Lisbon, Portugal

Lisbon

Behind Rossio Square, I found a tiny bar with an open front.  People were standing around sipping on a small glass of dark liquid.  I went into the bar and asked for one of the drinks, and found it was a ginger liqueur, served on a bed of wild cherries.  

I sipped mine out front with the other folks, enjoying the feeling of drinking right on the street and imagining myself teasing the police.  As I sipped, a derelict that had not had a shampoo in at least three weeks walked up holding the arm of a three-year-old girl.  The girl was holding a small ice cream cone with both hands.  The man told her to hold the cone in one hand and with the other take a small plastic bag from him.  She took the bag and he yelled at her about the ice cream.  

“Lick it!!!  If you don’t eat it I’ll take it away from you!!!” He yelled.  “Stand there!!!  Don’t you go anywhere!!!”  I was ready to grab the guy by the throat and teach him a lesson or two, but I thought it might further traumatize the little girl.

She took it all in stride.  She knew he was full of shit.  

He got out his wallet to check his holdings, looking first in the change pocket — nothing — then he pulled out the only paper script he had — a ten euro note, then he bellied up to the bar for a ginger liqueur.  

He downed it in one swallow, then came back to the little girl — and mumbled a command while he took his plastic bag back from her.  As they walked away, an elderly Portuguese man who had been watching them looked at me and shook his head.  I downed my ginger liqueur and chewed on a couple of the cherries, letting the man and the little girl get about fifty feet ahead, then I put the glass on the bar and slowly followed them.  They went to an apartment building up a little hill to the right, next to a Telefonica at number 6.  He did not have a key — he had to push the ringer to get buzzed in.  I hoped whoever was in the apartment had more sense and was better grounded, for the little girl’s sake.

I went back to my hotel and did some writing, then  thought – I need to go see Bairro Alto – so I put on my shoes and headed out, grabbing a taxi for Rua Diario des Noticias.  

When I got in Bairro Alto, I looked around for a good restaurant – and decided that BarAlto looked inviting.  I had the vegetarian paella and a half bottle of Manzarat red tinto wine, along with some bread and brown olives.

After that, I strolled around Bairro Alto, looking in doorways, peeking in Fado joints, restaurants, bookshops, and bars.  

Finally, I found a bar with a Cuban motif.  I ordered a small beer and talked to Maria, who was standing at the bar having a beer.  She had on a sexy white dress that revealed part of her cleavage and her tummy.  While we talked, a group of French sailors were busy chatting, yelling, smoking Cuban cigars, dancing with the wait-help, and generally carousing and making a nuisance of themselves.  I carried on a conversation with one of the sailors from Marseille who was a bit embarrassed with the loud antics of his compatriots.  

Maria revealed that she was from Brazil – Recife.  She went on and on about how much she loved Brazil and missed it so much – as everyone I’ve met from Brazil does.  

We had another beer – and then she said she would like to take me to a Brazilian bar where we could hear some decent music.  

We walked through the narrow streets, with most people staring at Maria as we passed.  I had to admit to myself that her get-up was a bit risqué.  It was formal, elegant, and yet revealed body parts – all which was quite unusual.  But I didn’t care.  To me she was the quintessential Suzanne that Leonard Cohen had invented – the one who took lovers down to the river and fed them tea and oranges that came all the way from China.

Maria pretty much told me her life history.  She worked for a travel agency in Lisbon.  She had been in Lisbon for three years.  She said when people hear she is from Brazil they automatically think she is a prostitute.  She was tired of guys using her, just wanting sex, she said.  

Recently she flew to Tenerife to see her German boyfriend and he turned out to be a Nazi.  She said he bit her on her ass and on her breasts and left marks.  She said she was held hostage.  He would not allow her to leave.  

As we entered the Brazilian bar, we passed a guitarist/singer who was playing just inside the door.  We walked toward the back until we found a place at the bar.  A couple of times Maria walked to the musician to request a song.  One of her requests was The Girl from Ipanema.  

We had a beer or two in that place, and then decided to leave.  We walked down the hill – down many steps and inclines until we got to The Paseo – the Grand Boulevard.  She had a room near Restoradores Square.  I walked her to her building and could see that just inside the door a young woman was sitting at a desk to sign in people.  It looked like a college dormitory.  Maria gave me her mobile number and said she was going to Estoril Beach the next day and wanted me to go with her.  She added that she loved the beach, but hated it because all the men think she is so sexy and will not leave her alone.

