The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 46

It's a Strange World

As I headed out the door to physical therapy, the girl child begged to go with me. She didn't want to actually go with me to the appointment, she just wanted to go for a ride in the car, like an eager puppy. She just wanted to go somewhere that wasn't her bedroom. She just wanted to sit in the car. And so we went to the appointment, and she sat happily in the parking lot for an hour while I calf-raised and lunged and laddered and balanced and generally huffed and puffed and got ugly sweaty during physical therapy. (I've always wondered about the validity of the sordid stories about cancer patients not getting treatment, and heart patients not getting new valves, and patients with chronic conditions not getting seen, when I've steadily had in-person physical therapy twice a week this whole time with only a couple of cancels/reschedules. Are the other stories fabrications? Or is this a sign of my privilege? My zip code? The color of my skin?)

After the physical therapy appointment, there was a momentary break in the rain. We stopped at the park on the way home, to walk the paved trail for a bit and get some air. There were big fat daddy robins and blue jays and red-winged blackbirds lining the fence of the empty baseball field. The frogs in the marshes near the vacant soccer fields were in rare form, boasting their prowess loudly. We left the path and tiptoed through the squelchy grass to see if we could see any brave boys on the prowl. The cobra chickens nearby hissed and squawked and generally behaved as if they owned the place; the frogs dipped below the surface and continued their serenade.

On the way back home, I thought about the things that were on my calendar for tonight. The girl child had derby practice. The boy child had his 5th grade concert. It should have been a night of fast food dinner in the car as we drove from event to event. Instead, we ate cheese tortellini for dinner. (The boy child ate a bagel, because...cheese.) We planned our upcoming Powerpoint party. There was a lot of "you know what sucks?" and "your life" and "you're in it" and "so's your face" sprinkled throughout the conversation.

After dinner, I walked the dog, carefully avoiding the angry man's yard. As we walked by his house, he cordially yelled out, "how are you tonight?" like we were friends and I tried to control my face like he wasn't an asshole. Dobby tried to avoid all of the giant puddles and generally walked down the center of the road. It didn't matter; no cars were coming. The boy child rode by on a skateboard, my phone in his hand, as he duo-chatted with one of his best friends and showed him the neighborhood.

As we neared the house, my next-door neighbor came running out of her door. "I have a confession to make!" she called out.

"Yes?" I asked. I thought maybe she had met the angry man, too?

"I've been reading your blog," she confessed.

"Wait, what?" I asked, surprised. "How did you find it?"

"Well, I've been hanging out on Twitter a lot, and I got a notification that someone near me was also on Twitter, and I saw your tweets about your blog."

I laughed. It's a strange world when your next door neighbor (whom you rarely talk to and who has no idea that you're a writer) discovers your blog via Twitter.

"Anyway," she said, holding out a jar, "are you still out of yeast? Because I have yeast."

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 45

Keep Looking for Sunshine

It's amazing how much the weather can affect our moods. Today it was dark and rainy and we were all miserable. We were a house full of Eeyores, slogging through the rooms, lurking in the shadows. We were all frustrated by too much homework and too many interruptions and too many meetings and not enough sunshine.

I had to post assignments for my classes by 9 a.m., because Wednesday is ELA day. But I'd managed to procrastinate, and instead of building my assignments yesterday, I'd spent the day prepping for and then recovering from a webinar that I co-led, titled "Reasonable Expectations for Remote Learning," where we talked about how to keep it simple for our students and attempt to be kind to ourselves. Maslow's before Bloom's. And so today, I was up early, trying to create a week-long activity for each class that was structured and simple and would provide opportunities for student contact, student engagement, and student success. It was early, I was cranky, and none of this felt reasonable at all.

As soon as I posted the assignments, the emails started. Simple questions that students wanted answered, simple questions that, in a classroom, would have taken 3 seconds to address. Instead, each email had to be responded to; each message sent needed a reply. It wasn't that the directions weren't clear (they were), but rather, the students just wanted that positive reinforcement. They wanted to know if there was a right answer that they were supposed to know. Interruption after interruption layered on blankets of frustration. I didn't want to be here, sitting at the kitchen table, answering countless emails and trying to grade papers and barely parent my own kids. Outside, it was raining. Inside, I was a cloud of negativity.

Finally, during the window between meeting number 3 and meeting number 4, I announced to my daughter from another mother that we were going to do yoga. We'd been slowly working our way through the 30 Days to a New You yoga series, and were on day 11: flexibility day. It was all about hip openers and stretches and we started to giggle. We snorted as we tried to figure out how to move through goddess pose to skandasana, which seemed like a ridiculous idea. We cracked up as we attempted to even figure out what to do with our feet in lizard pose. But it was the splits that got me. As my feet, now sweaty, began to slide farther and farther apart, and I got closer to the ground, I realized that I was stuck. I couldn't move. The only solution, as I laughed hysterically, was to lean forward until I fell over, face first into the rug, butt up in the air. We laughed until we cried. We laughed at how impossible it was, at how ridiculous we looked, at how funny it all truly was.

The sun never came out. Outside, it never really got brighter. But inside, the mood had lifted. The frustrations from earlier wandered off and sulked in the corner. Things seemed less overwhelming. Less negative. Less dull.

Laughing until you are crying, until you can't breathe; laughing until you are out of control and you are desperately trying not to pee your pants but even that thought is hilarious: these are the moments that will get us through until the sun decides to shine again.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 44

Pandemic Grocery Shopping: A Battle Strategy

You may realize, if you have been reading this blog all along, that I already wrote a Grocery Shopping for Dummies episode. But that was when I was young and naive and thought I might someday need to fill up the gas tank. Ever. That was a month ago, a decade's worth of "dunnodays" followed by "whateverdays" and bookended by "ughdays." Now, we are on day 44 of this shelter-in-place, and I am 102 years old, and I have learned to spot a Shipt shopper from 3 aisles away.

So, if you need to go to a big box store because you are out of cone coffee filters that aren't sold at Rite Aid or Aldi or Monticello's or any other place that doesn't feel like a giant petri dish, here are some pointers that might help you preserve your sanity.

