My name is Anne Johnson, and my religion is under attack. I'm glad to see that someone in the government is willing to do something about it.
Last month, attorney general Jeff Sessions announced a new Religious Liberty Task Force as part of the Department of Justice. As Mr. Sessions put it so eloquently, "a dangerous movement, undetected by many, is now challenging and eroding our great tradition of religious freedom."
How did he know?
As a Pagan, I have closely held religious beliefs that are under attack all the time!
Let's take a small example: holy days. I have never, ever had the right to worship on Samhain or Imbolc without incurring a financial penalty. My choices, on my recognized religious holidays, are to take a personal day or a sick day. Now let's say that my state compensates its workers for unused sick and personal days. Over my ten years of teaching, I have lost $700 on Halloween alone! Is this fair? This challenges my tradition of religious freedom!
I expect shortly to see Mr. Sessions address this. By next year, all Americans should have a day (or two) off for Halloween. This dangerous movement away from religion needs to be curbed, and I mean right now.
Now let's take a larger example of my closely held religious beliefs as a Pagan. I believe in personal agency, in the freedom each individual has over his or her body. If, say, a court of law overturned precedents that provide women the right to choose how to govern their own bodies, I would find that an attack on my free exercise of closely held religious beliefs. If nuns can be excused from providing health care that includes contraceptives, then a Pagan employer should be required to provide health care that includes contraceptives. It's a belief that we live by.
I expect shortly to see Mr. Sessions address this. We shouldn't waste any time, because there are a lot of young women out there who need the protection of the Pagan path in order to secure their personal agency!
According to our attorney general, "Religious Americans are no longer an afterthought." Well, thank all the Gods and Goddesses for that! I don't want to be an afterthought! Not when I can use my platform as a public school teacher to promote interest in my faith! Gone are the days when I will deflect questions about the magic wand I keep on my desk. Now, that wand is a "teachable moment." I might write a whole "back to school" blog post about how to make your teacher desk an altar to the Gods, Ancestors, and Nature Spirits. Afterthought, indeed!
Yes, it's time to restore religion to its proper place in our Godsless society. I'm sure Mr. Sessions will take the steps I have requested above as part of his Religious Liberty Task Force. And Jeff, you are welcome any time to drop by my classroom and see how my faith and my beliefs are lived out every day as a shining example to my students.
Blessed be!
Wednesday, August 15, 2018
Sunday, August 05, 2018
Magic Wands and Why You Need One
Hello and welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" I'm your hostess, Anne. I have a magic wand. Two, actually: one for ritual, one for everyday. In a post below I explained how to make a magic wand for everyday use. You don't need some polished, expensive craftsman-made item! In fact, that item probably has its maker's mark on it too deeply. A self-made wand. That's what you want.
But why do you need a wand? Why are you reading this? Did you Google "use a magic wand" and find me? If so, howdy!
If you're a regular tourist on this site, you too might want to consider making a working wand. I've been writing "The Gods Are Bored" since 2005, and I've been alive a lot longer than that, and I have never known a time when I was more in need of a magic wand.
Maybe you've noticed, things are scary out there.
Maybe you've noticed that people are carrying guns.
Maybe you hear people talk harshly about other people who look like you, or feel like you do.
Maybe you have to keep deep secrets about yourself ... things you wish you could talk about with your friends and family.
Maybe you wonder why God is male, and why He tortures people for eternity if they don't follow His narrow path.
Maybe you feel a profound disconnect between what you see and hear from the president (or about him) and the respect he gets from your parents, your church, your community.
Maybe someone you love is sick or dying. Maybe someone you love has just died.
Maybe you have a child, or children, and you want something different for them. Something better.
Maybe you are struggling with drugs. Alcohol. Body image. Identity. Gender. You are struggling all alone, so far as you know.
Well, a wand is a helper, not a cure-all. But would you rather have help, or nothing? Halfway there is better than never getting started.
Your magic wand has two purposes: protection and comfort. You cannot damage another person with your wand. (Better said: just don't do it ... Do you want to be worse than the worst person you know?) But you can preserve and protect yourself.
Remember that wands help turn your intentions (sort of like deep wishes) into actions.
Magic wands give protective power to people who feel powerless. They stem from a time when the forces in power -- the king, his lords, the Church, the law -- could prey upon ordinary folks with no consequences. But a wand. A wand. In the right hands, whether known or secret, a wand could stem the damage. It is the work of the Old Ones to heal and protect. The Old Ones, lingering in the shadows but never overshadowed, have seen all of this before. They give you the idea to create a wand. They give your wand the magic, so you can ride through these storms.
Grasp your wand lightly by the Earth end and say, "This wand brings me peace. This wand brings me power. This wand stands between me and the mayhem."
Start there. It works.
But why do you need a wand? Why are you reading this? Did you Google "use a magic wand" and find me? If so, howdy!
If you're a regular tourist on this site, you too might want to consider making a working wand. I've been writing "The Gods Are Bored" since 2005, and I've been alive a lot longer than that, and I have never known a time when I was more in need of a magic wand.
Maybe you've noticed, things are scary out there.
Maybe you've noticed that people are carrying guns.
Maybe you hear people talk harshly about other people who look like you, or feel like you do.
Maybe you have to keep deep secrets about yourself ... things you wish you could talk about with your friends and family.
Maybe you wonder why God is male, and why He tortures people for eternity if they don't follow His narrow path.
Maybe you feel a profound disconnect between what you see and hear from the president (or about him) and the respect he gets from your parents, your church, your community.
Maybe someone you love is sick or dying. Maybe someone you love has just died.
Maybe you have a child, or children, and you want something different for them. Something better.
Maybe you are struggling with drugs. Alcohol. Body image. Identity. Gender. You are struggling all alone, so far as you know.
Well, a wand is a helper, not a cure-all. But would you rather have help, or nothing? Halfway there is better than never getting started.
Your magic wand has two purposes: protection and comfort. You cannot damage another person with your wand. (Better said: just don't do it ... Do you want to be worse than the worst person you know?) But you can preserve and protect yourself.
Remember that wands help turn your intentions (sort of like deep wishes) into actions.
Magic wands give protective power to people who feel powerless. They stem from a time when the forces in power -- the king, his lords, the Church, the law -- could prey upon ordinary folks with no consequences. But a wand. A wand. In the right hands, whether known or secret, a wand could stem the damage. It is the work of the Old Ones to heal and protect. The Old Ones, lingering in the shadows but never overshadowed, have seen all of this before. They give you the idea to create a wand. They give your wand the magic, so you can ride through these storms.
Grasp your wand lightly by the Earth end and say, "This wand brings me peace. This wand brings me power. This wand stands between me and the mayhem."
Start there. It works.
Monday, July 30, 2018
Magic Wands and Romantic Love
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," witchy stuff by a witch and for anyone who is interested in witchcraft! I'm especially glad to hear from you if you're having a crisis of faith with some other religion, and yet you still feel spiritual -- and curious.
In a post below I explain in simple steps how to make a magic wand. I have a working wand, and I take it with me often. (In fact, I just lost my working wand at a LARP, so I have to make a new one.)
In another post below, I explain what you can do with a wand, and what doesn't work.
So now we find ourselves at perhaps the #1 reason that young people want to try wands and spell work: love! Of course! You need supernatural help to get that certain someone to look your way!
Okay. Before you do, please read the following cautionary tale. I didn't write it. My good friend Anansi the Trickster Spider God didn't write it either (although He wouldn't mind taking credit for it).
LOVE POTION NUMBER 9
There was an old man who ran a shop that sold potions and other magical items. One day a young man came into the shop and said, "Tell me, kind sir. Do you have any potion that will cause someone to fall deeply and completely in love with me? There's this girl ... and she has no interest in me ... and I want to change that. I want her to be so in love with me that she wants to build her whole world around me."
"I have a potion that will do that," the man said. "All you have to do is fling it into her Diet Coke."
"Wow!" shouted the happy young man. "How much does it cost?"
The old man smiled. "Five dollars," he said.
The young man couldn't believe his luck. Five dollars! That was something even he could afford! He parted with the money, and the old man gave him the potion.
The young man wasted no time finding his crush, and he sneaked the potion into her drink. Not five minutes later, she struck up a conversation with him, and within an hour she was hanging on his every word. He took her out to dinner. Then they went to the club. And then they went to his place, where she was on fire for his bones like he just couldn't believe!
The next morning the alarm went off. The young man was due at work.
"Don't tell me you're leaving!" the girl said. "Stay awhile! I don't want to be without you."
So the guy called in sick. He spent the whole day with his ladylove. They had a swell time, going out to eat, strolling in the park, and OH yeah, more of that bedroom activity!
But alas, morning rolled around again, and this time the young man had to go to work. His new girlfriend actually cried. She said she didn't know how she would get through the day without him. He kissed her goodbye and went to work.
She texted him every 15 minutes and called him three times before lunch. After lunch she started calling every hour to find out when he would be home. When she wasn't tying up the phone, she was texting nonstop, including some photos that were definitely NSFW.
When the guy got home from work, his girlfriend mobbed him at the door and smothered him with kisses. She had prepared a lavish dinner for them, and she stared lovingly at him throughout it. Then he remembered that it was Dev Night.
"Sweetie," he said, "every Tuesday I go to Dev Night. That's where a bunch of us talk about video games we are creating ... you know, throwing ideas back and forth, checking out the coding, critiquing other video games ... I always go."
Again the girl began to cry. She said she couldn't stand it if he was out without her, after she had to spend the whole day without him. She begged him to take her along, so he did. The whole night she clung to his arm and tried to distract him from the conversations. But when they got home, OH yeah! Back in the sack! He didn't sleep too well with her curled around him like a python, but what's a guy gonna do?
Every day was the same. The girlfriend would scream and cry when he had to leave for work. She would text and call him relentlessly until he returned, and then she wouldn't let him out of her sight. He couldn't get a beer with the boys. He couldn't even watch a ball game without her climbing all over him. She seemed to have no other life than just him. All the time.
Finally the young man went back to see the old fellow who made the love potions. The old man didn't seem very surprised to see him.
"Say, remember that love potion you sold me?" the young man asked.
"Of course I do," the old man responded.
"Well, do you have any potions that can undo the potion you gave me?"
"Of course I do!" exclaimed the old man. "I wouldn't make a potion that didn't have an antidote."
"Well," the young man said, "How much is the antidote? I really need it."
The old man stroked his chin. "Ten thousand dollars," he replied.
Now look at old Anansi! He's really disappointed He didn't come up with this one! I know, Anansi. It's a doozy.
How, you ask, does this charming tale relate to your magic wand and how you might use it to make someone fall in love with you? I'll just say this: Weaving love magic is tricky business. There's an old saying, "Be careful what you wish for, because you just might get it." That gal or dude you are sizing up for a magic-wand-moment might not be exactly what you bargained for.
This is a roundabout way of saying that I personally do not recommend using a magic wand to make someone fall in love with you. But stay tuned, because wands are really, really terrific at making you fall in love with yourself.
See you soon!
In a post below I explain in simple steps how to make a magic wand. I have a working wand, and I take it with me often. (In fact, I just lost my working wand at a LARP, so I have to make a new one.)
In another post below, I explain what you can do with a wand, and what doesn't work.
So now we find ourselves at perhaps the #1 reason that young people want to try wands and spell work: love! Of course! You need supernatural help to get that certain someone to look your way!
Okay. Before you do, please read the following cautionary tale. I didn't write it. My good friend Anansi the Trickster Spider God didn't write it either (although He wouldn't mind taking credit for it).
LOVE POTION NUMBER 9
There was an old man who ran a shop that sold potions and other magical items. One day a young man came into the shop and said, "Tell me, kind sir. Do you have any potion that will cause someone to fall deeply and completely in love with me? There's this girl ... and she has no interest in me ... and I want to change that. I want her to be so in love with me that she wants to build her whole world around me."
"I have a potion that will do that," the man said. "All you have to do is fling it into her Diet Coke."
"Wow!" shouted the happy young man. "How much does it cost?"
The old man smiled. "Five dollars," he said.
The young man couldn't believe his luck. Five dollars! That was something even he could afford! He parted with the money, and the old man gave him the potion.