I passed on her offer, even though it sounded like it could be an interesting experience.  I am pretty sure she had a skimpy string bikini from Brazil which was going to overwhelm everyone on the beach, and that the vicious cycle of men wanting her for sex, and her fighting them off would continue.

Elmira, New York

I wasn’t that excited about going to the Remington Rand factory outing even though everything was free – all the food, the beer – everything. It only happened one time a year, always in the summer – the very best time to be in Elmira, New York.

While the prospect of free food and beer was tempting, the problem was I had no one to go with. I did not really know that many people who worked at the Remington Rand typewriter factory. Most of the people I met there were old farts who had worked there forever. I did not know if my new lunch buddies would make it. It was fun to chat with them during lunch in the factory canteen, but I had not really become friends outside of that twenty-five minutes when we had to huff down our lunches.

I kind of hoped I would run into Nicky Blue, my favorite lunch person. She had just bought a brand new Mustang convertible – and I could see myself riding in that thing out on Route 17 with the wind blowing through my hair.

Since I had nothing else to do, I got into the Rambler and headed out for South Main Street. I figured I’d just go in, get something to eat and drink, and not hang around.

The outing was in a huge field. It was a field where I had played intermediate league baseball several years earlier. With all the people gathered, one could not make out that it was also a baseball field.

I was getting my first beer at one of the stands and felt a light tap on my shoulder. I turned around and there was Nina Marcuse with a big smile on her face. She was like the Sophia Loren of the “other side of the tracks” in our high school – and a couple of years younger than me. Because we were from the Southside, we were all actually from “the other side of the tracks,” but we didn’t know it. Pretty much all of us were oblivious to the realities of socio-economic stratification at that time.

Every guy in school dreamed of being with Nina and probably had wet dreams about being with her. She and I bonded instantly. I guess she had hesitated to come to the factory outing also, maybe thinking that she would not find anyone she knew. So somehow, right from that first moment, without saying so exactly, we both knew that we were going to “hang together” and have a blast at the outing.

If getting drunk together was in the cards, so be it. In those days there was no shame or serious consequence to getting drunk – or even getting drunk and driving. The only real consequence was getting killed in a car wreck, and we already had more than several from our high school who had been killed in wrecks – but we didn’t think about that. That’s the way it was. And in the working class cities of the northeast, it was the norm.

It wasn’t long before Nina and I were walking around the crowded grounds with our arms around each other. We were in heaven. When they announced that the outing had come to an end there was no way that we were going to separate ourselves from the life that was unfolding on that day. We took off in my grandfather’s Rambler and drove around – ending up at Eldridge Park. We had a riot there getting on many of the rides. On the roller coaster, Nina squeezed me so tightly I couldn’t breathe. In the spook house, she put her tongue so far down my throat I thought I was going to choke. I felt like the heavens had opened up and I had been accepted into the good place.

The time at the amusement park helped us to get a second wind from the beers we drank at the outing. When it got dark we decided to move on. We went to Myhalyk’s – a restaurant/dance venue – and we danced our asses off. When a slow one came on we glued ourselves to each other and sensuously swayed in tandem, bringing up passionate bodily reactions, but we were still both (at least me) inexperienced in the ultimate point in the art of physical love.

When it got late I drove her home. Outside her house, which was rather run-down, I yanked on the seat lever of the Rambler and the seats slammed back shocking the hell out of Nina. I thought we were headed in a love-making direction, but it was an immature move on my part. Nina, being much more sophisticated than me, preferred that we go into her house. So we got out of the car and entered her living room — and immediately landed on the couch.

We both kept our clothes on and humped like Zimbabwan baboons in heat. We were so wildly driven that Nina’s pants ripped right up the seam of her crotch. I wanted to marry this girl – right then. That’s when she told me about her thirty-five year old boyfriend.

“What? You serious?”
“Yeah, I like you, but I am going with this guy. He takes good care of me.”
“Well, I can take care of you too.”

She gave me a huge hug and said, “Well… I had a great time with you.”