1. Start at the homegoods side and end in produce. This is key: you are going to fill your cart to max capacity and you do not want the tomatoes and strawberries to be sauced at the bottom of the cart. Instead, line the bottom of your cart with an even layer of toothpaste and soap and shampoo. This will add stability to your cart load, and ensure that the tower that you will build as your shop will not tip over and topple into the empty meat counter. Think: grocery store lasagna. 
2. Are you excited that you can now finally plant that garden, now that the evil governor has allowed garden centers to reopen? You have been waiting for this moment for AT LEAST a week or two. (Seriously: it's Michigan. It snowed last week. Dial it back.) Well, when you rush that garden center for seeds because this is the year that you are going to FEED THE WORLD with your Jiffy peat pods, please know that there will be no tomato seeds there. Or peas. Or beans. Or squash. There will only be radishes. SO MANY RADISHES. Check back in September, when I will post about all of the things you can do with radishes. Yum. 

   

   Photo by Jason Leung on Unsplash

3. Toilet paper? Yes. Also, dishwasher soap and laundry detergent. You're welcome.
4.  The baking aisle will be too cluttered to pass through. You will need to buy flour and seasoned salt and some cake mix, but it is impossible to stay 6 feet apart from anyone in the baking aisle, because every person in the store has gathered in this aisle and will be searching, aimlessly, for yeast. It's best to park your cart at the end of the aisle, adjust your face mask, and then tip-toe like Elmer Fudd in search of that wascally wabbit. It's survival of the fittest in the baking aisle. 
5. Stay away from the potato chips. Have you looked in the mirror recently? Have you tried on your jeans? Seriously. You don't need potato chips. Also, crackers, popcorn, mixed nuts, M&Ms, and chips that pretend they aren't chips, but really are. (I'm looking at you, Popchips.)
6. Have you made it to the liquor aisle? You should buy it. Does it seem excessive? It's not. It's really better to err on the side of caution. Make sure you lift with your legs.
7. Also, cheese.
8. Frozen foods are tricky. On the one hand, you can stock up. On the other hand, you have a small freezer. Plan in terms of size of frozen food square footage, not in terms of meal possibilities. You've given up on actually cooking thoughtful meals at this point and are perfectly content putting instant mashed potatoes, frozen peas, a bag of spinach, and some cheese sticks on the table and calling it dinner. Just buy some frozen pizzas and some tots and call it good. You are not going to cook a balanced meal with what's in your cart. Maybe just buy some more cheese.
9. If you need to buy meat, just buy whatever's left. There's not much to choose from, but that's okay. You have cake mix and vodka and radish seeds. You'll be fine.
10. If you finally make it to produce, congratulations! You are almost home. Your radish-seed-and-soap grocery cart lasagna is almost complete. Buy the hardest avocados you can find because you have all the time in the world for them to ripen. You're not going anywhere anytime soon. Buy some hummus, because it won't roll off the top of your mountain of groceries (I'm looking at you, spaghetti squash) and buy some romaine because it layers nicely, and buy some strawberries because your kids want to pretend that they are eating nutella as a condiment and not as a main course.
11. Finally, you are at the checkout. Because you have to stay 6 feet apart and there are 12 people in every line, you are now backed up in women's lingerie. Do not cave and buy a bra or 3 because they might fit. They won't. I promise. Also, don't buy that clearance sweater, those Columbia leggings, or those 50% off jeans. They won't fit because you have put on 15 lbs, and you don't need them because you have nowhere to go. And they won't sell on Poshmark 6 months from now, because everyone else in the nation will be trying to sell them, too. 3 hours later, you will finally get to checkout and go home. Try not to eat that candy bar you impulse-bought for the kids while you waited.

If you have finally checked out and made it to the parking lot, you are almost home free. Drive home. Unload those groceries. Take off your face mask. Wash your hands. Pour yourself a drink. It really doesn't matter what time it is. Those social rules are dead to us. Eat some cheese. Take a nap. You have survived the fight, stocked your fridge, and figured out how to feed your family for another week. You are Rocky at the top of the steps. You are the Karate Kid, standing on one foot, victorious. You are Kerri Strug after your final vault. You are Frodo, throwing the ring into the fires of Mount Doom. You have survived Meijer and you have not only endured--YOU HAVE PREVAILED.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 43

I Want to be an Ostrich

Taxidermed Ostritch by Maurizio Cattelan (b. 1960); sold for GBP 1,538,500

I want to bury my head in the sand and pretend that this is all going to be over soon. I want to believe that I might actually still get to see my bucket list concerts this summer. I have waited 30 years to see Guns and Roses. I have waited 20 years to see Rage Against the Machine. This was my bucket list summer. I want to believe it's not slipping through my fingers once again.

I want to imagine that I will still get to go to New York at some point for the New York Times Teaching Project, just like I imagined, hope against hope a few months ago, that I might have a chance to get accepted. 

I want to believe that school will go on as normal next year. I want to ignore every article I see that says that if and when schools open again, they will never be the same. This isn't how we are supposed to teach. This isn't what's in the best interest, long term, for our students and their families. This isn't healthy for my own children. This isn't what we signed up for.

I want to reassure my daughter from another mother that MSU will open in the fall; that she will have a place to go, a new home, a chance to start her life.

I want to dream that my son might still get a bit of baseball season this summer, that he might still get to play on that team that he worked so hard to make.

I want to pretend that the scientists and doctors who are saying it will take at least a year...I want to pretend that they are just being overly cautious. That they don't want to get our hopes up. That they have to prepare for the worst case scenario...but that it might not take that long. It might not take long at all. I want to pretend.

I want to bury my head in the sand and pretend that --if we all just stay home and wash our hands-- soon, things will start to go back to normal and we can start to get our lives back.

But even ostriches don't really bury their heads in the sand. That's just an old myth that we still believe.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 42

If a Tree Falls in the Woods...

Walking the trails today with my daughter from another mother, we were chatting about anything and everything -- and then suddenly time stood still and the woods went silent. A crack, then the sound of branches breaking, as a whooshing, rumbling vibration, almost electric, ran through the air. A huge tree off to our left just simply fell over, crashing to the ground. The forest shook. We were a bit shook. We stood there in awe, realizing the power of that tree, the power of gravity, and the fact that we really were just visitors in that forest. Life --and death-- were going on around us, almost as if our gripes about having to shelter-in-place, and our complaints about trying to move school online, and our musings on politics and protests and press briefings really didn't matter at all.

Spring is taking over. The bright greens of the grasses and the lily pads are turning the muddy swamp into a bichromatic dreamscape up against the burnt umber trees and underbrush, not yet budded out. The sloths up in sloth tree are growing their mossy fur coat. While our lives are at a standstill, nature does its thing, oblivious to us.

