Dear Equality, How May We Reach You?

Today it paid to be white

 Is breathing not a birthright?

Exhausted melanin

Innocent felon in

The life of a black man tonight

I’ll admit, sharing my thoughts on racism publicly doesn’t come easily to me, but not for the reasons you might think. It is not because I am afraid of speaking my mind, or what you might think of me if I do. It is because I am protective of my family and guard these conversations carefully, because I fear drawing unwanted attention that might cause more harm than good. It is because I spend more time listening to loved ones sharing their stories, than trying to explain mine. It is because I believe actions speak louder than words. It is because I don’t want pity, and I don’t want you to pity my family members either. It’s draining. It’s disheartening. And most importantly, it is not my story to tell.

Yet, here I am, another white lady telling you all about it. Just promise me that when you’re done reading, go find some articles, blogs, and literature written by members the black community, and read those too.

Let me begin by addressing my white friends and family who are tired of hearing about racism. You’re tired of it, but imagine having to experience it every day. I realize you can’t because you’re white, so let me share a bit of what I have witnessed.

…shouted at “you get out of here!” when lost and looking for a correct address then followed and questioned by the police, motorcycle engine revved until the baby is crying hysterically and it’s time to go now, “no I’ll pick it up, you stay with the kids” (picking up a table we purchased second-hand, because my white skin won’t be suspected for stealing, fighting or paying with counterfeit money), is that child bothering you? says the clerk to a white child playing with mine, flyer for white supremacy group dropped casually on the restaurant table, searching for a black doll among an isle of white, called the n-word by person living under the same roof, pulled over by police and questioned while driving friend’s car through wealthy neighborhood to pick her up from work, is my child mine and “… are you sure?”, spat on and called the n-word at work in uniform, locked out of own elementary school and refused re-entry by white staff members including administration, fired for a simple error that a white colleague also made and didn’t get fired for, bringing me and the kids along to professional events because it paints a different image, stopped by police and handcuffed in own neighborhood for walking down sidewalk carrying iced tea, Mommy I wish I was white like the Disney princesses, discreet remarks that things will fail for us as a family unit, worrying while he’s out on a run, harassed on daily bus route, “you’ll never be as beautiful as a white woman”, expelled from school for making a rude comment while white peers who did too were suspended, woman calls her sister to say that she’s uncomfortable with my family being on the beach near her home tossing rocks into waves, forced out of a job because the managers’ bestie got laid off and “needs the work to feed his family”, etcetera…

What is happening now is not the reaction to the murder of one black man. It’s the reaction to the daily exhaustion, or fatigue, and cumulative stress black people face, which is something you and I have to admit we are not able to comprehend. But we can listen, with empathy.

Now, I would like to address my white friends and family, who are upset and are actively trying to figure out what to do with that discomfort, shame, anger and sadness. Who want to make a difference in dismantling the white supremacy which has been deeply rooted in our lives. I feel you! There are plenty of resources online offering suggestions for what you can do and literature to read. Here are a couple:

https://medium.com/equality-includes-you/what-white-people-can-do-for-racial-justice-f2d18b0e0234

https://themighty.com/2020/06/support-black-lives-matter-cant-protest/

The rest of what I have to say addresses our future generation, and the ways in which we are bringing up and educating our young children.

Like any parent, I want my kids to have happy childhood memories, and an adulthood of contentment, growth, faith and love. But I want even more than that. I want mine to be viewed for their authentic selves, not as someone whose skin color means they require the service of others in order to be alright in the world. I want for them to be able to make mistakes just like your kids will, and be disciplined neither more or less severely than yours would. I want for them to become adults who are seen as equally human, not as a threat, or in some way incapable. But they will, as their father often is, unless there is major change in the way people of color are humanized by white people, and in the way we white folks are able to empathize and take on perspectives that are different from our own.

I’ve read well-intentioned posts in some parenting groups recently, asking for recommended books to help teach their children about racism, and how to be anti-racist. There was a request for books specifically about slavery and racism for a four year old, and with the exception of one woman of color, all the recommendations came from white women. The white-lady-recommended-books do seem useful for discussing anti-racism. But they also, in one way or another, portray people of color as victims of oppression. Not one simply characterized the humanity of black children, doing normal everyday things.

Why is this bothering me so much?

Because when you read to your child about the struggles of black people, what do they see? Black people who struggle. And when you discuss at the dinner table how that white kid really stood up for that black kid, what do they hear? Black people need white people to rescue them, empower them, help them.

I have learned to be more conscious of the language and conversation that takes place in our home, especially during times like right now where we have a lot on our minds and a lot to say. I constantly have to check myself. Are my words creating an image for my child that humanizes people of color, or do they simply highlight the reality of their oppression?

I have also learned to be mindful about the roles of black characters in the books we choose for our home. A large majority play a victim role, needing to overcome something. I don’t want my black children to see themselves that way. I don’t want your white children to see my black children that way. If you’ve met my kids, you know how confident and fun-loving they are. I’m not about to destroy that with heaps of stories about how kids who look like them are viewed as inferior because of the color of their skin, even if in the end she overcomes the struggle and gets the lead ballerina role after all, because her white friends stood up for her.

Where are all the books that show black people doing everyday things? Walking the dog, celebrating a birthday, splashing at the beach, learning to whistle, picnicking at the park.  Ask yourself: how many books in my home (or classroom, or daycare, or waiting room) feature a lead character (not just the signature black kid in the background making the book seem diverse) who is not white, and who is in no way a victim of some sort of racism? If you’re struggling to find some, that is simply because they are not easy to find! I’ve spent the last five years searching, and have eventually had to special order books from a small South African publishing company. Research shows that publishing companies often deny books featuring a black lead character (who isn’t playing the victim role) because unfortunately they don’t sell as well. Ask yourself why that is.

There may be a time when I will need your white child to defend my black child. But I don’t want it to be because an instructional text told them they were supposed to. I want it to be because my child is valued by your child. Because your child sees my child as equally human, and can empathize enough to do what is right.

Below are a few of my kids’ favorite books, to help you begin to build a home/school/daycare library for your children that depict the humanity of black people. I’ll even toss in a book on empathy/listening. I found most of these at second-hand stores. All are available on Amazon, and most are available in public libraries and small bookshops, too. They are geared towards younger children, ages birth to five, since that’s where we’re at in our family. I would love to hear your favorites too!

Thank you for being here and engaging in my words. Thank you to those who have messaged us or called to check in and see how we are doing. Interestingly, the most support I personally have received since the murder of George Floyd, has been from my sister who is deaf. Belonging to a marginalized group herself, she understands the amount of energy it takes to live through each day, and the cumulative stress of it all.

Keep listening, praying and taking action. I promise to do the same.

Please, Puppy, Please by Spike Lee and Tonya Lewis Lee (two children trying to give their puppy a bath)

So Much by Trish Cooke (my fave, my kids’ fave, just get this one)

Anna Hibiscus books by Atinuke & Lauren Tobia. They also write chapter books for older kids, but the ones we have are Splash, Anna Hibiscus! and Anna Hibiscus’ Song

   

In a Minute by Tony Bradman & Eileen Browne (children can relate to the main character having to wait for her parents when they say “I’ll be with you in a minute”)

Mama bird, Baby Birds and Rain Feet by Angela Johnson (short, simple, relatable board books)

Any books by Ezra Jack Keats: Whistle for Willie, The Snowy Day, Peter’s Chair, Pet Show!, A Letter to Amy (all are perfect examples of black characters doing everyday things children can relate to)

   

Whose Knees Are These?, Whose Toes are Those? and Girl of Mine by Jabari Asim (board books for babies/toddlers)

 

Let’s Go To Playgroup and Let’s Go To Bed by Pamela Venus (board books)

 

Ten Nine Eight by Molly Bang (short nighttime story)

Every Little Thing by Cedella Marley (Bonus: you get to sing this one)

A Fairy Tale Treasury by John Kurtz (classic stories with black characters)

The Field by Baptiste Paul (describes a pick-up soccer game)

Saturday by Oge Mora (also a great lesson on handling a change of plans and one we parent’s can relate to as well) & Thank You, Omu ( a story about what happens when you share so much that there is nothing left!)

