds? Not too shabby. We ordered, and my two friends, Kathleen (the mutual friend) and Laura (my coworker) began their catch up. The thing is, both ladies have quick, infectious giggles, and Kathleen's is particularly memorable…and loud. I thought we would get dirty looks and be served quickly to get us out, but we ended up staying there for a long time. The manager brought the ticket, along with three complimentary tarts (which mine was fantastic, by the way) because he thought we were having such a good time and he was rather jealous of it. Free tarts in to-go bags, we wandered down to the Botanical Gardens where we stood by a fountain, chatted and laughed some more, and then turned around to hike back to the hotel. It was a very relaxed, enjoyable way of spending my last night in Washington, D.C. Capital Thursday 12 July 2018
Absolutely amazing. I'm going to start with the highlight of the summer--yes, even more than beginning, and finishing, my book in the course of a single month--because it's the picture above and just thinking about it makes me tingly: I was able to look at both the third edition and fourth edition (but first edition with illustrations!) of John Milton's Paradise Lost. Here's how it went: We were given a chunk of time to get our "projects" done for the institute. I usually lesson plan pretty quickly, and the biggest hurdle for my idea was to get the right primary sources. I don't think I'd be able to find them without a fair amount of luck anyway, so I found what would satisfy me and then turned my attention to the Library of Congress. At first, I had to justify my wandering around. As I had left my reading card behind at the hotel, I had to get a temporary card, then, with a classmate, went up to the manuscripts and photo room. There I looked at a lot of old World War I photos, including some stereoscopic/stereograph photos. They have hundred year old viewing lenses that you can still use to make the pictures of World War I battlefields appear 3-D. To my surprise, seeing them in that way, with the actual, physical photos in front of me, was a visceral, shocking thing. In one of them, I think part of the town of Ypres, I honestly felt as if I were there. Having been in some of those French and Belgian towns before, seeing these photos, complete with depth perception, really did make me feel almost present in the photo. It was as if the hundred years that have passed since that time were circumvented. Finished with that--and unable to get further in my research there--I decided that it was time to visit the treasure trove of all bibliophiles: The Rare Books and Manuscripts Reading Room. I knew how to get there on my own (a minor accomplishment, if I do say so myself), and I arrived there before they closed (a major accomplishment). I went in and asked them if they had any Shakespeare related books. The woman who helped me laughed and recommended I go across the street to the Folger's Shakespeare Library for that. I then asked about Paradise Lost and anything from John Milton's time. "What's the research about?" she asked. I don't want to say that I was lying, but I certainly wasn't sure of what could possibly justify my request save that I was desperate to see the book. "I am curious about the different editions," I said, thinking hard as I spoke. "To see what changes from the first edition with only ten books in it to the subsequent ones with twelve. That sort of thing." That was my story and I stuck to it, all the way to payday. After filling out some forms, one of the librarians brought out a large, leather bound book. Spreading green velvet cloth on it, he laid it open before me. After a quick tutorial about how to handle this precious item, he let me be. One of my classmates had been there and, based upon my enthusiasm (I guess? She hadn't read the poem, so she didn't have any interest in it per se), stuck around. She took some pictures for me and allowed me to gush to someone while I studied the treasure. It was the fourth edition of Paradise Lost, and the first one with illustrations in it. The real joy for me, though, was that it was published in 1678, just four years after the poet's death. That thing was 440 years old! And it was absolutely gorgeous. I didn't have to wear gloves, so my own hands--my own hands!--got to turn the pages and point out passages. I could see the print of the press on each side of the paper, the alternate sides creating soft ridges in the paper. It creaked with its age. It was heavenly. The second version they brought out was the third edition, this one published in 1668. It's highly unlikely that Milton ever "saw" this specific book, it came out only one year after the original was published. And, if I'm remembering correctly, the first edition was quickly updated to the second, which means that the third edition is the second run of the authoritative text. And I got to touch it. Oh, my, but I was so happy. I was all smiles and buzz and totally unrepentant that I had missed the last few minutes of class, when we were supposed to be gathered back together. It's one of the more spiritual experiences I had…which is kind of embarrassing to say, since there was a first edition Book of Mormon on display in the waiting area for the reading room. Nevertheless, that was--far and away--the most exciting thing to happen to me this summer. I was happy to see the First Folio, but that was behind glass and "again" (though I'll always be happy to look at it). To be able to touch a book that I love so much, one that was so close--that was published when Milton was still alive!