If a tree falls in the woods, does it make a sound? Damn straight. It rumbles and it crashes and it vibrates, a mini-earthquake of energy and destruction. It doesn't matter if we are there to hear it at all. It's not actually about us.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 41

Recovery is Slow

I broke my ankle on December 1st and had surgery on December 9th. It's been 21 weeks. At physical therapy on Friday, they had me doing agility ladders and some plyometric work; definitely more impact than my own very slow running pace would be. So today, Dobby and I did some telephone pole intervals -- fast walk, then very slow jog, then repeat, with many sniff and sprinkle breaks in between for the dog. It was a nice, slow, easy 2 1/2 miles, and it was relatively pain-free. (We also successfully avoided accidentally sprinkling near the house of the angry neighbor.) I've got a long way to go before the Crim or Detroit, but I've also got time. Recovery is slow and often painful, but it is recovery.

I was thinking about this as I worked in the garden, making a "cardboard lasagna," and eavesdropping on my partner and my ex-husband as they chatted with the tow-truck driver out in the street. Nick had gotten a flat tire when he picked up the kids, and Michael called AAA so that we didn't have to deal with digging out a jack and a lug wrench, not to mention the frustration of changing a tire. When the tow-truck driver showed up, all 3 men stood out socially distancing in the street, and talked about cars. Ten years ago, I could not have envisioned my ex being cordial, let alone friendly, anywhere within my vicinity. But now, he comes over daily to pick up the kids, and chats on the couch with whomever is in the room. Five years ago, I could not have envisioned my partner living here with us, chatting with my ex and a tow-truck guy about cars. So many years later, we are all in a much healthier place. Recovery has been slow and often painful, but it is recovery.

Tomorrow, parts of the state of Michigan begin to reopen, although we all now have to wear face masks inside public buildings. Large garden centers and golf courses will now reopen, as well as specialty aisles of non-essential items, like paint. And yet, Michigan doesn't meet any of the criteria to reopen, according to the White House's recommendations. We haven't yet had a 14 day decline in flu-like symptoms and positive COVID tests; we don't have enough hospital capacity to be able to treat all patients, and we don't have a "robust testing program." But people are pissy. They want to go to their cottages up North. They want to buy paint. They want to golf. They want to fish in their motorboats. They want their landscaping done. And they want to go back to work. I only hope that this loosening of regulations doesn't slow down our progress or head us in the wrong direction.

Recovery from this pandemic is going to take a long time. And we are going to have to exercise patience and not jump the gun. Because a slow recovery, no matter how painful, is still decidedly better than the alternative.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 40

Just Walkin' the Dog

Today, finally, the weather cleared. It didn't snow or rain. There weren't gale force winds. There was even a bit of sunshine, early in the evening. Our depressed dog hadn't had a long walk in days, so after dinner, Michael and I and the dog headed out for a walk.

Dobby was in a mood tonight. After days of crappy weather and freezing walks, he was ready to go, trying to race down the road, straining against the leash and trying to make me go faster. I'm not cleared to run yet, so he had to settle for dragging me behind him. Every mailbox, pile of leaves, clump of dirt, and street sign got a little blessing from him, as he marked them all and called them his own. Far too early in the walk, he dropped a special treat, so then I had to carry a full poop bag the rest of the walk.

Lots of people were out tonight, walkers and runners and bikers, families and couples and singles and other dog walkers. The few cars that were out had their windows down, and we'd catch the occasional thump of bass and the occasional whiff of weed as they drove by. What else can you do on a Friday night when the world is closed?

I had a bag of books to drop off to the "free little library" down the road. Walking by earlier in the day, I noticed that it had been well picked over, and not many books were left. A crime thriller or two, a diet book, a trashy romance, a Michael Moore book, some obscure titles I'd never heard of. I had gone through my own bookshelves, getting rid of books I had in duplicate, like individual Shakespeare titles (I have an anthology that Helena calls "The Bible"), books I hate (Eat Pray Love, get your pretentious ass outta my house), and books I have had for years but will never, ever read (why do I have so much Thomas Hardy?). We stocked the little library, and then Dobby dragged us farther down the road.

Half a mile later, we circled back, taking the road down by the lake back to the house. We checked out landscaping and argued about green manicured lawns (Michael loves them, I think they look like chemicals), and Dobby tugged and sniffed and pretended to bless more leaf piles.

Suddenly, some 40-something year old guy comes banging out onto his porch and screams at me, "Don't let your dog fucking piss on my yard!"

My very thoughtful response was, "What?!"

"Don't let your dog fucking piss in my yard again!"

I looked at Dobby. He's a 9 pound Yorkie. We've just walked almost a mile. I yelled back, "Dude! We've been walking for a mile! Trust me, there's no piss left in him!"

He yelled some more, some word salad that included multiple usages of the words "piss" and "fuck" and"dog" and "bitch" and "dumb kids."

We turned to walk away, and I eloquently flipped him the bird over my head, full poop bag in hand. Dumb kids my ass. We are both quite intelligent, and middle-aged, TYVM.

"You fucking white trash bitch!" He yelled. Repeatedly.

So, there's that. The end of the story. The dumb kid in me wants to go back and empty all the poop bags in our wheeelie bin onto his precious lawn; but, I will refrain, and remain instead maturely on my couch, wine in hand, thinking, "that's Reverend Dr. White Trash Bitch to you, sir."

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 39

Sick of It

Photo by Julieann Ragojo on Unsplash

Everyone here is grumpy.

The weather has been waffling between snow and rain for days and no one remembers what the sun even looks like. The daffodils have all given up and buried their sad blooms face-down in the mud.

The dog is too depressed to bark at the mailman. The recycling truck spent 15 minutes pulling forward and then backing up on our road and the dog didn't even lift his head. Couldn't be bothered.

After all that beeping, the recycling truck didn't even pick up our recycling. Cleared everyone else's. Just not ours. Apparently they also couldn't be bothered.

The cats have been snarling and hissing at each other all day. They are sick of us being home. They are sick of each other. They are sick of it.

I sat through 4 different Zoom meetings today. Managed to not drink until the last one. I am also sick of it.

Michael stayed in his pajamas all day. He's pretty damn sick of it.

The boy child announced that we are clearly in the apocalypse because he is so bored that he started watching TED talks. For fun. He's eleven.

