Notes from Around the Block

Coffee at the Palace

November 6, 2009 · 8 Comments

300px-Boudiccastatue

 

Plato’s The Republic is a dynamic work of deductive philosophy.

The Republic is lofty and challenging.

In his dialectic, Plato lets the us know from the start what he intends to investigate and then proceeds, through a series of conversations with local men of different ages, to prod, dig, and finally unearth what his subject is and is not.

His subject is justice.

Throughout the course of the debate, definitions of justice are offered and examined like high quality pearls, only to be thrown out after Socrates (Plato’s character who may or may not be speaking as the real Socrates) proves them to be flawed.

In The Republic is Plato’s famous Allegory of the Cave, his Theory of Forms, and his design for a Utopia in which a happy class system, comprised of tiers—the gold, the silver, and the bronze—operates in  harmony. Only one who knows how to govern and has nothing to gain other than good government (hence: justice) will be the king.

Plato believes the philosopher king is best suited for the job. This idea doesn’t raise a brow with the local philosophers because Plato is a philosopher and his character, Socrates, is a man who thinks very highly of himself.

The only way to understand the volume of material in The Republic is to break it down, part by part, just as Plato did in developing his concept of justice.

 

So, last Monday I went in search of a philosopher king to help me understand a tiny part of this big philosophical tract.

I know have known several philosopher kings: one was related to me by blood, one I am still evaluating, and one is my mentor. Only one of them is accessible for coffee and lunch: Joe.

On Monday last, I drove down to our usual meeting place: The Elephant Bar.

Something unusual happened before our usual server, Jamie (who Joe calls Yvonne), arrived to take our order.

It happened like this: I confessed to Joe that I found Plato challenging to read and hard to digest.

Joe’s eyebrows rose; his gaze narrowed.

Yvonne…Yvonne…Will you bring the lady and me coffee?

Before Jamie could respond, a low rumble started under my feet. For a split second, the San Andreas Fault came to mind.

Poof!

Our usual booth became a Greek chariot. *

Patrons faded away; the restaurant melted; modern traffic ceased; we found ourselves out in the middle of a Greek plain. This place looks like Northern California, I mentioned casually.

There we were, dressed in light clothing, protected with armor, standing up, looking over the wide withers of our two splendid steeds. One stood dutifully, waiting for his master’s signal. The other, a stallion, pawed impatiently and without warning, reared up.

How are we going to balance our coffee? I asked Joe.

By controlling the horses, Cheri. And thinking about our destination. You may have to wait until we arrive at the palace before you drink your coffee. This control over your appetites is part of the trip, Joe said.

But I need caffeine, I grumbled.

The horse on the left, mannerly and patient, we can control. The one the right, handsome and wild, will test our wills and our will power, Cheri. Only by using our minds, our reason, will we arrive at the palace, just in time for lunch.

Off we thundered, the large ancient wheels of our chariot turning round and round, the chair on which we balanced rocking to the left and right, under the uneven Greek landscape.

I tried not to think of my coffee, keeping my eyes on the dirt road and on the horse on the left.

But the beauty, power, and  strength of the horse on the right, distracted me.

Joe had his hands full, trying to guide that chariot, pulled by two different horses, to our destination. That day, I was just a passenger, a time traveler dressed like a Greek, trying to understand arête.

In the distance, I saw the light of the palace and smelled lunch.

We arrived in one piece.

Joe admonished me for jumping off the chariot and heading into the palace before the horses had been unhitched, cooled, and fed.

You cannot achieve arête unless you are a master of the entire chariot, he stated, matter-of-factly.

I knocked on the large palace door.

Jamie answered. What can I get for you two today?

I will have coffee with cream, I said.

The usual lunch order for both of us.

Joe said, I’ll have coffee, black, Yvonne.

 

* Courtesy of Plato’s Phaedrus

 

 

 

 

 

 

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A Cup of Creon

October 31, 2009 · 14 Comments

180px-Sophocles_CdM_Chab3308

by cheri block sabraw

Joe and I had coffee last Monday to discuss Sophocles, Aeschylus, and Euripides, three Greek tragedians.

Our usual booth was taken.

Our usual server was busy.

Joe wasn’t pleased.

Hell, we’ll take that booth over there, he suggested to the hostess.