--to the author and his time period? I can't even express how wonderous that was for me. Anyway, the rest of the evening involved a frustrated trip to the Smithsonian (the website says they're open until 7:30pm, but the website lies) and then heading up to Dupont Circle and a bookstore there called Kramerbooks and Afterwords. It's a café/restaurant (pricey, too, for a fellow like me) as well as a bookstore. We passed a pleasant while looking at all the titles; in the end, we decided not to eat there and try a Korean place on the other side of the flatiron (I think that's what that kind of building is called). It was good. We ate our meal from piping hot stone bowls on the patio next to a quiet street and enjoyed the surprisingly mild evening weather (and the fact we didn't have to sit in the fish-smell of the restaurant itself was pretty good, too). After dinner, I said, "I'm going back to the bookstore. I need a souvenir." So I scooped up a short introduction to Dante and considered myself satisfied. With that all done, we headed home earlier than usual and now I'm finishing my essay. But, man…I still can't get over getting to see and touch the Milton books. The fact that I have friends at school who will be genuinely jealous of that shows you that I work at a pretty awesome place. The trainings that we're getting are really enjoyable. Sometimes (most of the time), professional development is a necessary evil. Often it's a hoop to jump, sometimes it's got ideas, occasionally you leave with something you can snag. This one is designed to break your carry-on weight with materials (I'm not even joking when I say that I'm thinking I'll have to load up a box and ship it to myself just to get everything home) and let you head back with greater insights into primary source documents and how to use them in a classroom. It's been fantastic, and the week is now only half over.
During our research time, I finally cracked and went with the sole English teacher in the group to the Folger's Shakespeare Library. We didn't have a lot of time (sadly, though I plan on returning if I can), but we looked at the First Folio (my fourth), took pictures with a Shax bust, and listened to an old lady talk about Elizabethan theater for a few minutes. I also browsed the bookstore because I needed to scratch that itch: Walked out with a kitchen magnet and a book from my two favorite Shakespeare authors, James Shapiro (Shakespeare in America) and Stephen Greenblatt (Tyranny: Shakespeare and Politics). The second one was a copy that Stephen signed when he was here in May. That made me very happy. I mentioned earlier my disappointment at the lackluster World War I memorials that D.C. has, so you can imagine my appreciation when, after my coworker and I arrived at Arlington Cemetery, I got to see a display of World War I exhibits. Markers that led to Verdun, French helmets, and even some leftover barbed wire were there, as well as forthright facts--some more saddening than others*. We couldn't see the Women in the Armed Forces museum, though we peeked through the glass--I wish I could have spent more time there. I really…I really wish that sexism wasn't a thing. We saw the tomb of the Unknown Soldier, complete with a Marine marching his twenty paces, clicking his heels, and carefully adjusting his rifle. It was stirring and somber and significant. Once done at Arlington, we decided to try to find an ice cream place Gayle had visited when she was here a couple of years back. We ended up in Georgetown where we sat down at a nice restaurant and I had a croque monsieur--a much fancier one than what I ate in Bayeux--whilst we chatted. Going through Georgetown only cemented the feelings I've been teasing out as I've walked through D.C.: Washington feels like what Disneyland would be if it were a real city. It's surprisingly clean (I'm talking about the area around the Capitol, where I'm staying and working), people walk quickly, the Metro is a ride where you sit down and get zipped about, it's hot and muggy, if you see a kid, she's probably crying or tired or both, and there's a sense of deliberate manipulation of emotions. Additionally, both places have a mythical component, a significant piece of Americana that is normally only accessed through television. Both Sleeping Beauty's castle and the Supreme Court are places that are seen on a screen long before they're experienced in real life. Obviously the Nation's Capital is real, in that the buildings have a pragmatic purpose and the landmarks are designed to manipulate the emotion of appreciation for the past and hope for the ideals of the future. Disneyland is designed to make money. Georgetown, on the other hand, feels like a real city: People were bustling on the streets even after 5:00pm, there were colonial buildings on top, buzzing neon signs on the bottom…in short, Georgetown gave me the same vibe as the Latin Quarter in Paris or certain sections of London: A real place with real people and real shops, living in a place that is steeped with history and bursting with modernity. Busking blues came from the alcove of a store. A homeless man bedded down for the night on the street as we walked past. People lived lives, rather than worked work. It was an interesting contrast. Getting into Georgetown (we never got the ice cream that Gayle said was there) was one thing…getting out of it was harder. We'd wandered pretty far west, and getting to a Metro station proved to be a lengthy process. We figured it out, though, and now I'm back, head- and feet aching, ready for bed. --- * I knew that the African-American divisions (there were two) were mostly tasked with the horrendous work of burying the dead. Of course, many of the Black battalions fought with the French, were honored by the French, and died with the French. Those who died and were buried next to the White soldiers in France were disinterred and their remains were brought here to Arlington. The policy at the time was to segregate the remains: Even in death they were treated unequally. A problem I've come across is that so much happens on these days, I hardly have time to digest or think about them before a new day starts. These entries are helping a little, but I'm tired every night and I can't put in the details that I noticed. I mean, I totally forgot to mention that I saw a gutless pigeon on the sidewalk yesterday, plus there was this lady who, with the patient help and support of her husband (whom she loved because she wore a shirt saying "I <3 My Husband"), made it down the escalators at Arlington Cemetery Metro Station--a first for her, as she had never gone down the escalators before.