The young man wasted no time finding his crush, and he sneaked the potion into her drink. Not five minutes later, she struck up a conversation with him, and within an hour she was hanging on his every word. He took her out to dinner. Then they went to the club. And then they went to his place, where she was on fire for his bones like he just couldn't believe!
The next morning the alarm went off. The young man was due at work.
"Don't tell me you're leaving!" the girl said. "Stay awhile! I don't want to be without you."
So the guy called in sick. He spent the whole day with his ladylove. They had a swell time, going out to eat, strolling in the park, and OH yeah, more of that bedroom activity!
But alas, morning rolled around again, and this time the young man had to go to work. His new girlfriend actually cried. She said she didn't know how she would get through the day without him. He kissed her goodbye and went to work.
She texted him every 15 minutes and called him three times before lunch. After lunch she started calling every hour to find out when he would be home. When she wasn't tying up the phone, she was texting nonstop, including some photos that were definitely NSFW.
When the guy got home from work, his girlfriend mobbed him at the door and smothered him with kisses. She had prepared a lavish dinner for them, and she stared lovingly at him throughout it. Then he remembered that it was Dev Night.
"Sweetie," he said, "every Tuesday I go to Dev Night. That's where a bunch of us talk about video games we are creating ... you know, throwing ideas back and forth, checking out the coding, critiquing other video games ... I always go."
Again the girl began to cry. She said she couldn't stand it if he was out without her, after she had to spend the whole day without him. She begged him to take her along, so he did. The whole night she clung to his arm and tried to distract him from the conversations. But when they got home, OH yeah! Back in the sack! He didn't sleep too well with her curled around him like a python, but what's a guy gonna do?
Every day was the same. The girlfriend would scream and cry when he had to leave for work. She would text and call him relentlessly until he returned, and then she wouldn't let him out of her sight. He couldn't get a beer with the boys. He couldn't even watch a ball game without her climbing all over him. She seemed to have no other life than just him. All the time.
Finally the young man went back to see the old fellow who made the love potions. The old man didn't seem very surprised to see him.
"Say, remember that love potion you sold me?" the young man asked.
"Of course I do," the old man responded.
"Well, do you have any potions that can undo the potion you gave me?"
"Of course I do!" exclaimed the old man. "I wouldn't make a potion that didn't have an antidote."
"Well," the young man said, "How much is the antidote? I really need it."
The old man stroked his chin. "Ten thousand dollars," he replied.
Now look at old Anansi! He's really disappointed He didn't come up with this one! I know, Anansi. It's a doozy.
How, you ask, does this charming tale relate to your magic wand and how you might use it to make someone fall in love with you? I'll just say this: Weaving love magic is tricky business. There's an old saying, "Be careful what you wish for, because you just might get it." That gal or dude you are sizing up for a magic-wand-moment might not be exactly what you bargained for.
This is a roundabout way of saying that I personally do not recommend using a magic wand to make someone fall in love with you. But stay tuned, because wands are really, really terrific at making you fall in love with yourself.
See you soon!
Thursday, July 26, 2018
How Do Magic Wands Work?
Hello, and welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," dedicated to Gods and ancestors and Nature Spirits and Sacred Animals and Silly Tricksters ... and not necessarily in that order! My name is Anne Johnson (really), and I've hovered over the proceedings here since 2005.
Before I address the complicated question of how magic wands work, I feel like I should offer my credentials as a Pagan, so you'll know I'm not a phony or anything.
I see faeries. I worship vultures. I am crackerjack at explaining weird dreams.
No diploma, no particular set Path or pantheon. "To me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle." (Walt Whitman) And that's good enough for me. So, we will proceed.
In the movies, people point wands, and stuff explodes. Or they point wands, and the bad guy goes reeling off a convenient cliff. Well, that's the movies. If you want to make something explode, buy some fireworks. Follow the safety instructions.
Wands exist to make inner intentions manifest in the material world.
Whoa. Whoa! Complicated lingo there. Let me try again:
Wands help to make what you're feeling on the inside come to fruition in your everyday life.
Let's take a very simple example.
You need money, and you have a magic wand. You hold the wand by the "Earth" end, and you say, "I need to increase my financial fortune." You picture in your mind the way this can be done, both in miraculous ways and in everyday ways. The wand will probably lead you into the everyday means of money-making (and you'll go with power, since you have a wand). But it may also reward you with some unexpected (i.e. "miracle") money. How? Well, if you are intending to find money by legal means, you'll be more vigilant in your search for it. You might put your hands deeper into the pockets of your coats. You'll look more sharply along the street for some dropped cash. If your intention is to get some money, and you are positive about it (and not negative, meaning of criminal bent), the wand will strengthen you.
Now, my dear young readers, the few other Pagans who read this blog are now rolling their eyes, because it's such a stereotype to suggest that a magic wand can increase your fortune, or make someone fall in love with you, or save Granny from her cancer.
But I say, if you have a magic wand, and you drive it with positive intentions, it will work for you. Do you intend it to work? Intention is more than half the battle.
And so but you are saying, "Wait. Can a magic wand really save my dying Granny?"
What do you think? Granny, like all of us, faces the laws of Nature. So no, the wand can't keep her in the apparent world forever (or as long as you need her). However, if you adjust your intention with the wand, you will forge a bond with Granny that will transcend the apparent world.
Suppose instead of pointing the wand at Granny (Earth end in your hand) and saying, "Magic wand, save my Granny," you held the wand and said, "May my bond with Granny never be broken." The power of the wand will create such a fantastic connection between you and your ancestor that, so long as you live, she will be a guide and a deep part of you. And then, no matter what pantheon you follow -- even if you're a non-believer -- you will be reunited with her at another time.
EXHIBIT A: WANDS SAVE GOVERNMENT AGENCIES
This is me, with my working wand, placing an intention at the Environmental Protection Agency on the day of the Women's March on Washington. I didn't say, "Wand, save the EPA." I said, "Intentions for protection of this space." Now I intend individually to protect that government agency, and the wand powers me up to do so. It also empowers me to seek others who can do that work with me.
Wands concentrate your intentions and give them power, so you can enact them. Oh, yes! This can be good or bad. I'll talk to you more about it another day ... so don't go love-wanding just yet.
For handy instructions on making a wand, see the post below.
Before I address the complicated question of how magic wands work, I feel like I should offer my credentials as a Pagan, so you'll know I'm not a phony or anything.
I see faeries. I worship vultures. I am crackerjack at explaining weird dreams.
No diploma, no particular set Path or pantheon. "To me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle." (Walt Whitman) And that's good enough for me. So, we will proceed.
In the movies, people point wands, and stuff explodes. Or they point wands, and the bad guy goes reeling off a convenient cliff. Well, that's the movies. If you want to make something explode, buy some fireworks. Follow the safety instructions.
Wands exist to make inner intentions manifest in the material world.
Whoa. Whoa! Complicated lingo there. Let me try again:
Wands help to make what you're feeling on the inside come to fruition in your everyday life.
Let's take a very simple example.
You need money, and you have a magic wand. You hold the wand by the "Earth" end, and you say, "I need to increase my financial fortune." You picture in your mind the way this can be done, both in miraculous ways and in everyday ways. The wand will probably lead you into the everyday means of money-making (and you'll go with power, since you have a wand). But it may also reward you with some unexpected (i.e. "miracle") money. How? Well, if you are intending to find money by legal means, you'll be more vigilant in your search for it. You might put your hands deeper into the pockets of your coats. You'll look more sharply along the street for some dropped cash. If your intention is to get some money, and you are positive about it (and not negative, meaning of criminal bent), the wand will strengthen you.
Now, my dear young readers, the few other Pagans who read this blog are now rolling their eyes, because it's such a stereotype to suggest that a magic wand can increase your fortune, or make someone fall in love with you, or save Granny from her cancer.
But I say, if you have a magic wand, and you drive it with positive intentions, it will work for you. Do you intend it to work? Intention is more than half the battle.
And so but you are saying, "Wait. Can a magic wand really save my dying Granny?"
What do you think? Granny, like all of us, faces the laws of Nature. So no, the wand can't keep her in the apparent world forever (or as long as you need her). However, if you adjust your intention with the wand, you will forge a bond with Granny that will transcend the apparent world.
Suppose instead of pointing the wand at Granny (Earth end in your hand) and saying, "Magic wand, save my Granny," you held the wand and said, "May my bond with Granny never be broken." The power of the wand will create such a fantastic connection between you and your ancestor that, so long as you live, she will be a guide and a deep part of you. And then, no matter what pantheon you follow -- even if you're a non-believer -- you will be reunited with her at another time.
EXHIBIT A: WANDS SAVE GOVERNMENT AGENCIES
This is me, with my working wand, placing an intention at the Environmental Protection Agency on the day of the Women's March on Washington. I didn't say, "Wand, save the EPA." I said, "Intentions for protection of this space." Now I intend individually to protect that government agency, and the wand powers me up to do so. It also empowers me to seek others who can do that work with me.
Wands concentrate your intentions and give them power, so you can enact them. Oh, yes! This can be good or bad. I'll talk to you more about it another day ... so don't go love-wanding just yet.
For handy instructions on making a wand, see the post below.
Saturday, July 21, 2018
How To Make a Magic Wand
The Harry Potter series made magic wands kind of popular and trendy, but wands have always been around. There are two kinds: ceremonial wands and working wands. Today, Teacher Annie is going to tell you how to make a working wand!
Steps for Making a Working Wand:
1. Find a stick that is no longer than your forearm. Half the length of your forearm is better. You need to be able to hold it in your hand with about four to five inches of it extending beyond your hand. Your stick can come from a tree that is special to you. You can find it along the road. Personally I like driftwood, since it's smooth, but a nice sturdy stretch of any tree or branch is good. (A loved one can give you this stick. This includes the trusty canine.) It's also okay to buy a fancy carved wand from a vendor or artist. Me personally, I don't want to call attention to my working wand, so I favor ordinary sticks.
2. Power your working wand with Earth. Place the end you'll be holding into the soil of a land base you love. (If you love the beach, placing it in sand will be great.) Tell the wand what you are doing. Example: "I am charging this wand with Earth energy from this land that I love."
3. Power your working wand with Water. Place the whole wand in a body of water that has significance to you. This can be anything from your fragrant bubble bath to the churning surf of the ocean ... and everything in between. You can power a working wand in a rain puddle or a bird bath. I wouldn't recommend a bottle of spring water, because all that plastic, you know? Instead, fill a casserole dish with tap water, if you're in a hurry. Tell the wand what you are doing. Example: "I am charging this wand with Water energy to surround it with a power source."
4. Power your working wand with Fire. Place the end you'll be pointing in any fire, from a campfire to the flame on a gas stove or a candle. Remember, all you want to do is char the tip. You don't want to burn the whole thing or your fingers! Tell the wand what you are doing. Example: "I am charging this wand with Fire energy for purity and light."
5. Power your working wand with Air. Take it to a musical concert or a drum circle. If there's no concert handy, turn on your favorite tunes really loud. Hold the wand in front of the music. Music is vibration in the air. That's why it's so wonderful. Tell the wand what you are doing. Example: "I am charging this wand with Air energy so it becomes filled with the sky."
6. Power your working wand with Spirit. Hold it close to your heart. Speak kindly to it. Fill it with your most loving and positive thoughts. Take it to bed with you while you sleep, keeping it close to your face. Don't deliberately fill it with nastiness or negativity! You don't need that kind of aggravation in your life. The whole world is nasty. You want your wand to be different.
There you have it! A working wand. It's really that easy.
I carry my working wand in my purse or in a pocket. When I'm teaching school and I want things to go smoothly, I put it on my desk.
So, what do you do when curious minds ask you about your wand?
Example: A student said to me, "Miss, why do you have a stick on your desk?"
Sample answers:
*I like sticks.
*Why don't you have a stick on your desk?
*This is my favorite stick.
*Get back to work.
(Actually I think I said something like, "Have you finished the assignment, Student? Let me see how you did.")
The important thing here is to not divulge that your "stick" is a working wand. If you do identify it as a working wand to a friend or colleague, be sure you totally trust that person. Magic isn't showy. It's not fashionable. It's best kept secret, just between you and your wand ... until you need to use it in the public sphere.