 

Ten Little Surfers by Catherine Payne (cute rhyming board book, depicts a variety of races having fun surfing together)

Bedtime Bonnet by Nancy Redd (all about nighttime hair traditions!)

The King of Kindergarten by Vanessa Brantley-Newton and Derrick Barnes (boost first-year of school confidence by exploring what it’s going to be like) & Grandma’s Purse (a little mystery and magic when Grandma Mimi visits)

   

How to Find a Fox y Nilah Magruder (a story about determination/not giving up- the fox is sneaky and hard to find!)

We all Went on Safari by Laurie Krebs (okay hanging out with wild animals might not be an everyday ordinary thing to do, but nevertheless this has been my kid’s favorite nighttime book since day one)

The Airport Book by Lisa Brown (biracial family experiences the happenings in an airport together as they are heading for a vacation, perfect for prepping your kids for a flight or teaching them the functions of an airport)

Books by Rachel Isadora, especially classic stories with black characters such as The Princess and the Pea, Hansel and Gretel and Rapunzel. ‘I Hear a Pickle’ is also fun to read! Peekaboo Morning is lovely too, for littler ones.

   

   

Ada Twist, Scientist by Andrea Beaty (make it known that black females are scientists too!)

City Shapes by Diana Murray (fun way to teach shapes)

Looking for Bongo by Eric Velasquez (a boy investigates his missing toy)

I Got the Rhythm by Connie Schofield-Morrison (even butterflies make music in this fun one)

Zoey and Sassafras chapter books by Asia Citro (A super fun mix of scientific methods and magical creatures!)

The Magnificent Makers by Theanne Griffith (chapter books covering scientific topics with adventure and humor)

The Camping Trip by Jennifer Mann (All about the camping experience!)

The Quickest Kid in Clarksville by Pat Zietlow Miller (a competitive and determined young one is faced with a challenge- this one is all about friendship)

Smiling by Gwenyth Swain (depicts a variety of races, just smiling)

Whoosh! Lonnie Johnson’s Super-Soaking Stream of Inventions by Chris Barton (all about NASA’s Lonnie Johnson)

The Lost Property Office by Emily Rand (a girl leaves her teddy on the train and adventures to find it again)

One Hot Summer Day by Nina Crews (what a young girl observes on a hot day in the city)

Thank you by Betsey Chessen (depicts a variety of races, helping their family with chores)

Hair Love by Matthew Cherry (also a short film, and so beautiful!)

Max and the Tag-Along Moon by Floyd Cooper, A Beach Tail by Karen Williams and Floyd Cooper (fun concepts such the fact that no matter where we live, we are underneath the same moon)

   

And one on listening/empathy… The Rabbit Listened by Cori Doerrfeld (good for adults too!)

When Life Gives You Lemons, March With Lemon Bars

Feeling strong and feminine

We add the juice of a lemon in

A bowl of sweetness

And mix to completeness

For comfort, this is our regimen

Dear Maya,

Yesterday, someone new became president. There is a lot of confusion going on in many people’s hearts right now. I think that you are sensing that, although we are trying our best to be mindful of how much this all affects you, my sweet girl.  Instead of watching the TV that day, we baked. Lemon Bars. Ferociously, like wild women. I have a lot to learn myself, as your mama. How am I going to talk with you about race throughout your lifetime? How will I protect you from the discrimination many people are facing right now? What will I say, when all I want to do, should do, is listen? Knowing that I’ll never understand what it feels like to have your beautiful brown skin, how can I validate what you feel? How will I respond, when I witness prejudice, direct or indirect, happening because of the color of your skin? The questions every white mother of a black child is asking themselves right now. The questions we should all, as Americans, be asking ourselves right now. I am sitting still with this uncertainty, praying that I will have strength to always speak up, and to make good decisions about how to educate myself, in order to respond in ways that lift you up throughout your life.

Today, millions of women and men march peacefully for human rights, worldwide from Ghana to Germany to Antarctica!  Diaper bag stocked with fishy crackers and Elmo stickers, Nike’s laced up, we are out the door, ready to head to the Seattle March, when I notice the driveways of our richly diverse cul-de-sac are full of parked cars. I pause. Perhaps our day will have just as much meaning, if not more, if we pay visits to our neighborhood families instead. So, Maya, you and I proudly march  137th Place, with pink hats atop our heads, bringing smiles and lemon bars to our neighbors. You have no idea the impact of your smile. But I do, and proudly witness it today.

Paper plate of lemon bars in hand, you march right up to the home of Maria and Luis, a friendly Mexican couple with two daughters away at college. On their front porch, you say hello to a large statue of Mary, who is surrounded by bouquets of flowers. When Maria opens the door and sees you standing there holding the treats you made for them, her face lights up. The Golden Oldies are playing and the smell of bacon and eggs floats in the air, as we are invited in for coffee. It isn’t long before the conversation turns toward yesterday’s events, and our smiles straighten as the worry lines between our eyebrows define themselves. Luis finds it confusing how a person who speaks so cruelly about women, could become our president, as he glances towards a photo on the wall of his two daughters. Maria finds it confusing how a person with a history of bankruptcy and dishonest business practice, let alone no experience, could become president. But then you smile and wiggle on the sofa, and La Bamba plays, lifting our spirits. We talk about planning a Block Party this summer for everyone living on our fabulously diverse street, before marching onward to the next house.

He is outside with his brother-in-law, five cars in their small driveway, and another parked against the sidewalk nearby. It’s a side job, fixing up broken cars and selling them, so he can afford to give his family a decent home, food, education. Amir’s brother owns the house. We met him when we first moved here, as he ran across the cul-de-sac to help unload a refrigerator into our garage. But he’s in Iraq now to be with their father who is dying of cancer. Amir smiles and gratefully accepts the lemon bars you hand him. I’m just as grateful, that he is not afraid to discuss politics with me, an American blondie standing in his driveway with foreign baked goods. Amir finds it confusing how a person who defines all Muslims as terrorists, could become our president. His soft-spoken brother-in-law finally shares what is on his mind, that radical groups are killing his people too, and why don’t Americans realize who started the whole mess in the first place? I assure him that after living in the Middle East myself, and keeping myself educated with as much unbiased information as I can, I understand. His face relaxes a little bit and I get a smile. I explain the saying “When life hands you lemons..” as they nod in agreement, when suddenly the brother-in-law’s eyes light up. “Lemons? You like lemons? Wait here, I have for you.” He disappears behind the cars for a minute and returns with two orangey-lemoney- looking fruits. He’s not sure what they are called in English, but explains how to eat this Iraqi fruit, purchased at an Arabic shop in Everett. Cut it into small pieces and sprinkle some salt on top, he explains proudly with a toothy grin. You reach for the fruit and try to bite the peel, but we all tell you to wait until you get home to eat it. Happy with our lemon-exchange, we march on, a little more connected.

Barb, maybe because her house is pink, or because she let you come in to see her Christmas village collection, or because she smiles a lot- you love her. Barb works for a trucking company, is easy to talk to, and enjoys getting to know her neighbors. She opens the door and invites us in right away. Her friend is sitting on the sofa, their weekly visit before they go to church together. The house smells sweet; she’s made a “practice cake” for her parents 60th anniversary party she will host in a couple of weeks.We talk about your cute outfit, Daisy the dog’s toy collection, my job teaching from home, and the amazing turnout of today’s marches. Barb and I find it confusing how someone who makes fun of a person with a disability, could become our president. You talk in an excited squeaky voice about all the little pieces of Pam’s Christmas village. A few more kisses from Daisy and we’re off.