The girl child snarled at everyone. All day long. Don't accidentally look in her direction. You will regret it. She is sick of ALL OF THE THINGS.

Everyone here is grumpy. We are tired of each other, we are tired of this house, and we are awfully damn tired of this stupid ass weather.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 38

Virtually Ridiculous 

Virtual learning in my household is slowly destroying my will to live.

Although we have twice as many devices as people in this house, none of them are new or powerful. This results in a tug-of-war battle-of-wills over who gets which device at what time for what purpose.

Today at 11, I was supposed to be holding a live class via Zoom, to run a simulation AP Lit exam for my students. Because I don't have a desk, the kitchen table was going to have to suffice; I needed the white Chromebook because it has a slightly bigger CPU and I was having to actually live-teach a class. In order to get everything set up, I created a Google doc with the stable prompt wording (minus the book title and author name, as that new development was just released by the College Board last week, even though we have been practicing TAG-led thesis statements all damn year); I created another Google doc with the text excerpt the students would be writing on; I created the Google Classroom assignment to push out the prompts to the kids; I opened the Zoom room; I got ready to paste the join code into Remind for my students. It was 10:55.

Meanwhile, Helena needed to set up a Chromebook for her own Zoom meeting at 11:30 with her social studies class. She informed me at 10:56 that she wanted the white Chromebook, not the green one, because the white one has a better camera. I told her she'd have to settle for the green one. She stomped up the stairs, slammed the door, and scream/sobbed that she just wasn't going to go to class because none of this mattered anyway. It was 10:58.

Photo by Marvin Meyer on Unsplash

I raced up the stairs to try to find the green Chromebook for her, because it wasn't on the charger. Sam was using it to work on his classwork. I told him he'd have to wait to do his classwork; his sister needed that one. He could use a different device or wait 40 minutes. He melted down, insisted he'd lose all his progress, and scream/sobbed that he just wasn't going to do school today because none of this mattered anyway.  It was 11:02.

I ran back downstairs, sent out the join code, and started class. 4 kids showed up right away. I began explaining how the exam simulation was going to work. At 11:06, I more kid showed up. I started over. At 11:08, Another kid showed up. I started over. [Sam chose this time to knock on Helena's door to hand her the green Chromebook; much cursing ensued.] At 11:10, another kid showed up. I started over. [Sam decided to eat pop tarts next to me.] Only 7 kids were there out of the 15 enrolled in AP Lit, but based on participation the last 5 weeks, I will call that a win. Finally, at 11:12, I started the exam for them and turned off my mic. Michael decided to eat lunch next to me and got in an argument with Sam about whose placemat was whose. It was 11:15.

At noon, I had a staff meeting via Zoom. I ran two computers for this one, so that I could be on documents as well as being on camera without crashing the computer. I was also simultaneously monitoring the completed assignments for my 80 juniors from last week, to begin to try to track down all the students who aren't showing up at all; pushing out the new assignment for this week; and contacting the AP Lit students who hadn't shown up for the exam simulation. I was stoked as my phone started blowing up with notifications from my juniors turning in an assignment to my Google Voice mailbox that I had set up as an alternate to recording a video in Flipgrid. YES! Engagement! Until I realized that no students were putting their names on their assignments, so I had no idea who had turned any of the assignments in. I went back in to the posted assignment to change the wording and remind students to put their names on their work if they were turning it in to Google Voice; hopefully that will help, if they read the directions?

Finally, the staff meeting was over. It was 12:30. I spent a couple of hours "grading," trying to give positive feedback in lieu of grades, since the work is not optional, but it is also not graded. I agree completely with the mantra "Maslow's over Bloom's," but I do struggle with giving the same "grade" to a student who wrote two sentences, compared to a student who wrote a masterpiece. Meanwhile, Sam, upstairs, was fighting with IXL, trying to teach himself 6th grade math. Every question he got correct, he scored 3 points. Every question he got wrong, he lost 10 points. He got a question wrong. And then another. And then another. And while I tried to not intervene, to let him work through his own frustration, I worked through my own grading dilemma, trying to figure out how to encourage more meaningful participation from the students who are showing up, and wracking my brain to figure out how to get the missing kids to even show up at all.

I decided to take a break and check in to Flipgrid, to see what had been turned in there.

And here, folks, is a screenshot of the first video submitted (posted with permission by his mother).

Somebody please kill me now.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 37

A Quarantine Paradox

I haven't changed the timer on the thermostat. Everyday, Monday through Friday, it kicks down to 64 degrees at 7:30 a.m. Sometime around 8:30, I realize it's a bit cold, wander over to the thermostat, cup of coffee in hand, and override the timer.

I haven't deleted my calendar notifications. Every Tuesday and Thursday, I get a reminder at 5:30 that derby practice starts in 30 minutes. I swipe to the left, clearing that notification from my cache. Derby bout reminders still post on the weekends. Boy scouts meetings kick out weekly reminders. I haven't deleted any of them.

My Google calendar still reminds me of the scheduled fire drills at work, the tornado drills, the staff meetings, the lock-down drills, the scheduled half-days. I haven't deleted them.

Sitting here tonight, writing a blog post, listening to the "Mellow 70's Gold" channel on Amazon music, life is fairly chill. We ate dinner together. Michael thanked me for cooking, complimenting me on being able to cook a good meal from scratch without actually tasting it (see: vegetarian in a land of carnivores). Sam ate salad on purpose. He got seconds. Helena told me about her English assignment (SO much work, but she got it done). The kids argued over who got first bath. They ate popsicles. I choked when I took a sip of my drink and realized that I had accidentally layered the bourbon on top of the peppermint tea. A lesson in physics and bartending, as I explained to the kids about the specific gravity of liquids and how to layer a cocktail. Fleetwood Mac played in the background.

After I post this blog post, I'll clean up the kitchen, singing "Jolene" at the top of my lungs with Dolly. The kids will take baths. We'll watch some episodes of Community. I'll make another hot toddy, and remember to stir it this time.

Tomorrow, around 8:30 a.m., I'll realize that it's kinda cold in the house. I'll override the timer on the thermostat, and kick it back up to 68.

Photo by Felix Polgar on Unsplash

But I won't reset it.

Tomorrow, I'll get calendar notifications for recurring school and after-school events. I'll clear the notifications from my cache.

But I won't delete them.

Life is fairly chill; all is well. "American Pie" is playing on the soundbar.