Now that you have a working wand, you must be asking yourself: What can I do with it? Stay tuned. I'll address that in my next lesson!
Steps for Making a Working Wand:
1. Find a stick that is no longer than your forearm. Half the length of your forearm is better. You need to be able to hold it in your hand with about four to five inches of it extending beyond your hand. Your stick can come from a tree that is special to you. You can find it along the road. Personally I like driftwood, since it's smooth, but a nice sturdy stretch of any tree or branch is good. (A loved one can give you this stick. This includes the trusty canine.) It's also okay to buy a fancy carved wand from a vendor or artist. Me personally, I don't want to call attention to my working wand, so I favor ordinary sticks.
2. Power your working wand with Earth. Place the end you'll be holding into the soil of a land base you love. (If you love the beach, placing it in sand will be great.) Tell the wand what you are doing. Example: "I am charging this wand with Earth energy from this land that I love."
3. Power your working wand with Water. Place the whole wand in a body of water that has significance to you. This can be anything from your fragrant bubble bath to the churning surf of the ocean ... and everything in between. You can power a working wand in a rain puddle or a bird bath. I wouldn't recommend a bottle of spring water, because all that plastic, you know? Instead, fill a casserole dish with tap water, if you're in a hurry. Tell the wand what you are doing. Example: "I am charging this wand with Water energy to surround it with a power source."
4. Power your working wand with Fire. Place the end you'll be pointing in any fire, from a campfire to the flame on a gas stove or a candle. Remember, all you want to do is char the tip. You don't want to burn the whole thing or your fingers! Tell the wand what you are doing. Example: "I am charging this wand with Fire energy for purity and light."
5. Power your working wand with Air. Take it to a musical concert or a drum circle. If there's no concert handy, turn on your favorite tunes really loud. Hold the wand in front of the music. Music is vibration in the air. That's why it's so wonderful. Tell the wand what you are doing. Example: "I am charging this wand with Air energy so it becomes filled with the sky."
6. Power your working wand with Spirit. Hold it close to your heart. Speak kindly to it. Fill it with your most loving and positive thoughts. Take it to bed with you while you sleep, keeping it close to your face. Don't deliberately fill it with nastiness or negativity! You don't need that kind of aggravation in your life. The whole world is nasty. You want your wand to be different.
There you have it! A working wand. It's really that easy.
I carry my working wand in my purse or in a pocket. When I'm teaching school and I want things to go smoothly, I put it on my desk.
So, what do you do when curious minds ask you about your wand?
Example: A student said to me, "Miss, why do you have a stick on your desk?"
Sample answers:
*I like sticks.
*Why don't you have a stick on your desk?
*This is my favorite stick.
*Get back to work.
(Actually I think I said something like, "Have you finished the assignment, Student? Let me see how you did.")
The important thing here is to not divulge that your "stick" is a working wand. If you do identify it as a working wand to a friend or colleague, be sure you totally trust that person. Magic isn't showy. It's not fashionable. It's best kept secret, just between you and your wand ... until you need to use it in the public sphere.
Now that you have a working wand, you must be asking yourself: What can I do with it? Stay tuned. I'll address that in my next lesson!
Friday, July 06, 2018
I Was Wrong about These Creatures, but the Battle Is Engaged
I started blogging in 2005 because I opened the morning newspaper and read that some woman got her dog's vet bills paid by her blog fans. I had a cat, and so I thought, "What the hell? Give it a go."
So I came here to Blogger, and suddenly I had choices to make:
*What would my blog be about?
*Would it be funny or serious?
*How long before I could ask my readers to pay the cat's vet bills?
Turns out the answers to those questions were:
*Paganism and politics
*funny
*never have -- but Gamma Cat is still young
EXHIBIT A: GAMMA
I began "The Gods Are Bored" as a humor blog, and nowhere was my stinging wit more focused than upon "prayer warriors," those so-called Christians who have weaponized the faith and seek to impose their worldview on the rest of us through politics.
Back in 2005 I thought these people were stupid and harmless. I compared them to hippies, even calling them "chippies" because they were such a small minority of Americans, and yet they had an outsize influence on the national narrative.
They are still a minority of Americans. But they are calling the shots. They will soon own the Supreme Court -- not because they feel like corporate overlords should have free reign, but because they want to make abortion illegal. The sad thing is, while they will gleefully celebrate getting their way on abortion, they might not be ready for the blow-back.
Chippies, you will be the victims of your own battle tactics.
In your zeal to overturn Roe v. Wade, you've allowed big money to gush into politics. That would be great if all the rich people were of your mindset, but they aren't. Some have gladly harnessed your single-minded religious zeal to promote their agendas (fossil fuels, union-busting). But now there are other rich donors stepping forward, tossing great hoards of ducats around to thwart your plans.
In your zeal to overturn Roe v. Wade, you allied yourself to a foul-mouthed, childish brute who is detested across the globe and loathed by quite a hefty number of your fellow Americans. Chippies, how are your children behaving, with Donald J. Trump as your family hero? Do you take your kids to his rallies? Do you tell them that it's okay to support someone who is an unabashed sinner if he supports your agenda? What kind of message are your kids getting from that strategy? Do you tell your kids that Donald Trump is a "baby Christian" who hasn't quite learned the Holy Bible yet? How long will they fall for that, in light of Trump's behavior? Remember, they admire who you admire ... they're just not sophisticated about it yet.
In your zeal to overturn Roe v. Wade, you have created a hostile environment for living children all across the globe. Let's see: We've got climate change causing political turmoil, floods, and drought; we've got immigrant kids locked up in cages; we've got planned rollbacks in nutrition programs for poor children, and we're slipping backwards into a degraded environment full of pollution and toxins. But all that's okay, right? The baker doesn't have to make a wedding cake for a gay couple.
In your zeal to overturn Roe v. Wade, you may be alienating your most important constituency: your own descendants. You can home school them, you can surround them with only people who think the way you do, you can choose their friends and set a good example of godliness for them. But the ones who can think will desert you. The ones with curiosity will spurn you. The ones with critical thinking skills will do a zero sum analysis while checking out a banned podcast and decide that you are truly evil human beings. This will be your legacy. Your children will jump ship.
Wow, Anne, that's a bold prediction! However could you make it?
I was exposed to chippies as a kid. My mother sent me to their church because she felt like her own church wasn't stern enough. It took me six months at the tender age of eight to realize that the whole "prayer warrior" thing wasn't what Jesus would do, wasn't in fact based on the Bible at all.
But you go right ahead, chippies. You celebrate your Pyrrhic victory.
Your children will be in other rooms, listening to other voices. Listening to other, more sensible Gods.
So I came here to Blogger, and suddenly I had choices to make:
*What would my blog be about?
*Would it be funny or serious?
*How long before I could ask my readers to pay the cat's vet bills?
Turns out the answers to those questions were:
*Paganism and politics
*funny
*never have -- but Gamma Cat is still young
EXHIBIT A: GAMMA
I began "The Gods Are Bored" as a humor blog, and nowhere was my stinging wit more focused than upon "prayer warriors," those so-called Christians who have weaponized the faith and seek to impose their worldview on the rest of us through politics.
Back in 2005 I thought these people were stupid and harmless. I compared them to hippies, even calling them "chippies" because they were such a small minority of Americans, and yet they had an outsize influence on the national narrative.
They are still a minority of Americans. But they are calling the shots. They will soon own the Supreme Court -- not because they feel like corporate overlords should have free reign, but because they want to make abortion illegal. The sad thing is, while they will gleefully celebrate getting their way on abortion, they might not be ready for the blow-back.
Chippies, you will be the victims of your own battle tactics.
In your zeal to overturn Roe v. Wade, you've allowed big money to gush into politics. That would be great if all the rich people were of your mindset, but they aren't. Some have gladly harnessed your single-minded religious zeal to promote their agendas (fossil fuels, union-busting). But now there are other rich donors stepping forward, tossing great hoards of ducats around to thwart your plans.
In your zeal to overturn Roe v. Wade, you allied yourself to a foul-mouthed, childish brute who is detested across the globe and loathed by quite a hefty number of your fellow Americans. Chippies, how are your children behaving, with Donald J. Trump as your family hero? Do you take your kids to his rallies? Do you tell them that it's okay to support someone who is an unabashed sinner if he supports your agenda? What kind of message are your kids getting from that strategy? Do you tell your kids that Donald Trump is a "baby Christian" who hasn't quite learned the Holy Bible yet? How long will they fall for that, in light of Trump's behavior? Remember, they admire who you admire ... they're just not sophisticated about it yet.
In your zeal to overturn Roe v. Wade, you have created a hostile environment for living children all across the globe. Let's see: We've got climate change causing political turmoil, floods, and drought; we've got immigrant kids locked up in cages; we've got planned rollbacks in nutrition programs for poor children, and we're slipping backwards into a degraded environment full of pollution and toxins. But all that's okay, right? The baker doesn't have to make a wedding cake for a gay couple.
In your zeal to overturn Roe v. Wade, you may be alienating your most important constituency: your own descendants. You can home school them, you can surround them with only people who think the way you do, you can choose their friends and set a good example of godliness for them. But the ones who can think will desert you. The ones with curiosity will spurn you. The ones with critical thinking skills will do a zero sum analysis while checking out a banned podcast and decide that you are truly evil human beings. This will be your legacy. Your children will jump ship.
Wow, Anne, that's a bold prediction! However could you make it?
I was exposed to chippies as a kid. My mother sent me to their church because she felt like her own church wasn't stern enough. It took me six months at the tender age of eight to realize that the whole "prayer warrior" thing wasn't what Jesus would do, wasn't in fact based on the Bible at all.
But you go right ahead, chippies. You celebrate your Pyrrhic victory.
Your children will be in other rooms, listening to other voices. Listening to other, more sensible Gods.
Tuesday, June 26, 2018
The Many Uses for Kidnapped Children
TRIGGER WARNING: This post is not funny. It contains ruminations on child abuse.
A few years ago I took a tour of a place called the Coriell Institute. At Corielle, scientists are trying to engineer stem cells to grow new organs. They are also working on reversing the aging process.
This research is funded by billionaire philanthropists. It's a tax write-off.
You don't need to be a rocket scientist to figure out why super rich people would want to fund this kind of research. They live the high life, and they love it, and they want to live forever. They're funding Coriell hoping that it will be able to reverse their aging and provide them with new organs.
Trouble is, scientific research takes time, and some of these billionaires are getting up in age. What if they need a heart, and Coriell hasn't perfected their heart cells yet?
Let's rewind a bit.
When I was in college, I had a professor who had fled Cuba in the 1950s. He wrote about Cuban prisoners, and how their organs were "harvested" when people in the ruling regime needed them. There's also the well-documented case of "the disappeared" in Argentina. Young people who vanished without a trace, leaving behind frightened and grieving parents.
There are more than 2300 children floating around our country right now. It's clear that some of them are in for-profit care centers and ultra-Christian foster homes. But are they all accounted for? Will we ever know for sure that these children have returned to the arms of their mothers? Frankly, I wouldn't believe it if I witnessed it with my own eyes.
America, welcome to the Heart of Darkness.
My family says I'm crazy. History says I'm not.
Defenseless children are trafficked.
Defenseless children are enslaved.
Defenseless children are valued for their healthy organs.
Defenseless children can be used as research subjects.
Defenseless children are easily "disappeared."
When Donald Trump was elected, with a Republican majority in both houses and a Supreme Court seat left deliberately vacant, I braced for the worst. But I never imagined this worst.
Somewhere, a billionaire hedge fund manager needs a new heart. Somewhere, a little refugee kid is having his blood typed.
Reader, I am sorry. This was once a humor blog. But that was before everything I joked about the most actually came true in the apparent world.
To the wealthy donors of Coriell Institute: The Reaper will come for you. You can only delay Him. And I hope you do ... long enough that you will be able to look up into the sky and see the asteroid that will lay waste to you.
The wrath of the Gods onto billionaires.
The wrath of the Gods onto "prayer warriors."
They are creating a Hell and calling it holy.
A few years ago I took a tour of a place called the Coriell Institute. At Corielle, scientists are trying to engineer stem cells to grow new organs. They are also working on reversing the aging process.
This research is funded by billionaire philanthropists. It's a tax write-off.