Marching up a few steps, we knock on the door of our neighbors who have come to live here from Ethiopia, a mother and her son Abel. Abel answers the door wearing a shirt that says, “Someone who loves me very much went to Israel and brought me this t-shirt.” He immediately grins and holds your hand, scrunching his face toward you says, “you’re so cute!” You give him a little smirk. He takes the treats you’ve made, and tells us his mom is in the shower, so we trust he will share those lemon bars, and tell him we will see her later.

We march to the house of Herman, who you call Snowman. An African American man, he greets us with a jolly “hello!” and let’s us know he’s got to run to a meeting. I tell him, “We made you these, in light of recent events, because when life hands you lemons…” he interrupts in a loud voice with a big smile and a an even bigger wink, “You make lemonade!” I am awfully certain that Herman finds it confusing how someone who childishly dismisses the bravery of African Americans during the Civil Rights movement, could become our president. He thanks you, Maya, for the treat and we march on.

Our Vietnamese neighbors who live next door are not home, so we leave a note with their treats on the porch, and march home. When participating in such events, it’s important to rest. So, at home, we join Miyu and Sibyl, for some lemon bars of our own. As international students living with us from Japan and China, your “sisters” are hearing a lot in the news, at school, and their parents shake their heads as they talk about yesterday’s news over Skype. Their families are worried, because they don’t know what our new president will do. They explain how Obama met with Japanese leaders, to pray together at Pearl Harbor.  But they worry about what will happen now. You lounge on the living room floor with pillows and blankies, snuggled between your sisters, making their lives sweeter just by being there.

When Daddy gets home from work, you run to him for a hug and demand a game of “Set and Go!” where you race around the kitchen together. The kitchen. The place where you started a movement by simply turning lemons into lemon bars.

As you lay upstairs in your cozy bed dreaming of Maria’s laugh, Daisy the doggy, and Ali’s lemony-orangey-fruits of Iraq, I sit here at my computer feeling a teeny tiny bit of regret that we didn’t join the millions who marched in solidarity today. But then, I realize, that’s exactly what we did today, in our own little community. And I’m proud of us. And of all those who marched today. Thank you, Maya Lesedi, for bringing so much light into this world. You are our hope.

All My Love,

Mama

*Dear Reader: Thank you for being here, for engaging in this post, especially if it made you feel uncomfortable. I hope we begin to reflect on and ask ourselves, what it might feel like right now, for each individual person in our family, in our neighborhood, in our country and world. I welcome thoughtful discussion that seeks to learn and connect, rather than prove and divide. March on!

Starting Again

How could there ever be

A more influential degree?

With the chancellor’s nod

After thirty years odd

She’s a bona fide UW Husky

It’s been three years since my last post, and I’ve got every excuse. I started a new job. Had a baby. Moved countries again. Embraced full-time motherhood. Felt too tired. Moved again. Started another new job. Adjusted to life as a working mother. Overwhelmed at the thought of how to pick back up in one single post after all I’ve experienced in the past three years, this dusty old blog has been deserted. Until, something inspired me last summer.

A world-traveler, cook, mother of seven, seamstress, business-owner, a witty, intelligent, motivated, compassionate, warm person received her BA in English from the University of Washington, after a 30 year hiatus as she raised her family. She could have made all the excuses not to finish. But she crossed that UW stage with grace, style, humility, a little spring in her step, tassel swinging confidently. As I stood in the corner of the lecture hall, camera eager to capture a memory, a tear rolled down my cheek as if to say, “Stop trying to find the perfect angle, and let this sink in.” Tiny goosebumps rose on my arms, each one arriving to point out that this moment confirms something important. I let my camera rest by my side, wiped the tear, and smiled as the auditorium swelled with applause. Sheila proves the value in doing what we love, no matter life’s circumstances. And if we stop, for whatever reason, great joy and fulfillment can be found in starting again. I figure that inspiration is what brings me to my laptop this morning, to get back to what I enjoy.

Just as crash diets don’t tend to last, I expect crash-blogging wouldn’t either. Easing back into this, I begin by sharing an essay which my sister Sheila submitted as one of her assignments. It’s about a little trip she took to Qatar to visit her younger sister…

“My flight landed at two in the morning and my curiosity kept me wide eyed as I worked my way toward the customs passage. The sprawling ultra-modern airport was teeming with people at this ungodly hour, and the juxtaposition of my light hair and blue eyes among a sea of dark worried faces was one of many scenes in this country that just did not click. This is Qatar; a tiny speck of a country in the Arabian Peninsula whose citizens have so much new wealth they don’t know what to do with it. So they spend it building luxurious homes and buildings, and, since the Qataris themselves are above physical labor, they hire immigrants. Lots of immigrants. And these were the people I recently found myself melded with only a few months ago as I visited my young sister who was expecting her first child in this intriguing, desert land.

I settled into the comfort of my sister’s air conditioned flat but was startled from my sleep by the monotone humming of the early morning call to prayer. It was a haunting sound that I could not recognize because it was in Arabic and it was from the Qur’an; both of which are foreign to me. A click of a microphone signaled the end of the prayer and I realized this was not a recording. Hundreds of mosques throughout the city of Doha invite a man to climb to the top of the minaret (mosque tower) and sing passages from the holy book of Islam. This happens five times throughout each day, interrupting television, radio and any other activity as a reminder to pray to Allah, and it is adhered to by devout Muslims everywhere. Qatari culture is significantly influenced by Islam and the five pillars of faith: give testimony of faith, pray, give to the needy, fast during the holy month of Ramadan, and make a pilgrimage to Mecca, if possible, during one’s lifetime.

Considering the third point, giving to the needy, Qataris must get creative since there is no poverty in their country. Wealthy Qataris invite people into their homes to share a meal and their culture and this is where I found myself one Saturday afternoon. I was invited to the home of a friend of a friend where we joined about twenty others for a meal of roasted goat and rice served on a huge tray set out on cloth spread over the carpeted floor of a great room. Guests reclined and scooped up the meat and rice with their hand. We listened to our host reminisce about his first love, which was forbidden, and how he has not forgotten his German sweetheart twenty years later. He showed us to his camel coral and to a barn where falcons were posted up. There was no talk of religion or politics to spoil the mood, just a lovely afternoon in the company of people from all parts of the world.

The warmth of the Arabian sun was not comforting at all and the heatwaves appeared like tiny specks floating over my eyes. There were few trees to break up the monotony of the grey-white cement from the streets that climbed to the houses and buildings and blended with the dust filled sky. Yet somehow Qatar was beautiful. The buildings were architectural wonders of blue steel and turquoise glass to match the scintillating waters of the Persian Gulf. Men in pristine white thobes (robes) and headdresses roamed in designated pedestrian areas and women gracefully walked about covered head to toe in black. But these women were not weighted down with heavy black robes. They were draped in flowing black chiffon, edged in gold thread or tiny sparkles of diamonds and rubies. Their heads were stylishly covered and their eyes were hidden behind chic sunglasses or exposed through slits in their veil. They walked skillfully on designer heels, as they kicked the flowing cloth from beneath their feet. The blend of modernity and antiquity left me puzzled.

The country was a spectacle and I often found myself shaking my head and smiling at the same time. I witnessed camel racing, with robot jockeys controlled by remote from the camel owner who paced alongside his camel in his shiny SUV on a separate track. I braced myself in the chaotic traffic as Escalades recklessly merged across six lanes of traffic at a roundabout, carrying a falcon or cheetah in the passenger seat. I stared in wonder as women lifted their face veil every time they wanted just a sip of water. Even the days of the week were altered. I attended Catholic Mass on Friday, which is Mosque day, and members of other faiths could attend a service of their own denomination in “church city.” Strategically placed near “church city”, was the lone place in the entire country where non-Muslims could buy alcohol and pork for home consumption. I also attended there along with hundreds of other non-Muslims who looked for some semblance of their own culture. Saturday was a day for shopping and leisure and the thirty eight malls were packed as people escaped the heat and dust and flocked to the shops. I lost myself in the maze of colorful stalls at the outdoor Souk: the best place to barter for fabric, prayer rugs, ceramic pottery, falcons and gold. Sunday the work week began again.