I miss our life.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 36

Photo by NeONBRAND on Unsplash

Every Struggle is Real, But Not All Struggles are Equal 

I've been painfully aware, as I write these blog posts, that things I am trying to make light of can actually be really painful for other families. It's hard to find the balance between flippant sarcasm (my specialty) and tone-deaf cruelty (my fear).

I thought about writing a blog post today pointing out the ridiculous amount of money I am spending on groceries (now that all 4 of us are eating 3 meals a day at home); I spent $440 at Meijer today to try to keep my family fed for the next week or two...and yet I know that $440 would have had to have lasted an entire month for a family on SNAP, before the additional food assistance enacted in Michigan in March of this year. Even now, the max payout for a family of four is $646/month, which we probably spent, pre-quarantine, at local restaurants every month just on beer.

And as I've repeatedly ranted about the picky eaters in my family, I also know that there are people out there, both friends and strangers, who are desperately ill and would love to be able to eat again.

When I gripe about my kids always bickering and taking up too much bandwidth and slurping (dear God, the slurping), I also know that dear friends are struggling with infertility and treatments being put on hold.

When I complain about the weather and the snow and the lack of sunshine, I also know that so many people, including people I love, are living daily in physical and emotional fear.

When I mock the people in my house for their idiosyncrasies, and whine about them ALWAYS BEING IN MY SPACE, I also know that some people --many people-- are having to shelter alone and are desperately lonely.

When I revisit a post I started (but never finished) about gently trying to teach my Boomer mom (WHOM I LOVE! I LOVE YOU MOM!) how to use Google classroom, I remember that my best friend is on FMLA as she takes care of her own mother who is getting weaker by the day; my other friend who lost her dad just one short year ago; another friend who lost both parents on Christmas day last year; another friend whose dad died of COVID-19 just a few weeks ago; my cousin, whose mom is not yet out of the woods.

I am so blessed with privilege, with health, with a paycheck, with family. I started writing this series of posts because I was procrastinating from the academic writing I needed to do, and because it was a way for me to try to find the humor in each day and to not let these days go to waste.

I only hope that my posts continue to entertain. I hope that they don't cause pain. 

Much love to you. 

Wash your hands. 

Be well.

Photo by Nick Fewings on Unsplash

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 35

Adventures in Quarantining

Trapped together  Sheltering-in-place together offers much in the way of family bonding. We are all just a bit closer than we used to be, a hodgepodge family of personalities in a just-slightly-too-small home. What follows is a list of bonding moments adventures from today, moments that may have brought us closer than we maybe needed to be.

Moment #1: An adventure involving monsters.
My ex-husband Nick came over to pick up the kids for a few hours. As he sat on the couch, he talked monster movies with Michael while they simultaneously mocked me for the Hallmark movie currently on tv. Apparently there is a monster universe (a monsterverse?) that exists, full of King Kong and Godzilla, and secondary characters like Mothra and this is where I forgot to listen and they really have no room to mock my guilty tv pleasures. Nick then retrieved his pants, the ones that somehow ended up in our laundry, before he left with the kids.

Moment #2: An adventure involving the dog. 
Our poor dog Dobby is so in need of grooming, he looks like a miniature Wookie. I've been taking him on increasingly longer walks, because I am hoping that the concrete will file his nails. Unfortunately, another side effect of the lack of grooming is too much hair in his nether-regions. Meaning I have to sometimes wipe his butt. On a long walk today, I ended up having to carry him part-way. After he had pooped. Twice. At least I don't have to deal with anal glands?

Moment #3: An adventure involving dinner.
I made a "waffle bar" for dinner. It may be the one meal where everyone is happy and no one complains, unless you consider Sam's complaints that I made real whipped cream instead of buying shhhhhhhhhhht. There was chicken, homemade strawberry sauce, homemade whipped cream, syrup, chocolate chips, and American fries. Imagine my surprise when Sam then proceeded to load a waffle with strawberry sauce, whipped cream, chocolate chips, and hot sauce.

Moment #4: An adventure involving the cat.
After dinner, Michael and I attempted to put kitty caps on Katniss' claws, so that she will stop scratching her face off. The poor kitty has some sort of auto-immune or allergy thing that keeps the local vet in business, as we end up there about every six weeks, after Katniss has clawed off all of her own whiskers. In case you wondered, putting kitty caps on an angry cat is an exercise in patience, especially when the claw-capper (Michael) jumps the gun and tells the cat-holder (his very patient partner) to grab the cat long before he is ready to go.  As it stands, the cat now has 11 caps on her nails and I have a lot of cat hair stuck to my face. Victory?

Moment #5: An adventure involving home improvement projects.
Finally, that sound you hear? That is the sound of Michael tearing off the exterior siding that has lined the interior walls of our basement since I purchased the house. I don't know why there is siding on my basement walls; the previous owners were both very industrious and questionable decision-makers. I also don't know why Michael has decided to begin this project at 8:00 on a Sunday night. Nor do I know what he plans to do with the siding, since Granger currently won't take outsized trash or anything sticking out of the wheelie bin.

But you know what? I'm not going to worry about it. Because there is a Hallmark movie I've been meaning to watch, and the living room is blissfully quiet. Except for the sound of the cat chewing her nail caps off.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 34

We Didn't Eat Dinner as a Family and It Was Glorious

33 days. 33 days in a row of family dinners. 33 days of cooking a meal, and then cleaning up after it. 33 days of the kids kicking each other under the table, and then arguing about youtubers. 33 days of dad jokes. 33 days of my daughter not being hungry because she decided to eat a huge snack at 4:30, my son failing to understand the purpose of silverware, and Michael segmenting his plate into quadrants, keeping all foods quarantined from each other, never they shall meet. 33 days of heavy sighs at the homecooked meals and a general refusal to eat vegetables. 33 days of touching raw meat.

Steven Puetzer / Getty Images

Today, Helena and I took a 6 mile walk on the trails. Michael went for a run. He and Sam built a robot. I walked the dog. We all just kinda went our own way. There were leftovers in the fridge and everybody just ate whatever they felt whenever they felt like it.

The new normal of nightly family dinners has been, honestly, kind of awesome. All joking and complaining aside, being able to see my family every day in one place and taking a few minutes to eat a meal together has brought us closer together, and made us --if not appreciate-- tolerate each other a little bit more.