You don't need to be a rocket scientist to figure out why super rich people would want to fund this kind of research. They live the high life, and they love it, and they want to live forever. They're funding Coriell hoping that it will be able to reverse their aging and provide them with new organs.
Trouble is, scientific research takes time, and some of these billionaires are getting up in age. What if they need a heart, and Coriell hasn't perfected their heart cells yet?
Let's rewind a bit.
When I was in college, I had a professor who had fled Cuba in the 1950s. He wrote about Cuban prisoners, and how their organs were "harvested" when people in the ruling regime needed them. There's also the well-documented case of "the disappeared" in Argentina. Young people who vanished without a trace, leaving behind frightened and grieving parents.
There are more than 2300 children floating around our country right now. It's clear that some of them are in for-profit care centers and ultra-Christian foster homes. But are they all accounted for? Will we ever know for sure that these children have returned to the arms of their mothers? Frankly, I wouldn't believe it if I witnessed it with my own eyes.
America, welcome to the Heart of Darkness.
My family says I'm crazy. History says I'm not.
Defenseless children are trafficked.
Defenseless children are enslaved.
Defenseless children are valued for their healthy organs.
Defenseless children can be used as research subjects.
Defenseless children are easily "disappeared."
When Donald Trump was elected, with a Republican majority in both houses and a Supreme Court seat left deliberately vacant, I braced for the worst. But I never imagined this worst.
Somewhere, a billionaire hedge fund manager needs a new heart. Somewhere, a little refugee kid is having his blood typed.
Reader, I am sorry. This was once a humor blog. But that was before everything I joked about the most actually came true in the apparent world.
To the wealthy donors of Coriell Institute: The Reaper will come for you. You can only delay Him. And I hope you do ... long enough that you will be able to look up into the sky and see the asteroid that will lay waste to you.
The wrath of the Gods onto billionaires.
The wrath of the Gods onto "prayer warriors."
They are creating a Hell and calling it holy.
Wednesday, June 20, 2018
An Open Call to Ancient Goddesses -- Experience Required, Full Time +
HELP WANTED -- START IMMEDIATELY
Position(s) open for Ancient Goddesses with specialty in maternal nurture.
Duties: Creating miracles for suffering mothers, fathers, and children in a morally bankrupt nation run by barbarians. Effectively blocking considerable negative power structure, most persistently against an evil ruler and his minions. Imparting peace and safety to the poorest and most disenfranchised citizens of said barbarous nation.
Hours: Full time, with considerable overtime a distinct possibility. Must be willing to work weekends and late nights. Must be willing to devote entire energy to this blighted country without any expectation of spiritual reward.
Compensation: Candles lit for you nightly by one pathetic little worshiper who has faith in next to nothing and who cannot remember a darker time in her entire life, including but not limited to the 1960s.
Benefits: Two-week vacation (if no calamity intervenes), health care with a limited primary care provider in network, and the aforementioned candles.
Experience required: 500-1000 years prior deity service to a praise and worship team consisting of Homo sapiens sapiens. No known connection to any pantheon of historical record (assuring your complete focus on this position). References, in the form of ancient archaeological artifacts, required.
Apply on Summer Solstice to Anne Johnson, as she is weeping for the pain of others and feels helpless and inept.
Equal Opportunity Employer.
Tuesday, June 05, 2018
Privileged Hell in Haddonfield
Thirteen years I have written this blog. I'm finally outing my town. It's Haddonfield, New Jersey, and it has been in the local and state (and probably national) news quite a bit lately.
If you're inclined, you can read all about it at philly.com. Just search "Haddonfield" and "racial slur."
If you're a busy person (like me), you can just rely on my summary of events.
Early in May, the Haddonfield lacrosse team had finished a game, and a multi-school track meet was about to begin on one of Haddonfield's facilities. A young woman of color was tying her shoe on the track, and a group of Haddonfield lacrosse players walked past her. Multiple students heard one of the players say, "Get out of my way, n******." He and his teammates were all wearing their helmets. They sauntered on.
The girl who was slurred -- and the other students who heard the remark -- reported it to their coaches. Those coaches reported it to the Haddonfield lacrosse coach. The lacrosse coach queried the students of color: Could they describe the kid who made the slur? Was he tall? Was he short? What number was he wearing? The kids couldn't say. So the lacrosse coach reported it to the school athletic director. Then the Haddonfield school administration tried to figure out who made the slur. One and all, the Haddonfield players said they did not do it. From then to now, more than four weeks, the entire team has said -- individually and collectively -- that they didn't say what the students accused them of saying.
The remainder of Haddonfield's lacrosse season was cancelled. This angered many of the parents, because the team was headed for a championship and presumably scholarship money was on the line.
The school system issued platitudes, something along the nature of, "We're just not that way. It's not what we teach here. Haddonfield is all about inclusivity." You know, the usual empty phrases.
I wasn't on that track when this incident occurred, but I have lived in Haddonfield for 31 years. I raised my daughters here. I know the schools and the citizens. And I believe the young woman and the other witnesses.
Haddonfield, one of South Jersey's most affluent communities, is just four-and-a-half miles due east of Camden. The population of Camden is overwhelmingly minority. The population of Haddonfield is overwhelmingly white. It is literally apartheid on everything but paper.
The only time Haddonfield kids meet Camden kids (or basically any kids of color) is at sporting or school club events. In these cases, there is no dialogue ... only competition. This is not a healthy state of affairs.
I'm going to be presumptuous and climb into the head of the boy who made the racial remark. I'm entitled to do this. I live in Haddonfield. I know him as a type, if not as an individual.
He's one scared puppy.
His parents are wealthy. Very wealthy. He has had enormous privilege. He's traveled the world, he's had the best education, and he's gotten everything his heart has ever desired. He's popular at school and a terrific athlete and student. Making that racial remark was just another way to show his buddies how cool he is.
But he's anything but cool just now.
Why is that? Well, my money goes on the proposition that he's already been accepted to a prestigious university, perhaps with an athletic scholarship. If he's an underclassman, he's got his eye on a top-notch school. Why? Because he's a legacy. His hard-working parents went to such schools and have ever since been busting their backs to maintain the posh lifestyle. These aren't to-the-manor-born wealthy people. These residents of Haddonfield are strivers.
So the kid and his parents have their eyes on the prize, and to admit to hurling a racial epithet would be to close the lid on any possibility of acceptance at a prestigious college. If this kid's buddies feel cheated out of a championship run on the athletic field, I can promise you they all identify with his quandary. It could be them. They won't snitch.
Haddonfield is all about striving to maintain that upper class lifestyle even if you haven't inherited wealth. The pressure is immense to be as financially successful as Mom and Dad. What other lifestyle is imaginable, when you've been in the lap of luxury since you were born?
Now let's take a look at the lacrosse player's parents. They work very, very hard. Or at least one of them does. And like so many hard-working rich people, they resent having to pay taxes to the other. You know what I mean. These parents don't carry tiki torches or wear swastikas, but they are what I would call RACIST TO THE CORE. They probably don't fling the "n" word around at the dinner table, but the same attitude that prevails in the hardest core white supremacists prevails in their household as well. These parents work hard. They resent other people who don't work as hard, who are eating up their tax dollars and the sweat of their brows. In upwardly mobile families, there's deep seated resentment about every dime that goes out the door that isn't funding their own child's future.
In other words, some citizens of Haddonfield are lower than trailer park trash. They've never tried to interact with minority groups, they in fact resent the existence of the "lower classes." They convey this to their children in subtle ways. What's not so subtle is the expectations placed on these privileged white kids. They are expected to maintain a lifestyle through the sweat of their brows, just like Mom and Pop.
My mother used to say, "The rich are just like you and me." Truth is, they aren't. With wealth comes the anxiety to produce more wealth. With wealth comes the anxiety that your kids won't be able to maintain the lifestyle. And if you're a kid, this wealth creates enormous pressure to be fabulously successful yourself.
What gets lost in this scenario is humanity.
Oh sure, Haddonfield is full of wealthy families who tithe to churches and who collect canned foods and who pack nutritious lunches for orphans in Haiti. Every church in Haddonfield has a youth group that performs good deeds within the community and elsewhere. (Don't get me started on youth group trips to Appalachia!)
But here's the bottom line: The town lacks humanity.
How do I know? Well, one way that Haddonfield could change its image would be for it to open its school doors to students from Camden. The classrooms and buildings aren't crowded. Camden public school kids would even come with funding from Camden. It's four miles away.
Another way that Haddonfield could change its image would be for it to construct affordable housing in numbers larger than the minimal state mandate (which is met by renting to white senior citizens). Just now the borough is about to embark on a brand-new development of 90 houses that were supposed to be for senior citizens. Instead the houses, carrying a $500,000 price tag minimum, will just be "suggested" for senior living. Anyone with a half million bucks can buy one of the houses. A developer is about to make big bank, and Haddonfield will remain lily white, when it has an opportunity to court a more diverse citizenry.
Trust me, good readers. I have often asked myself why I settled down here and am still here. I can rightly claim that the house purchase was done way too swiftly, without any prior knowledge of this region and this community and its ills. I have stayed because our house is packed with stuff, including memories. But when Mr. J and I leave -- and a few other residents on our side of the borough -- there won't even be a middle class presence in this town. It will all be upwardly mobile wealthy people who are anxious about their children's futures.
I have no friends in this town. There is nothing keeping me here but the difficulties of relocating while working full time (I begin interior painting the moment school ends this year).
Every day I drive to Camden and work with the teenagers there. They are kind, generous, respectful people who face incredible obstacles as they try to climb into the middle class. And then I come home to a community that hates these kids and has the temerity to pretend it doesn't. I am ashamed of myself for winking and smirking about "Snobville" when I should have been packing my bags. What can I say about myself, if I live in Haddonfield, New Jersey?
Anne takes yet another blow to the brow. Shame on Haddonfield. Shame on me.
If you're inclined, you can read all about it at philly.com. Just search "Haddonfield" and "racial slur."
If you're a busy person (like me), you can just rely on my summary of events.
Early in May, the Haddonfield lacrosse team had finished a game, and a multi-school track meet was about to begin on one of Haddonfield's facilities. A young woman of color was tying her shoe on the track, and a group of Haddonfield lacrosse players walked past her. Multiple students heard one of the players say, "Get out of my way, n******." He and his teammates were all wearing their helmets. They sauntered on.
The girl who was slurred -- and the other students who heard the remark -- reported it to their coaches. Those coaches reported it to the Haddonfield lacrosse coach. The lacrosse coach queried the students of color: Could they describe the kid who made the slur? Was he tall? Was he short? What number was he wearing? The kids couldn't say. So the lacrosse coach reported it to the school athletic director. Then the Haddonfield school administration tried to figure out who made the slur. One and all, the Haddonfield players said they did not do it. From then to now, more than four weeks, the entire team has said -- individually and collectively -- that they didn't say what the students accused them of saying.
The remainder of Haddonfield's lacrosse season was cancelled. This angered many of the parents, because the team was headed for a championship and presumably scholarship money was on the line.
The school system issued platitudes, something along the nature of, "We're just not that way. It's not what we teach here. Haddonfield is all about inclusivity." You know, the usual empty phrases.
I wasn't on that track when this incident occurred, but I have lived in Haddonfield for 31 years. I raised my daughters here. I know the schools and the citizens. And I believe the young woman and the other witnesses.
Haddonfield, one of South Jersey's most affluent communities, is just four-and-a-half miles due east of Camden. The population of Camden is overwhelmingly minority. The population of Haddonfield is overwhelmingly white. It is literally apartheid on everything but paper.
The only time Haddonfield kids meet Camden kids (or basically any kids of color) is at sporting or school club events. In these cases, there is no dialogue ... only competition. This is not a healthy state of affairs.
I'm going to be presumptuous and climb into the head of the boy who made the racial remark. I'm entitled to do this. I live in Haddonfield. I know him as a type, if not as an individual.
He's one scared puppy.
His parents are wealthy. Very wealthy. He has had enormous privilege. He's traveled the world, he's had the best education, and he's gotten everything his heart has ever desired. He's popular at school and a terrific athlete and student. Making that racial remark was just another way to show his buddies how cool he is.
But he's anything but cool just now.
