In my special topics class on Monday we talked about nationalism. The students were assigned this essay to read, and they weren't happy. It was "long" and "difficult" and, also, "boring" to read. This was not a new reaction, by any means. Students often react that way with this particular essay but I like to teach it anyway. Once I explain it, and once we get a good discussion of nationalism underway, they come around; walls are knocked down, barriers breached, and they leave with a little spring in their steps.

Well, maybe I'm making up that part.

We talked about "good" forms of nationalism and "bad" forms. We talked about how nationalism is the ultimate Janus-faced monster: one side can present as good and positive and truly beautiful to see, while the other side can just as quickly turn malevolent and ugly beyond belief. Nationalism can make people do wonderful and altruistic things, but it can also make people do unspeakable things, too. Racists and bigots and intolerant people can hide behind nationalism. Ignorance thrives in it, and feeds off of it, too. 

My students listened, and nodded. 

"Like when you're at the state fair one night and some guy calls you 'Mexican' in that voice--you know that voice--and you just know what he means? Is that nationalism gone wrong?"

I had some bank problems recently. I have a "writing name" as T. calls it and, after months and months of depositing writing-gig-related checks under that name, my bank decided they they weren't sure who I was exactly, and they sent my checks back. In order to sort the mess out, I had to go into the bank and meet with an actual bank manager person. I get intimidated ahead of time, when I have to meet with people like that. I don't know why, but I always assume they'll be rude to me, or chew me out, or make me feel like an idiot. As it turned out, the bank manager guy was probably a good twenty years younger than I am. He was fresh out of college, and had moved from Ohio to North Carolina for his first ever job. He was also very, very nice. I explained the name mix-up problem and, instead of criticizing me, he was impressed. The other tellers were impressed too.

"I've never met anyone with a writing name," one of them gushed.

We sorted it all out and I left, feeling a renewed faith in bank people. The next time I received a check written out to writing name me, Scott suggested I walk it in, and deposit it in person--just to be safe.

I was in a hurry that afternoon, so I grouched a little. What? Walk it in? That will take forever! I've become addicted to convenience--to pulling up to the drive-through ATM and not having to actually interact with anyone. I stick the check in the envelope. I feed it into the slot, and it's done.

But I walked it in. I took the kids with me, too. There was no one else in the bank at all and the air seemed energized suddenly, when the kids and I walked in. The tellers smiled. The teller who helped me with my deposit that day looked at my check and smiled some more. It's so nice to put a face to the name! she said. I process people's checks all day through the ATM and I never know who they are.

On the way to pick T. up from school. L. and I stopped into Barnes & Noble so I could buy a copy of the movie I was planning on showing my students in class today. I told L. he could pick out an inexpensive magazine, if he hurried. At the doctor's office a couple of days ago he'd been completely engrossed in some issue of Reader's Digest and I had to sit down and wait another ten minutes after our appointment was over so he could finish it. He wanted to find that exact same issue at Barnes & Noble so we embarked on a frantic hunt to track down where the store kept those small-sized magazines. We enlisted the help of a nice Barnes & Noble lady who then had to get the help of a nice Barnes & Noble man to track down the elusive magazine. Finally, we found one last Reader's Digest, nestled next to Popular Mechanics. Unfortunately, this month's issue features a large hot dog on the front, with the word America written in curly, curvy mustard.

L. hates hot dogs, with a passion. He hates mustard even more. "I don't want that one," he said. "Could I get another?"

Barnes & Noble, apparently, doesn't keep back issues of Reader's Digest on hand.

On Sunday late afternoon, my  neighbor and I set out on our weekly walk, and fell to talking about childbirth. Our weekly walks are more than just a chance to exercise our bodies, but a chance to unload our thoughts from the week--the pitfalls, the funny moments, the complaints, the grouching about things we can't control. I think we crave that part of the walk more than we crave the actual exercise. We often swap stories, she and I, about pregnancy, and sleep woes, and sometimes brief reminiscences about childbirth and those early infancy days.

Yesterday's post was sparked by a woman I saw waiting in the grocery store checkout line earlier in the week. She was young and had two small children with her--one about 15 months old. She was paying for her groceries with a WIC check and when I saw that, the memories came flooding back.

A long, long time ago, in a land far away, we were graduate students, living in an apartment on the second floor of an old Victorian house in Rochester, NY. The first year we lived there, a young college student by the name of Matthew lived below us. He had an old Honda, but the remarkable and unusual thing about the car is that it had been entirely painted in psychedelic spray-painted designs.

One day last week, T. and I stopped into a bakery/sandwich shop downtown for a quick bite. It was part of a Mama/T. afternoon out we had planned for some weeks. The sandwich shop is a popular lunch place, but we got there around 11:30, and easily found a booth by the window for the two of us. After about thirty minutes, the lunchtime crowd rolled in, and the family in the booth in front of us left. A well-dressed couple moved in to hawk the table, while the family gathered their belongings and left.

It's back-to-work day for me today.

I hope you are all enjoying a fabulous Memorial Day weekend. I'm going to spend part of mine cooking for the annual pool potluck in our neighborhood. I'm bringing my sesame noodle dish (I would link to the recipe from last year's post, but the formatting is off--I'll post the recipe tomorrow, or at some point this week) and probably a Greek spinach pie.

I'll be back with a fresh post tomorrow. Until then, I'm re-posting a past Memorial Day post, in the hope it captures the spirit of the day.