The Gift of the Word

{When I sat down to write this, I intended to just list George Dawson's story as one of my things to be happy about, but I got a little carried away with researching and retelling his story... Plus, he deserves his own post. I'll finish up this week's list of happy things at some point this weekend.}

 Ok, so I was watching Oprah today; that is not, however, what I want to talk about because she's leaving me soon, and that makes me sad, not happy... Anyway, in typical Oprah fashion, she presented one of those heartwarming, inspirational segments that renews my hope for and faith in humanity just at the moment when I need it most.

This is George Dawson:

{Source}

George Dawson was born in Marshall, Texas in 1898. The grandson of a slave, one of his earliest memories was witnessing the lynching of 17-year old black man who was accused of getting a white girl pregnant. George was the eldest of five children and he started working on the family farm almost as soon as he could walk; by the time he was eight years old he was working full-time in the fields. When his aunt and uncle died, George's parents took in his nine cousins, so in an effort to help feed the now enormous family, George went to work on a neighboring farm when he was just twelve.  Mr. Dawson eventually ended up at Oak Farms Dairy where, in 1944, his boss recognized his skill and dedication and offered him a promotion; all he had to was fill out an application and the new title and a raise would be his. Ashamed to admit that he couldn't even write his own name, let alone fill out an application, Dawson demurred, claiming that he was happy in his current position. 

Dawson continued working at Oak Farms until they forced him to retire at 65. He continued to garden and do yard work for his neighbors until he decided to fully retire at ninety. When he was 98, an education recruiter knocked on his door and handed him some information about adult education classes. As Dawson remembers it, he looked at the young man, looked at the paper, decided he no longer cared if his secret came out, and said, "Hang on a minute while I get my hat!"

He hopped in the recruiter's car and drove to the adult education center, which happened to be in the same building where his seven children, now all college graduates, had gone to school. There he met Carl Henry, the retired teacher who would become his instructor. Dawson had a brief moment of doubt when he realized that he was half a century older than the average student at the center, but he decided that he wouldn't let his pride keep him from doing the thing he had wanted to do all his life - learn to read.  

{George and Carl - Source}

Despite his initial hesitation, Dawson returned to the adult education center again and again. He had to start at the very beginning - with the alphabet, but in three months, he was reading. The first book that he chose to read on his own was the Bible. "There's a verse I love: 'In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God and the Word was God.' Now the Word is with me. If there's anything worth being proud of, it's that" (Guideposts.org).

{If that doesn't melt your heart, you are dead inside. Source}

He didn't stop there; he continued attending school and started working on his GED. By the time he was 102, George Dawson was the bestselling co-author of his autobiography, Life is So Good. By the time he passed away in 2001 at 103, he had also received two honorary doctorates. A year after his death, the George Dawson Middle School opened in Southlake, Texas. 

 I want to be more like George Dawson.

Mythical Beast Spotted in San Diego

Thanks again to Groupon, I attended a photography workshop today. It was well worth the four hours and sixty bucks because I am now comfortable-ish in manual mode and I finally figured out how to get a shallow depth of field...not particularly complicated actually.

Combine these two and you have a pretty good idea how I look at the moment.

I skipped the photo safari since I am three days post chemical peel and rather disturbing to look at. Where my skin isn't cracked and peeling off, it's red and wrinkly. It's truly unsettling.  I was afraid that one of the other photographers might inadvertently capture a picture of me in the background of one of her shots.  I can just imagine her going home, looking through the pictures from the afternoon's photo shoot, discovering my horrifying visage in the corner of a shot, and assuming that she has photographic evidence of the existence of Chupacabra or La Llorona (an evil, child-stealing ghost of Mexican lore). Next thing I know, I'm in line at the grocery store and there's my disfigured mug on the cover of the National Enquirer... So, to avoid that outcome, I came home and hid hermit-style in my apartment for the rest of the afternoon.

Before disappearing for the day, I did take a couple shots to test out my new understanding of depth of field.

Suddenly Summer

Somewhere between the May Gray and the June Gloom that lasted well into July, summer snuck in. The dreary weather of the last few weeks has been kind of a nice because it has given me an excuse to hole up, completely guilt free, with my crafting and cooking. However, keeping all of the windows closed and wearing long sleeves and actual shoes in mid-July was starting to get a little old, so I celebrated the return of the sun this Monday with a trip to the pool and an indolent hour during which I did nothing but treat my vitamin D deficiency.

And now that the sunny side of summer has shown up, I have to maybe, probably, hopefully go back to school. I have spent the past five weeks vacillating (somewhat psychotically) between indifference, hope, despair, and a kind of forced nonchalance as the school district sat on its metaphorical hands and... Well, I have no idea what the district district has been doing for the past three months. Lobbying for a bulk discount on red tape? Attending trainings on new ways in which bureaucracy can be used to supplant common sense?

I know what they haven't been doing, and that is figuring out who will be teaching the fifteen sections of English that are currently open at my school site. That translates to roughly 465 students, students who return to campus in three days, who are currently without an English teacher. Students who will likely spend the first couple weeks of their ninth and tenth grade years with a rotating cast of substitutes. Apparently I should have added righteous indignation to my list of rotating mental states...

Anyway, the point is - it's sunny and warm and the forecast is for more of the same. I will be taking advantage of the new weather pattern by crossing another activity off of my list this weekend...  Tom and I have a paddle board lesson scheduled for Saturday morning; I assume that I will have Jennifer Aniston-style biceps in no time.

Prayers for Haiti

Last week it would have been difficult to imagine how life in Haiti could possibly become more difficult. When the average citizen eats one meal every other day, 30% of the population lacks potable water, and less than half of the population can read or write, it would be a gross understatement to say that life in Haiti is a struggle. Now that Tuesday's earthquake has claimed untold thousands and destroyed much of what little infrastructure existed, it is difficult to imagine what new obstacles lie ahead for the people of this beautiful country.

I only spent one week in Haiti, but I was changed by the experience. My most vivid memories of Milot involve the children who I met and observed there, children so dedicated to their educations that even a lack of electricity did not stop them from studying. At night they gathered under streetlights to finish their reading, and they were up at dawn, in incredibly pristine school uniforms, practicing their English with any travelers willing to chat with them.

Given that these same children are the future of Haiti, I am hopeful that, with the world's help, the country will recover and emerge renewed.