I followed without comment.

So Joe, who is the more sympathetic character, Antigone or Creon?

For those of you who read Antigone back in high school, here is a précis: Creon, brother to Jocasta (Oedipus’ wife ,who takes her life after Oedipus blinds himself by stabbing his eyes), ascends the Theban throne after its heirs, brothers Polynices and Eteocles die fighting on opposite sides during the Theban War.

Antigone, sister to the two dead brothers, wants to have both of her brothers buried with respect, but King Creon orders the body of the brother who fought against Thebes, Polynices, to rot in public view. After all, he is a traitor!

Not to be bossed around by the King, ancient flower child Antigone spreads dust over the body twice, hoping to get caught in the act of disobeying the king. She is caught, so Creon, in a kingly fury, orders her to be buried alive. Never mind that she is also his son Haemon’s fiancé.

The central conflict in this tragedy revolves around Creon’s edict and its political implications and Antigone’s emotional reaction to it which is linked to her oikos (family) and the gods.

Joe was in Antigone’s corner; I,  in Creon’s.

The conversation was lively.

Our lunches of soup—Joe had onion; I had tomato basil—arrived, along with our sandwiches, so we abandoned the topics of Polynices’ rotting body and Antigone’s suicide.

Can I get you anything else? our server asked

What’s your name? Joe replied.

Danielle, she said.

You don’t look like a Danielle. You look like a Sarah, Joe randomly added.

Our conversation took an odd turn when I asked Joe what we should do to celebrate his birthday on December 1, when he will turn 78 years old.

Shall we go to New York City?

How about going up to Tahoe to gamble?

Would you like to go to our little beach house?

Joe nixed all three suggestions and then made a big statement.

I don’t do nostalgia, baby.

I objected, citing Victor Frankl’s book, Man’s Search for Meaning, in which he observes that no one can steal our memories. Memories can provide a place to go in times of unhappiness or stress, Frankl wrote.

Nostalgia creates unhappiness and stress, baby.

Why in the hell would I be nostalgic? My parents are dead; I have no siblings and my wife is dead. No. No nostalgia for me. I live only in the present. Doing that serves me well.

Sarah? We’d like some coffee. Baby, you want leaded, right?

We’ll have two cups of coffee, one black, and one with cream for the lady.

The literary conversation resumed.

Why  do you have any sympathy for Creon, Cheri?

For God’s sake, Joe, he dismissed Tiresias. Now what type of character would turn down the advice of a seer? That was huge. His character raises more questions than answers. Antigone is fairly simple.

That was huge, Joe admitted, thinking about Creon.

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“You’re our own folks,” Huston said sadly. *

October 25, 2009 · 12 Comments

170px-JANE_DARWELL

by cheri block sabraw

 

We all get busy.

And sometimes, we are so intent on our mission, we forget how sensitive other people can be. A woman who came into my business last week reminded me of this in her one-liner, spoken flatly.

But let me set the scene and the business environment.

Those of us who own small businesses, who deal with the public in person and on the phone, know first hand that this rotten economy has dredged rawness in the eyes and hearts of people who once were light hearted and fun.

We field cold calls from janitorial and insurance services. Resumes from Silicon Valley physicists, biologists, and engineers needing work sputter out of my old fax machine at least once a week.

My business has managed to stay afloat in a bad economy. How? And Why?

First to answer the how:

  • We have worked more creatively in the last year and have spent less money on advertising.  For example, instead of paying my advertising company to design our mini-ad campaign, this year I designed the ads myself. OK. So they have my dog in them and pictures of my student employees, but hey, the price is right. And I can now justify the purchase of my new camera.
  • All of us have agreed to salary cuts because we see the larger picture. We’d rather have a job making less money than not have a job. It’s all pretty simple.
  • We cut the following out of our budget: magazine and newspaper subscriptions, U. S. Postal Service mailings, the cleaning service, and the window washers. Now, I bring in my personal subscriptions to Sunset Magazine, Cooking Light, and The Economist for my clients to read while they  wait for their kids to finish their classes. We set up a chessboard and a Scrabble game to entertain the little ones. My secretary Pat, my student employee Christine, and I do the vacuuming, coffeepot cleaning, and garbage dumping. You get the picture.