I slowly drove back to my parent’s place, and realized that what had just happened was a poignant way to end the summer. I also realized that I was in no position to take care of anybody. Maybe not even myself.

The City

“Everybody living in a city should be able to see a tree from their own window… They should have no trouble finding a bench in a public space to sit on, or finding a place for their children to play no more than a few minutes from their home. These should all be basic human rights.”
Richard Rogers

The Tribal Leader’s Warning

The Tribal Leader’s Warning

Don’t leave our tribe.

You’ll ruin your life.

You’ll get out there and meet people

Who aren’t like us.

They’ll put different ideas into your head.

They’ll have you doing strange things

That will feel weird,

But you’ll get used to it

And believe it’s normal.

They are not our ways.

You’ll be poisoned.

And when you come back,

If you come back,

You won’t be accepted here.

You’ll be an outcast.

Not because of us, but because of you.

You won’t be understood.

Our people will not understand

How you can accept others

As our equals.

Teaching Children Who Have Given Up

Teaching Children Who Have Given Up

 Teacher Problem: 

“I have worked with some really unmotivated children who I have failed to reach, and I don’t believe your suggestions will work.”

Greg’s Response: 

I am guessing that you have had experience working with, or observing children who have given up and who have perhaps exhibited some anti-social behavior,  or some sort of learning problem.

I have observed children who exhibit low levels of motivation and, indeed, appear to be learning disabled, emotional disturbed, non-complaint, and so forth.  It has been my experience, over a number of years that these same children respond positively to an environment that respects their experiences and concerns, and which helps them succeed at their specific “zone of proximal development.”

I have not seen these children benefit from either a traditional classroom environment, nor from any “special” pull-out program that was designed to meet their needs.  However, I have seen these children excel in a workshop environment when there is a teacher who is well-trained and who has a belief in the conditions of learning that are described by Brian Cambourne.

Children are lucky if they get to experience what we sometimes call “good first teaching.”  The children who don’t get it, and who tend to get confused with the abstractions and often impersonal nature of a traditional learning environment often give up and decide they are out of the game, becoming behavior problems, learning to become helpless, or becoming a confusion to the adults around them.  If a child misses an opportunity for “good first teaching” in Kindergarten, 1st grade, and 2nd grade — approaches must be made to bring the child back to who he or she really is.  Sometimes these children get suckered into taking on a persona that makes them appear defective.  They often become self-involved in failure.  If these children are not jump-started (of course without blowing their cover) , the consequences can be catastrophic for the child and his family, in terms of the child’s mental health and limited options in this society — options for emotional growth, employment opportunities, opportunities for advanced study, and the wherewithal to become an effective parent and a contributing citizen.

The key to jump-starting a child who is having serious difficulty is two-fold:

(1) Re-introducing the child to the capable individual that he is — this often comes from spending high quality moments with the child in an arena that does not overwhelm him or her with concerns of school.  Sometimes this can happen on the playground, the basketball court, before school, after school – or working collaboratively on something, like an aquarium.  It also involves conversations with the child about real life —  like about flat tires on bicycles, football cards, dancing, music, surfing, etc.  Once a sense of trust begins to develop between the child and at least one school adult then…

(2) …the child is ready to get involved in things like “reading to, with, and by,” and writing his or her own books either through a writing process where he receives support, or with a technique called “innovation on text.”

We know enough now to reach every child, but there are no silver bullets or quick fixes.  Effective child development takes time.  If the child can talk — he can learn to read and write – under the right conditions as long as he has a teacher who is cognizant of the “principles of engagement.”

Something that reminds me of the promise of success for children who are experiencing difficulty is a quote (I’ll paraphrase) by Vygotsky: “What a child can do with help today, he can do on his own tomorrow.”  This statement summarizes Vygotsky’s theory of the “zone of proximal development.”  It requires us to adjust what we are doing to meet the child where he is — NOT where the curriculum is, or where someone working in some office in Kansas City who writes textbooks thinks the kid ought to be.  This is why it is so important that our kids have “up-to-date, with-it” teachers.

Is it easy to deal with a kid who has given up?  You know the answer.  It can be challenging as well as frustrating.  But with a lot of patience and faith, and using good theory and research, it can be done – and must be done.