Today, I have a lot to appreciate. I appreciate that the sun finally came out. I appreciate that it didn't snow. I appreciate that my ankle is healed enough that I can go for a long walk on uneven surfaces. I appreciate that my daughter was bored enough to want to leave her room and go for a walk. I appreciate that she talked to me for 2 hours (TWO HOURS!) and said I leveled up in confidante points. I appreciate our cozy little house. I appreciate that we are all healthy. I appreciate that Michael is willing to build a robot with Sam. I appreciate my recliner. I appreciate ice packs. I appreciate boxes of wine. I appreciate leftovers.

And I definitely appreciate a night off from eating dinner as a family.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 33

Dear Michigan: Please Stop Snowing

Michigan, it's time for some hard talk. You have had a couple of big days, making international news because of all of the crazy, and holding steady with a strong 3rd place in the nation for most COVID-19 cases and deaths. Right now, you are hella famous. But we need you to think of the little people, the 9+ million of us who are staying home and doing the right thing. For those of us who are faithfully sheltering-in-place and not waving our guns and our white supremacy and misogyny about on the capitol steps, we need you to do us a solid: PLEASE STOP SNOWING.

It's been days since you have shown us some sunshine and tolerable weather. And we are slowly going insane, trapped, listening to the cackling of youtubers echoing from the boy's room, the hysterical laughter occasionally floating down from the girl's room, and the bad puns bouncing off the kitchen walls. We NEED TO GO OUTSIDE.

It's dark in here. The kitchen light is harsh and artificial. The dog smells. Bad. The cats keep hissing at each other and occasionally at me. The kitchen mouse is depressed because we are out of chocolate muffins. The recycled Hallmark movies aren't entertaining anymore; they are just sad. We are all wilting, like the poor poinsettia on the kitchen counter: ghostly, wrinkled, pale reminders of what we used to be, back when we wore pants.

We need sunshine. We need fresh air. We are losing our minds. We need you to take a deep breath and bring us some spring. Just because we can't buy seeds and plant pansies (just kidding, we know that we can buy seeds and plant flowers; we know how to read); Just because we were foolish and threw the last presidential election doesn't mean that we can't learn from our ways. But if we are going to make it to the next election with any semblance of sanity, we really need it to stop snowing. We need to go outside and take a deep breath. We need to go for a walk. We need some fresh air and some sunshine, before our brains melt into a depressed, hopelessly pale, flabby ooze.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 32

The Procrastination Episode: Preparing to Teach My Blow-off Class

I don't wanna.

This week, our district started its "virtual learning" program, transitioning all courses to a modified, online delivery. It's "school light," because there is just no way that we can expect or should expect our students to be able to do school for 6 or 7 hours a day, when they may have so much else on their  literal and metaphorical plates. We've contacted every family and provided devices and helped troubleshoot connectivity, and we've built a schedule for teachers and students that includes office hours, and daily and weekly expectations. It's all very doable and very common sense, and it allows us to continue to encourage student learning, while recognizing that there are many barriers in the way. I'm actually very proud of my district and what they have pulled together, in terms of expectations and clarity of message to students and stakeholders.

Even before the plan was in place, I'd already been teaching AP Lit online over the last 4 weeks, to give my AP students the chance for some sense of normalcy, and to help them continue to prepare for the exam and for college. 6/15 students have participated, but I am proud of those 6 who have consistently shown up for Zoom meetings, written essays, and asked for feedback. Creating meaningful learning opportunities in an online platform is not ideal, but at least for AP-level students, planning to go to 4-year universities and beyond, it has future applications.

Moving my junior English students into an online curriculum isn't overly difficult either. My classes were already "blended," meaning that both technology and face-to-face/pen-and-paper interactions were common and required. I have a plan for these classes; and as long as students check in to Google classroom, they will have every opportunity to be successful in the course and to learn a few things as we go. Although only 32/75 of them have accessed the resources I posted yesterday, I am hoping that many more of them will, soon. (Especially since, if they don't, I have to call parents. And that is a LOT of phone calls to make. I hate making phone calls. Send wine.)

My independent study contemporary writing students were already online, so they are fine. Carry on. Nanowrimo with your bad selves.

But my public speaking class? I don't wanna. 

Photo by Pedro da Silva on Unsplash

It's not a huge class --only 27 students-- but most of them took it as a blow-off class. They weren't really interested in learning how to be a better public speaker; they just wanted a no-homework class. And normally, I love teaching the class, because it really does help them build confidence and become better speakers and writers. It's also a "limited grading" class, since the major grades can be done in the moment, as they perform. Win/win!

But now I have to teach public speaking online. To students who can't go out in public. For students who really didn't want to take the class in the first place. And I know that I can create meaningful experiences with online speech genres like TED talks and podcasts, but I don't wanna. Because, honestly, it's my blow-off class, too. Normally, I don't have to write lesson plans, because I have the entire course built online, with every day mapped out. Normally, I don't have to curate resources, because I already have those linked and I can just play them in class. Normally, I don't have many papers to grade, because the daily work is credit/no credit and the final speeches are scored on a rubric while they talk. Normally, it's a low-key, stress-free teaching experience.

I have to have a plan in place and lessons posted by 9 a.m. tomorrow.

This isn't very stress-free at the moment.

'Cause I just don't wanna.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 31

Most of Us Did Not Protest

I don't want to write about #operationgridlock/#openmichigan. I really don't. I don''t want to give them any more of my day than they've already gotten. My entire Facebook feed is full of misspelled signs and Confederate flags and Call of Duty costumes and big guns and traffic jams for miles. Michiganders Against Excessive Quarantine are patting themselves on the back for sitting in their cars in traffic jams all day long, and now spinning conspiracy theories about what might happen if COVID cases spike in two weeks. Michiganders Against Michiganders Against Excessive Quarantine are wringing their hands over the irresponsibility of the lack of social distancing, lack of protective masks, blocked hospital entrances, and the complete disappearance of any regard for the health and well-being of anyone in our state. And the rest of us? We are all just shaking our heads in disbelief and embarrassment about all of this ridiculousness.

But what else am I going to write about? I'm stuck here in the living room. It's too cold to go outside and it won't. stop. snowing. The dog hasn't had a walk in days. I haven't had a walk in days. I'm also pretty sure I haven't changed my clothes in days, or brushed my hair in days, so it's probably for the best that I just remain here on the couch, where I've pretty much been all day, stuck in an inertia of cynical dyspepsia.