Like, that was so cool! I saw a transwoman, which was also super cool. And that's what I mean: Too many cool experiences to write down, yet if I don't write them down, I'll never remember them. Ugh. It's frustrating. Today we had more training, which I'm enjoying immensely. The only gripe about the program--seriously, the only gripe--is the fact that there isn't time to visit the great things here in Washington, as I've groused before. In addition to the training, we got an after-hours tour of the Library of Congress' main reading room, where we got a peek into the card catalog (20 million index cards, ending in 1980) and the stacks--which are organized not according to topic, title, or author, but height--and even were allowed to go stand where the superintendent of the reading room used to sit and glare at misbehaving miscreants. Now it's a lidless eye in the shape of a security camera. One cool fact: the Library has to be careful not to store too many books, as it could cause the building to collapse. Makes me glad that my office is above the garage… There was an "open house" activity in which specialists from different fields of research inside the Library itself. During that time, I spoke with a handful of them, looking at the cool stuff (including the typed notes of President Wilson as he was trying to talk the American people into joining the Great War and a page from the personal diary of John Pershing), and learning new things. For example: Newspapers have always been asked to send in two copies of each issue for archival at the Library. Now that so many newspapers have gone to online only, they're supposed to send digital files for archival. Additionally, the Library tries to track and archive every "news" website it can. So the BuzzFeed listicles, Drudge Report articles, and more are kept as part of the American record. Crazy. Oh, and did you know they had 3-D images of soldiers at war back in the 1920s? I was given a chance to do some personal research. I headed to the Jefferson Building (we're in the Madison Building for our classes) through tunnels beneath the streets. It keeps you from having to go through security a second time. I went to the second floor, as the European Reading Room was on the second floor, and was promptly told that I needed to go back down to the ground floor and wander down a hallway until I reached a separate set of elevators. Then I could go up onto the second floor there before walking through the Hispanic Reading Room and arriving in the European Reading Room. I spent so much time walking that I didn't get a chance to try to research; instead, the helpful Italian librarian showed me some of the tricks of the website, including the way that you can request a book be brought to you in a reading room and someone will bring it by within an hour. This is basically the best place on the planet. When we finished the classes for the day, we immediately set out to see the Supreme Court. There was a protest there yesterday--which I stupidly missed "because I'm tired"…still kicking myself about that--but today it was calm. That's the picture up above. I had no idea how big that building is, nor how intimidating it is to stand in front of it. The sun was burning hot today, and setting right into my eyes, making the marble building dazzle. Before we left the Court, we asked the security guard if he was always on patrol there or what. "Yes," he said. "I'm part of the Supreme Court Police." "There's more than one kind of police here?" "There are thirty-seven different police forces here. Only two or three are for the city. The rest are all federal. The Senate has one, the Supreme Court…" I did not know that. Before we left, we saw a guy, sitting all by his lonesome, holding up a large protest sign. We had to see what he was there for…it was the least we could do, right? The answer: Circumcision Harms. Apparently, his friend made a documentary about circumcision and his bud was trying to raise awareness. He happened to be there yesterday, so if you were watching the news about the new nominee for the Supreme Court, you may have seen his sign. Sadly, he didn't want to talk to us about the movie; instead, he complained that his Bluetooth speakers didn't pair with his iPhone so he had to use a back up speaker to listen to his tunes. That