Why is that? Well, my money goes on the proposition that he's already been accepted to a prestigious university, perhaps with an athletic scholarship. If he's an underclassman, he's got his eye on a top-notch school. Why? Because he's a legacy. His hard-working parents went to such schools and have ever since been busting their backs to maintain the posh lifestyle. These aren't to-the-manor-born wealthy people. These residents of Haddonfield are strivers.
So the kid and his parents have their eyes on the prize, and to admit to hurling a racial epithet would be to close the lid on any possibility of acceptance at a prestigious college. If this kid's buddies feel cheated out of a championship run on the athletic field, I can promise you they all identify with his quandary. It could be them. They won't snitch.
Haddonfield is all about striving to maintain that upper class lifestyle even if you haven't inherited wealth. The pressure is immense to be as financially successful as Mom and Dad. What other lifestyle is imaginable, when you've been in the lap of luxury since you were born?
Now let's take a look at the lacrosse player's parents. They work very, very hard. Or at least one of them does. And like so many hard-working rich people, they resent having to pay taxes to the other. You know what I mean. These parents don't carry tiki torches or wear swastikas, but they are what I would call RACIST TO THE CORE. They probably don't fling the "n" word around at the dinner table, but the same attitude that prevails in the hardest core white supremacists prevails in their household as well. These parents work hard. They resent other people who don't work as hard, who are eating up their tax dollars and the sweat of their brows. In upwardly mobile families, there's deep seated resentment about every dime that goes out the door that isn't funding their own child's future.
In other words, some citizens of Haddonfield are lower than trailer park trash. They've never tried to interact with minority groups, they in fact resent the existence of the "lower classes." They convey this to their children in subtle ways. What's not so subtle is the expectations placed on these privileged white kids. They are expected to maintain a lifestyle through the sweat of their brows, just like Mom and Pop.
My mother used to say, "The rich are just like you and me." Truth is, they aren't. With wealth comes the anxiety to produce more wealth. With wealth comes the anxiety that your kids won't be able to maintain the lifestyle. And if you're a kid, this wealth creates enormous pressure to be fabulously successful yourself.
What gets lost in this scenario is humanity.
Oh sure, Haddonfield is full of wealthy families who tithe to churches and who collect canned foods and who pack nutritious lunches for orphans in Haiti. Every church in Haddonfield has a youth group that performs good deeds within the community and elsewhere. (Don't get me started on youth group trips to Appalachia!)
But here's the bottom line: The town lacks humanity.
How do I know? Well, one way that Haddonfield could change its image would be for it to open its school doors to students from Camden. The classrooms and buildings aren't crowded. Camden public school kids would even come with funding from Camden. It's four miles away.
Another way that Haddonfield could change its image would be for it to construct affordable housing in numbers larger than the minimal state mandate (which is met by renting to white senior citizens). Just now the borough is about to embark on a brand-new development of 90 houses that were supposed to be for senior citizens. Instead the houses, carrying a $500,000 price tag minimum, will just be "suggested" for senior living. Anyone with a half million bucks can buy one of the houses. A developer is about to make big bank, and Haddonfield will remain lily white, when it has an opportunity to court a more diverse citizenry.
Trust me, good readers. I have often asked myself why I settled down here and am still here. I can rightly claim that the house purchase was done way too swiftly, without any prior knowledge of this region and this community and its ills. I have stayed because our house is packed with stuff, including memories. But when Mr. J and I leave -- and a few other residents on our side of the borough -- there won't even be a middle class presence in this town. It will all be upwardly mobile wealthy people who are anxious about their children's futures.
I have no friends in this town. There is nothing keeping me here but the difficulties of relocating while working full time (I begin interior painting the moment school ends this year).
Every day I drive to Camden and work with the teenagers there. They are kind, generous, respectful people who face incredible obstacles as they try to climb into the middle class. And then I come home to a community that hates these kids and has the temerity to pretend it doesn't. I am ashamed of myself for winking and smirking about "Snobville" when I should have been packing my bags. What can I say about myself, if I live in Haddonfield, New Jersey?
Anne takes yet another blow to the brow. Shame on Haddonfield. Shame on me.
Sunday, May 27, 2018
The Evils of Gentrification: A Personal Perspective
Hello and welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where today we really, really wish we could identify Snobville by its real name. Just afraid to do it, because there are two Anne Johnsons on my street, and I don't want either of us to get harassed by our fellow Snobvillains.
On the surface of things, gentrification of inner cities seems like a great idea. Developers buy old, rundown (or abandoned) row homes and refurbish or demolish them in favor of more expensive, upscale housing. This helps increase the tax base and builds "safer" neighborhoods.
Did you ever think about what happens to the people who were living in those rundown row homes? Where do they go? How much upheaval does their moving cause to their children and their local community? Because everyone has a local community. As one of my students said, "I've lived in Camden my whole life, and it's not scary to me at all."
There are a couple of new urban young adult novels about the toll gentrification takes on minority city dwellers. (This Side of Home, by Renee Watson, is one of them.) Anecdotally I can tell you that wealthy people who buy property in certain Philadelphia neighborhoods and seek to recreate their lifestyle among those with a different lifestyle sometimes face hostility. In my own household, I out-and-out cringed when the Spare's boyfriend said, "When I'm finished grad school I'll probably live in Camden. It's so much cheaper there." Will he be welcome? Seen as pulling the neighborhood up or splitting it apart? The answer varies. Nothing in this world is simple. I'm sure you've noticed.
Can I tell you a secret? Gentrification is not only happening in big cities. It's happening in suburban communities too. It's happening in Snobville. Right across the street from my house.
EXHIBIT A: "Before" View from My Front Door
This house was built in 1919. Behind it was a two-car garage with a one-bedroom apartment above the garage. Pretty, huh? I thought so too. But the people who lived there wanted to move away, and instead of waiting for a buyer interested in an older home, they sold to a developer. The developer used the fact that there were two residences on the property (the house, the apartment) to subdivide the lot for two full-sized luxury homes.
EXHIBIT B: Ominous Signs of Things To Come
Last fall, one day while I was at school, the house got demolished in less time than it took me to complete my teaching day. When I left in the morning it was there, and when I came home, it wasn't.
What about the trees? You ask. Eight of them are gone now. The tree cutters came on the weekend, so I couldn't avoid them. In fact, they came last Sunday for the largest tree (not pictured, off to the left).
Have you ever been wakened on a Sunday morning by an industrial-sized wood chipper and an army of chain saws? Mr. J called the police. It took the cop 40 minutes to come, during which the tree slaughter continued apace.
It took about six months for the first luxury house to be built. Asking price: $850,000 -- more than twice the value of my home across the street. The house was purchased before it was even finished.
As you might imagine from looking at the above photos, putting two houses on that property is a tight squeeze. Here's the first one, all finished.
EXHIBIT C: Four People, Four Bathrooms
The tree pictured has been cut down.
Notice the size of the house and how small the front yard is. This is the "smaller" of the two houses. The bigger one will be directly across the street from mine. If this one sold for $850 grand, I imagine the larger one will be offered at a million.
About four weeks ago, a young family moved into the house pictured above, Exhibit C. They are very young. Both are lawyers. They have a baby and a three-year-old. So basically the house has a bathroom for each inhabitant.
Probably next week, workers will begin digging the foundation for the next house. To make way for it, the largest tree on the lot had to be murdered.
EXHIBIT D: Candles on a Stump
Look at the size of that stump! This was a beautiful tree. They were cutting it down last Monday when I got home from work. (After the law chased them on Sunday.) I'm the one who put the candles there when the deed was done. The stump has since been ground out.
I don't know what you would call this, but I call it gentrification.
I've seen a lot of turnover on my block during the last 31 years. I've always been the first one to bring a casserole to the newbies and volunteer to help them with information on daycare and where to get the best birthday cake. But I cannot bring myself to welcome this new family. Their values cannot possibly be mine. Clearly they wanted a house where everything was brand spanking new, with four fucking bathrooms and no yard, front or back.
It's supremely disorienting to come home from work to the same house and the same street that you've lived on since 1987, and nothing is the same. The trees are gone. The old house is gone. In its place a butt-ugly monstrosity populated by a family that has a pathological aversion to smelling shit. And this is not Rip Van Winkle. I didn't go away for 25 years and come back to a changed world. I went to work in the morning and came back to a changed world at the end of my shift.
And then, the other day, as I drove home from work, I was greeted with one of these out in the street, in front of the new house.
EXHIBIT E: Really? REALLY?
Oh, reader. It was all I could do to just park my car and hoof it to the rear of my dwelling without blowing my stack. These spoiled yuppies wanted a brand new house, and they bought one with no yard, and now they are warning me that their tot is playing near the street?
I don't want to move. It takes me ten minutes to drive to work. The El Train to Philly is four blocks away. But I'm not comfortable. There are barbarians at the gate. They have created a wasteland and called it progress.
On the surface of things, gentrification of inner cities seems like a great idea. Developers buy old, rundown (or abandoned) row homes and refurbish or demolish them in favor of more expensive, upscale housing. This helps increase the tax base and builds "safer" neighborhoods.
Did you ever think about what happens to the people who were living in those rundown row homes? Where do they go? How much upheaval does their moving cause to their children and their local community? Because everyone has a local community. As one of my students said, "I've lived in Camden my whole life, and it's not scary to me at all."
There are a couple of new urban young adult novels about the toll gentrification takes on minority city dwellers. (This Side of Home, by Renee Watson, is one of them.) Anecdotally I can tell you that wealthy people who buy property in certain Philadelphia neighborhoods and seek to recreate their lifestyle among those with a different lifestyle sometimes face hostility. In my own household, I out-and-out cringed when the Spare's boyfriend said, "When I'm finished grad school I'll probably live in Camden. It's so much cheaper there." Will he be welcome? Seen as pulling the neighborhood up or splitting it apart? The answer varies. Nothing in this world is simple. I'm sure you've noticed.
Can I tell you a secret? Gentrification is not only happening in big cities. It's happening in suburban communities too. It's happening in Snobville. Right across the street from my house.
EXHIBIT A: "Before" View from My Front Door
This house was built in 1919. Behind it was a two-car garage with a one-bedroom apartment above the garage. Pretty, huh? I thought so too. But the people who lived there wanted to move away, and instead of waiting for a buyer interested in an older home, they sold to a developer. The developer used the fact that there were two residences on the property (the house, the apartment) to subdivide the lot for two full-sized luxury homes.
EXHIBIT B: Ominous Signs of Things To Come
Last fall, one day while I was at school, the house got demolished in less time than it took me to complete my teaching day. When I left in the morning it was there, and when I came home, it wasn't.
What about the trees? You ask. Eight of them are gone now. The tree cutters came on the weekend, so I couldn't avoid them. In fact, they came last Sunday for the largest tree (not pictured, off to the left).
Have you ever been wakened on a Sunday morning by an industrial-sized wood chipper and an army of chain saws? Mr. J called the police. It took the cop 40 minutes to come, during which the tree slaughter continued apace.
It took about six months for the first luxury house to be built. Asking price: $850,000 -- more than twice the value of my home across the street. The house was purchased before it was even finished.
As you might imagine from looking at the above photos, putting two houses on that property is a tight squeeze. Here's the first one, all finished.
EXHIBIT C: Four People, Four Bathrooms
The tree pictured has been cut down.
Notice the size of the house and how small the front yard is. This is the "smaller" of the two houses. The bigger one will be directly across the street from mine. If this one sold for $850 grand, I imagine the larger one will be offered at a million.
About four weeks ago, a young family moved into the house pictured above, Exhibit C. They are very young. Both are lawyers. They have a baby and a three-year-old. So basically the house has a bathroom for each inhabitant.
Probably next week, workers will begin digging the foundation for the next house. To make way for it, the largest tree on the lot had to be murdered.
EXHIBIT D: Candles on a Stump
Look at the size of that stump! This was a beautiful tree. They were cutting it down last Monday when I got home from work. (After the law chased them on Sunday.) I'm the one who put the candles there when the deed was done. The stump has since been ground out.
I don't know what you would call this, but I call it gentrification.