I know that the morons risking the lives of their kids and wearing adult diapers and clogging up the roads in order to shake their fists at the Governor for trying to save their lives do not represent the majority of us here in Michigan. There are 10 million people in Michigan. There are only a few hundred thousand members in their ridiculous Facebook group, and only a few thousand showed up today to protest whatever they thought they were protesting. A huge majority of us actually believe that staying home saves lives, and that giving up a few things we love to do for a few weeks is an okay price to pay if we can flatten the curve, give our health care professionals a chance to breathe, and shut down this virus.

I know that the numbers are on our side. There are way more of us than them. Most of us wouldn't be caught dead with a Confederate flag, let alone wave one in front of the Capitol in Michigan, a state well above the Mason-Dixon line. Most of us wouldn't drag our kids out, unprotected, accepting candy from strangers. Most of us recognize that this is not "just the flu" and that building a herd immunity from getting infected really isn't the point when the Coronavirus death rate in our state is at 6%. Most of us wouldn't lay on the horn for hours in front of the hospitals where very real people are sick and dying of very real causes. Most of us would never jump to the conclusion that the Governor said that we can't buy American flags in our State when we see them roped off; most of us would instead realize that it is the massive garden centers where the flags are located in the massive 50,000 square feet stores that have been roped off. Most of us already know how and where to buy our plants and seeds and have them delivered or picked up curbside, and most of us wouldn't care for a few more weeks anyway, since it's. still. snowing.

Most of us, when faced with the choice between taking on a little discomfort to ourselves versus potentially exposing others to great harm would choose the former with very little hesitation. Most of us believe in freedom, and we freely choose to conduct our lives with empathy and understanding towards those who may be in harm's way.

Most of us will do our best to continue to act in ways that will not cause harm to others. 

Most of us care about more than ourselves.

We are most of us.

Photo by Mish Vizesi on Unsplash

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 30

Dear Adults Who Act Like Petulant Children:

Look, kids. We have to talk. I know that critical thinking is not your strong suit, and you are just pure id right now, but I really need you to try to focus and listen to me: the Governor has shut down most of the state FOR YOUR OWN GOOD. Clearly, you are too immature to follow the guidelines of safe social distancing, so she had to make the rules very, very clear. But instead of listening, you are throwing a temper tantrum of epic proportions. How DARE she tell you that you can't do whatever you want! How DARE she insist that you not only stay healthy, but that you also don't inadvertently kill everyone around you! HOW DARE SHE take away your ability to purchase hothouse tomatoes at Home Depot and plant them in the snow! Never mind that you can do curbside pickup and mail order (and it's snowing outside); that mean lady said you couldn't buy flowers and seeds at stores larger than 50,000 square feet, and those are the stores you want to go to! You want your Walmart pansies and you want them NOW!

I keep seeing posts from people who insist that flattening the curve is a bad idea, because it will close the economy for longer, and the same number of people will still get sick in the end...some analogy about squishing a marshmallow, blah blah blah. These people insist that herd immunity will work, and we should just open everything back up RIGHT NOW, so that we can all get sick, and then be immune. Except they don't seem to understand that Michigan has a 6% death rate from COVID 19 right now. Read that number again: SIX PERCENT. Flattening the curve gives our hospitals a chance to try to take care of everyone, whether they deserve it or not. If we don't flatten the curve, that already high death rate will spike. But heaven forbid we listen to the mean lady and try to save lives! You want to go boating in the snow! Vroom vroom!

Look, I am all for peaceful public protests. I've Black Lives Matter marched and Women's March marched and Wear Red for Ed marched. But marching for equity and social justice is slightly different than marching 'cause you wanna go golfing. But I get it. You're mad. But maybe put yourself in time-out for a few minutes until you calm down, so that you can be rational and downshift out of your lizard brain.  Because, here's the thing--you are going to try to cause a traffic jam at the Capitol tomorrow, but the only people out on the roads will be you. Well, you and the ambulances trying to get patients to Sparrow Hospital. But you don't care that people might die because YOUR RIGHTS! You are mad and that mean lady is going to hear about it! Just remember: don't drink too many liquids. (Also, just a thought: if you have to protest from the safety of your car because it is dangerous to be within 6 feet of a stranger, maybe it's not the best time to #openMichigan.)

Look, kids: this shutdown sucks for everyone. It sucks for the people working from home. It sucks for the people laid off. It sucks for every parent out there. It sucks for the kids trying to do school at home. It sucks for the teachers trying to somehow get the kids to do school at home. It sucks for the class of 2020 who is getting robbed of the end of their senior year. It sucks for the elderly in nursing homes who can't see their loved ones. It sucks for the gig economy, for the restaurants, for every small business owner. It really sucks to be in health care, or work at a grocery store, or at UPS. It sucks for everyone.

But you know what sucks even more? DYING. And your pansies and your motorboat and the garden that you decided to plant this year even though you've never planted a garden in your damn life and all those painting projects you haven't done since 2012 but decided to do this week: those things are NOT WORTH YOUR LIFE.

So please. Take a deep breath, and settle down. Turn on Netflix. Watch Tiger King. Throw the ball for your dog. Take a nap. Go for a walk. Read a book. Write your grandma a letter. Teach yourself those same three chords on your guitar again. Eat some ramen. Phone a friend.

But please, PLEASE, please: Don't endanger yourself and everyone around you because that mean lady told you not to. Do the right thing and STAY THE FUCK HOME.

Love,
The Reverend Dr. Murchie

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 29

Lather, Rinse, Repeat

How can I work all damn day and yet accomplish nothing?

The to-do list today was manageable: grade student assignments from last week, set up assignments for this week, hold office hours, clean the giant pile of "where things go to die" on the counter, do yoga, do physical therapy, walk the dog, make a meal, clean up after the meal, write. 

Photo by Steve Johnson on Unsplash

That's what the day should have been.

Instead, I graded all student assignments, set up all assignments for the week, held office hours, got inundated with late work emails submitted after I entered grades, graded all student assignments, got more emails, graded all student assignments, got more emails, graded all student assignments, got more emails. And suddenly it was 4:00 and the day was gone. 

I did manage to yoga --if by yoga, you mean standing there watching the instructor do poses that I could do three years ago, but now my muffin top gets in the way-- but then I gave up on PT after the app locked me out and I was just too frustrated and annoyed to keep going.

