March 7: Saint Teresa Margaret Redi and the Second Graders

Last Friday, I was the visiting poet for two second grade classes at my daughter's elementary school.  I've been doing this every year since my daughter was in kindergarten (she's currently is fourth grade).  I usually go into the experience with apprehension, even a little dread.  I'm never sure if my lesson is going to be too easy or too hard.  It's not difficult to go over the heads of second graders.  They're short and have the attention spans of Charlie Sheen around porn stars.  Translation:  to keep second graders focused, read poems about burping, farting, or vomiting.

Once I have my lesson plan figured out, I usually relax and have a lot of fun in the classroom.  There's something about seven-year-olds that just keeps you honest and on your toes.  I was reading a poem about chocolate-covered salami last Friday, and the little girl sitting in front of me raised her hand.  When I called on her, she said, "My mom keeps M&Ms in her dresser drawer for emergencies."  I nodded and tried to continue.  The boy next to the little girl chimed in, "I'm allergic to chocolate."

I'd kill myself if I were allergic to chocolate, kid, I thought.  But I said, "So what do you eat on Halloween?"  Wrong question.  Suddenly, every child in the room wanted to tell me about their favorite Halloween candy.

Eventually, I regained control of the classroom.  Eventually, I got the students to complete the lesson I'd planned.  Eventually, each and every child had a simile poem to add to their poetry books.

As I was getting ready to leave, one of the second graders came up to me and said, "Can you sign my journal?"  I took out my pen and wrote, "You're as smart as a calculator."  The student was thrilled.  He went back to his desk and showed his friends what I'd written.  (Can you see what's coming?)  I suddenly found myself at the head of a line of 40+ seven-year-olds, all wanting their own, personal similes:

You're as pretty as a tulip.
You're as fast as a cheetah.
You're as sweet as a chocolate kiss.
You're as funny as a knock-knock joke...

Today's saint is Teresa Margaret Redi, and 18th century nun from Tuscany.  Teresa only lived to the age of 23, and, in that time, she taught those around her about charity, self-sacrifice, and joy.  Teresa had a "special grace of contemplative insight."  I don't know exactly what that means, but I want to believe it refers to her ability to cut through the bullshit, see things the way they really are.  Like those second graders I met.  The prayer that follows Teresa's entry in Lives of the Saints says, "Her life encourages us to show young people the joys and graces of a life lived in the depths of God's perfect love."

So often in my life, I don't feel like a poet.  I feel like a medical records clerk.  College comp instructor.  Husband.  Son.  Brother.  Father.  Chauffeur.

Those second graders made me feel like a poet.  They wanted my autograph because I was handing out my talent, my gift.  I felt great.  I felt appreciated.  I felt valued.  As a writer.  That's what Teresa did with her life, too.  She made people appreciate their gifts, each and every day.

Saint Marty met 40 second grade saints last Friday.  So, in their honor, Saint Marty ends this post with the poem he wrote in their class:

Skunk

I'm as smelly as cooked cabbage.

I'm as quiet as the night.

I'm as dark as a thunderstorm.

I'm as light as Christmas snow.

I'm as soft as a pile of leaves.

I'm as hungry as a boa constrictor.

I'm as loved as a toothache.

March 4: Saint Casimir and My Famous Cousin

So, I have a famous cousin.  That famous cousin's name has been thrown at me quite a few times in the last week.  If you recall, I recently wrote about my weakness for jealousy and envy.  More than one person who has read that post (February 26, 2011) has said to me, "I'm surprised you didn't mention your famous cousin."  My father, who is not even aware of my tiny flaw, handed me a People magazine last Sunday and said, "Do you want to read about your famous cousin?"  Everyone feels it necessary to add the word "famous" in front of "cousin" for some annoying reason.  Yes, that's right.  My cousin is famous enough to grace the pages of People.  In fact, a couple years ago, he made the "Sexiest People Alive" issue.  Whatever.

I have been blogging for over a year now, and I have successfully avoided this topic so far.  It's time to talk about the elephant in the living room.  I can no longer hide the fact that someone related to me is famous, successful, rich, and sexy.  My reticence has nothing to do with the fact that I'm trying to protect his privacy.  My reticence stems from the fact that he gets enough damn attention already without me adding to it with my blog.  But, due to how many times I've encountered my cousin's name and face in the past week, I think God is trying to tell me something.

My cousin's name is Grant Achatz, and he has, among his accomplishments, won the James Beard award for Best Chef in the United States for the year 2008.  He is one of the leading chefs in molecular gastronomy, whatever the hell that is, and his restaurant in Chicago, Alinea, was given the Five Star Award from the Mobil Travel Guide, one of only 16 restaurants nationally to receive that rating.  In 2010, Alinea was named the number 7 restaurant IN THE WORLD by Restaurant magazine.

Alright, all that's pretty impressive by itself.  But it's his personal story that's made him a celebrity.  In July, 2007, my cousin was diagnosed with stage 4 squamous cell carcinoma of the mouth.  Doctors wanted to take out a portion or all of his tongue and jaw.  He refused, opting for radical radiation therapy.  The treatments caused him to lose his sense of taste.  He has gradually regained his ability to taste, and now, in 2011, he is cancer-free.

