It’s not like me to shy away from controversy so every night this past week I have had a discussion with my family about Park 51. There have been points made and arguments discussed. I could link to them, but I won’t. But I’m reading a lot.

It’s already all been said so far.

Today, my feelings are all about the Constitution. It is unconstitutional to deny the builders from putting up a community center. It’s also unconstitutional for Governor Paterson to suggest that an alternative to it would be to give them land elsewhere on which to build. Really, Gov? Because I think you’re opening up a whole new can of worms when other religious institutions come knocking on your door for free land. It got so weary for me this week after debating the issue with friends (ok, so it was via Facebook WHATEVER it still ended up being a really good discussion) that my status yesterday on Facebook was simply the First Amendment:

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.

What I’ve read for this whole week about it consists of my daily news readings, political contributions, and what the rest of the world is saying about the United States. When Mason asked me about it he did so in typical teenage fashion.

“Mom, what’s up with this whole mosque issue in New York City?”

He could tell by the weariness in my voice and the sigh on my lips that I’d been thinking about it, too. We had been discussing it at dinners and at bedtime and whenever it came up on television or the radio or in the newspaper or online. He’s getting it. And that’s really just a part of my job as a parent, is it not? To teach and educate and teach some more. Well, maybe that last part is an overlap of my career choice.

Early on in my career I quit teaching public school because I wanted a varied experience. For four years I taught at a small, private Christian school and that is where I met a great philosopher who also happened to be a janitor. Allen cleaned my room and we met one night and had the most fascinating conversation that it lead to to a phenomenal friendship until he died from cancer years later. (I’ve written about him on my blog before so you can check the archives if you’re so interested.) But I tried desperately to fit in with the teachers and with the church that was attached to the building. At times, it worked and I felt accepted but it seemed that reminders of my being different and definitely NOT like others led me to finally break off and grow up and do my own thing.

But not before I allowed Allen to come to my classroom during the day (he was the nighttime janitor) and teach my class. He read poetry with them and my little 6th graders asked him questions and while he waxed philosophical about things the subject of religion came up and he answered just as I would have him do: honestly. Allen didn’t like to use the term “God” because “Alice” was a prettier name. He didn’t believe in the devil, either, but suggested that it was a man-made manifestation that helped us place blame.

The week after he visited my classroom one of the other teachers told on me (are we adults or what?) for having such blasphemy and un-Christianlike attitudes be on display in this Christian school. In hindsight this was, for me, one of the last straws that made it impossible for me to reconcile the fact that I was using MY OWN BRAIN FOR INTELLECTUAL PURPOSES and the beliefs of the school. I was called into the office with a school board member (also an elder of the church) and questioned about my intentions and what I was hoping to do with opposing viewpoints on their Christian doctrine.

“So, I can’t teach opposing viewpoints? We’re not supposed to let children see another side of things? The authoritative dogma is never to be questioned?”

My questions went largely unanswered. I quit teaching there and Allen became one of the few links I still had to the place. The kids I taught were great. It was the overbearing poor behavior of the adults that made me want to leave.

Yesterday I was thinking back on that story as I was reflecting on something said to me about the Muslim religion. In my lifetime I have gladly attended a Jewish temple, different Christian churches, and a meeting of the Baha’i faith. I was thinking this as I left my house and waved to my Muslim neighbor across the street and smiled at her. The teacher in me wondered how much more I could know.

My mom’s got a brother named Jim who is, by far, the best read person I know. Mom talks about him in reverence and with much respect as he is a man who once read Salman Rushdie’s The Satanic Verses when it was released when the rest of the world seemed to be shunning it out of fear, ignorance, and there were often violent protests due to the fatwa placed on him by Ayotollah Khomeini. I remember this vividly because it was the year I was graduating high school and I was aghast as what he could have possibly written to attract such attention. Here I was just starting out in the world as an adult taking my little 3 year old daughter with me and I was filled with fear.

I have since gotten over that.

As I was traveling around town for work I saw a building that made me pull over. I parked in the lot and sat there for a good 5 minutes wondering what I was going to say. It was the Islamic Society of Greater Springfield. When I went in I met Syed who listened as I stammered out that I am a mom and a former teacher and current assistant principal and I was worried, so very worried about this ridiculous debate that isn’t so much about rights or the constitution but about feelings and holy cow, if ever I understand the feelings thing it’s when I see things like the Confederate flag being bandied about, and oh, I grew up mixed in a Catholic family and my children are of many shades and I’m seeking information because I hate to regurgitate stuff that I hear from people but don’t read with my own eyes and SERIOUSLY, but I really do like to use my own brain and not hand over the keys to my sensibilities or politics to someone else and yes, I know I’m a woman who just came in off the street and you must think I’m a little bit neurotic…

It went on like that. Syed smiled. He knew I was there to learn. When I stopped babbling on in that run-on sentence I simply said, “I am here to learn.”