As my stay progressed I wondered at what possibilities each new day might bring. I had left the freedoms and beauty of a five-month stay in Spain only to find myself reminded that I must dress modestly, not consume alcohol publically, not blaspheme against the ruling Emir or against Islam; any of these crimes would be punishable by a sound flogging. I happily abided yet found myself wanting to know more of this Qatari culture. I knew of the injustices that existed regarding modern-day slavery, but on my short stay I chose to focus on the good. So I climbed a magnificent sand dune and listened to it sing when I bounded back down as great mounds of sand shifted beneath my feet. I wandered through a museum filled with a Sheiks personal collection of weapons, cars, religious artifacts, a reconstructed Syrian home and a camel boiler. Plenty of times I strolled through the market in search of unusual food to try but drew the line at camel meat. I drank as much refreshing iced lemon mint as I could. I cloaked myself in an abaya (black robe), covered my head and respectfully entered the women’s section of the State Mosque. I learned that Muslims would not presume to compete with God’s creation so their art was not copies of people or nature but intricate geometric shapes and elegant calligraphy of versus from the Qur’an. I also learned that Qataris are very much devoted to family and that life is cherished from the unborn to the very old.

My very pregnant sister was revered wherever she went. Two weeks overdue, she responded, “Any day now” to endless inquiries from friends and strangers. Her response prompted, “Inshallah” (God willing) from the locals, which was their outlook to the things in life that are out of their control. Finally, Baby Maya, an American, Botswanan beauty came into a world of smiling Hindi doctors, Muslim nurses and Catholic parents. That scene will always remain with me as a spark of hope that the world can coexist in peace. Inshallah.”

One month and two hundred bottles of water later…

After a month I can say

This tan is not one of spray

Residence visas

Delivery of pizzas

We’ve got that all squared away

I don’t know whether it was all the runny noses in my classroom or this dry desert air, but most likely a combination of the two left me with one red eye and a fever last month. The doctor prescribed eye drops and told me to drink three times as much liquid.  After two days of laying on the sofa and chugging through several large bottles of Rayyan mineral water, it was time to tackle a unique experience: obtaining a driver’s license.

American’s get the special treatment when it comes to getting a license here in Qatar. All other nationalities simply walk up to the counter, present their home-country license, and are handed a Qatari one right then and there. But due to some incident a few years ago (either a Qatari had a hard time getting his license in the States, or some American offended a Qatari here in Doha; there are a few stories floating around about this), now all Americans must pass a two-part test. First, we go into a room, ladies separate from men, and wait our turn to be called into another room with two Qatari men who bring up symbols on a screen, which we must identify. The most difficult part about this is the language barrier: If I say “yield”, that is wrong. It’s “give way.” Fortunately, the gentleman was interested in seeing all of us pass and accepted our answers if we could explain them. I was given 5 symbols, which included animal (camel) crossing and do not enter…

The following day, we Americans returned for the much anticipated drive test, and it was just as the rumors describe it: Ladies are told to board one van, and guys another. Both vans plus one sedan take off at the same time and pull over next to each other  alongside a road with minimal traffic. Men get to go first, which means one guy gets out of his van and into the sedan where there’s an instructor sitting in the passenger seat. Once our American friend begins driving, the “test” lasts about 20 seconds as he goes around one small roundabout and pulls over to the side of the road. Then he gets back in the van, and the next guy goes. Keep in mind, during this entire scenario, the two vans are following the driver in the sedan. If you’ve ever seen the Soup Nazi episode of Seinfeld…this was quite comparable! When my turn comes, I walk out, say “hello” to the instructor, adjust everything, buckle my seatbelt, and follow his directions to merge onto the road.  As I’m driving he looks over at me with a bit of a glimmer in his eye and says, “You speak Arabic?” Um, no! He laughs, I sort of laugh; He tells me (in English) to complete a U-turn in the roundabout and pull over, so I do. He makes a few marks on a sheet of paper and says “Test finish.” We both (sort of) smile, and I take my paper. That was that.

But every time it seems the final step is complete and we’ll now have that license, permit, key to our home, key to our car, whatever- I end up needing to remind myself: Inshallah it will happen.  After we had all passed our driving test, we found seats in the waiting room. This is a lot like the DMV I’m used to. Except there are mostly men, and a few praying on carpets near the door.  Otherwise, much the same. We were waiting  for our licenses to be printed and to pay the 250 riyal fee along with it, when a man with a gorgeous moustache marches forward in full uniform to tell the man from our school who has taken us through this whole process, that we should go and come back tomorrow. Actually, he yelled it, and a few other words I think I’m better off not understanding. He went on and on shouting with hands flailing in the air, about how we were talking too loud in the waiting room. Then he marched stiffly over to his desk, picked up his tea, and began sipping quite elegantly with his pinkie out. For some reason, I found this entertaining, and it eased my nervousness about whether or not we’d actually get our licenses.  In the end, the guy with the mustache took his tea and left, and about a half-hour later, we took turns paying at the window and receiving licenses. Now time to find a car…

To make a long story very short, we bought a CRV off an expat. I drive and Joe navigates. He’ll get his license once his residency permit is printed. Being under my “sponsorship” since I signed my contract first, his paperwork is processed a few weeks after mine. Inshallah he is being very patient! Driving is not as bad as everyone says, and the best part of this entire story so far is: It cost 50 riyal to fill our tank from empty. That’s about 13 bucks.

Next adventure: the liquor/pork license. Out near the industrial area lies a warehouse full of beer, wine, liquor and pork products. On the second floor, I applied for a permit to purchase these rarities, by showing my residence permit and a letter (which was applied for in advance) from my employer stating my salary and marital status. A woman took my photo and a refundable 1,000 riyal, and handed me my permit. I went inside, bought a bottle of Columbia Crest wine, a six pack of Corona, a bottle of Captain Morgan’s rum and a package of bacon. This is the only place in Doha to purchase such products, and you are allowed to spend no more than a third of your monthly salary here. I don’t see that being much of an issue for us- I’ve been enjoying sparkling water in the evenings more and more.

Another expat-y thing we’ve done is find the Catholic church. Our Lady of the Rosary is located out in “Church City,” a plot of land on the edge of Doha allocated by the Emir to house churches of various denominations. The outside looks very plain, but inside is colorful with a large mosaic behind the altar. Masses occur every day of the week, at various times, and in different languages. There are several priests, mostly from India. The large congregation is a mix of European, Indian, American, Nepalese, Lebanese, and probably many more. Around the corner is a gift shop with rosaries and books, a chapel, and an outdoor shrine to Mary. For a split second, I felt we were back in Ireland. But then I started sweating and realized we were far from it. We (carefully) lit a candle at the shrine (which has a fire extinguisher next to it), and prayed for health and happiness of our family and friends, and a positive experience for us here in Doha. I also prayed  for my survival this year teaching 2-year olds…

It has been quite an adventure shifting from a Kindergarten-mindset down to two and three year olds! My class is full of energy, enthusiasm, poopy diapers, spilled milk, paint, tears, laughter, and lots of hugs and kisses. I’ve picked up a few Arabic essentials: Shukran (thank you), Ijlis (sit down), Shuey Shuey (slowly, slowly, or be careful), Habibi (sweetie), Na’am (yes), La (no), Taal (come), and I can now count to 5 (waahid, eethnayn, thalaatha, arba’a, khamsa). I am also learning the variations of English words for things as I work alongside British, Australian, South African and Irish educators: nappies (diapers) and buggy (stroller).  About half the class understands what I say in English, but it really comes down to body language, tone of voice, facial expressions and very simple phrases. Our centre, myself included, believes that learning begins at birth (or even beforehand), but not in the “sit in your desk and listen to what I tell you” sort of way.  The EEC has adopted the Reggio Emilia approach, which is an educational philosophy dating back to World War II. It was started by a teacher and parents of the villages around Reggio Emilia, Italy after the destruction from the war led them to believe that it is in the early years of development that children form who they are as individuals. The approach focuses on observing the interests of each individual child and planning meaningful activities for them. Environment plays a major role, so we design our rooms and outdoor areas quite intentionally. Like any job, there are pros and cons to my new position but I choose to focus on the positive: my students are adorable and quite capable really, my teaching team is fabulous to work with, and I’m enjoying the two hours of planning every afternoon.  I also enjoyed the gigantic sheet cake given to us a few weeks ago in honor of International Teacher Appreciation Day. Thank you, Qatar Foundation; cake always makes me feel appreciated, no matter how many nappies I had changed that morning.