Now to answer the why:

  • The instructors who lend their teaching skills to my business feel appreciated, I hope. We laugh, collaborate, teach, and learn ourselves, so our sense of worth and purpose stay lubricated.

  • We are not all about business all the time. What did you do this weekend? Oh,  you are a new aunt. Gee, I am sorry to hear about so-and-so. You look tired. Are you OK? Your child is dressing up as Hillary Clinton for Halloween? That’ll be a kick. The work environment caters to other needs  we humans have: friendship and value.

  • We have lowered our tuition slightly, but still remain a bit more expensive than other competitors. One would think such a practice would do us in; in fact, the opposite has been true:  Because we have distanced ourselves from the pack, and not slashed prices for this or for that, more discriminating customers are coming our way. We let them pay in alternative ways and listen to their requests. When a check bounces, we try to help, not judge.

These bullet points about marketing, salary cuts, tuition rates, and employee morale are relevant, but at the heart of successful business is how we treat people in all layers,  from the customer to the big mucky-muck CEO.

Last week, as I was preparing my lessons, sequestered and full of my thoughts and myself, Christine came into my room, leaving the door open.

“Mrs. Sabraw, there’s a lady from Geico Insurance who would like to talk with you.”

The lobby is ten feet from my classroom.

My first reaction was to have Christine tell her I was busy because I was.

Instead, for some reason, I stepped out to deliver that message myself to the brave cold-caller.

Tired eyes and bad teeth greeted me in a worn out casting call. Hair that needed a cut and color contrasted with my recent trim and highlight.

Hi, I’m Cheri Sabraw. Sorry, but we have The Hartford Insurance and are happy with it, so we don’t need any new insurance at this time. But thanks for coming by.

OK, she said, handing me her business card.

As she pushed the glass door to leave, she looked back and said, Thanks for coming out to meet me. And then she left.

I got it. My heart contracted and truly, goose bumps popped.

Christine and I met eyes.

It’s all about dignity, Christine. As in The Grapes of Wrath, remember?

* The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck. Chapter 24

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First Hamster Point of View: Infancy

October 23, 2009 · 2 Comments

250px-Hamst08082002by cheri block sabraw

Four  infants we were, squirming with life and looking like furry little jellybeans arranged neatly in a teeny nest. Relieved of the crushing pressure of the birth canal, I had whizzed down the chute in a precipitous dive, far away from the predictable ticking of Mother’s heart, landing on top of Amos.

I had barely rolled off his back and was trying to open my eyes to a brightness unfamiliar in my previous darkened space when sister Sadie hit me in the gut as she, too, entered the world. In a deeper divot, came Delbert.

Then, like a  ball of cookie dough, I was kneaded, molded, flattened, and shaped. Something efficient and rough first addressed my shoulder, sending my damp fur left and right, up and down.  Before I could say, “That feels heavenly,” this tongue and tool flipped me over and assiduously began working on my underside, urging the life forces of blood flow and energy.

Left to dry out, like a chamois, I slept.

So, here I am, a citizen of my world, awakening to its sweetness.

I like my new home, our nest. And I am coping with my three siblings. The basic health care Mother is providing in an obsessive compulsive  lick is doing the trick.

But what about hamster dignity? We are, after all, on top of each other without escape from,  shall I say at this juncture, our idiosyncrasies.

Amos is already fretting about his placement in a human home.

Sadie is biting her nails like a nervous Nellie.

Delbert hangs on to me in a needy clutch.

Soon, a large round human face will stare into our home and a hand the size of Texas will reach in to pluck us out, dropping us into a small box, not unlike a Chinese take-out carton.

My reverie was broken this morning when an unfamiliar sound scared the Mother’s milk right out of me.

The lights went out in the shop; Mother made a panicky chirping sound and crouched on top of our nest, shielding us from the din. Deep into the cedar chips, my collective memory opened into a kaleidoscope of ideas from previous lives.

I was a Buddhist Hamster. They called me Bodhisattva Ham. My anxious siblings didn’t exist, especially when I detached myself from their essences.

I stopped all excess and became ascetic. Only one oat per day. Life simplified.

It was good.

Now is good, too.

The future with its grandeur and potential, the past with its loss and mystery, the present with a warm blanket of soft white fur sealing us off from the noise of the room.