I've seen a lot of turnover on my block during the last 31 years. I've always been the first one to bring a casserole to the newbies and volunteer to help them with information on daycare and where to get the best birthday cake. But I cannot bring myself to welcome this new family. Their values cannot possibly be mine. Clearly they wanted a house where everything was brand spanking new, with four fucking bathrooms and no yard, front or back.
It's supremely disorienting to come home from work to the same house and the same street that you've lived on since 1987, and nothing is the same. The trees are gone. The old house is gone. In its place a butt-ugly monstrosity populated by a family that has a pathological aversion to smelling shit. And this is not Rip Van Winkle. I didn't go away for 25 years and come back to a changed world. I went to work in the morning and came back to a changed world at the end of my shift.
And then, the other day, as I drove home from work, I was greeted with one of these out in the street, in front of the new house.
EXHIBIT E: Really? REALLY?
I don't want to move. It takes me ten minutes to drive to work. The El Train to Philly is four blocks away. But I'm not comfortable. There are barbarians at the gate. They have created a wasteland and called it progress.
Sunday, May 20, 2018
Faeries aka Fairies Are Real
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," safe harbor for faeries since 2005! My name is Anne Johnson. I believe in faeries. I do. I do.
Sunday morning I was dozing in the peace and repose of my bedroom when, promptly at 9:00, the overpowering drone of heavy machinery commenced in the street.
A developer has bought the property directly across the street from my house. There was one home on it when he bought it. Now there's one finished one and another, larger one, planned. When the whole fiasco is finished, I will post photos.
But this is about faeries, right?
Turns out the workers across the street were intent upon slaughtering three fully mature maple trees on this sleepy Sunday morning. The noise of the shredder was deafening. The sight of the shapely limbs falling to the ground was heart-wrenching. A cluster of neighbors gathered in the street, including the new neighbors from the brand-new dwelling. Their three-year-old, blonde son was captivated by the tree slaughter.
All of this is an affront to the faeries, of course. Big time.
It's also an affront to a hard-working and proficient school teacher who has to go to work tomorrow and teach Act 3 of Romeo and Juliet. So while I petitioned the faeries to put a stop to the mayhem, Mr. J more reasonably called the Snobville constabulary. It only took 45 minutes for an officer to arrive -- his appearance brought great consternation to the work crew, who scurried for their trucks. A few more limbs were hacked down and then work ceased. It's against the law to run heavy machinery in Snobville on Sunday.
Quiet descended, and the sun came out. It had been raining for four days.
I had been planning to freshen my outdoor shrine if the weather was good, so I went out to do it. My shrine is dedicated to the ancient deities who no longer have praise and worship teams, to my ancestors, and to the faeries. It is loaded with crystals, marbles, stones, sea glass, and other shiny objects that honor the tastes of the fae.
I was so upset about all the big trees being cut down. I have a hard time pulling out seedlings in my own yard. (Now I have little trees everywhere and coppiced trees too.) My heart was heavy as I commenced to spruce up the shrine.
When I first built my shrine, I put three dozen or so quartz crystal points in the very center of it. None of them remained. Or so I thought. As I began to sift through the pebbles and the sea glass and the trinkets, I began finding quartz crystals. And more of them. And more of them. And even more of them. More, I promise you, than I ever put out there. When I assembled all the shiny stuff to wash it, the pile was just brimming with quartz crystals!
Quartz crystals don't mate and multiply. But it's my experience that, if you give the faeries what they like, they reward you.
I needed to spend time at my shrine today. I needed to clean and beautify it. I needed to be reminded that I have a faerie portal in my own yard, that I made it, and that they are using it.
So you say, "What do faeries look like?" And I answer, "What have you got?" There are as many varieties of faerie as there are of biological life in the apparent world. Some faeries are human shaped and sized, some are tiny, some look like animals, some like birds, and some are just beams of light. Be careful if you make eye contact, because they like to distract. And whatever you do, show them respect. Even the "critter" ones. Call them "Ladies and Gentlemen," or "your majesties."
It was tempting to ask the faeries to wreak revenge on the tree-killers and the developer across the street, and even the rich young families who buy the houses. But with faeries, they will tell you they are fulfilling your wishes, whether they plan to or not. So my advice is, don't petition the faeries. Just be respectful, give them trinkets, and keep their portals fresh and lively.
If you want to attract faeries to your yard, set out a little pile of polished stones, beads, marbles, crystals, pins, and anything that looks like a trinket. Keep it all clean, and bow politely as you pass it. Before you know it, the stuff in the pile will start to re-arrange itself. This either means you have faeries or there's been a stampede of buffalo that you somehow missed.
Now it's Sunday night. The tree-killers will be back tomorrow, I'm sure, to complete the sap-bath. (It's only a bloodbath if you have blood. Trees have sap.) I'll be at work, but the faeries will be watching. From their spruced-up portal, all bright and shiny.
Sunday morning I was dozing in the peace and repose of my bedroom when, promptly at 9:00, the overpowering drone of heavy machinery commenced in the street.
A developer has bought the property directly across the street from my house. There was one home on it when he bought it. Now there's one finished one and another, larger one, planned. When the whole fiasco is finished, I will post photos.
But this is about faeries, right?
Turns out the workers across the street were intent upon slaughtering three fully mature maple trees on this sleepy Sunday morning. The noise of the shredder was deafening. The sight of the shapely limbs falling to the ground was heart-wrenching. A cluster of neighbors gathered in the street, including the new neighbors from the brand-new dwelling. Their three-year-old, blonde son was captivated by the tree slaughter.
All of this is an affront to the faeries, of course. Big time.
It's also an affront to a hard-working and proficient school teacher who has to go to work tomorrow and teach Act 3 of Romeo and Juliet. So while I petitioned the faeries to put a stop to the mayhem, Mr. J more reasonably called the Snobville constabulary. It only took 45 minutes for an officer to arrive -- his appearance brought great consternation to the work crew, who scurried for their trucks. A few more limbs were hacked down and then work ceased. It's against the law to run heavy machinery in Snobville on Sunday.
Quiet descended, and the sun came out. It had been raining for four days.
I had been planning to freshen my outdoor shrine if the weather was good, so I went out to do it. My shrine is dedicated to the ancient deities who no longer have praise and worship teams, to my ancestors, and to the faeries. It is loaded with crystals, marbles, stones, sea glass, and other shiny objects that honor the tastes of the fae.
I was so upset about all the big trees being cut down. I have a hard time pulling out seedlings in my own yard. (Now I have little trees everywhere and coppiced trees too.) My heart was heavy as I commenced to spruce up the shrine.
When I first built my shrine, I put three dozen or so quartz crystal points in the very center of it. None of them remained. Or so I thought. As I began to sift through the pebbles and the sea glass and the trinkets, I began finding quartz crystals. And more of them. And more of them. And even more of them. More, I promise you, than I ever put out there. When I assembled all the shiny stuff to wash it, the pile was just brimming with quartz crystals!
Quartz crystals don't mate and multiply. But it's my experience that, if you give the faeries what they like, they reward you.
I needed to spend time at my shrine today. I needed to clean and beautify it. I needed to be reminded that I have a faerie portal in my own yard, that I made it, and that they are using it.
So you say, "What do faeries look like?" And I answer, "What have you got?" There are as many varieties of faerie as there are of biological life in the apparent world. Some faeries are human shaped and sized, some are tiny, some look like animals, some like birds, and some are just beams of light. Be careful if you make eye contact, because they like to distract. And whatever you do, show them respect. Even the "critter" ones. Call them "Ladies and Gentlemen," or "your majesties."
It was tempting to ask the faeries to wreak revenge on the tree-killers and the developer across the street, and even the rich young families who buy the houses. But with faeries, they will tell you they are fulfilling your wishes, whether they plan to or not. So my advice is, don't petition the faeries. Just be respectful, give them trinkets, and keep their portals fresh and lively.
If you want to attract faeries to your yard, set out a little pile of polished stones, beads, marbles, crystals, pins, and anything that looks like a trinket. Keep it all clean, and bow politely as you pass it. Before you know it, the stuff in the pile will start to re-arrange itself. This either means you have faeries or there's been a stampede of buffalo that you somehow missed.
Now it's Sunday night. The tree-killers will be back tomorrow, I'm sure, to complete the sap-bath. (It's only a bloodbath if you have blood. Trees have sap.) I'll be at work, but the faeries will be watching. From their spruced-up portal, all bright and shiny.
Wednesday, May 16, 2018
Spotwood 2018
Every year since 2006 my daughter The Spare (I just like that better) and I have gone to a festival near York, PA that celebrates the faeries. The festival was held on a charming farm property with a Jane Austen-era farmhouse and a babbling brook.
I'm using the past tense. This year was the final Spotwood Fairie Festival to be held on the farm property.
EXHIBIT A: THEN
EXHIBIT B: NOW
Spotwood drew thousands of free-spirited people like me -- people who liked to drum and dance and join tribes and put together amazing outfits from thrift stores and honor the faeries. It's one of two places I've visited in the last decade where I met people I really wanted to get to know. I thought Spare was outgrowing the festival, but she got swept up in the spirit on the final day and was loved by all the folks who have gotten to know her over the years.
But Spotwood was a victim of its success, growing bigger every year and facing challenges from Mother Nature. Word has it that the festival will relocate elsewhere. This is a solace to the people who have become family because of it. But what about the land?
You see, I do believe in faeries, and I do believe they are present on the property. They don't just pack up and move to a neighboring campground. It's a lot more complicated than that. The special qualities of Spotwood Farm will be very hard to replicate because faeries exist. Spotwood has faerie energy, and that's not found everywhere.
I'm telling myself that Spotwood had become a habit and that maybe, if I got less lazy, I would find more places with people like me. Brushwood, for instance. I've never been there. But right now it's hard to be optimistic. About anything. That's why I haven't been writing much. I used to be silly, but now I'm sour. I feel burdened by the ugly soot of the Trump regime. Snobville, as if this was really possible, has become even snobbier.
Where do I belong? Where's my land base? I knew I wouldn't always have Spotwood, but the ground is just shifting dramatically under my feet. I don't know who I am in this post-farm, post-daughter, change-ridden landscape.
I don't even recognize America. Do you?
Anyway, sorry for all the tears and self-pity, but I really will miss going to Spotwood, not just for all the fun reasons but for the spiritual ones too.
(My regulars will see that I misspelled the name of the farm throughout. This was deliberate, I haven't gone completely around the bend yet.)
I'm using the past tense. This year was the final Spotwood Fairie Festival to be held on the farm property.
EXHIBIT A: THEN
EXHIBIT B: NOW
Spotwood drew thousands of free-spirited people like me -- people who liked to drum and dance and join tribes and put together amazing outfits from thrift stores and honor the faeries. It's one of two places I've visited in the last decade where I met people I really wanted to get to know. I thought Spare was outgrowing the festival, but she got swept up in the spirit on the final day and was loved by all the folks who have gotten to know her over the years.
But Spotwood was a victim of its success, growing bigger every year and facing challenges from Mother Nature. Word has it that the festival will relocate elsewhere. This is a solace to the people who have become family because of it. But what about the land?
You see, I do believe in faeries, and I do believe they are present on the property. They don't just pack up and move to a neighboring campground. It's a lot more complicated than that. The special qualities of Spotwood Farm will be very hard to replicate because faeries exist. Spotwood has faerie energy, and that's not found everywhere.
I'm telling myself that Spotwood had become a habit and that maybe, if I got less lazy, I would find more places with people like me. Brushwood, for instance. I've never been there. But right now it's hard to be optimistic. About anything. That's why I haven't been writing much. I used to be silly, but now I'm sour. I feel burdened by the ugly soot of the Trump regime. Snobville, as if this was really possible, has become even snobbier.
Where do I belong? Where's my land base? I knew I wouldn't always have Spotwood, but the ground is just shifting dramatically under my feet. I don't know who I am in this post-farm, post-daughter, change-ridden landscape.
I don't even recognize America. Do you?
Anyway, sorry for all the tears and self-pity, but I really will miss going to Spotwood, not just for all the fun reasons but for the spiritual ones too.
(My regulars will see that I misspelled the name of the farm throughout. This was deliberate, I haven't gone completely around the bend yet.)
Tuesday, April 10, 2018
Waiting for Judgment
Some of us are eager to please, and some of us are super-competitive, and some of us are both. I'm both. Give me a job, and I want to do it well. I want to be the best at it.