Aside from work, Joe and I have been enjoying life in Doha.  Our favourite activity so far is running along Al Corniche, an oceanfront paved walkway.  As the sun sets on our evening runs, old wooden boats adorned with coloured lights leave their docks and cruise out onto the water. Families gather to walk or relax under palm trees, the sea breeze blows tiny particles of sand into my eyes, and the city skyline illuminates Doha’s modern-side. Not a bad way to train for a 10K, which is happening here in November.  Except for the sand in the eyes part; I wear sunglasses all the time now, to avoid the red desert-eye look.

Oh, the things we learn after a month in Qatar…

the driving school

Tide original scent

Our Lady of the Rosary

shrine

grotto

first pair of Birkenstocks

Great Gatsby party

our new ride

the Junior 2 teaching team

International Teacher Appreciation Day

the clubhouse pool

Doha run before the sun sets

Doha run after the sun sets

Dhows (wooden boats)

Al Corniche

Marhaba مرحبا Welcome to Doha

The air couldn’t be much hotter

Where gas is cheaper than water

Hummus on pita

A man’s pet cheetah

So new to this globe-trotter

Stepping off our Qatar Airways Dreamliner and into Doha, the temperature proclaimed its presence like an Emir in his palace.  While trying my best to take in a normal breath of air without panting too obviously, I noticed there seemed to be a layer of smog lurking far and wide- which I quickly realised was just “hotness.” In fact, most outdoor photos I have produced so far will appear to be overcast, but that’s just my lens fogging up as it is shocked by extreme heat each time I turn it on.  As soon as we entered Doha’s busy airport, though, Joe and I  nearly froze on a account of the air-conditioning. Qatar Academy staff greeted us warmly outside customs and showed us where to purchase new SIM cards right then and there. We were driven to a temporary home (our permanent one is nearly done being built), a lovely, furnished two bedroom apartment with a bidet in the bathroom, and some Red Delicious Washington apples in the fridge. While the bidet hinted how far away we are from all things familiar, the apples, picked in my own backyard, made me feel right at home. Too excited to sleep at 2 AM, I rummaged through packets of information from school, a book about Qatari culture, and unpacked shoes before finally drifting off to the sound of the call to prayer, amplified from a nearby mosque.

Next morning, a van collected several of us newbie teachers and dropped us at the Landmark Mall. Dust-covered cars filled the parking lot. Men dressed in white robes and Ray Ban sunglasses lounged in plush seats, sipping lattes and smoking cigarettes at Starbucks. Women covered in black, carrying designer handbags strolled in and out of the Gap, Nine West and H&M.  The food court smelled of McDonalds, KFC, Baskin Robbins and, wait for it….Cinnabon.  At Carrefour (a European grocery chain), we stocked up on bottled water, fresh produce, yogurt and toilet paper. I discovered more American brands there than I’d ever found in Ireland: Tide laundry detergent, Kraft Mac n Cheese, Kikoman soy sauce. I imagine that, one of those days when I miss the comfort of home, it will be a relief to snuggle up in a blanket smelling of Tide Original Scent, over a warm bowl of mac n cheese, in our air-conditioned (freezing cold) living room.

The following day, Joe and I attended a luncheon for new teachers and families. We were greeted with kisses, handshakes and hugs, and while feasting on a grand buffet, we met folks from Wisconsin, the UK, Portland, Australia, California and Ireland. That afternoon, my teaching partner, Berna, invited Joe and I to her home and treated us to dinner at a fabulous Lebanese restaurant, the Shisha Garden in La Cigale Hotel.  Joe and I tried apple flavoured shisha (or hooka as we call it), traditional Lebanese salads, hummus, meat and dessert: fresh cream with honey and sliced banana. On the way out, Joe and I stopped to rest on a bench made of thousands of Swarovski crystals. We really are trying not to get carried away amidst all the luxury, this place is incredible!

On Saturday, Berna and Riad invited us to their home to relax at the pool. After a short while, the heat urged us to return to shade and AC, so we went home, cooked a stir fry and crashed early. Time to start adjusting to some very early mornings…work begins at 7 AM here.

 In Qatar, like other Arab countries, the workweek is Sunday through Thursday. So on Sunday, we were all bussed to Qatar Academy for the first day of orientation. Highlights of the week include:

• receiving a brand new Macbook Pro (with a keyboard that includes Arabic letters)
• walking into the Early Education Centre to find that it is more like a children’s museum than a set of classrooms
• discovering the spa, coffee shop, theatre room, olympic sized pool, prayer rooms and gym-all on campus
• getting to know a group of enthusiastic educators from around the world (Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, the US, Canada, the UK, Ireland, Lebanon), and many who are coming from previous international positions (in Thailand, China, Bolivia, Venezuela, Saudi Arabia, South Korea…)
• experiencing “medicals”- having blood drawn and chests x-rayed at a clinic (I suppose that wasn’t a highlight but it’s all part of the experience!)
• enjoying daily lunch hour in the cafeteria: a buffet of salad, hummus, a variety of meats and sides, fruit cups, cakes and juices
• listening to a presentation on “Driving Safety”: the slideshow included two slides about how to navigate the round-abouts, etc. and about 40 slides showing fender-benders and wrecks, which could be due to a number of issues. My favourite is the man driving through a roundabout with a pet cheetah in the passenger seat, cigarette in one hand, cell phone in the other.  I have yet to see this for myself, though.
•  enjoying evenings out at the malls and Ikea
• learning about Qatari culture and how to thrive as an expat here, as well as how to deal with culture-shock. We learned about the differences between monochronic (focus on individual, independence) and polychronic (focus on group, interdependence) cultures, and ways to communicate. For example, where I’ve grown up, time is linear and future-oriented. While here in Qatar, time is circular and focused on the present. So, while I might want to leave a party to go home and get a good nights sleep before work the following day, a Qatari individual might stay and enjoy their time with family, not worrying to much about the next morning.  To some degree, it makes sense why we are the way we are: In it’s short history, the US has fought for independence, and now look at how many of its citizens are independent, self-reliant people. In the desert, people have had to work together to survive; if you went off and tried to live independently, you would die. And now look at how many Qatari’s thrive when it comes to working with others collectively.  Qatar (pronounced more like ‘Cutter’ than ‘cuh TAR’) is the fastest-growing country in the world. Due to oil, and mostly natural gas, the economy is booming and construction is everywhere.  According to the presentation, it wasn’t until the 1950’s that cars and electricity began to exist. Now there are Escalades, Lamborghini’s and Ferrari’s in abundance (as well as Hondas and Toyotas), and it costs a mere five bucks to fill one’s petrol tank. Just ten years ago, there were only a couple of buildings in the city centre. Now here stands a massive skyline.  As we expats dine at Applebee’s and purchase new designer jeans because the ones we brought with us don’t fit anymore (because of the Applebee’s), we should keep in mind that Qatar wants to modernize, not westernize. They want to sustain their unique culture, amidst a massive increase of expats each year, understandably so.