He gave me the name of a woman who would be happy to talk to me further and handed me an English translation of the Koran. He said to keep it. Syed also gave me 15 videos that might be helpful as I’m learning and asked that I please return them to him. But he didn’t even write down my name or ask to document just which 15 videos he gave me. He handed them over gladly, said that it was prayer time, and I shook his hand and left.

What I wish right now is that the mouthpieces of America would be in the process of learning. Not shouting or screaming or writing protest signs. Not telling me what I should believe or that I am stupid for agreeing that a community center can be built where they have planned. Not talking about of both sides of their mouths.

Whatever prayers come from my lips are this: Please let me learn. Please let me teach my children. Please let there be peace.

Much as I’d love to exercise my option of not writing a post-BlogHer wrap up, I can’t help but tell you how I became a raging lunatic within 15 minutes of landing in New York. Don’t worry. It subsided just as quickly.

But then I read this on Gawker and I had second thoughts. Then I recounted the story numerous times to friends who laughed and laughed and pointed fingers at me saying, “That’s the Kelly I know! You crazy, girl.” so I’ve decided that the best I can do is write about it. It’s been a whole week since I posted anything and life has clumsily gotten in my way of writing. Cleaning up smoke damage, talking to claims adjusters, and trying to make my house smell better (thanks for all the suggestions!) has taken priority.

On the plane ride to New York I was seated in the same row of an obnoxious woman. She was older and in a wheelchair when we were in the airport sitting area and she talked to everyone around her. This made me instantly stop making eye contact with her. She was saying things like, “Honey, you’re my angel! I’ve been waiting for my angels. People are just not nice anymore.” The valets who were assisting her backed away quickly because she was, well, awkward and obnoxious. She talked and yammered on endlessly to people sitting near her and then continued once she got on the plane (she walked onto the plane so that was weird) and then kept this poor couple hostage with her incessant talking. They were an attractive Spanish couple and the woman started speaking Spanish to them in her very best Peggy-Hill-como-estahhh-los-estudiantes (”es-tud-ee-ahn-tays”) voice and I just plugged my ears with my headphones because even eavesdropping on this was painful.

After we landed, I took a bus to Manhattan and wouldn’t you know it? Obnoxious Peggy Hill sat three seats behind me. We stopped twice to pick up more airport passengers heading downtown and there was some sort of scuffle going on with her and another woman. I ignored it and played with the contents of my purse, rearranging money and tickets and lip gloss. Another woman, a lovely meek Indian woman was arguing with her and then walked past me in the aisle to talk to the bus driver.

Bus driver: Ma’am, you need to take a seat.

Indian woman: I cannot! She won’t let me sit down!

At this point, the lovely meek Indian woman pointed at me with ferocity. Her emphasis of the word “she” got under my skin instantly.

Me: Excuse me? You didn’t ask me to sit down. I’d let you sit down if you asked me, but this is the first time you’ve said anything about the empty seat next to me.

Not only was I shocked that she blamed me at this point, I knew that Obnoxious Peggy Hill had something to do with this. The people sitting around me looked at me with stunned faces because they knew I was being pegged the pariah in this mess. I got up willingly and had her take the seat next to the window. Lovely Meek Indian woman became less lovely in my eyes but I knew she was flustered by whatever confrontation happened behind me and she tried to make up for it by asking me a question.

Lovely Meek Indian woman: So, where are you from?

And that’s when I heard Obnoxious Peggy Hill loudly proclaim the source of her wickedness and she made it impossible for me to answer Lovely Meek Indian woman’s question. The best part is that she was talking to no one in particular and just addressing the bus as her entire audience.

Obnoxious Peggy Hill: I’m from New York, we’re bitchy here and we don’t like doing what we don’t like to do. I’m having knee surgery and I had back surgery and oh, driver? Can we have some air in here it’s hot and I have diabetes so I’m not going to be hot. If you don’t like New Yorkers, you shouldn’t come here because this is just the way we are.

It is as this point when my mouth twitched and I know for certain it is about to get away from me. It is here where I turn into full on principal mode and go right after the source of irritation for everyone on this bus. It is, perhaps, my Chicago roots that solidly take hold and make me fearless. It is now when I stand up from my seat fully erect and launch into her.

