First, let me say that I love NPR. These voices are the friends I've come to know on my long commute, and my weekend mornings as I stretch into the sunrise. My "school-year 4:30 wake-up call" has now crept into my weekends. No longer are my first blurry-eyed visions and yawns in company with Daniel; instead, these two furry faces greet me.
Max (left) and Sophie (right), have brought incredible joy to us in their first week. It is such fun to hear their paws pitter patter across the hardwood floor. To see their fuzzy faces waiting behind the window as you sit outside. To feel their purring bellies and velveteen throats as they curl up on your lap.
Motor Max is the "Momma's Boy" and Sophie is "on the side of the business." She wants to always be near you, in your business...just not on you or on your terms. But it's this little shy girl who, when we allowed them to sleep with us last night, took up the offer and curled at our feet for the night.
Is it really the marriage, I wonder, that has created this strong urge to get an official dining table (thanks, Alexandra & Gilles), purchase matching placemats and napkins, start receiving Food and Wine magazine and studying their recipes with zeal, adopt two pets, and start grinding my own coffee beans? It's a domestic transformation. That young girl who used to toss any edible in saran wrap now searches with consternation for the perfectly sized tupperware. Tubs without lids are no longer welcome.
We have become a family of four. I want to be good to these pets. Just because the years will age their faces, rough their fur, slow their hops, I want to still show them kindness and attention. Pets sometimes slip into the shadows after children arrive. Losing more and more glances and strokes until they diminish into a nuisance.
I whispered into both of their silken ears that I would take good care of them. Even though one day (in the next few years) we hope that the pitter patter will not only be feline paws but baby feet.
***Yesterday, I listened to this radio story from a father who lost two sons on 9-11. Tears streamed down my face and I felt such sadness and gratitude. Sad that so many, near and far, have lost their lives in the intricate web of the attacks and aftermath. Grateful that my life, my friends, and my family have not suffered directly in the tragic and heroic dust.
I remember that morning eight years ago. It was my first week of teaching in Compton. A new Miles Davis cd, "Sketches of Spain," filled my classroom as I stood at the board. It was the day to launch "Othello." A colleague came by and asked if I'd heard "the news." I turned from cd to radio and as I continued to flit about my room, another plane went down.
What about "Othello"?
Irrelevant. I thought.
What would my students need? I wondered.
Would they even come to school?
A few did. We spoke of the incident in every period. They asked if the Compton Court would be a target. They asked if the World Trade Center in Long Beach would be a target. They asked why. Of this, I knew nothing.
All of us a little on edge, shocked, scared, and uncertain. By the afternoon, I knew that we were "talked out." So, I spoke, just for a few minutes, of a stage long ago, where all the actors were men, the scribe wrote in iambic-pentameter, and the heroes were flawed. Of this, I knew a little.
That night I walked on the sidewalk and saw candles flickering in windows. The only nation-wide solidarity that I'd ever seen. And eight years later, our swords are unfortunately still bright.
"Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them."
Othello, 1. 2