Namaste.

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Hamartia and Sophrosyne

October 20, 2009 · 6 Comments

Missing the Mark

Missing the Mark

by cheri block sabraw

The Greek word sophrosyne was summarized in brief by the Oracle at Delphi in several succinct aphorisms:  Nothing in Excess and Know Thyself. In other words, with moderation of all that pulls us away from the deep contemplation of our existence (like materialism, gluttony, and humanism), we will arrive at a deeper truth about our purpose.

The Greek word, hamartia, which means missing the mark, an error, comes from the sport of archery.

High school English teachers, when teaching a classic Greek tragedy such as Oedipus or Antigone, often focus their lessons on the over-used tragic flaw of the hero, who is brought down often by his hubris (arrogance).

Aristotle, in his Poetics, wrote about a different term, one used more broadly when characterizing a tragic Greek hero: that term is the above sophrosyne. 

Nothing in Excess:

Heroes do not need to take an additional woman to bed, nor do they need to suck the marrow from another lamb shank off the spit. After a small segment of goat cheese, not three wedges, the hero should retire back to his boat, where he can argue with the Gods about his lineage. The Greek Hero need not boast about his name and connections (as Odysseus does after escaping the Cyclops, Polyphemus) or he might be blown back out the sea, so to speak, for ten more years.

Know Thyself:

Heroes may take an entire epic or play to know themselves. Only through their mistakes, their hamartia, will the introspective Hero grow into something greater than a brawny conqueror or a flashy God child. And how does one come to know himself in an archery tournament in which everyone, from plebeians to patricians, is shooting at targets without precious aim?

In short, high school teachers might consider broadening the lesson by including the terms sophrosyne and hamartia to the discussion.

Better yet:

Have the students determine their own hamartia in their short lives. Perhaps, they can then evaluate how to proceed with their sophrosyne.

The Oracle at Delphi

The Oracle at Delphi

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The Total Worlders

October 14, 2009 · 5 Comments

The Total Worlders' World

I’ve lived long enough to know that the Gods have a sense of humor, thank God.

The Gods who have been spending time in my company these past several weeks are busy and swift, sentimental and gentle. Not Greek or Akkadian, not Hebrew or Hindu, these Gods are the Total Worlders.

Those visiting me come from a place far out in the Universe, beyond the last planet in the last galaxy where life is stimulating, full of pasta and wine, olive oil and sour dough, where life is eternal, full of fine and pure thought, creative and mechanical, where life is sentimental, full of pleasant memories of children, companions, and parents.

The Total Worlders love to create parallels in the human experience.

Parallel events or parallel people-types or parallel feelings.

In their parallel universe.

The trick to understanding these coincidences is first to notice them.

Are they luck? A path you accidentally follow, like Hansel and Gretel’s breadcrumb trail? A string of connection?

Are they random?  A deer leaps onto the road, denting your car?

Are they purposeful?  You well up at the beauty of the words in a greeting card?

Yep. The Total Worlders, Gods and Goddesses of Parallel Universes, have invaded my life.

I am reading Homer’s  The Odyssey due tonight for my class.

My  son is getting married out-of-state on Saturday. We are leaving tomorrow.

My first paper ( on the Hebrew God) is due for my graduate program on Wednesday night, next.

The Buddhist Scriptures are due the same night.

It’s all perfect, thanks to the Total Worlders.

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Arjuna and the Swami

October 6, 2009 · 7 Comments

The dark night

by cheri block sabraw

Our lives away from our work are quiet here at the Rancho. We like it that way.

Few people and few distractions to spoil a lovely passing thought.

An old fence, put up in the 1940’s by the previous owner, surrounds our property to keep out mountain lions, coyotes, and wild boar.

No religious solicitors or shoe polish salesmen, selling their brand of Jesus, guaranteed to save your soul and your sole.

A perfect place to meditate on the meaning of life and its daily challenges.

Several years ago, Life provided us with the perfect meditative scenario.

Judge Blah was studying a tome entitled The Life Divine by Sri Aurobindo for a class he was taking in New Mexico the next weekend. He was behind in his reading and concerned about being unprepared for a Socratic seminar. Up until his reading of that book, he had no knowledge of the Hindu texts or of Hinduism.