Bored Gods and Goddesses aren't plagued with doubts about their skills. They're perfect all the time, and they are not particularly eager to please. Oh, to be divine!
I'm still waiting for my final teacher evaluation of the year. I've had two already: one announced, one unannounced.
Have you ever been hunched over and overwhelmed by your grueling job, only to look up and see someone standing there with a clipboard, charting your every move? And then scoring it numerically? How can a number be affixed to something as nebulous as teaching? Well, fling some money at some specialist, and they'll find a way to quantify everything.
Have you ever sat down to lunch with a bunch of colleagues who've all been evaluated numerically, and their numbers are all better than yours? Welcome to my world! The 25-year-old, second-year teacher who is with me 8th period got a better score than me ... and he was late to class.
I'm never late to class. I still wallow in mediocrity.
Our school district uses an evaluation tool called Danielson, which has about 10,000 categories, called "domains." Supervisors breeze into the classroom, watch the goings-on for a class period, and judge all of those domains based on a 40-minute span of time, one day out of 181. One would think that everybody would be mediocre under those conditions, but some teachers are always distinguished. They get 3.95 out of 4 possible, time after time. (I'm beginning to think some select few of my colleagues are actually bored deities. But I'm afraid to out-and-out ask.)
The thing about observations, they're the only time a boss even comes in your classroom. It's not like these people pop in to say howdy and see what you need. They don't drop by to chew the fat. Three times a year they slither in and start assigning numbers to every little thing. Then they disappear.
It's the middle of April, most of my co-workers are long finished with their evaluations, and I'm still awaiting the clipboard.
At night I dream the observer is in the back of the room ... and I'm passing out textbooks and dropping them on the floor ... and the document camera won't turn on ... and the kids aren't paying attention ... and half of them are asleep. Then I wake up and go to work. Day in, day out.
All this and Donald Trump too.
Bored Gods and Goddesses aren't plagued with doubts about their skills. They're perfect all the time, and they are not particularly eager to please. Oh, to be divine!
I'm still waiting for my final teacher evaluation of the year. I've had two already: one announced, one unannounced.
Have you ever been hunched over and overwhelmed by your grueling job, only to look up and see someone standing there with a clipboard, charting your every move? And then scoring it numerically? How can a number be affixed to something as nebulous as teaching? Well, fling some money at some specialist, and they'll find a way to quantify everything.
Have you ever sat down to lunch with a bunch of colleagues who've all been evaluated numerically, and their numbers are all better than yours? Welcome to my world! The 25-year-old, second-year teacher who is with me 8th period got a better score than me ... and he was late to class.
I'm never late to class. I still wallow in mediocrity.
Our school district uses an evaluation tool called Danielson, which has about 10,000 categories, called "domains." Supervisors breeze into the classroom, watch the goings-on for a class period, and judge all of those domains based on a 40-minute span of time, one day out of 181. One would think that everybody would be mediocre under those conditions, but some teachers are always distinguished. They get 3.95 out of 4 possible, time after time. (I'm beginning to think some select few of my colleagues are actually bored deities. But I'm afraid to out-and-out ask.)
The thing about observations, they're the only time a boss even comes in your classroom. It's not like these people pop in to say howdy and see what you need. They don't drop by to chew the fat. Three times a year they slither in and start assigning numbers to every little thing. Then they disappear.
It's the middle of April, most of my co-workers are long finished with their evaluations, and I'm still awaiting the clipboard.
At night I dream the observer is in the back of the room ... and I'm passing out textbooks and dropping them on the floor ... and the document camera won't turn on ... and the kids aren't paying attention ... and half of them are asleep. Then I wake up and go to work. Day in, day out.
All this and Donald Trump too.
Thursday, April 05, 2018
Texting a Bored Goddess: Persephone
Anne
seph where r u? i'm cold af
Persephone
i'm home w/ my man <3 <3
Anne
plz plz plz hop on da
train!!!!
Persephone
ive had enough of my mom im staying
home for the summer
Anne
if u dont come there wont be
summer!!!!!
Persephone
my mom doesnt respect my
man its soooo obvious
Anne
u no u missed easter
Persephone
for realz? early
Anne
not that early seph ...
come on its supposed 2
snow tmr
Persephone
why should i care
down here im queen
up there im princess
and u try goin 6 months
w/out ur man! Im 3000
yrs old i deserve respect
Anne
well u no how moms are
but i think ur mom likes hades
come on she is crying, be a sport
Anne
seph? u there?
Anne
SEPH PLZ
Anne
discounted easter candy
chocolate bunnies 74 cents
at shoprite
Anne
peeps at deep discount
and still soft ... aren't u
sick of pomegranates
Anne
????????
Persephone
k k k tell my mom 2
pick me up 30th st station
2:00 on wed. It's baseball
season & it's all He watches
and He likes the Yankees
Anne
YAY! will do <3 u seph
seph where r u? i'm cold af
Persephone
i'm home w/ my man <3 <3
Anne
plz plz plz hop on da
train!!!!
Persephone
ive had enough of my mom im staying
home for the summer
Anne
if u dont come there wont be
summer!!!!!
Persephone
my mom doesnt respect my
man its soooo obvious
Anne
u no u missed easter
Persephone
for realz? early
Anne
not that early seph ...
come on its supposed 2
snow tmr
Persephone
why should i care
down here im queen
up there im princess
and u try goin 6 months
w/out ur man! Im 3000
yrs old i deserve respect
Anne
well u no how moms are
but i think ur mom likes hades
come on she is crying, be a sport
Anne
seph? u there?
Anne
SEPH PLZ
Anne
discounted easter candy
chocolate bunnies 74 cents
at shoprite
Anne
peeps at deep discount
and still soft ... aren't u
sick of pomegranates
Anne
????????
Persephone
k k k tell my mom 2
pick me up 30th st station
2:00 on wed. It's baseball
season & it's all He watches
and He likes the Yankees
Anne
YAY! will do <3 u seph
Monday, April 02, 2018
Interview with a Bored God: Dionysus
Boy, am I ever in a slump! Here I sit, it's Spring Break -- the longest holiday I will have until next Xmas -- and the weather is straight outta February. To make matters worse, I'm now gun-shy about writing on this platform, since the Trickster God of keyboarding wants to blot out all my hard work.
But soft! There's someone at the door! Oh. My. Goodness. I wish this God was more welcome here than he is. All the same, let's give a warm, wonderful "Gods Are Bored" welcome to Dionysus, God of boozy parties!
Dionysus: Anne, baby! Spring Break! It's time to partayyy!
Anne: Don't you remember, Dion? I packed it in. I don't drink anymore. I just went to a wedding last weekend, and I didn't even have a glass of champagne.
Dionysus: And you wonder why you're so unhappy? I've got about 10 picker-uppers that will light your fire.
Anne: Nah, bro, I've been off the sauce for five years now. Mostly I don't miss it.
Dionysus: Don't expect me to nominate you for a position as a nymph or a dryad, or any of that! Grapes are good. Especially fermented.
Anne: Stop! You're not cheering me up! You're making it worse!
Dionysus: Well, if you're not jonesing for some vino, why else would you be depressed?
Anne: Do you want the whole list, or just the top ten?
Dionysus: Killjoy! Look, there's a sports bar within walking distance! Go up there and watch the NCAA finals, grab yourself a brewski. You've even got a local team in the game ... and I recall that when you and I were bffs, back in the day, you were a Michigan fan.
Anne: Pass.
Dionysus: Whoa, you are definitely in Downerville. Catch a God up. What's the problem?
Anne: We've got the worst president in my lifetime. He's so bad, I can't even joke about him.
Dionysus: As bad as Caligula?
Anne: Getting there.
Dionysus: ... Because no one could joke about him either.
Anne: This cold spring is a bummer too.
Dionysus: Come to sunny Italy with me! We'll eat some fish, some pasta, drink some red wine ...
Anne: STOP ALREADY! All I want to do right now is buy myself a big plate of pasta and a bottle of wine! You're a terrible God.
Dionysus (proudly): I do my part. Hey! Where's that cute little tabby cat?
Anne: She died.
Dionysus: Aww. I liked her. But ... you had a birthday not long ago, right?
Anne: Okay, I'm usually polite, but fuck you. I don't want to contemplate my age. Or my dead cat.
Dionysus: Well, surely you've been posting witty stuff on your blog ...
Anne: Not a thing.
Dionysus: Anne. You've got to get a grip ... around a nice crystal wine goblet! Everything looks bright through the bottom of the glass.
[Dionysus spills a whole bottle of finest cabernet on Anne's sofa.]
Dionysus: Oooops!
Anne: Gods damn it! Things were bad enough around here! Look what you've done to my upholstery! Ruined! That's it. Out you go.
Dionysus: All right. Be that way! I'm off to the sports bar!
Anne: Knock yourself out. If there's anything worse than thinking about Donald Trump in a sober fashion, it would be thinking about Donald Trump after a bottle of whatever that awful deity just dumped on my furniture. Guess I could take a small comfort in that.
But soft! There's someone at the door! Oh. My. Goodness. I wish this God was more welcome here than he is. All the same, let's give a warm, wonderful "Gods Are Bored" welcome to Dionysus, God of boozy parties!
Dionysus: Anne, baby! Spring Break! It's time to partayyy!
Anne: Don't you remember, Dion? I packed it in. I don't drink anymore. I just went to a wedding last weekend, and I didn't even have a glass of champagne.
Dionysus: And you wonder why you're so unhappy? I've got about 10 picker-uppers that will light your fire.
Anne: Nah, bro, I've been off the sauce for five years now. Mostly I don't miss it.
Dionysus: Don't expect me to nominate you for a position as a nymph or a dryad, or any of that! Grapes are good. Especially fermented.
Anne: Stop! You're not cheering me up! You're making it worse!
Dionysus: Well, if you're not jonesing for some vino, why else would you be depressed?
Anne: Do you want the whole list, or just the top ten?
Dionysus: Killjoy! Look, there's a sports bar within walking distance! Go up there and watch the NCAA finals, grab yourself a brewski. You've even got a local team in the game ... and I recall that when you and I were bffs, back in the day, you were a Michigan fan.
Anne: Pass.
Dionysus: Whoa, you are definitely in Downerville. Catch a God up. What's the problem?
Anne: We've got the worst president in my lifetime. He's so bad, I can't even joke about him.
Dionysus: As bad as Caligula?
Anne: Getting there.
Dionysus: ... Because no one could joke about him either.
Anne: This cold spring is a bummer too.
Dionysus: Come to sunny Italy with me! We'll eat some fish, some pasta, drink some red wine ...
Anne: STOP ALREADY! All I want to do right now is buy myself a big plate of pasta and a bottle of wine! You're a terrible God.
Dionysus (proudly): I do my part. Hey! Where's that cute little tabby cat?
Anne: She died.
Dionysus: Aww. I liked her. But ... you had a birthday not long ago, right?
Anne: Okay, I'm usually polite, but fuck you. I don't want to contemplate my age. Or my dead cat.
Dionysus: Well, surely you've been posting witty stuff on your blog ...
Anne: Not a thing.
Dionysus: Anne. You've got to get a grip ... around a nice crystal wine goblet! Everything looks bright through the bottom of the glass.
[Dionysus spills a whole bottle of finest cabernet on Anne's sofa.]
Dionysus: Oooops!
Anne: Gods damn it! Things were bad enough around here! Look what you've done to my upholstery! Ruined! That's it. Out you go.
Dionysus: All right. Be that way! I'm off to the sports bar!
Anne: Knock yourself out. If there's anything worse than thinking about Donald Trump in a sober fashion, it would be thinking about Donald Trump after a bottle of whatever that awful deity just dumped on my furniture. Guess I could take a small comfort in that.
Friday, March 23, 2018
First One I've Missed
I've been having trouble with this platform. I'll write a 500 word blog, hit a wrong combination of keys, and the entire thing deletes with no record. I just wrote a passionate diatribe about guns in America, complete with photos, links to spoken word poems, and firmly held beliefs. I was proofreading it. Three keys later, it's gone.
I can't attend the March for Our Lives. I will be in transit to a wedding in Manhattan.
I can't re-write the post. It took me an hour, and that hour is done. Life proceeds.