Me: That is a PATHETIC excuse to be mean to this woman and not give up your seat. Being from New York doesn’t give you license to behave like that and pardon you from taking responsibility! You could have told her all that about being physically unable to move to let her sit down but you didn’t! Shut up about being from New York! I know plenty of New Yorkers and they’re just fine and nice so SHUT UP.

There was a smattering of applause from the people in the seats around us and I sat back down in my seat wondering if my days as a principal had finally permeated my gumption to take people to task. When I sat down I sighed heavily and shut my eyes wondering if Obnoxious Peggy Hill would respond. She didn’t.

Lovely Meek Indian woman: So. Hmm. Where are you from?

Me: (still speaking loudly at this point and emphasizing certain words) I am FROM where we CALL people on their BULLCRAP.

Lovely Meek Indian woman: Oh.

The remainder of the bus trip was uneventful save for the three people who mouthed thank you to me from their seats. After arriving at the hotel I met up with friends and began the whirlwind experience that is both New York and BlogHer conferences. I settled in for what I hoped to be a quiet evening with a few friends and we had pasta and champagne to celebrate seeing one another again. Here. I must post a picture to show that Obnoxious Peggy Hill didn’t ruin my trip.

Heather, Jenny, Karen and I posing in the mirror. Jenny’s Hair should probably get top billing in this photo.

After returning home I happened to read this on Chookooloonks (so. fun. to say!) about her 1,000 Faces Project. Watch all four minutes of this. The music is amazing and it makes me be-bop around in my seat.

It was simply an incredible amount of fun. You can’t fault a gal for wanting to have fun and not tell off strangers on a hot, sweaty crowded bus.

The most touching part for me to visit New York and attend the BlogHer Kirtsy party was seeing the items up for bid at the auction where artistic pieces were created from essays. Kati Sellers, an artist whose work, I believe is found at this website, chose my piece entitled “I’m Black Irish and I’m Proud” to watercolor paint. Here is one of them:

Not only did it take my breath away to see something created out of inspiration of my work, it made me break down and cry. A few folks grabbed me by the hands when I walked into the auction and exclaimed, “Have you seen your artwork? It’s amazing! Come on. Let me take your picture standing next to it!” but we didn’t really get that far because as soon as I saw it I wept and mumbled the words, “Please give me a moment. I can’t do this yet.” Where was that bold, brash woman now, huh? I cried again when I looked at the BlogHer site. Bidding is happening on eBay here and as soon as I put up a bid last night it was promptly outbid. I’m really hoping my sisters and I can combine our efforts to purchase this for my father. As yet, he doesn’t know about my blog or writing because he’s old fashioned enough to warn me about the danger of axe murderers on the Internet even though I’ve met hundreds of incredibly normal people from my online world. Only once was I leery of someone and that was a long time ago. I think I give off the vibe that tells creepers to stay away. It’s probably that stern principal vibe that comes on strong as well.

If we do win the bidding on these paintings (it’s a set of two) I know I will finally have to tell my father about my writing and pray that he’s not upset with my retelling of his story. Dad, I’ll say, I wrote a story about you and the response was overwhelming. See how much writing does to help us bridge the gaps of racism and start talking about important things in our country?

Maybe I’ll add, You’d be so proud of me for standing up to this obnoxious woman on the bus. Wait till I tell you that story, dad.

He’ll be proud. He raised me to do just that.

There are two things that you should know about me. One, I have an incredible sweet tooth. It’s detrimental to my health and hips but I struggle through and have learned to appreciate my curves. My dentist isn’t so happy. Two, I have a sensitive nose and can smell really well. That second one didn’t come in handy last night.

It’s rare for me to lock my bedroom door but it closed just right when I went to bed so it locked easily. That’s why my son had to call me on my cell phone while he was standing outside my bedroom door.

“Mom. It’s Mason. Can you hurry up and unlock the door?”

The clock read 3:15 and I assumed he meant the front door and that he’d lost his key and was just getting home. He was standing outside my door when I opened it and I still didn’t have my glasses on yet. He is a formidable figure standing tall and broad-shouldered. It’s a good thing I wasn’t groggy or I would have thought a stranger entered my house and then my body would have triggered quickly into karate / self-defense mode and I would have kicked that poor kid’s butt.

“There’s a really bad, scary smell coming from downstairs. It smells like we’re having a fire.”

I ran back to my bedside table to feel around for my glasses and hurried downstairs with him. Immediately, I opened up the dishwasher from last night’s load to see if something plastic had gotten stuck and started melting. But no bad smells were coming from there so we ventured into the basement and were hit with a worse smell. I wondered aloud, “What do electrical fires smell like? This is HORRIBLE.”