Cheri, did you know that Hinduism, per se, is not a religion?

No, I didn’t know that.

The next day, at Borders, I bought Hinduism for Dummies.

Judge Blah had also been to Borders on the way home from court. In his strong hands were The Upanishads, the Bhagavad Gita from several different translators, and some smaller texts on Aurobindo.

I need backround information, he said.

Why don’t you read Hinduism for Dummies just to get your bearings, I suggested.

My God, Cheri, that’s a sacrilege, he answered.

OK. What do I know? I asked rhetorically.

A lot, I answered smugly to myself, a Walter Mitty-ish habit I have perfected while living with a judge.

Not much, he judged. At least about Hinduism. And in this final statement, he was right.

We go to bed early on Sunday nights because we work hard all week and need the rest.

The lights had been out for an hour. The croak of male frogs, hoping for a one-night stand in the watering trough, echoed down from the park district property.

The moon was bright and full through our blinds. Male crickets rubbed their wings together in a pleasant friction that would continue deep into the dark.

We were One connected (in sleep at least) to the Divine Source.

The phone rang in a short set of bursts and scared the Hell out of me.

Someone was at our gate buzzing us.

Who could that be? I asked.

Hello, stated Judge Blah. Who are you?

We are three, came a soft voice in a thick Indian accent.

Arjuna, Krishna, and Sanjaya, I thought, having turned off my light after reading a summary in Hinduism for Dummies about the Bhagavad Gita.

An old man, a young man, and a boy. We are lost, came the voice, which Judge Blah now had on speaker phone.

We descended the mountain and must have taken the wrong trail. Where are we? The voice continued questioning.

My mind now was fully back in my bed, away from the Divine Source, away from that place free from fear and earthly limitations.

Tell them we will call the police for them, I suggested to Judge Blah who was sitting up in bed now. You are not going up to the gate at this time of night. What if those men are up to no good? What if they mug you and then come down here and get me?

I’ll be right up. Judge Blah put on his jeans and got into his chariot. Full of courage and Truth, he drove it up to the gate. The only item missing was his quiver of arrows.

There were indeed three Indian people—a boy about ten years of age with big brown eyes and worried look, a man in his 40’s with a back-pack, wearing a Sun Microsystems jacket and carrying a canteen, and a very old man with a long white beard and a walking stick.

It was a scene right out of The Life Divine.

Except it wasn’t.

Judge Blah called me from the gate. Cheri, I am taking these men to their car down at the college. They are lost, indeed, but not really, he said. And that was that. It is as it is.

Several weeks later we received a book in the mail entitled Irreverent Spiritual Questions, A Young Skeptic Confronts a Vedantic Master. Akilesh Ayyar in dialogue with Swami Bodhananda.

In it, Swami Bodhananda, the wise old man with the walking stick, in town for a speaking engagement, had inscribed the following to Judge Blah:

To Ron

In the darkness

I saw the light of humanity.

Love,

Bodhananda

Umesh

Vijay

21 July 2005

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From Cleopatra to Shirley Temple

October 1, 2009 · 6 Comments

224px-Glad_Rags_to_Riches_Temple

by cheri block sabraw

The Epic of Gilgamesh offers the modern reader a vivid slide show.

The first pictures of life in ancient Mesopotamia, replete with powerful gods and goddesses, set the scene for us viewers. As I wrote, we meet a young and handsome king, who because of his immaturity and vanity, has developed some bad habits. We see him abusing his subjects by power and by lust. It is not surprising that he is unsettled.

His desire for fame we can see in the walls around the ziggurat of Uruk.

Into the next picture comes Enkidu, not exactly a fresh face, for he is 2/3 animal and 1/3 man. Enkidu is innocent and earnest and unschooled in the ways of early man. He brawls and then hugs. He takes the hits for his new friend, Gilgamesh; he interprets dreams like a biblical Joseph, and he reluctantly agrees to go with his new buddy to the Cedar Forest to kill the Guardian of the Forest, Humbaba, a monster with an ugly face and protective personality.

Enkidu doesn’t want to go on the trek but the two set out for the forest anyway, like Huckleberry Finn and the slave Jim on their journey to freedom, or the guide Virgil and his trekker Dante in their descent to Hell.