On Friday (the beginning of our weekend- so, Saturday to you) a few of us shared a car ride to the Clubhouse, which all QA teachers have free access to. After a jog on the treadmill and a dip in the jacuzzi,  we ate dinner poolside that evening. Grilled fish, veggies, fries and pineapple juice were accompanied by sounds of laughter, splashing and the call to prayer (of which there are five a day, and you can hear it from just about anywhere in Doha). Later on, while paddling around in that palm-tree-outlined pool, I couldn’t help from being amazed by the big sky above us as it changed colour from baby blue to lavender to a deep purpley-royal-blue within just an hour. Qatar’s skies sure do seem to be transforming just as rapidly as it’s earth.

The following week would be the second week of orientation for me, so Joe spent his days visiting the Aspire Zone Sport Academy, figuring out how to receive our shipping (which we did!), and reading articles for school.  In the Early Education Centre (EEC), we put together our classrooms and interviewed parents whose children we’d be teaching. Berna and I encouraged families to please arrive at 7 AM, on time, not 7:30 or 7:15.  And just about every family smiled and said, “Okay, 7 AM, inshallah.”  Inshalla, my new favourite word, translates to “God willing.” It is used regularly here, in many different contexts. “Yes I will have that on your desk by 3:00, inshallah.” “See you tomorrow, inshallah.” “Inshallah your housing will be ready by the end of the month.”  “I will write a blog every week, inshallah.” Takes some of the pressure off, doesn’t it?

Last weekend, those of us in “temporary housing” (who I feel I can call family already), helped me celebrate my birthday at Picasso’s tapas restaurant in the Radisson Hotel. All 21 showed up, which I think had something to do with the fact that the restaurant served sangria, beer and wine.  I had a marvellous time and felt completely loved. The following day, staff from the EEC met for lunch at our principal’s home. They sang “Happy Birthday” in both English and Arabic, as I made a wish and blew out candles. One thing is for certain: I will have plenty to write about this year. Every day, I am surprised, amazed, challenged, astonished, stimulated, inspired. I will write again soon with more experiences to share, inshallah.

Home Sweet Apple

this is not a clear photo but I kept it to show you how much my lens fogs up in this insane heat!!

dinner at the Clubhouse

shisha

coffee time with my new team-teacher

clubhouse at night

swarovski crystal bench

pool time

St. Regis Hotel pool

first day of orientation, us newbies received roses

Qatar Academy- my new school

Joe at Aspire Zone, the big sports academy in Doha

EEC staffroom

The Early Education Centre

Doha Sun

parking lot at school

QA architecture

a table full of love!

Picasso’s Restaurant

a birthday to remember

my giant cake…and sangria!

new friends

mmm chocolate

Aspire Zone (the sporty area of Doha)

the torch

Aspire Stadium

palm trees and sunshine

The Aspire Torch

restaurant in the Aspire Torch

Villagio Mall, a bit like Las Vegas’ Venitian

Children’s play area at the Villagio Mall

Baskin (in the sun) Robbins

shopping

Applebee’s

after dinner in the Pearl District

Modern Doha

ch ch ch ch changes

There appeared a fork in the road

“Which way?” said the frog to the toad

They could see to the right,

Their future looked bright

In the 974 country code

In his song Changes, David Bowie wrote “Time may change me. But I can’t trace time.” One could interpret this a few different ways, but whenever I listen to the lyrics, I feel inspired to accept life’s changes, big or small. And I end up thinking: why wait for something to happen in time, when it could right now?

Teaching internationally is something I have wanted to do for years. And getting a PhD is something Joe is passionate about achieving. Living in Ireland has been a grand adventure, but unfortunately there aren’t many job prospects for us here at the moment. An opportunity presented itself back in the spring, and after much thought, we decided to go for it: in three days, Joseph and I will be leaving Ireland and moving to Doha, Qatar.  Joseph will conduct research, continue working on his PhD and coach soccer, while I will teach in the Early Education Center at Qatar Academy. To answer a few questions I know you’re thinking: Yes, Qatar is a safe country (ranked #12 in the Global Peace Index). No, I am not required to wear a burka there. Yes, I will be allowed to drive. No, it doesn’t rain there like it does in Ireland, not at all actually. In fact, today it is over 100 degrees (yes, everything is air conditioned).

Our bags are packed, our visas are printed, and we celebrated a last night out on Friday. We are definitely going to miss our friends and the beautiful scenery and atmosphere in Ireland. And at the same time, we are so excited to experience living in Qatar. I promise to keep blogging and post lots of photos- see you in Doha!

Joseph in Northern Ireland

more Giant’s Causeway

Giant’s Causeway

Belfast

our B&B in Cleggan

A lovely day for a first anniversary, in Connemara

Being married to Joe makes me feel this good

beach soccer

white horses

Joe before the climb

happy donkey

Being married to Heidi makes me feel this good

Hiking in the Connemara National Park

trail to the top

enjoying the sunshine and the view

ommmmm

Irish clouds are awesome

pensive goat

Joe at the top

hello there

our hiking buddy

shrine to Mary off the side of the highway

stations of the cross

boat in Cleggan

Joe and I at Kylemore Abbey

rope sheep

gardens at the Abbey

Kylemore Abbey

goodbye Limerick, we’ll miss you!

Seattle Summer, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways…

I love thee to the height of Mount Rainier, 

To the depth of Lake Union’s deepest tear.

Your summers, brilliant

Your inhabitants, resilient

Cause you’re depressing all other months of the year.

Neither Joe or I would neglect spending this summer in Seattle. Joe coached his Supang Skill Training soccer camp on Whidbey Island, with his sister Maria. And he put up a fence around his families garden, and worked at the farmer’s market. If you haven’t been, be sure to try out Lesedi African Food at the farmer’s markets on Whidbey. Say hello to Joe’s mom Dorcas, and she’ll serve you up a hot samosa and some mango lemonade, delish!

As for me, I made it home just in time for Rachel and Anthony (my niece and nephew)’s graduation parties. And enjoyed doing all of the routine things I’ve missed being away: yoga class, dinners in Mom and Dad’s back yard, playing with Mojo and his snaggle tooth, running around Greenlake, spending time with family and friends. We celebrated my sister Gina’s 50th birthday, my Dad’s 77th, and my godson James’ 8th.  …went camping on Moses Lake, spent a weekend with friends in Portland, ate several bowls of pho and plates of Mexican food, caught up with friends, visited Joe’s Grandma and Grandpa in Sequim, went boating on Lake Washington, skipped rocks on the Snoqualamie River. I frequented Burien’s Tin Room, catching up with pals and family, to the point where the waitress started saying “Bye, see you tomorrow.”

Until next summer, Tin Room waitress….

cheers to Gina!

cruising Alki

Gina’s birthday party

She’s 50!

Anthony’s sign

seesters

I taught the bartender how to make a baby guinness

Ethan and Joe (Congrats to Joe and Lesley, Ethan’s parents, on their 25th Wedding Anniversary!)

Seafair Fun Run

4th of July on Santa’s rooftop

the guys

my girls

Joe’s soccer tournament

Joe coaching his camp

Sofia

chilling with uncle joe

look what I can do!

Dad and Marcus discussing fresh water fish

peek a boo

Marylee’s catch

James

Paul & Dad

Mom relaxing

Paul

Gina

James and Sam

Moses Lake

these two should have their own sitcom

sand dune slide

HI!

Marylee, Mom and Dorcas

Family Love

Mt. Rainier as seen from I-5

Mojo and his carrots

wine tasting with Michelle

the needle

Dad’s birthday expedition

my beautiful sister

Middle fork of the Snoqualamie

Dad celebrating his 77th birthday

Snoqualamie River

Happy Birthday to you!

Sam

Rachie

Anthony and Rachel’s grad party

Dad and his roses

what I enjoyed most this summer-family dinners in this lovely yard

Mom’s 4th of July frog

Langley, Whidbey Island

my handsome hubby

Maria, where are you?!

family

henna sisters

fishing on Whidbey

this was taken just after a guy reeled in a king from shore

Sláinte!