When we opened the furnace door we were hit with smoke and realized we were in trouble. No fire yet, but the smoke was overpowering. He grabbed a tissue and some rubber bands and made the most hilarious looking mask for his face. I wish I were more lucid to have taken a picture, but honestly I was just scared. My mother was upstairs in her room asleep. How long would it take to get her to remove her breathing machine and wobble down the stairs when she is as sick as she is? My other son was sound asleep. My nephew, who is 10, was asleep as well.

Finally, we decided to call the fire department and when I asked, “What’s the number to non-emergency? It’s not like this is a full blown fire.” Mason looked at me like I was crazy.

“Uh. Mom. I think you just call 911.” He started laughing at me not realizing that there ARE non-emergency fire and police numbers. When we got ahold of them we begged them not to wake our neighbors at this hour and please come with no lights or sirens. They did. And they were fast. (Well done, SFD! I’m proud of ya!)

Two trucks came and so did the newspaper carrier. It was a ridiculous sight this morning. It was barely 3:30 when Mason shared with me that he had gotten up to eat some pie.

My genes are strong. He has the sweet tooth mark upon him. When he returned to the kitchen around 3 to check and see if he left the pie out he smelled it. But he said it was also the dog, Lola, who scratched at the door to make him think he had to let her out of his bedroom for some reason. She is not the middle-of-the-night-peeing-dog thankfully. The pie he desperately wanted to eat was a lemon icebox pie that I made  a few weeks ago for the first time. In fact, I mentioned it on Twitter and some friends decided that they were going to crash my house to try it out. Sidenote: stop mentioning how great a cook I am on social networking. KIDDING, ALEX AND DESHANEE. I love y’all. After pie they even dragged me to a movie so it turned out to be a fun night.

Mason had gotten the pie out of the refrigerator to cut himself a piece. When he woke up later he wondered if he had forgotten to return it to keep it cold. That’s when he and Lola went exploring downstairs to see what the smell was.

So. The firefighters came and called another truck (with a ladder! yay! this is a real adventure!) to bring a powerful fan in to blow into the basement to help relieve us of the smell. I even knew one of them as he was walking through my front door. “Hey, Kelly. How are you?” Sweet guy. “I’d rather not be up right now, but there’s no fire and just smoke damage so actually I’m doing very good.”

My nose failed me last night because I didn’t smell a thing and the smoke alarm would have gone off sooner to alert me, but Mason was already awake. I keep thinking how that kid has been with me during some potentially tragic situations. The last time it was when we had an earthquake two summers ago and he actually wasn’t supposed to be at my house that night, but he stopped by anyway because he was with friends who lived close to me and he didn’t want to make them take him to his dad’s house.

My sweet tooth and the powerful DNA that I passed along to my son is what saved us.

You want the recipe, don’t you? Here it is, because it might save your life, too:

Mix 2 cans of sweetened condensed milk

6 egg yolks

1 cup of fresh lemon juice.

Pour into a graham cracker pie crust, back at 350 degrees for 15 minutes and then chill for 6 hours in the refrigerator. It’s the perfect summer pie because you only use your oven for a short time. It’s important when it’s this hot out.

I love my children and my family and want to keep them safe. We are waiting for the A/C guy to come out to the house and fix the motor that blew so that we can have air conditioning today. The weather report is already calling for it to be unbearable and I’d hate to have to move everyone, especially my mother. And yes, by 4:00 am this morning I grabbed a cup of coffee and a piece of that lemony life-saving pie. It was the only thing I could do lest I collapse in a weeping heap on the floor. I know it’s expensive to fix this and then on top of that to get emergency smoke damage cleanup companies to come out to clear out the smells. I’ve already installed every single Glade plug-in room freshener that I had and even had pancakes just now to see if cooking those in the kitchen would help the smell. It hasn’t made a dent. Everything still has a distinctly fire-y smell that is plastic-y and burn-y and I am anything but happ-y.

Next time, I’m making pecan pie. We’ll see if that wards off bears and zombies or the occasional tornado.

Sure, I just posted a little contest I’m running, but lest you believe that I was going to skip posting on this here blog I am here to prove you wrong. It is an annoying fact about me but since I come by it honestly as the bratty middle child I think it is somehow okay. Let’s just chalk it up to my charm. My allure, if you will. My charisma and magnetism. Or maybe it’s just my ability to use a thesaurus. Hard to say.

Anyway, I am kind of on fire about a few things lately and since I can’t form paragraphs right now I thought I would write a list of them. Because recently, when I tried to explore my feelings about such things they came out in such a way that I sounded like a dying polar bear who was also trying to sing an opera, remove a dagger from my lower abdomen, and stop my eyes from bleeding as I took my last breaths. I am not a dramatic person by nature, but this is truly what it was.