Whether we (or Enkidu) like it or not, we are on a life trip, so we ought to make the most of the experience.

The first pictures of life in ancient Fremontia, replete with dominant parents Joan and Hugh, set the scene for us viewers. As I wrote,we meet a young and curious child, who because of her independent nature and her need for attention, has developed some bad habits. We see her abusing her siblings by control and bribery. It is not surprising that she is trouble with a capital T.

Her desire for fame we can see in the numerous crayon self-portraits that decorate her bedroom walls on Mayfield Drive.

Cheri doesn’t want to go on her trip, but she has no choice; the Gods have decreed this adventure Good.

At the airport, her father reminds her to enjoy her first flight and to be a good little girl while visiting her grandfather, Jimmie, and his wife, Helen in Dallas, Texas. The stewardess fussed over her, pins airplane wings on her little pink sweater, and escorts her to a big leather seat in the front of the plane next to a nice lady who smells like Cheri’s other grandmother, Rosie.

In Dallas, Jimmie and Helen meet Cheri at the gate, smothering her with kisses, candy, and Dr. Pepper.

Hi Doll Face, how ya’all doing? Did those folks on that airplane treat you like the royalty that you are, you little sweetie pie o apple of your grampa’s eyes? Ya’ all hungry? Helen, before we head over to Neiman’s, let’s take lil Cheri out for some Texas bar-beeeee- Q.

Is your tummy growlin?

Now, this is more like it, she thought. A pampered center of attention was she—a far cry from her pedestrian existence in Fremont.

It must be noted at this juncture that even in her early years, hairstyle mattered to Cheri, who fancied herself prim and precise with her straight bangs and pageboy cut. No braids or twists or curls for her. At time she was too young to know that Buster Brown, Cleopatra, and Lucy Van Pelt would become hirsute idols, people who valued straight hair and straight talk.

180px-Lucy_van_Pelt

After lunch, during which Cheri noticed her grandfather occasionally wiping a small tear from his almond-shaped eyes, Jimmie announced a big surprise.

Doll, how would you like to choose any toy from Neiman Marcus? Does that sound fun?

Any toy? Any toy I want?

Yes, Doll. First, however, we are going to the beauty parlor down on Mockingbird Lane. I have a surprise for you and your mother.

Cheri had no idea what a beauty parlor was. When she needed a haircut, she went to the Glenmoor Barber with her brother Stevie. There, the barber Charlie Tate took a wet comb, pressed it down on the nape of her neck, and then snipped horizontally around the back, over to the sides, ending with her bangs—her signature statement. Right above her eyebrows, he carefully moved the scissors in a very straight line.

The Dallas beauty parlor stunk with a chemical Cheri had never smelled.

Jimmie had a secret conversation with Lola, the stylist. Helen admired her own reflection, bunched up her red tresses, and winked at Cheri who instinctively touched her own straight hair.

Something was up.

Down into a pink washbowl went that little head and along with it, her identity.

Scrubby-Dubby, Lola said, as her experienced hands massaged Cheri’s scalp, forming a sudsy doo of epic proportions.

We’re gonna turn that little California Tomboy into a Southern Belle, doll face, Lola cooed in a twang. It was then that Cheri noticed Lola’s hair, a mass of blond curls as big as Texas itself.

Three hours and three Dr. Peppers later, Jimmie and Helen arrived at the salon to meet the new Cheri.

From Cleopatra to Shirley Temple, the transformation was complete.

At Neiman Marcus, the trio of Texans walked down the carpeted stairway to the enormous toy department and headed for the stuffed animals.

Cheri would make the most of this shopping spree.

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First Hamster Point of View: My birth

September 29, 2009 · 13 Comments

Lucy

by cheri block sabraw

My birth was a big relief, not only to my overstuffed mother DeDe, but to me, as well.

In utero I had felt crowded and thus, irritable, sharing a watery sack with four other active siblings. In the 1/4 inch birth canal, 21 days after my father Duke (as I later learned) crawled onto my mother’s back, five or us lined up like peanut-sized torpedoes, ready for launch into a cruel world.

Second in line but first in spirit, I pressed my nose deep into my brother Amos’ back end and closed my eyes, waiting. Sadie had done the same to me and Delbert to her.