A true friend will travel far

To meet in an Irish bar

Crossing the planet,

 I bet that gannet

Would fly all the way to Qatar

Allow me to apologize for the lack of blogs these last few months- we’ve just been having way too much fun.  Backtracking to May, our dear friends Oscar and Laura visited us from Seattle for a long weekend on their way to London. We showed them around Limerick, enjoyed a night out on the town, and took a road trip west to see Lahinch (a chill surfer town), the Cliffs of Moher, and then to Doolin for live trad.  The word of the weekend (besides “brilliant” “grand” “lovely” and “great craic”) was definitely “Sláinte!” as we raised multiple pint glasses to being together in Ireland.  They left us for a stop in Italy, where Oscar proposed to Laura at the Vatican- Congratulations to an awesome couple, Sláinte!

bridge over the River Shannon

Hunt Museum Guest Book

Laura and I at King John’s Castle

“we’re up all night till the sun, we’re up all night for good fun…”

out dancing at Aubars

Lahinch

Oscar eating periwinkle in Lahinch

periwinkles

using needles to dig out snails

boys in toys

cliffs of moher

the bromance continues

couple of the year!

lovely Cliffs of Moher

either way will be grand

Chillin in Doolin

Gus O’Connor’s Pub in Doolin

chowder time

Trad Session in Doolin

Sláinte!

Céad míle fáilte, Mom and Dad

They came and stayed for three weeks

To tan their pale white cheeks

In Irish sun

That appeared for fun

And made us all feel like sheikhs

On May 22nd, the sliding doors opened at our beloved Shannon Airport, spewing out international travelers, when among them appeared Mom and Dad! Dad and Joe smiled, Mom and I cried, and we began our first adventure together: driving down the left side of the road. By the end of their trip, both Mom and Dad not only said they had a wonderful time, they had also decided on new careers if/when they move to Ireland…

During the first week, we toured the Bunratty Castle and folk park, just outside Limerick. I’m pretty sure Dad’s favorite part of that was finding the secret latch on the castle entrance floor, where they’d pour hot oil on the heads of intruders. Or learning the phrase “Céad míle fáilte” (pronounced: kade mee la fall cha) which is Gaelic for “A hundred thousand welcomes.” Mom’s must have been watching a sheep practice yoga in the middle of a pasture. We spent the weekend in Limerick, strolling through the Milk Market and the Hunt Museum, taking in a delicious lunch at the Curragower, overlooking King John’s Castle and going to church at our favorite local parish, Mary Magdalene.

I’m sure most 70-somethings would need to rest after an eventful weekend like that, and maybe mine did, but we took them on a roadtrip anyway! Traveling through the Burren, we stopped at an old portal tomb and a tea room for coffee and scones. The tea room is also the site of a perfumery, where perfume is made from mediterranean flowers which mysteriously grow in the Burren. Driving along narrow roads, we gazed out our windows at the intricate stone walls outlining our path. This would be the beginning of my dad’s inspiration to become a stone wall builder if/when he moves to Ireland. There’s a school for it and everything.  Although he’s already got an engineering degree, that must count for something.  Arriving in Galway, we went out for another tasty dinner, although I tried to warn them to save room for their first full Irish breakfast the following morning…

Okay, I know the Limerick I wrote above refers to three weeks of straight sunshine, and while that’s nearly true, it seriously poured in Galway. Mom and I were walking down Shop Street and finally decided to duck under an awning like all the locals were doing as they stared at us like we were nuts for walking through it. What, we’re from Seattle, and deep in conversation. After some real fish n’ chips, the four of us made way to the Galway Cathedral to light a few candles. Dad and I braved the windy mist and walked along the River Corrib, where we stopped to chat with four fishermen casting their lines. Just as we began to move on, one got a bite and there was all this excitement…until he lost the fish. To which another commented, “These hooks aren’t worth a shite.” Dad and I just smiled at each other. Shite, it sounds so pretty with an accent.

The following days, we visited a few sites around Limerick. In the village of Kilaloe, we took a boat cruise along the River Shannon, and Lough (lake) Derg. In Adare, we basked in the sun at the Adare Manor and Golf Course where we met Michael Flately, Lord of the Dance (who the course owner was referring to when he joked, “Just as well he can dance because he sure as hell can’t golf!”). A short drive out of town, after hiking through the Clare Glens, the Monks at the Glenstal Abbey performed vespers (chant) in an incense-filled church.

Time for another road trip. This time we travelled west to Lahinch (stopping for coffee,  ice cream, and periwinkle sea snails), the Cliffs of Moher (a rainy foggy day just perfect for imagining Vikings getting shipwrecked on those cliffs), and we ended in Doolin, scoring a table next to the live trad. We feasted on mussles and Guinness stew, not to mention plenty of pints. As the old man belted out Whiskey in the Jar, we clinked our glasses together shouting “lawn chairs!” (a more memorable version of Slainte!). By the end of the evening, Dad was singing his way back to the B&B and Mom was doing fine imitations of Sid the Sloth from Ice Age. Have I mentioned how much I appreciate having parents who stand for integrity, justice, love and all the important things in life- but just as much value a good laugh (and several good pints)?

The following morning, we boarded our vessel out to the smallest of three Aran Islands, Inisheer. (This is where the Aran sweaters, or traditional Irish sweaters, come from.) While the other three enjoyed the ride, I felt like jumping off, well at least the previous night’s pints felt like jumping off. Anyway, once on land, we took a gentleman named Michael up on his offer for a horse-drawn tour of the island: stone wall mazes, a shipwrecked boat, ice cream from a local, a naked Irishman changing on shore, goats, horses, cows; this is Ireland. On the boat ride back to Doolin, we stopped under the Cliffs for a spectacular view, including hundreds of puffins and other birds chilling on the cliff ledges.  Before heading home, Mom and I went shopping in Doolin (which consists of about 7 buildings on the main drag; I’m sure Joe and Dad figured it wouldn’t take us very long, but we did not cease to impress them with our shopping abilities even so…) Our favorite was the music shop where Mom bought me spoons and Joe a tin whistle.

“And it’s No, Nay, never, 
No, nay never no more 
Will I play the wild rover,
No never no more”

…thanks Mom, this is fun.

Back in Limerick, Dad and Joe golfed at the Castletroy Golf Club across the road from our apartment, while Mom and I showed off our mad tennis skills at the University courts. Joe got an email from Fr. Cobb, the priest who married us, saying he was touring Ireland with a group of regents, so we met him for lunch in town- small world.

It’s been nearly a year since Joe and I were married, and closer to 55 for my parents, who celebrated in Ireland. A while back, I was looking up Anniversary symbols online and discovered that the first year’s symbol is a clock. Cool, we’ll go to the Rack and pick out a couple of watches, done. Then I looked up the year 55 symbol, and guess what: it’s an Emerald. Where better place for them to celebrate than on the Emerald Isle? They renewed their vows after mass at Mary Magdalene church in Limerick with Fr. Neenan, in front of a few locals who congratulated them afterwards. And we were off for our final road trip, south to Killarney.

On June 7th, their anniversary, the four of us went fishing in Lough Leane, and although we did not reel in any fish, we did witness real-life swan dives. Following lunch at the Muckross House, we took a horse carriage jaunt through the Gap of Dunloe. Mom and I, after spotting the lovely carriages in town the night before, thought it might be fun to bring along some wine and cheese and crackers. Good thing we forgot to, because as we were bumping up and down in the tiniest carriage I’ve ever half-sat in (not the same type as the ones in town), could you imagine red wine being involved? Regardless, it was far more magnifiscent than any city tour. Joe and I went for a trail run around Killarney while Mom and Dad napped. They woke up in time for a fancy shmancy dinner at Hotel Europe: while the sun set on their 55th year together, we sipped and munched as Joe and I watched them exchange gifts- feeling grateful to have such solid examples to look up to and learn from.

