“I NEED to stay in touch with my friends,” my student said. Maggie was a high school senior, a good student, and a STAR—Student Technology Adviser. Now she was in trouble for creating a work-around to access Facebook on the school network. “My Facebook friends are the only thing keeping me going,” she wailed, “the people I met at High Status University this summer. My brother goes there; my parents expect me to go there, too.” I wondered if those expectations were hers, to measure up to her brother. Maggie wiped her eyes with a tissue. “I NEED to get into High Status University.” I recognized her my-life-is-over-if-I-don’t-get-what-I-want desperation and confusion of needs—food, water, job, housing—versus wants, things we think will improve our lives. After saying some consoling words, I informed her of the five-day network suspension and invited her to come talk to me anytime. Maggie did not get into High Status University, but Excellent University welcomed her. After her freshman year, she came to visit and told me that High Status University’s rejection had been for the best. She’d found good friends at Excellent University, challenging academic programs, and a good-fit place separate from her brother. God had placed her where she could meet all her needs and many wants. No confusion about that.
Dec 19, 2023·edited Dec 19, 2023Liked by M Tamara Cutler
Spring 1995: I was full-on in my exploration of post-Communist East Berlin, guided by my West German sweetheart, who had moved to the city after high school to avoid military conscription. Like many young people, he lived in a squat in the east of the city.
It was my first Walpurgis Night, celebrated on April 30 with dancing around bonfires—more embracing the idea of witches than driving them away. This preceded the first of May, notorious in Berlin for left and far-left protests accompanied by clashes with the police.
Looking for action, my BF and I strolled through the nearby park, dressed in our requisite combat boots and bandana around the neck (to hide/protect the face if needed). The atmosphere of revelry shifted to anxious excitement with the arrival of the anti-riot squad, and then pandemonium when a flying cobblestone triggered their violent response. Charging the crowd, they were met by a surge of collective resistance. Blasts from a water cannon and clouds of tear gas followed in quick succession, causing young and old to flee in all directions.
Even amidst the confusion, a sense of solidarity buoyed our spirits. Seasoned protestors shared lemon slices to help relieve the effects of the gas as we huddled together in an inner courtyard. It was a night to remember.
Dec 21, 2023·edited Dec 21, 2023Liked by M Tamara Cutler
If I shout loud enough, he hears me, but still doesn’t listen. I guess that’s part of Paul’s charm. A determined, go-it-alone approach. As his surrogate “son” and singular heir on his handwritten will, I’m first in line to receive a collection of 1st place cycling and running trophies, worn shoes, and two dogs. I keep a close watch on my friend from a distance. Paul’s lack of hearing is understandable, being 95% deaf with cochlear implants that regularly malfunction, but his habit of not listening is a choice.
His latest quirk, exclusively dating women from Russia and Ukraine, is confusing. They can barely communicate. He doesn’t speak Russian and they don’t do English, so on my weekly visits for our routine fifty-kilometer mountain bike ride, I’m witness to frantic hand gestures punctuated by pauses for Google Translate. One time, I suggested he wait a few months before executing his plan to marry a girlfriend from Russia, but he ignored me then drove to Gibraltar and got hitched anyway. That marriage lasted a couple of weeks before she high tailed it back to Vladivostok. He admitted I told him so.
I’ve asked Paul what this attraction is. He says, “I’m over 70. Why not?” I joke it’s a subconscious desire to be slightly confused and infuriated. Maybe it’s his way to cope with the handicap, a non-direct releasing of steam. I have learned a great deal observing my friend from Lancashire. I’ve even incorporated his most common utterance, “Ah well,” which perfectly sums up just about anything life can throw at us.
“I NEED to stay in touch with my friends,” my student said. Maggie was a high school senior, a good student, and a STAR—Student Technology Adviser. Now she was in trouble for creating a work-around to access Facebook on the school network. “My Facebook friends are the only thing keeping me going,” she wailed, “the people I met at High Status University this summer. My brother goes there; my parents expect me to go there, too.” I wondered if those expectations were hers, to measure up to her brother. Maggie wiped her eyes with a tissue. “I NEED to get into High Status University.” I recognized her my-life-is-over-if-I-don’t-get-what-I-want desperation and confusion of needs—food, water, job, housing—versus wants, things we think will improve our lives. After saying some consoling words, I informed her of the five-day network suspension and invited her to come talk to me anytime. Maggie did not get into High Status University, but Excellent University welcomed her. After her freshman year, she came to visit and told me that High Status University’s rejection had been for the best. She’d found good friends at Excellent University, challenging academic programs, and a good-fit place separate from her brother. God had placed her where she could meet all her needs and many wants. No confusion about that.
Spring 1995: I was full-on in my exploration of post-Communist East Berlin, guided by my West German sweetheart, who had moved to the city after high school to avoid military conscription. Like many young people, he lived in a squat in the east of the city.
It was my first Walpurgis Night, celebrated on April 30 with dancing around bonfires—more embracing the idea of witches than driving them away. This preceded the first of May, notorious in Berlin for left and far-left protests accompanied by clashes with the police.
Looking for action, my BF and I strolled through the nearby park, dressed in our requisite combat boots and bandana around the neck (to hide/protect the face if needed). The atmosphere of revelry shifted to anxious excitement with the arrival of the anti-riot squad, and then pandemonium when a flying cobblestone triggered their violent response. Charging the crowd, they were met by a surge of collective resistance. Blasts from a water cannon and clouds of tear gas followed in quick succession, causing young and old to flee in all directions.
Even amidst the confusion, a sense of solidarity buoyed our spirits. Seasoned protestors shared lemon slices to help relieve the effects of the gas as we huddled together in an inner courtyard. It was a night to remember.
If I shout loud enough, he hears me, but still doesn’t listen. I guess that’s part of Paul’s charm. A determined, go-it-alone approach. As his surrogate “son” and singular heir on his handwritten will, I’m first in line to receive a collection of 1st place cycling and running trophies, worn shoes, and two dogs. I keep a close watch on my friend from a distance. Paul’s lack of hearing is understandable, being 95% deaf with cochlear implants that regularly malfunction, but his habit of not listening is a choice.
His latest quirk, exclusively dating women from Russia and Ukraine, is confusing. They can barely communicate. He doesn’t speak Russian and they don’t do English, so on my weekly visits for our routine fifty-kilometer mountain bike ride, I’m witness to frantic hand gestures punctuated by pauses for Google Translate. One time, I suggested he wait a few months before executing his plan to marry a girlfriend from Russia, but he ignored me then drove to Gibraltar and got hitched anyway. That marriage lasted a couple of weeks before she high tailed it back to Vladivostok. He admitted I told him so.
I’ve asked Paul what this attraction is. He says, “I’m over 70. Why not?” I joke it’s a subconscious desire to be slightly confused and infuriated. Maybe it’s his way to cope with the handicap, a non-direct releasing of steam. I have learned a great deal observing my friend from Lancashire. I’ve even incorporated his most common utterance, “Ah well,” which perfectly sums up just about anything life can throw at us.