That's my famous cousin.  He's a world-renowned chef, owns a million-dollar restaurant, and survived tongue and mouth cancer.  Sounds like the ingredients for a good book, doesn't it?  Someone thought so:  his memoir Life, On the Line was just released yesterday.  One of my best friends just called to tell me they're talking about making a movie out of the book, possibly starring Tobey Maguire.  My friend was laughing so hard when she told me this news that she could barely speak.  Another friend suggested my cousin should be played my Robert Pattinson.  "I'd go see that movie," she said in her best, Twilight-crazed fan voice.

Now, having a rich, famous, handsome cousin doesn't help me with my character flaw.  In fact, it's like having a mosquito bite that just won't stop itching.  I keep scratching and scratching and scratching.  And my friends don't help.  I'm sure Superman's friends didn't keep handing him kryptonite shakes every day.

Casimir, today's feast saint, wouldn't understand my little problem.  He was the son of the king of Poland, but he "had a horror of luxury and practiced many mortifications in secret."  Like any good saint, he had absolutely no interest in royalty.  In fact, he turned down the throne of Hungary when it was offered to him.  Casimir died at the age of 26 of tuberculosis in 1484.

Well, I suppose I should feel a sense of relief now that I have revealed my little secret about my cousin.  Now I can be jealous of him publicly and frequently.  Don't get me wrong.  I know Grant has had a difficult life.  He's worked hard.  He's faced an illness that, at the very least, should have ended his career and, at the worst, could have killed him. He overcame it, tongue, career, and life in tact.  And he's a freaking genius chef.  He deserves all of his success and money and good looks and world traveling.

Saint Marty's going to take his cue from Casimir.  Saint Marty's going to develop a horror of luxury.  Of course, Saint Marty needs to HAVE luxury first before he can be horrified of it.



Notice the family resemblance?



March 2: Saint Marty at a Loss

Well, I don't have a lot of time left in this work day to write anything deep, reflective, sarcastic, or funny.  I had plans to get a lot more accomplished today, but it just didn't happen.  So, I'm going to just open up my journal and type up whatever I find.

Here goes...

As a young child in Detroit, I went to a private Catholic school, as did my eight siblings.  My sister, Rose, who is two years older than me, has Down's syndrome.  She went to the special education classes.

Every year, the Shriners took a bus-load of kids from the special education classes to the circus, and I always went along with them because my mother was usually a chaperon or helper.  The day of the circus field trip, we would pile into the school bus, and it usually took forever.  Some of the kids were in wheelchairs and had other mobility issues.  So I would sit in the back of the bus as they loaded students, and my friends would see me.  They would laugh, point, shout names at us--"Ricky Retardo," "Circus Freak," "Special Eds."  It was constant, and, for me, it lasted for days afterward.

It got to the point where I hated circus day, even though my sister was always thrilled to have me along with her classmates.

It gave me a taste of what my sister faced every day of her life.

So, it's not very polished,  It's not funny.  But you have something to read.  Something better tomorrow, I hope.

Saint Marty has to get going.

March 1: Help Wanted

No, I'm not seeking another writer to blog for me.  No, I'm not looking for another job, unless it involves a great deal of money and a book deal.  And no, I'm not looking to hire a domestic servant.

Last year, I decided, as part of my Lenten observance, to pray for people who'd hurt me in the past.  It sounded simple enough, but if you review my earliest posts, it was anything but easy.  I started out praying for just a few offenders, people for whom I harbored a lot of anger.  As Lent progressed, my list of people kept growing.  At one point, if I had put every one of them in a line, that line would have stretched from Copper Harbor to the Mackinac Bridge.  For those of my readers who are non-Yoopers, that's a really long line.  It's not that I kept seeking out people to be mad at.  As I was praying, figures from my past just kept appearing in my mind, asking for prayers.  At points, the whole process made me physically ill.

At the end of Lent last year, however, I found that I had let go of a lot of past hurts.  Forgiveness didn't so much wash over me.  It sort of forced its way into my life, like a rash of impetigo.  And it spread into other parts of my life.  I have blogged, over the past year, about many people who have pissed me off, do piss me off.  But I find, now, that I'm able to control my temper.  My anger is not quite so impulsive; I try to understand people's motivations more.  Now, don't get me wrong.  I'm not a rage-aholic.  I don't need anger management classes.  I just gave myself a lesson in forgiveness, understanding, love, and letting go last Lent.

Which brings me to the topic of this post.  I need an idea for Lent this year.  I don't want to do something superficial like give up chocolate.  I don't want to repeat last year's exercise, although there are still people who piss me off.  I want to do something substantial.

Here's what I'm asking for:  give me an idea for Lent.  I will entertain any and all suggestions, as long as they don't involve shaving any part of my anatomy or doing things with farm animals.  I may even take the best suggestions and put them in a poll.  You, loyal readers, could decide how I observe Lent this year.

So put on your thinking caps.  Get creative.  Get spiritual.  Get crazy.  Get creatively, spiritually crazy.  In the comments section of this post, leave your suggestions.  I'd also be interested in your personal stories about Lent.  What have you done for Lent in the past?  If you were raised Christian, I'm sure you have some stories about sneaking Hostess cupcakes in the bathroom or eating a Whopper on a Friday.

I'm serious about this.  Don't make me beg.

Saint Marty needs your help.