Montreal

Montreal

 Willie Zakel was the perfect travel partner to head out with for my first international experience.  He had avoided reform school only because his parents sent him from Virginia to live with his uncle, who was our high school wrestling coach in upstate New York.  I didn’t really think he would go with me when I asked him – but he jumped at the idea – and why wouldn’t he?  He had absolutely nothing going on in his life.

 I had just finished my first week of a summer job at the Remington Rand typewriter factory and had just got paid.  The World Expo was going on in Montreal – and I thought it would be an extraordinary experience to drive there and visit the Expo and the city of Montreal.

 Since Charlie, my grandfather, had had a stroke and could not drive anymore, I considered his Nash Rambler partly mine.  Its well-known feature was that the front seats popped down and turned the entire car into a double bed.  In those days though, no kid my age wanted to get caught driving a Nash Rambler.  It was known as an “uncool” car.  It was not in the same league as Chevrolet’s and Ford’s.  But its redeeming value, and the saving grace for me, was that those seats popped down with one quick pull of a lever.  There was something slightly naughty about driving a car that had seats that you could turn it into a bed in a matter of seconds.  Never mind that the only time that could be exciting for a kid my age was if you had a girl with you who was wild enough and loose enough to agree to pull that lever.  Aside from that fantasy – if you had some gas money and time on your hands you could go on a road trip with your buddies and sleep in the car and avoid paying for a motel.  People would see me driving and yell, “Hey, how ‘bout those seats?  You tried ’em out yet?”

 Willie and I bullshit all the way from Elmira to Montreal.  We had a lot to talk about.  He just finished his senior year of high school and I just barely survived my first year of college.  So we had a lot of catching up to do.  Mainly I wanted to know what had gone on at Southside High that year.  I wanted all the crazy details – like who did what to whom, what crazy things happened, who got arrested, who got a new car, were there any wild parties, etc.

 Once we hit the outskirts of Montreal all the signs were in French, which threw me into unfamiliar psychological territory moving at seventy miles per hour.  The highway was jammed with cars and huge trucks speeding by us as I tried to decipher what the signs were saying, and where we should get off.  I felt out of control but we kept going.  My main goal was just to keep the Rambler in one lane.

 Once it looked like we were actually inside Montreal we managed to get off the highway.  We turned onto a side street to look at our map.  It was apparent, even after looking at the map, that we had no idea where the hell we were.  We just knew we were in Montreal – and that was our first objective – so we weren’t freaking out yet.  It was about one in the morning by that time, so we decided we needed to get some sleep and attack the World Expo the next day.  We drove around looking for a place to pull over and drop down the seats, pull a blanket over us, and go to sleep, which is what we did.

 Our sleep was interrupted at about three a.m. when a powerful spotlight was directed at our faces.  I squinted toward the light to see what was going on.  I could hear someone’s voice, but was blinded by the light.  I tried to figure out if we were being held up, or if it was just a dream, or if some jerk-off was trying to get smart with us.  When the light was directed around the inside of the car I could make out a police officer’s hat – and then his uniform, so I rolled the window down a bit.  The officer grunted, “What are you doing here?”

 I said, “We came to Montreal for the World Expo and got tired so we pulled over to sleep a bit.”

 He said, “Well, you are parked right in front of the police station!”

 I said, “Really?  Gosh, I’m sorry about that!  We’ll move out of here right now.”

 He said, “Look, you can pull into our parking lot and sleep there for the night, and no one will bother you.”

 I said, “That’s really nice of you.  We’ll pull over there now.”

 The next morning we straightened up the car – got the seats back in their upright position and started driving around.  Willie wanted to get a donut so we stopped at some kind of a convenient food mart.  On the way out of the store we asked a young guy how we could get to the Expo.  He was proud that we had bothered to cross an international border to come and visit Montreal, his hometown, and the Expo.  He became our temporary advisor.  He said, “Look, here’s what I think you ought to do.  I wouldn’t try to drive to the Expo – too many cars and no place to park.  There’s a subway station near here.  I’d advise you to park your car around here and take the metro right into the Expo – you’ll get there quickly, it’s cheap and you won’t have to hassle around with parking your car.  You’ll just have to remember where you parked it.”