At the rear of the small tube, the last of our litter, Kate, decided to go back, unwilling to face the life awaiting. Backpedaling, she strained against the gravitational pull of push.

You can’t go home again, I called to the back, my words muffled by fluid and fur. Thomas Wolfe wrote a famous book by that title years ago. Kate! You are upsetting the natural order of life.

There’s no place like home, Kate hollered down.

Damn that Frank Baum, I thought.

Kate continued to struggle with all four limbs. Soon her movements slowed and then stopped. We in the front understood what had happened in the back.

Our mother’s restlessness grew manic.

A collective pressure we became.

I reminded the others to keep their heads down, paws tucked,  eyes shut.

What is about to happen to mother and to us is part of the continuum, and while it now seems important to us, in the scope of the myriad species who have come before, lived and died, our birth is routine, as routine as the pushing and pulling of the tides by the moon, I philosophized with too many words.

Good God, muttered Delbert.

Amos reprimanded me for showing off.

You will learn, Lucy, that most hamsters will not be amused by your literary and philosophical references. If you are asked, well then, jump to Thomas Wolfe or Charles Darwin or even to Frank Baum, but from what I hear, most will be interested in People Magazine.

DeDe, our mother, now shuttled from her nest, a cupcake fortress of pine shavings, to a barren and stinky corner of her cage, the one where she did her business.

She was now moving diagonally and we bounced along, heads down, bottoms up. My own head thumped with too much blood, pumped at lightening speed by my heart, a 4ml engine, operating at about 460 beats per minute.

She stopped. We quieted.

Was this our moment?

Since Delbert was three back, he heard the flood first and shouted,

Water evacuation!

Our moment is here, and I am ready.

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Air freshener, please?

September 23, 2009 · 8 Comments

200px-OfMiceAndMen

by cheri block sabraw

Hello Girls.

[Startled young bodies crow-hop to the left]

Alicia runs into a stall. The toilet flushes.

The latch clicks. She feels safe for a minute.

Cigarette smoke fills the space.

Nat and Georgia copy their friend, Alicia.

I hear the quick fizz of hot smokes being extinguished in cold toilets.

OK Girls, I see that you aren’t ready for your quiz today.

You little chickens have made a big mistake cutting my class.

Black boots, filthy Vans, and sequined flip-flops shift inside the stalls.

The rifling through their large leather purses sounds like that bear up at Tahoe last summer, the one that sifted through three garbage cans, digging and investigating, sniffing and growling, I think to myself.

Flush.

[More contraband going down the toilets at American High School. Cigarettes, maybe a joint or two.]

I am so disappointed in you girls. Call me naïve. Call me stupid, but I was sure you cared about my class. What in the world came over you guys? You have to pass this test to pass the class. Are you stupid? I don’t think so. Your behavior today has really ticked me off, to my core.

Please open those doors.

[All three doors open.]

I move in front of the middle stall like the conductor of a hillbilly band.

You’ve given me no other option than to test you right here, so sit down on the toilets. Don’t worry. You can balance.

WTF, Mrs. Sabraw?

Clean up your language, Alicia. I am not your juvey officer.

[All three girls sit down.]

Take out paper, please.

We don’t have any paper.

Yes, you do. Look to your left. You’ll need several feet of it.

[They unroll toilet paper.]

Take out pencils, please. Feel free to use your eye-liner pencils. I can see you have plenty of those in supply.

[They fish through their overstocked purses through lighters, eye-lash curlers, and now empty cigarette boxes.]

Ok. The first question on Of Mice and Men:

  1. Why do you suppose George stuck up for Lennie, even when Lenny blew it most of the time?

Test taking continues in the American High School girls’ bathroom for about 30 minutes. Other cutters come in, see the scene, and run out.

At the end of the quiz, I collect their toilet papers and then escort the guilty to the 9th grade principal.

Mr. D, please let Alicia, Nat, and Georgia know how Of Mice and Men ended.

Spare  their lives, but suspend them for three days.

Girls, while you will be gone, we are starting a new book. Stay right here for a minute while I go get you your copies.


There. Please read the first 5 chapters of Lord of the Flies.

See you on Thursday.

Good- bye, Mrs. Sabraw, they say in unison.

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