Next day we were up and at em for a scenic drive of the Ring of Kerry. First stop: Valentia Island, where we boarded a three-car ferry to see Cromwell’s lighthouse, a Grotto of St. Bernadette and Mary, and the Skellig Rocks (which early Christian monks made their home off shore, and carved 600 steps by hand up to a monastery at the top). Departing Valentia, we continued on, when off the side of the highway, two young lads were herding a group of sheep into a small enclosed area next to their van; time for the annual woolcut. Mom asked us to pull over so she could watch, which I’m sorry we didn’t do due to the tour busses in front of and behind us at the time. It was on this drive that Mom decided to become a sheep shearer if/when she moves to Ireland.  I’m sure there’s a school for that too, but her days in beauty school would likely make her a skilled shearer anyway.  We stopped at Ladies View (Joe and Dad closed their eyes) and the Torc Waterfall (they looked this time), ending back in Killarney.

Two more days- what else could we cram into the itinerary? Dingle! Traveling northwest from Killarney, we reached my new favorite town- mainly because I discovered a dolphin shop there: dolphin keychains, jewelry, textiles, books, videos…I should be careful this doesn’t turn into something weird, although I think it already has (I have 2 keychains already, a couple t-shirts, several nic-nacs, just need a tattoo).  Dad enjoyed seeing the boats in the harbor and we watched two fellas paint the underneath of a large vessel, from their dingy using a long-handled paint brush. We stopped in a music shop and met Michael Herlihy, the owner, who gave us a demonstration on his sqeezebox, and told us where to go that evening to catch the best trad. After pub hopping for a couple hours, we ended up settling in at An Droichead Beag (The Small Bridge). Michael and the other musicians poured their hearts into every song.  As Dingle Bay was being sung, you could feel the energy right down to your feet, which tapped so willingly.

One last day in Ireland: We drove around the Dingle Peninsula, on which you could count a half-million sheep. We all fell asleep in the process; except Joe who was driving. We made a few stops- The Gallarus Oratory (an early Christian church built about 1,300 years ago) beehive huts, and an island that appears to look like a sleeping giant. Then back to Limerick for one last Irish meal, packing and a night’s rest before their trip back to Seattle.

Thank you, Mom and Dad, for coming to experience this beautiful country with us. You were fantastic travel buddies! …so, where to next?

they made it to Castleville!

Dad’s two loves: Mom, and Stone Walls

Dad at the top of Bunratty Castle

thatched cottage in the folk park

peat

Joe and Mom

she’s a great student

lovebirds

Yogi Sheep

the queen

Bunratty Castle

smurf house

Milk Market coffee shop performance

market goods

this shop was half purses and shoes, and half fishing gear

slainte!

my thoughtful father

my beautiful mama

Burren viewpoint

stone walls everywhere!

shrine off the side of the highway

random lovely lake in the Burren

Mom pretending she’s not cold

limestone landscape of the Burren

Mediterranean flower growing between limestone rock, near the portal tomb

Burren tea shop

Burren perfumery

don’t be fooled…

Shop Street, Galway

Oscar Wilde, Irish poet

River Corrib and Galway Cathedral

Galway Cathedral

chapel in the Galway Cathedral

Sail Away…

River cruise in Killaloe

golf course in Adare

chill out time

life is never boring…

Adare Manor with Michael Flatley of Riverdance

Adare Manor

that took a while

Glenstal Abbey vespers

hike through the Clare Glens

lovebirds

appreciating nature

King John and his castle in Limerick

hanging out in Limerick

Seattle’s best…in Lahinch!

Joe and his periwinkle snails…

Cliffs of Moher

more Cliffs of Moher

yes, it rains in Ireland

Gus O’Connor’s Pub in Doolin

live trad

mussels and stew!

good times with dad

before things got out of hand…

good times with mama

Inisheer, Aran Islands

exploring Inisheer

shipwreck on Inisheer

Michael, our tour guide

newlyweds

boat out to the Aran Islands

Cliffs of Moher from the sea

pretty birds

Gus O’Connor’s

Trad Shop

Mom in Doolin

lunch with Fr. Cobb!

Dromoland Castle

Golf pros

Tennis pros

renewing their vows

with Fr. Neenan

at Mary Magdalene church in Castletroy, Limerick

swan dive!

fishing on Lough Leane in Killarney

55 years later, still lucky in love

Gap of Dunloe

carriage ride through the Gap of Dunloe

Hotel Europe- best dessert ever!

Happy Anniversary Mom and Dad!

old house

grotto on Valentia Island

Mom at the grotto- look at the top and you’ll see statues of St. Bernadette and Mary

Valentia Island

What are ewe looking at?

aren’t they cute

Mom stealing Dad’s beer

yes, the sun shines in Ireland

sheep shearing on the ring of Kerry

Ladies View

Torc Waterfall

time to paint the old Mairi Maree Skibbereen

Donkey in Dingle

Dolphin in Dingle

Dad and Michael, owner of Dingle’s best music shop

Dad in the Dingle Harbour

Dingle

trad at An Droichead Beag (the Small Bridge) in Dingle

Dingle Bay

The sun was sinking oer the westward

The fleet is leaving Dingle shore

I watch the men row in their curraghs

As they mark the fishing grounds near Scellig Mor

All through the night men toil until the daybreak

while at home their wives and sweethearts kneel and pray

That God might guard them and protect them

and bring them safely back to Dingle Bay

I see the green Isle of Valencia

I mind the days around Lough Lein

The gannets swinging with abandon

As they watch the silver store that comes their way

I also see a ship on the horizon

She is sailing to a country far away

on board are exiles feeling lonely

As they wave a fond farewell to Dingle Bay

Now years have passed as I came homeward

And time has left me old and grey

I sit and muse about my childhood

And the happy times I spent near Dingle Bay

I see again the green isle of Valencia

And the Isle of Inishmore seems far away

And I’m always dreaming of my childhood

And the happy days I spent near Dingle Bay

Rugby, Soccer and Zumba oh my!…muscles are sore

Saturday began with a scrum

And ended with lime and rum

Though Munster had lost

We began to defrost

With hopes of a Spring that would come

April was full of events: Joe and I went to a Munster Rugby match with our neighbors, which was followed by an evening of competitive beer pong. I joined some friends for the first National Zumbathon in Dublin, where we danced a Sunday afternoon away with hundreds of other Shakira wanna-be’s.  Joe represented his department in a students vs. staff soccer match at UL.  I finished the Great Limerick Run while passing cows, pubs and castles.

Now with regards to that rugby match, it wasn’t Herman Munster we were cheering for, although he would have made an excellent forward in my opinion, with those broad shoulders.  No, Munster is one of four Provinces in Ireland, and the one that encompasses our Southwest region, including Limerick. We played against Leinster, which is the Eastern Province- the big city team from Dublin. Then there is Ulster (Northern Ireland) and Connaught (Northwest Ireland). These provinces originated from dynastic families, long before the Normans invaded in 1169.  Maybe there was an Irish king named Herman Munster after all, who knows.

This week, we are preparing for some very important visitors-  friends are coming this weekend and Mom and Dad arrive just after that, yahoo!  I have removed all cobwebs and scrubbed the grout between the shower tiles. And Joe has been practicing driving with our friends- down the left lane and through round-abouts. Looks like May and June will be just as eventful. Sláinte! (pronounced “slawn che” -Irish Gaelic for “cheers!”)

Have you any camo-coloured thread?

spring has sprung!

got grapes?

potato potawto

coriander = cilantro

watermelon soap anyone?

fresh bread

mmmmm

sundresses have officially replaced holiday sweaters

Saturday Milk Market

catching some sun by the river

ready to sub in

Come on, Munster!

Niamh & I

Thomond Park

get your bum in the scrum

half-time photo op

beer pong at Costello’s

Good times in Limerick

Charles & Joe

Zumba!

Maria, Jon and I at the Zumbathon

James tapping at half-time

Great Limerick Run half-marathon

my coach

done!