Alia Aizenstat,

Sustainability Associate

After GVS, Alia applied to 14 colleges and was accepted by all 14.  She chose Lewis and Clark University, where she majored in fine arts and spent a semester abroad in Italy. Now she works as a sustainability associate at Pacifica Graduate Institute where she has been given the task of “greening” their 2 campuses. Helping Pacifica develop recycling plans, improve energy efficiency and drinking water systems, Alia says “everyday I make decisions that make a difference.”

What would you say to a student considering enrolling at Global Village School?

Alia:  When I was at the public high school I was afraid to break from the norm.  The anxiety I had of test taking ruined school for me, but I felt like I would be a failure if I left the track that everyone else was on.  I guess part of it was that I was afraid to be myself, and also that I wanted to be anyone but me (laughs). There was a fear of being different AND a fear of becoming myself.  So I guess I would say, “embrace who you are and get on the track that is right for you.”  Finding out that I could succeed outside of the regular system was a lesson for me.

Pictures after the jump!

James inspects this dog's toes

James gives this dog some love!

“In response to the earthquake, my daughters, Riva and Caitlin, and I have developed a reading out loud program in Creole for Haiti’s displaced children…Read, Read! We like it because it has a musical sound such as La la la! and is fun and easy to remember…To provide an engaging, interactive, and fun hour long activity for children displaced by the earthquake that will also encourage literacy, create a model for parents to read to their children, reinforce Creole, contribute to job creation, and be part of much needed efforts to address the trauma and anxiety children are suffering since the earthquake.

These anxieties continue to be compounded by fears of additional severe aftershocks or earthquakes, the continuing death toll amongst those who have survived, and the uncertainties of finding loved ones who survived. And, countless children are suffering and struggling with the pains of injuries, physical trauma, rehabilitation, and post earthquake illnesses. Story time hours help children release tension, find some new joy and give them some colorful and engaging images and stories that they can use at night when trying to go to sleep — despite their difficult sleeping conditions, physical pain, anxieties and sadness. We translated colorful, engaging and fun storybooks into Creole and use puppets and dolls to animate the stories as well. Our trained readers (animateurs) are dispatched in teams of two each for storytelling hour at various tent camps (or “sheet camps”), hospitals, and other transitional settings.”

To read more about the work Riva and her family are doing please visit their website: http://www.lililiread.blogspot.com/

The group welcomes donations of money, books, puppets, stuffed animals, etc.

My dog runs ahead
her exuberance, her ecstasy
is contagious

I look West
and the full moon
is hanging high in the sky
by an etheric thread

I look East
and the dark sky begins to blaze
from the hidden sun

My big booted feet
take strong, giant steps
The crow of the roosters
Cheers me on

I turn and head for the wild
I lean against a huge boulder
and watch the bright full Moon
Slowly sink

The Earth feels like Eden
Like a playground
Where all we are asked to do
Is feel the forces of Life

The first light of day
A mixture of the sun and moon
Illuminates the world
Everything is aglow

Together we stand
Between the sun and the moon
In a field of joy

I sit now under the Great Oak
A tree so strong, so majestic
So silent, so serene

She is safe here far off the beaten path
Far away from the relentless greed of man

And I am safe here under her canopy
Here I can sit on a cool hard rock
And enter the sacred silence
Here I sit in the greatest cathedral of all
I look up at her awesome branches
Spreading in all directions
Upward and outward

I sit still so I can see Her
I sit still so I can feel Her
I sit still so I can hear Her
Her natural beauty is such a relief
That I cry tears of happiness

I study her trunk
So straight and strong
I see how the base of the trunk grows
Over a huge rock
I can hardly believe this was once a tiny acorn sprout
And now look at Her
See how Her graceful branches touch the ground
A perfect canopy

Now look — see how the huge trunk branches out into eight limbs
Like the eight limbs of Yoga
That we have all but forgotten
My soul cries out for Ahimsa
Non violence, mercy

The silence of the Oak can only go so deep
My mind won’t let me sleep
I cry out for the immense suffering and injustice
For the people and animals
At least people can speak

I cannot forget the pig in the steel crate
When I close my eyes I feel the holy stillness
But I still see the pig

Reign in your wandering mind
For this still moment
Leave the world behind
And focus on the Oak
Relax your clenched fist
Know you have a right to rage and be angry

For now
Feel the sweetness of the great Oak
Hear the coo of the quail
See how the light sparkles on the leaves
See how the sun rises each morning in spite of man’s insanity
See how the Great Oak grows silently

Like the Oak
I have no choice
But to express my true nature.
And revel in the miracle of being

This river bottom poem is dedicated to my daughter,  Monica

My mother is working on her memoirs, and when she sent me this I couldn’t help thinking of the similarities between her story—from over 50 years ago—and Maryanna Newton’s reflections on the recent Obama inauguration.

June 3, 1953–Coronation Day

By Penny Carless

I spent the night before the coronation camped out on the Mall in London, amongst many thousands of others, young and old, from all over the British Commonwealth and world.  Our much beloved young Queen was to be crowned Elizabeth II in Westminster Abbey and we were all there to cheer as she, and so many other dignitaries and royalty from all over the British Commonwealth, passed by in wonderful fairytale carriages. 

There were servicemen in their ceremonial uniforms marching to military bands, brass instruments polished to look their very best.  The only problem was it was  raining.  It didn’t dampen our spirits one bit but some of colors in the ceremonial whiting and blacking ran!

I don’t remember it raining during the night and it wasn’t a downpour, thankfully but it did make things a bit less than perfect.  We heard a piece of exciting news that morning which made us forget the rain; we were told that Sir Edmund Hillary had conquered Everest, the first man to do so.  What an addition to an already incredibly exciting day.