 So Jean-Paul, that was his name, jumped into the car with us and helped us find a spot to park.  He was on his way to work downtown so he said he’d show us how to get to a subway station.  He said, “I wish I could go with you guys, but I have to work.  I’m sure you’ll have a blast.”

 Willie and I were feeling really good about our trip.  So far we had not had any problems and both the cops and a private citizen were looking out for us.  I mean we weren’t ready to move to Montreal yet – but we started thinking about the possibility.

 The Expo was like something neither of us had ever seen before.  The closest thing to it that I had ever seen was Eldridge Park – but that was like nothing compared to the Expo.  Willie kept mumbling something about The Block in Baltimore, and the more he talked about it the luckier I felt that I had never been there.

 The Expo was bright with so many sights and pavilions.  I couldn’t understand why the Russian pavilion was full of consumer products like TV sets and radios.  Like big deal.  I expected to see something from the future, not the past.  Many of the exhibits and pavilions, however, were extraordinary.  In addition, there were scads of eating spots and beer stands.  We savored being in an environment that was truly exciting and different.  The sky was blue and there were beautiful women everywhere.

 At night we went into the city of Montreal to do some exploring.  It was full of both elegant as well as youthful, hippie-type venues.  We were truly foreigners – literally and figuratively – but we didn’t have money to blow at any of these venues.  We had to be happy just being able to peek in on a level of life that was foreign and exciting.

 On the subway ride back to our car we encountered families and couples who were speaking only French.  I spotted this gorgeous young lady with light blue short shorts and a sleeveless white top.  She was with her family, who were also friendly.  We smiled at each other, but somehow assumed that language was the barrier blocking our venturing into what could become a mad love relationship.

 I thought about what Mrs. Odom, our high school French teacher had told us when we appeared especially uninterested in learning French.  She said, “Someday you will find yourself in a situation where you’ll wish you could communicate in French.”  I said to myself, “She’s full of shit.  I’ll never be in a situation where I will use this stuff.”  I was kicking myself in the ass now.  If I had paid better attention in French class I might now be able to make it with this beautiful young lady who seemed interested in communicating with me.

 Somehow “Comment allez-vous?” came out of my mouth.  I didn’t understand her response but I came back with “Comment vous-appelez vous?”  I understood her to say “Gla.”  I said, “Gla?”  She said, “Oui.”  OK, I had never heard of that name before – but OK, I got her name.  I got to first base.  Willie was sitting there taking it all in.  I doubt if Willie had ever heard a foreign language before.

 Gla (Claire) and I struggled with efforts to communicate.  She spoke no English.  Her family tried to help.  Then it happened – we got to her subway stop.  Wait!  What the hell!  I can’t let this thing end without some sort of closure.  Claire got up to get off the subway and I yelled, “Willie, we’re getting off here!”  He said, “Yeah man, no problem.”  We got off and all of us – Claire’s family, Willie, and me – stood near the tracks while I attempted to get Claire’s phone number.  I think I got it right – and it was obvious that the family had to move on.  I asked, “Are you from Montreal?”  She said, “No – Grand Mere.”  I said to myself, “OK, I got her number – we’ll figure out the rest later.”  I said, “OK, Je telephone vous, OK?”  She smiled and said, “Oui!”

 For me, the Montreal trip was over.  What else could happen that could top what had happened so far?  Willie and I somehow got back onto the next subway train and got off at our stop where the Rambler was parked.  We drove around Montreal until it got light out.  We were both high on bliss.  As soon as the sky started to turn pink, we found the highway and headed back to New York State.

 The Montreal trip with Willie fueled my thirst for international travel.  On our way back to Elmira the discussion focused on where next?  With no funds to finance our explorations we had to be content with thinking about the Finger Lakes area.  Even New York City was too far and too costly for us to consider.

 I was able to reach Claire by phone and got her address.  We corresponded throughout my college years although we never saw each other again.

Did He Really Say That?

 
Did He Really Say That?
 
Did the Buddha really say
What goes around comes around?
Because if he didn’t
I could be saving a lot of money.
I wouldn’t have to give coins
To the lady who sleeps
Under the stairwell
With her dog that wears the kerchief.

Free Will Up to a Point

I Got the Candles Lit