was strange. So was the Taft memorial. The sculptor was super generous with how he depicted that fellow, I tell you what. Anyway, we headed to the Metro, swung down to the Smithsonian depot, and then hiked our way to the MLK memorial. So far, that has been my favorite one. On the way, however, I found it: The World War I memorial in Washington, D.C… …and it was disappointing to say the least. A large, domed, pillared gazebo that, according to a tour guide we overheard, "Is popular for taking wedding pictures in, because it gets such good lighting." It lists the names of 500 Washingtonians who died during the Great War…so it isn't even a memorial to all of them. And, irony of ironies (why are there so many in life?), it was dedicated by none other than Herbert Hoover. Like…ugh. Unbelievable. Anyway, back to Martin Luthor King, Jr. The monument only came up in the last few years, and I know it was controversial (what isn't these days?), but I was impressed. Thoughtful memorials--ones that have symbolism and power and a grandeur--always strike me, and the idea of him coming out of the mountain, out of the stone, was so impressive. A tour group of a bunch of southern Black folks was there, and their excitement, their enthusiasm and appreciation…it was palpable. Aside from the World War II memorial, I haven't felt a feeling of gratitude the same way as I did there. Happiness, too--smiles and appreciation abounded. That struck me and is one of my favorite moments thus far. We wandered down to the FDR memorial, which was easily wheelchair accessible (which is the law, yes, but I think that is significant for other reasons). The light was almost gone by then (as was the heat, fortunately--much muggier tonight than previous nights*), so we didn't get the full effect. FDR was interesting, because I know that a lot of people still have strong feelings about him. He's also a more modern president and there are people still alive who remember his presidency. That's different than a Jefferson or a Lincoln. The layout was larger than many other memorials, at least in terms of moving you through aspects of his life and presidency. Rough-hewn rock and chiseled quotes interspersed with bronze sculptures of snippets from that time, like a man hunched over a radio, listening to one of the president's broadcasts. Since it was getting late, we turned around and headed "home", having never stopped to get dinner like we had planned. Now that we've visited all of the memorials and monuments, I'm not sure what we're going to do tomorrow after we rush to the Arlington Cemetery. I'm sure we'll figure something out. --- * Which was nice. It was such a familiar feeling to when I lived in Miami. The humidity doesn't bother me, though I was always grateful to step into the air conditioned subway car or Senate Office building, which we did, too. I saw John McCain's office, as well as the Russel Rotunda, which was set up with a striking set of photos of suffering Yemenis and it made me sad. Why am I in Washington, D.C.? I'm glad I asked. Here's a story:
My boss, the head director/principal of my school, sends out emails talking about professional development opportunities as they come across her desk. Normally, they're either during the school year (I hate making substitute lesson plans, so that's usually a no-go for me) or don't offer anything I'm interested in. That means I usually pass. However, at the beginning of the year, an opportunity to study the use of primary source documents inside a World War I unit came along. The seminar was paid for, all I had to do was get travel and lodging…to Washington, D.C. At first, my heart sank. What a great chance! What an expensive chance. Sure, the event, sponsored by the Library of Congress, would be worthwhile. But, um…nope. My bank account couldn't really take me there. (If I could afford a trip to D.C., I would do it in such a way that I could, y'know, go into the museums, rather than be in trainings during visiting hours.) So I was thinking, Meh. Better pass. However, the idea of learning more about World War I was simply too strong, and I went ahead and applied. I asked my boss if there was any chance the school might be able to defray some of the costs on the off chance I was accepted to the program. She said there should be "something", which