The crowd was fun; friendly folks all around; all of us with different food to share and so many different languages, accents.  I was with a boyfriend called John–last name escapes me–who was quite tall and strong and we were able to get in good position to see everything.  The procession passed us on the way to the Abbey and on the way back, which was so exciting.  Once the Queen and guests were back in Buckingham Palace the crowds were allowed to gather directly outside the palace where we cheered everyone some more as the royal party came out onto the balcony.  The rain stopped and the sun came out as the Royal Air Force flew over the palace in a salute–and we cheered again.

I don’t think anyone born in the US can really understand the deep feelings so many of the British people have for their King or Queen.  We were brought up to think of them with such respect and they were considered really a benign and much loved, albeit somewhat austere, relative.  The monarch is completely apolitical–at least in public.  They are not involved in governing the country in any way and their duties are entirely ceremonial.

Elizabeth II’s father was George VI. During the war King George and his wife Queen Elizabeth (later known with great affection as the Queen Mum) were such a strong figurehead all during the blitz.  They could have left London for the country during the bombing but elected to stay in the city and every morning they would be found out amongst the people who had been bombed the previous night.  It helped to dispel the misery somewhat.  Buckingham Palace did in fact get bombed, but not seriously and I don’t think anyone was hurt.

George VI had a particularly warm place in our hearts.  He had never expected to be King.  He was the second son of George V but the eldest son, Edward, had chosen to abdicate and marry an American divorcee, Wallis Simpson, much to most people’s absolute disgust.  King George was rather frail and had a terrible stutter, which made giving speeches so painful for him.  Every Christmas Day the King or Queen addresses the nation at 3pm; in our day it was on the radio but I’m sure it must be on TV these days.  Most people would stop their Christmas festivities to listen–it was a wonderful tradition.  We would all agonize with the King when he had problems with his stutter.

George VI died in February of 1952 and the country was devastated.  His eldest daughter, Elizabeth, was on an official tour in Kenya with her husband, (then the Duke of Edinburgh) and was called home to assume the role of Queen.  She was in her early twenties at the time, so young.

The King’s body lay in state in Westminster Hall, adjacent to the Houses of Parliament, for several days so that the people could file past to pay their respects.  I was in my final year at school and was allowed to go up to London with three other sixth formers to represent the school.  I remember we stood in line for what seemed like a very long time and then filed past the coffin, guarded on all four corners by servicemen in ceremonial uniform; much like when a dignitary lies in state in the Rotunda in the Capital in Washington.  Very impressive and moving.

In the two main daily papers there was always a column called the Royal Circular, which listed the places the members of the royal family would be that day.  If I was in London I would always look and see if the Queen was going to be anywhere near where I was and I was lucky enough to see her passing by several times.

Even though I have been away from England so long now I still have a warm place in my heart for the royal family and enjoy seeing pictures and reading articles about them.  I’m sure it seems strange to some but it seems to be a feeling that never goes away.

   

It starts out as it usually does.  We are doing some seemingly benign activity that families typically do.  This time we are eating dinner at a fast food restaurant,  in Anytown, USA.

My son, Jason, is seven years old.  Biracial, he is cute as can be—a fine example of hybrid vigor with his soft, curly hair and caramel colored skin.  We are having an animated discussion about football, his favorite sport.  Jason is making sure that I know which teams are ranked in the top ten and who his favorite players are.    

Football is not my strong suit, so I get these quizzes often, my erroneous answers triggering the laughter I love to hear. So engrossed in our conversation, we do not notice that a middle aged, Caucasian male, looking like an ad for Eddie Bauer, has approached our table. 

“That’s a handsome young man,” he interrupts, smiling at Jason.

“Thank you,” I respond, unable to keep the pride out of my voice.

“Are you babysitting for him?”

“No, he’s mine.”

“A foster child?”

“No.”   Not again, I groan. 

“Did you adopt him?”

“No, I went through twenty-one hours of labor and gave birth to him.  He’s mine,”  I answer with a voice that surely conveys my desire for this conversation to be over.

“Why doesn’t he look like you?”

Seriously?  What gives a total stranger the right to disrupt my treasured time with Jason, only to satisfy their curiosity?   “My son looks more like his father” I explain, “who is African-American.”

The face of our uninvited visitor turns as pale as the white button-down shirt he wears.   There is blessed silence while he gathers himself. Shooting me a look of condemning censure he walks away, finally speechless.

Jason has been quiet through the conversation, intently looking at a speck on the floor, food forgotten.  Wise beyond his years, he raises his head and looks at me lovingly.  “It’s Okay Mom,” he says.

But it’s not.    

Fast forward three months to a beautiful summer day in the park.  We’re enjoying a lazy Sunday afternoon all stretched out on a big blanket.  I’m reading the paper, and my husband Oscar and Jason are talking about…what else?  Sports. 

Oscar leaves to go to the bathroom—a man dressed in military uniform approaches our blanket.

“Is that your boyfriend?”  he asks.

“No, he’s my husband.”

“But you’re such a pretty girl.  Surely you could have had your pick of anyone.”

Really?  Are you kidding?“ Is this actually happening?   Yes,” I answer, fighting to keep my voice pleasant.  “That’s a good thing about being attractive.  I got my pick.  I picked my husband and I would pick him again today and….”

Before I can finish, the military man turns on his heel as if he is in formation and walks away.

Once again, it seems as if my choices for my life have threatened another’s view of how the world should be.

This time Jason says nothing.

Jason, now 25 voted for Barak Obama, never believing he would be elected.

But he was, and there will be a new conversation.