First, I am sick to death of some writers who get a platform. Joel Stein, Kathleen Parker, Pat Robertson and Maureen Dowd? You’re on my list.

In politics it’s Michele Bachmann. Lady? You are a special brand of crazy and you should be rendered speechless.

Weather reporters. They are positively giddy when they use the phrase “feels like” and sometimes it’s a bit creepy. Stop that.

Blagojevich’s lawyer painting him as some sort of innocent, bumbling fool. I hope that my defense in a court of law is never that of an idiot. I’d rather you paint me as smart enough to be conniving. Note to myself: do not kill anyone. Those words will haunt me if I do. “Your honor, but I AM stupid and this was an accident!”

Wikileaks. Who has time to read all that?

Ok, that’s it. I’m done. I know I haven’t expounded on any of these things nor have I linked them, so I will mention one of the books I am including in the contest prize package because as I was putting it together yesterday I was so overjoyed about this book that I sat down to read it again before setting it aside for packing purposes. It’s David Shannon’s children’s book No, David! and it is a bit older but always fun to read. It’s got cute drawings and has a great story based on Shannon’s own childhood perspective of always being told No!

With all the things irritating me lately on the news I think I will just yell “No, David!” at them every time they irritate me. Not that I’m going out of my way to pay attention to them, but they keep popping up. So, like the adult that I am, I’ll yell at them using someone else’s name. This is probably why I don’t write much about politics here.

Enter the contest here by asking a good question. There are already some amazing, though-provoking questions and if anything is putting me in a good mood, it’s reading them and trying to decide which to answer. Some of them have me stumped.

Oh, dang. Before I published this I watched as Shaq serenaded Justin Beiber as he proclaimed himself as his biggest fan. No, David!

Read This: Not to be all bad-blogger-y on you, but I really have been responding via email to comments. They’ve been incredible on the post about what parents want from schools and several teacher friends of mine have commented that they’re still lurking to read what parents are writing.

Skip That: There is a parent who gets upset with me every year and threatens to have her mother, that would be the student’s grandmother, come up to school to kick my ass. Every. Year. Today, I told that story to some teachers when we were sitting in a meeting and then I ran into her at CVS. She told me she couldn’t stand me again. I’m pretty sure she’s on the special sauce side, so I just ignore it.

Read This: My daughter just bought her first house. I couldn’t be prouder or more excited for her. All the cool things she’s doing to get ready for her house are incredibly creative. Like, for instance, taking an old door with 15 glass panels, sanding it down, painting it, and creating a totally amazing headboard out of it. IF I PUT THAT RIGHT ON MY BLOG THEN SHE’S FORCED TO GIVE ME PICTURES. (Surely, someone will ask to see pictures of that and we can guilt her into it.)

Skip That: I went on a road trip after dropping off my nephew to his mom, my sister, when he spent his Spring Break with my family. On the trip home we took back roads and refused to stop for directions. Luckily, I had my camera with me but this gem I snapped with my Hipstamatic camera.

Old, abandoned gas pump.

Read This: Incidentally, Stacey, of Stacey Says won the BlogHer/Lincoln Crossover gift card in the amount of $500. Congratulations, Stacey! My apologies for taking so long to get that written up. You’ve probably spent the gift card by now.

Skip That: There are other contests coming up soon. Skip this sentence since it’s not a contest of any sort.

Read This: Racialicious blog.

Skip That: The incredibly insensitive blog personal narrative written by two hipsters on which that article is based.

Read This: If I just throw in an apology here without any sort of warning and just hope that readers forgive me (OMG, Janie, shut UP already, I will blog when I can blog) (Janie Bird? You know I love you more than my scooter. Don’t be mad.)

Skip That: My throat is all itchy and my eyes are watery. This is the worst pollen season ever. That should make you want to forgive me for being a bad blogger lately. It’s not that I can’t really see through these swollen, hay fever eyes. It’s that I’m on Imitrex as well as Claritin and Zyrtec and the fake Sudafed which, I think, is called Wal-phed since I bought it from Walgreens so my brain is a little bit scary right now. I live dangerously on my polka-dotted unicorn.

Read This: Happy Earth Day? (The jokes will write themselves sometimes.)

Skip That: Sometimes, when I come back from an online writing hiatus, I catch up and read about all the crap that’s happened online and I’m at once ashamed and sad that the blogging community can be so ugly. But, then I count my blessings in bloggy friends and remember that the company you keep says a lot about you.