I only have time to do this:
Next time I'll upload a goddamn Google doc.
Tuesday, March 06, 2018
Union, Yes!
We at "The Gods Are Bored," as well as Great Deities of Justice from multiple pantheons spanning millennia, congratulate the teachers' unions of West Virginia for reaching a deal on their contract demands!
EXHIBIT A: THIS IS WHAT SOLIDARITY LOOKS LIKE
Two weeks ago, if you had asked me about the future of organized labor -- as it faces certain disruption by a conservative Supreme Court -- I would have said, "Palliative care only, send to hospice."
And then ... in deep red West Virginia ... a "right to work" (for less) state ... the teachers just walked out. Fifty-five counties, all the teachers walked out.
EXHIBIT B: ANNE FEELS STRONGLY ABOUT THIS
Bring it on, corporate pig-dogs! We will taunt you mercilessly!
I'm not playing, here. I believe in unions. No system is perfect, but the practice of collective bargaining, so maligned in our modern times, is the only way to keep decent, living wages in the hands of hard-working people.
All glory, laud, and honor to the WVAFT, the WVEA, and their parent organizations! Guess what? The bargain the teachers brokered extends to all public employees in the Mountain State!
United we bargain, divided we beg.
EXHIBIT A: THIS IS WHAT SOLIDARITY LOOKS LIKE
Two weeks ago, if you had asked me about the future of organized labor -- as it faces certain disruption by a conservative Supreme Court -- I would have said, "Palliative care only, send to hospice."
And then ... in deep red West Virginia ... a "right to work" (for less) state ... the teachers just walked out. Fifty-five counties, all the teachers walked out.
EXHIBIT B: ANNE FEELS STRONGLY ABOUT THIS
Bring it on, corporate pig-dogs! We will taunt you mercilessly!
I'm not playing, here. I believe in unions. No system is perfect, but the practice of collective bargaining, so maligned in our modern times, is the only way to keep decent, living wages in the hands of hard-working people.
All glory, laud, and honor to the WVAFT, the WVEA, and their parent organizations! Guess what? The bargain the teachers brokered extends to all public employees in the Mountain State!
United we bargain, divided we beg.
Monday, February 26, 2018
How To Teach Walt Whitman To Kids Who Don't Like To Read
Have you ever sat down and tried to read Leaves of Grass? No offense to the Great Gray Poet, but it's a labor of love. A nice cold glass of wine and a verdant hillside help immensely.
Unfortunately, there is neither wine nor hillsides in an urban classroom.
But fear not! These handy tips will work even if your classroom isn't in Camden, which mine is.
ANNIE'S HANDY TIPS FOR GETTING THESE MODERN DAY TEENAGERS TO TAKE EVEN A MILD INTEREST IN WALT WHITMAN:
1. Show the bridge.
Ask them, what do you have to do to get a bridge this big named after you? Then tell them that this bridge is named for a poet. It floors them.
2. Be ready with a dollar amount for a first edition of Leaves of Grass. Actually the number is lower than I thought, but it's still a mighty, mighty sum. Tell the students to go home and look in their attic, they might have a copy under a floor board. (Well, this does work best in Camden. Might also work in Brooklyn.)
3. Show them this engraving from the first edition of Leaves of Grass.
... and explain how "proper poets" dressed in those days. Let them connect the dots to today's rappers.
4. Make good use of the trendy Volvo commercial from 2017.
5. Or this really good little confection!
6. Go for the easy poems, like "O Captain, My Captain" and "Miracles." News flash: Have you read "I Hear America Singing" lately? Most of those jobs have either gone belly up or have been outsourced.
7. Memorize some of the poems and speak them without notes while the students follow along reading. They love it when you get stuck or screw up and they have to prompt you.
Then, when you have those lil puppies hooked, fling harder poems at them for analysis. In a nice think-pair-share environment.
All the while, pray fervently that your last observation of the year will not happen during this lesson -- but be prepared for yet another lackluster mediocre score if it does.
Unfortunately, there is neither wine nor hillsides in an urban classroom.
But fear not! These handy tips will work even if your classroom isn't in Camden, which mine is.
ANNIE'S HANDY TIPS FOR GETTING THESE MODERN DAY TEENAGERS TO TAKE EVEN A MILD INTEREST IN WALT WHITMAN:
1. Show the bridge.
Ask them, what do you have to do to get a bridge this big named after you? Then tell them that this bridge is named for a poet. It floors them.
2. Be ready with a dollar amount for a first edition of Leaves of Grass. Actually the number is lower than I thought, but it's still a mighty, mighty sum. Tell the students to go home and look in their attic, they might have a copy under a floor board. (Well, this does work best in Camden. Might also work in Brooklyn.)
3. Show them this engraving from the first edition of Leaves of Grass.
4. Make good use of the trendy Volvo commercial from 2017.
5. Or this really good little confection!
6. Go for the easy poems, like "O Captain, My Captain" and "Miracles." News flash: Have you read "I Hear America Singing" lately? Most of those jobs have either gone belly up or have been outsourced.
7. Memorize some of the poems and speak them without notes while the students follow along reading. They love it when you get stuck or screw up and they have to prompt you.
Then, when you have those lil puppies hooked, fling harder poems at them for analysis. In a nice think-pair-share environment.
All the while, pray fervently that your last observation of the year will not happen during this lesson -- but be prepared for yet another lackluster mediocre score if it does.
Saturday, February 24, 2018
This Annie Doesn't Want a Gun
Hi there, buckaroos! It's me, Anne Johnson, back from being president and safely in civilian life again!
I could have stayed at the White House forever, since it's so much more lavish than my own humble home, but after this latest horrible school shooting, I decided I was needed more at the Vo Tech. What, really, is more important than caring for our vulnerable teenagers?
New Jersey has some hella strict gun laws (another reason to love the Garden State), so I'm pretty doggone sure my school administrators aren't going to hand me a pistol and send me to the firing range. And that's a good thing, because I will quit my job if they start bringing guns into my school.
LIST OF JOBS ANNE WOULD DO RATHER THAN HAVE A GUN IN HER CLASSROOM
*Taco Bell drive-thru window, graveyard shift
*Goat judge (wish this paid better, it's a great job)
*Shrimp boat
*Wal-Mart ... yes. Wal-Mart cart collector
*Busting rocks with a sledgehammer
*Fox News focus group
*All natural mosquito eradicator
*Flagpole sitter
*Janitor, turnpike restrooms
If I couldn't find one of those compelling jobs, I would do anything that provided a meager paycheck. ANYTHING rather than having a gun in my hand in a classroom!
I'm not pretending to speak for all public school teachers here, but as for me and my classroom, we will follow the path of peace. No. Damn. Gun.
Ever.
I could have stayed at the White House forever, since it's so much more lavish than my own humble home, but after this latest horrible school shooting, I decided I was needed more at the Vo Tech. What, really, is more important than caring for our vulnerable teenagers?
New Jersey has some hella strict gun laws (another reason to love the Garden State), so I'm pretty doggone sure my school administrators aren't going to hand me a pistol and send me to the firing range. And that's a good thing, because I will quit my job if they start bringing guns into my school.
LIST OF JOBS ANNE WOULD DO RATHER THAN HAVE A GUN IN HER CLASSROOM
*Taco Bell drive-thru window, graveyard shift
*Goat judge (wish this paid better, it's a great job)
*Shrimp boat
*Wal-Mart ... yes. Wal-Mart cart collector
*Busting rocks with a sledgehammer
*Fox News focus group
*All natural mosquito eradicator
*Flagpole sitter
*Janitor, turnpike restrooms
If I couldn't find one of those compelling jobs, I would do anything that provided a meager paycheck. ANYTHING rather than having a gun in my hand in a classroom!
I'm not pretending to speak for all public school teachers here, but as for me and my classroom, we will follow the path of peace. No. Damn. Gun.
Ever.
Tuesday, February 13, 2018
Public School Teachers and Right To Work
Sounds like a boring topic, huh? I can see you stifling that yawn! But don't decamp for Dora the Explorer just yet, because you're in for an Anne rant. I'm rusty on ranting, but it came back today in full force.
You know what schools are? They are the spots that viruses of every kind choose for massive meet-ups. Every day, trillions of germs learn how to write paragraphs and reduce fractions. All while finding new hosts just sitting there waiting to fall ill!
This is one of the reasons why liberal states with strong unions provide decent health care to public school teachers. Mind you, I get a hefty chunk of change pulled from my envelope every pay period to partly cover my healthcare policy. But my policy is still generous. Thank you, thank you, thank you New Jersey Educational Association!
I say this because teachers in 28 states are laboring in "right to work" environments. "Right to work" (kind of like "right to life," huh?) has undercut collective bargaining rights and union clout, leading to lower salaries, and yes, higher insurance payments for teachers.
Teachers. Have you looked at a teacher's salary lately? Like, what we get paid to go sit all day among the frolicking viruses?
If you didn't see this story in the news, read it and WEEP.
Texas is a "right to work" state. But I'm not singling out Texas. This could happen in any "right to work" state.
First of all, I got a flu shot. It was free.
Second of all, if I did get the flu, my prescription of Tamiflu would cost $10.00, not $138. Therefore, I would be able to afford it. I wouldn't have to think twice.
Two children have been deprived of a mother. Probably two dozen second-graders must now deal with the trauma of having suddenly lost their teacher. (And which among those kids will feel guilty for maybe infecting her with the flu?) A loving husband has lost his wife.
Not because of the flu. No. Not because of the flu. This woman died because of RIGHT TO FUCKING WORK. I never heard of a teacher having to pay $138 for a prescription! That would NEVER happen in my state! I could be put on the most $$$$$$$$ medicine that is padding the pockets of the most venal Big Pharma executive, and my co-pay would be at most $20.
This nod to my performance of a difficult, tiring job in a germ-filled atmosphere is due to my union.
Right to work? Why don't we call it right to die?
Stay tuned for Supreme Court decisions that will bring right to die EVERYWHERE.
My heart goes out to this family, to the students and staff, and to all the public school teachers who have the misfortune of living in "right to work" states. Pay your dues, get your union card, and persuade all of your co-workers to do the same. This shit has got to stop.
You know what schools are? They are the spots that viruses of every kind choose for massive meet-ups. Every day, trillions of germs learn how to write paragraphs and reduce fractions. All while finding new hosts just sitting there waiting to fall ill!
This is one of the reasons why liberal states with strong unions provide decent health care to public school teachers. Mind you, I get a hefty chunk of change pulled from my envelope every pay period to partly cover my healthcare policy. But my policy is still generous. Thank you, thank you, thank you New Jersey Educational Association!
I say this because teachers in 28 states are laboring in "right to work" environments. "Right to work" (kind of like "right to life," huh?) has undercut collective bargaining rights and union clout, leading to lower salaries, and yes, higher insurance payments for teachers.
Teachers. Have you looked at a teacher's salary lately? Like, what we get paid to go sit all day among the frolicking viruses?
If you didn't see this story in the news, read it and WEEP.
Texas is a "right to work" state. But I'm not singling out Texas. This could happen in any "right to work" state.
First of all, I got a flu shot. It was free.
Second of all, if I did get the flu, my prescription of Tamiflu would cost $10.00, not $138. Therefore, I would be able to afford it. I wouldn't have to think twice.
Two children have been deprived of a mother. Probably two dozen second-graders must now deal with the trauma of having suddenly lost their teacher. (And which among those kids will feel guilty for maybe infecting her with the flu?) A loving husband has lost his wife.
Not because of the flu. No. Not because of the flu. This woman died because of RIGHT TO FUCKING WORK. I never heard of a teacher having to pay $138 for a prescription! That would NEVER happen in my state! I could be put on the most $$$$$$$$ medicine that is padding the pockets of the most venal Big Pharma executive, and my co-pay would be at most $20.
This nod to my performance of a difficult, tiring job in a germ-filled atmosphere is due to my union.
Right to work? Why don't we call it right to die?
Stay tuned for Supreme Court decisions that will bring right to die EVERYWHERE.
My heart goes out to this family, to the students and staff, and to all the public school teachers who have the misfortune of living in "right to work" states. Pay your dues, get your union card, and persuade all of your co-workers to do the same. This shit has got to stop.
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