is not particularly encouraging. Still, there was a chance. During Spring Break, whilst in the Dinosaur National Monument near Vernal, Utah, my watch buzzed. "Oh," quoth I, "an email." An email saying I was accepted into the program and please let them know in the next two weeks if I'd be able to come. I was, in my typical pessimistic way, doubtful it would all come together. "Maybe I can just be honored that I got in, since I don't think we can afford this," I mused to myself, likely under my breath. I told Gayle and she was really excited, though the cost was a concern for her, too. We needn't have worried: Through some great luck and fortuitous timing, the school managed to 1) take advantage of a discount offered by the program for accommodations, and 2) secure round-trip tickets. Just like that, I was going to D.C. Today was the first day of the program and I liked it a lot. They provide an excellent lunch each day (and there's breakfast from the hotel, meaning I only have to pay for dinners). The fellow teachers are interesting and engaging people. One of my coworkers is here for the program, too, and we're bouncing around town together. The tour of the World War I exhibit at the Library of Congress--to say nothing of the rotunda in the Jefferson Building--was stunning. The lessons have been well run and thought provoking and are already changing some of my plans for next year's unit on the Great War. It's been really great. My only nit-pick--and I think it's a better criticism than that--is the timing: I want to be at this program, yes, but I'm also having a rare chance to be at our nation's Capital. I would really like to go to the Folger's Shakespeare Library, the Holocaust Museum, and the Natural History Museum…but they all close at or shortly after we finish up with the program. While I appreciate the breaks sprinkled through the day, if we started earlier, abbreviated the breaks, and cut down the lunch hour (heck, we're all teachers; we're used to half-hour lunch breaks), then we'd be able to squeeze in some worthwhile visits to some of the amazing institutions of the city. Fortunately, monuments and memorials remain open, so today we visited Arlington Cemetery--only to see it was closing in eight minutes. We wandered back to the Metro (circuitously, as we went one direction for ten minutes, then changed our minds and headed back the way we came), then headed to the Pentagon and visited the 9/11 memorial. If you haven't been there, it's on the grounds facing the part of the building where the plane crashed. They've arranged wing-like benches--which aren't for sitting--with each narrow fin pointing in the direction of the building, at the angle the plane would have been on when it was crashed. Each wing had the name of one of those who died, and it was lined up with the year she or he was born. The youngest was 1990--only eleven, the age of my oldest son--while the oldest was a retired naval captain who was only fifteen when World War II ended. He saw the Second World War start and end, then died on the day that launched America into a war on terror. Once done there, we Metro'd our way back into D.C. and then took the 25 minute hike from our stop to the Jefferson Memorial. That, too, was an inspiring statue, and the pieces of his writing that they've emblazoned on the walls--and the Romanesque architecture--were all a fitting tribute to the man. My friend and I chatted about the Founding Fathers--a natural topic, given the circumstances--and watched the sun melt into the Potomac. The day's heat bled into the dusk, we trudged to the Metro and rode a short distance to our stop near the hotel. Tomorrow's another day: Perhaps I'll have something interesting to say, since we have an after-hours tour of the Library scheduled. And don't worry too much about my Folger's Shakespeare Library trip: I already have a couple of different plans for how I can get myself there. It'll happen. Oh, yes. It will happen. Maybe, when I'm less tired than I am, I can document why I'm writing this from a hotel room in Washington, D.C. Right now, however, I wanted to write some of my thoughts from the experience of footing about the National Mall, taking in the memorials and monuments, and what it's like for me to stand outside of the White House knowing who lives inside of it.