I also managed to argue with Sam, who has suddenly decided that since school is not mandatory, he should not mandated to do it. And although I get it --I really do-- (and I feel the same way, kid) --I can't let him opt out. And now I can envision the daily fights in the weeks ahead, as both kids are now back in "school" on completely different schedules, all while I'm trying to teach all of my classes from home, and Michael is trying to work from home in the basement. That's a lot of devices and a lot of bandwidth and a lot of arguing and a lot of eye-rolling and a lot of heavy sighing.

And the giant pile of "where things go to die" on the counter? Now I remember why those things are there. Because I don't know where else to put them. I still don't have a system set up, or a desk, or a filing cabinet, and all I do is re-stack piles and then move them to a different surface on a bi-monthly basis. But at least the pile is now more aesthetically pleasing?

By the time I walked the dog, made another "meh" meal, and cleaned the kitchen, all I wanted to do was sit and write. But what can I write about? I am out of interesting topics. I am out of inspiration. Yesterday I was deep and philosophical. Today? I've got nothing.

At this point, all I can do is lather, rinse, repeat. Same meals. Same walks. Same food. Same workout. Same struggles. Pretty sure these are the same clothes I've had on since Friday.

And so I stream The Big Pink way too loud on the soundbar because everyone in the house has their earbuds in anyway and I drink cheap-ass Triple Sec straight up because we are out of tequila and lime juice and any other mixers, and I sit down, and I open up my Chromebook, and I try to write.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 28

Searching for Jesus in America

It's Easter.

Most churches today live-streamed their services in order to follow social-distancing guidelines, or hosted drive-in services, so that congregants could attend, but stay in their cars. And yet, some churches defied orders, choosing to believe that their interpretation of their God's word was more truthful than the science of the CDC.

I was raised in fundamentalist Christianity. But in my current household, we have never really celebrated Easter. It's always been Nick's holiday with the kids and they usually visit his dad; but in 2020 (The Year of the Coronavirus) they are Skyping instead of visiting. Here at home with just me and Michael, Easter is just another Sunday: a day to sleep in, work out, have a beer, and hang out together. A time to celebrate each other. We make jokes about Zombie Jesus decreeing that white bunnies should poop chocolate eggs. Sometimes we watch videos of peeps burning at the stake, as is their due and their lot in life.

As a rule, I'm much more likely to quote Jim Casy over Jesus Christ. Jim Casy connected all of mankind with his entire philosophy summed up in just a few words:

“maybe it's all men an’ all women we love; maybe that's the Holy Sperit—the human sperit—the whole shebang. Maybe all men got one big soul ever’body’s a part of."

That love story of one big soul is one that I can get behind.

But today, I found out that Tim Minchin's 2012 tour of Jesus Christ Superstar was streaming for free. My favorite all-time musical starring my favorite all-time artist? Yes, please. It was streaming for just 48 hours this weekend, and I was going to watch it tonight...until I realized that the 48 hours began on Friday at 7 p.m. BST, not EST. In hindsight, it was pretty Americentric of me to somehow think that a British production starring an Australian performer would be streaming according to EST hours.

So, in the middle of the day, I settled in to watch JCS. The production was incredible. And although I give mad props to John Legend and the NBC production from 2018 for giving it a go, their production was no match to the 2012 production. Minchin's Judas was extraordinary. The staging captured the insanity and hypocrisy of all of those who would revel in all of Jesus' fame, whilst tearing down everything he actually preached. I have long defended this musical to conservative Christians who believe it is sacrilege to present Jesus as "just a man," as anything less than a perfect God, even though the Bible clearly shows him with doubts, desires, and failures. Jesus Christ Superstar shows us not so much the heart of Jesus, but rather the hearts of everyone who latched onto his tailcoats for the ride, but ignored his very message.

Spending the afternoon immersed in thinking about a religion I long ago left offered a lot of time for reflection. 

If the Jesus of Christianity were not resurrected, would our world be a bit different? Would Jesus the mortal man have better, more moral followers than Jesus the immortal God? 

Because I don't see a lot of Jesus, the man, in our current versions of Christianity. In his teachings to his disciples as recorded in Chapter 25 of the Book of Matthew, Jesus told of the Judgment of the Nations and of his expectations for his followers: 

31 “When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, then he will sit on the throne of his glory. 32 All the nations will be gathered before him, and he will separate people one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats, 33 and he will put the sheep at his right hand and the goats at the left. 34 Then the king will say to those at his right hand, ‘Come, you that are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world; 35 for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, 36 I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me.’ 37 Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry and gave you food, or thirsty and gave you something to drink? 38 And when was it that we saw you a stranger and welcomed you, or naked and gave you clothing? 39 And when was it that we saw you sick or in prison and visited you?’ 40 And the king will answer them, ‘Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.’  

In our modern version of Christianity today, where is Jesus? Where is his image in the vitriol spewed by our President, whom evangelicals have overwhelmingly supported, when he claims that he is watching a live-stream Baptist Easter service, while he tweets out garbage about fake news, winning, making great oil deals, and "the lamestream media?" How do we reconcile these words and our country's actions with feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, caring for the ill, and loving the criminal? Jesus didn't embrace the oil companies; he embraced prostitutes, the unclean, the unwell, the unfed. In times of need, Jesus would not have offered thoughts and prayers. He would have offered actions. He would not have valued the economy above the human lives.  He would not have deemed a corporation to be a person.

Instead, his followers claim to be here for his message, but they are seemingly only really here for the party. They want to be part of the cool club. They want to be saved. They want their Jesus to be a white fuzzy bunny, pooping chocolate prosperity eggs, instead of recognizing that his message was damning and uncomfortable. In fact, he would have railed against the mega-churches and their circus-like stage-show. He would have destroyed their temples.

With so many needy in our country, would Jesus have asked for thoughts and prayers? Or would he have demanded action? 

Jesus would have demanded that we listen to the truth, and not to our invented interpretations, cherry-picked to make us comfortable. He would have demanded that we get up off our knees and actually do something to make this world a better place, not just for those in our demographic and socioeconomic status, but even more for those beyond the walls of our safe, gated communities.

Jesus Christ Superstar is not about Jesus. It's about us: a pretty solid reflection of our own society and of our own belief systems and hypocrisies. It reminds us that we've got a long way to go, if we are ever going to emulate Jesus the mortal man, or Jesus the resurrected. It reveals the hearts of those who latch onto Jesus' fame and then give glory to themselves. And it shows us that we are doing a pretty lousy job of taking care of our one big soul. 

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash