Twelve Blue

Physically difficult to read: the blue on blue small font gave me a headache. The computer I am using has a wide screen; I tried to reduce the size but could not.

When I clicked on “one” and read the screen, only one area was hypertexted, so I clicked on that. The experience was much more linear than I was lead to believe it would be. When I clicked on “two,” I did have choices, and was taken variously to designs as well as text.

Regarding the prose, if it can be called prose, the text seemed like steam of consciousness poetry. Some of the wording was clever (“embers of September;” “mouths of months;” “lookout for her outlook”) but not my “cup of tea” (also clever: “tea cups and tin cups.”) “Embers of Septembers” is a nice image of a waning summer; “lookout for her outlook” is beyond me.

I would have quit had I not been assigned to spend ninety minutes with the thing.

Back to the same screen, this time by a different route. How interesting (sarcasm). I would like it better if so many sentences did not begin with “There are…” or “There were…”

A colleague walks by and says, “Wow, that must be hard to read,” reacting to the blue on blue.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” I reply.

Golf with Muslim Women

I spent August tutoring Turkish boys and girls who live in Cairo and were in the US for the summer, preparing for the SATs. The girls were fascinated by golf, so we went to the vast parking lot behind our school, where I found a bit of grass growing out of a crevice in the tarmac, and lined up a shot toward the woods with the 29 degree Cobra hybrid I pulled out of the trunk of my car. Although I was wearing cordovan penny loafers, and slipped a bit on my follow-through, I clipped the turf, got enough of the asphalt to create a spark, and hit a perfect 175 yard draw into the trees. The assembled, in full hijabs, were amazed and delighted.

Apparently the school principal had been watching from his office. Amazed, but not delighted, he came running toward us. I flashed back to Albert Weissbach at good old Verona High, and thought, “Sixty-one years old, but some things never change.” Detention.

The girls ran giggling toward the woods—flashes of purple and orange—to find the ball. Turkish women make lousy caddies.

Across the street—Totowa Road in Wayne—was Preakness Valley, a public Passaic County course; I took the girls to the range so they could hit some shots of their own. As I walked into the clubhouse, followed by seven women in head-to-toe Muslim garb, a few grizzled, unshaved hackers looked up from their post-golf beer, and stared at us. “My entourage. This is how I roll.”

I got in trouble again when I attempted to adjust one of their grips by placing my hand over hers. Apparently a golf lesson is not as good a date in Turkey as it is in the US.

*  *  *  *

One of the students wrote an essay about how the prophet Musa learned that there is more than one way to the truth. It took a moment before I realized that “Musa” was my guy Moses—you know (or as they say in Arabic and Turkish, “yanni”)—sandals, Mt. Sinai—that’s the one.

At the end of the four weeks, their gift to me was Karen Armstrong’s, Muhammad: A Prophet For Our Time. If I do a Cat Stevens, you will now understand why.

I may be going to Cairo in December. The administrators figure it is cheaper to bring me to Egypt for a month than to bring sixteen students back to the US. They say I will be fine—so long as I don’t tell anyone I am an atheist. Apparently Jews do better in Cairo than do non-believers.