First of all, the city feels…unique. I've been to a handful of big* cities (I visited Chicago when I was a teenager, plus I've lived in Miami and been to Berlin, Paris, and London. It's not a lengthy list, but it's longer than I ever would have thought I would get when I started my career as a teacher), and each of them has its own particular vibe. Obviously, being a tourist bopping in for a few hours or days doesn't really give me an in depth understanding of the place; I'm thinking instead of that very concept of a tourist stopping in and formulating an experience and an opinion. So part of what makes D.C. different than other places is that, one, it closes down by six o'clock, and two, there aren't people hawking the kitschy stuff on every corner. Flashy kiosks and sketchy salesmen abound in the tourist trap areas--I can't even count how many rebuffs I had to do in Paris to a Made in China plastic replica wielding man in a thick French accent, pestering me with a "You want buy Eifel Tower?" question--in those large cities, all of which are ignored by natives and endlessly exciting to tourists. But we don't get that in D.C. There aren't LED illuminated pencil sharpeners in the shape of the Lincoln Memorial being hawked ever couple of hundred yards. The most you get are people selling $2 bottles of cold water, which I appreciated, even if I was thinking it was a touch overpriced. I liked that difference. It was also, frankly, cool to be in a place of so much history. I mean, I like to tease my fellow Americans about our history, since it stretches back not even three hundred years. Especially in Utah, where a century-old building is considered a museum and in need of legislative protection, there isn't a lot of history compared to the Old World. But I had a "well, yeah, duh" moment tonight when I realized that, for Thomas Jefferson and Benjamin Franklin, Paris included the Bastille. That's…that's kind of crazy. What we did here--in this area and this side of the country--inspired the French Revolution. Like, directly. We took so much from Europe, it's cool to be in a place where we gave back. The WWII monument in particular was incredible to me. I didn't know that it was only made in 2004--definitely overdue--but I loved the layout, the thoughtful way that, by going up the Pacific side first, you saw the major areas of battle, including Guadalcanal, Iwo Jima, Okinawa, and Japan, in a chronological order. The quotes they'd selected from the commanders involved with the different theaters was also well done and well considered. The star wall, with each star representing 100 fallen servicemen, touched me. It was a way of conceptualizing that which isn't so easy to understand. The Korean and Vietnam Memorials were wonderfully done. I mean, the monuments I saw in Europe to the Second World War were thoughtful and meaningful…but it's different when it's "your team", as it were, your soil, your country. I looked up a statistic: If the US had lost as many people, as a percentage of population, as France did in World War I, and we made a monument with every name, as we did to those who died in Vietnam, it would stretch 40 miles. That's how many died in WWI…in France alone. And that leads me to a confusion confession: Did I miss the World War I memorial? Is it somewhere off the beaten path? Or is it really forgotten? There is a pillar, in front of the Vice President's Mansion, that is dedicated to the First Division. Is that the whole thing? That area was less well-kempt, with weeds springing between the cracks and piles of leaves in the corner. It's my first day here; maybe it was an oversight on my part. The Lincoln Memorial was more impressive than I ever thought. Its scale and majesty was powerful. Seeing his two famous speeches--Second Inaugural and Gettysburg--carved in stone in the wings was fantastic. I read both of them all the way through.** The European influence was strong there, too. I love European architecture. Cathedrals and castles especially, but just the European aesthetic is totally my jam. So I really enjoyed seeing how much of Europe showed up throughout the city. I particularly enjoyed the heavily socialist--almost Soviet--sculpture in front of the Federal Trade building, if only because of the irony of it. Oh, but speaking of architecture, the building that houses the architecture office? Hideous. Looks like something from the Eastern Bloc. Oh, the irony. Anyway, I saw the White House from a zoom-lens' distance. Barriers and Secret Security cars keep tourists on the south part of the street. I admit, I squinted to see if I could spot Agent Orange trundling around--I don't even know if he's in town--and it was…hard. We ate pizza in a pizzeria close to our hotel (I'm here with a coworker), which proudly featured a picture of President Obama eating there with some people. We sat at that table--though not because of the picture. It was actually happenstance. But the point is, I have a hard time picturing President Obama in the White House. I have a hard time remembering First Lady Michelle Obama used to ply these streets. It's…difficult for me to look at what Washington, D.C. is right now, and not worry about what it will become. If you've read my essays, you likely know that I don't agree with the president about…um, mostly everything. And I see too many behaviors coming out of the White House, too many scandals, too many allegations, too many petty responses, too many attacks on minorities or least able to defend themselves, too many self-aggrandizing and egotistical comments--in short, too much worrisome vibes coming from the White House that I have a hard time being excited about seeing that historic building. And you know what's funny? I would love to be wrong about the 45th President of the United States. I really would…because then there wouldn't be families separated at the border, their children missing with no way of getting them back. There wouldn't be a trade war or bizarre diplomatic decisions with North Korea. If I'm wrong about him, it means that, even though more people wanted the other option and he won anyway, the country will continue to prosper. But I really don't think I'm wrong about it this time. --- * Size, in this case, is relative: Salt Lake is my definition of city, so on that front, D.C. fits the bill. Others may argue that point…but not with me, I'm not interested in that conversation. ** It's also interesting to me that people try to make arguments about states' rights as the cause of the Civil War. Even in 1864, Lincoln was pointing out that slavery was the reason they were fighting. While there were obviously a lot of different things going on, it strikes me as massively disingenuous and, in many ways, an attempt to rewrite history in the worst sort of way. |
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