Friday, March 6, 2020 at 8:36 AM
South San Antonio, Texas
I finally discovered the office lounge, tucked
into the back of the office block. A sign invited teachers and staff back to
enjoy breakfast tacos. I stepped inside the lounge and six trays of tacos, bean
and cheese or chorizo and cheese or pork and cilantro or egg and cheese. I
picked out the bean and cheese and hoped that the cheese wouldn't make me flare
up.
I wondered if the beans were lovingly cooked
with lard, a product from the pig, el cochon. I didn't wonder too long because
I really didn't know if I was breaking kosher or not. I opened up the foil
wrapper and added spoonfuls of a green salsa to the bean mixture, salsa clearly
a vegan food. "I've never had salsa this early in the morning", I
exclaimed. "That's how we roll", said the principal, who had made all
the tacos. I didn't know she was standing close at hand.
Last night, I was allowed to leave for the day
early, so I rescheduled my appointment at Trinity University. I found an ad on
Craig’s asking for subjects to use an Android app to answer questions on mood
and self-concept five times a day for two weeks. I wrote the researcher and he
wrote back within the hour. We talked in his laboratory conference room, and he
answered all my questions. "Will I get some feedback on my answers or will
my surveys go into a black hole for all time"?
"Yes, I'm afraid your answers will be kept
confidential, even from you", replied the researcher. We'll send you a fifty-dollar
Walmart gift card for your trouble". I completed a survey in the lab,
sitting at one of the computer stations. It asked questions that touched a
nerve. "Do you often think of yourself as worthless"? Actually, I can
strongly agree with that statement, sadly. I answered more than one hundred
questions and almost all of them were incisive and sharp. So far, the
application has yet to alert me to fill out a twenty second survey. I wonder if
something has gone wrong.
I planned to attend an evening at the McNay Art
Museum and I took a bus far north of San Antonio. I missed the art museum stop
and looked for a place where I could write for an hour. I saw a Starbucks and
an Army Navy Store. These once were called Army Navy Surplus Stores and
civilians could pick up tents and boots and backpacks for very little money.
Now, the Army Navy stores seems to sell pea coats for top dollar, as well as
ask what the market will bear for backpacks. I was loving the look of a full
pack from Desert Storm, camouflaged to blend in with the sand and scrub of Iraq
or Afghanistan. But I had to squint for the price. The red tags said 99.95. I
couldn't see paying that much for a pack that the house picked up from the
government for far less than that price.
I walked across the busy thoroughfare as
carefully as I could even though it wasn't planned for pedestrians. I stepped
into the Starbucks and found myself behind a line. The entire U.S. Army seemed
lined up to order a coffee drink. The Starbucks served Fort Sam Houston, a
joint military base. The base begins east of the Starbucks, and surely this is
where all the GI Joe's go for their Joe. I asked the soldier standing before me
in line, "Do you get a military discount"? "That would be nice
but they would have to give it to everybody on base". "I’m failing
to see the problem with that". The base might grind to a halt should a
hostile agent shut down that Starbucks.
The art museum required a bit of a walk from the
bus stop. Obviously, the McNay Art Museum thought all patrons arrived by car. I
walked around an exhibit of Goya prints as I waited for the auditorium to open.
Goya etched this series, Los Caprichos, around 1824. The interpretive signs
appeared first in Spanish and then in English, honoring the Goya's
language.
Goya probably couldn't have known while he was
etching the series that New Yorkers had dug the Erie Canal across their state
and were enjoying journeys in canal boats from Buffalo to Albany in a few
weeks. When I studied his grotesque caricatures of people, I wondered if people
in Spain truly looked miserable as he depicted them. I hoped the people who
worked and lived on the Erie Canal in the same years looked healthier and
dressed better. I contemplated the sadness I saw on the many streets of the
towns I've visited on my tour: New York, Brooklyn, Washington, Atlanta, New
Orleans and now San Antonio. Only New Orleans struck me as a town where even
the poorest looked healthy and happy.
I sat in the top row of the hall. The hall’s
feng shui seemed to suggest that was the best place to sit. The speaker, Marc
A. Scorca, came from Opera America, an organization that has successfully grown
the number of opera companies in America. Under his leadership, the alliance
has increased the number of commissioned operas in America, growing to an
seemingly endless list last year. I had fond memories of my time around the
operas of Detroit and Grand Rapids and his presentation brought them back to
me. Opera in America seemed to want everyone to participate in the community of
making and enjoying the shows.
I walked into the Detroit Opera House one
evening after work, and I was greeted at the door by Karen DiChiera, the wife
of David DiChiera, the founder of the opera house. She showed me around the
house, talking me on the stage and showing me all their classrooms where the
company offered Learning at the Opera House. She made it very clear that the
opera house belonged to Detroit and therefore belonged to me.
When M.L. Liebler needed a place to hold poetry
readings after he was dumped by the YMCA program for writers for being too
radical after 9-11, he turned to the Opera House to gather his audience for
touring featured readers, keeping Poetry alive in Detroit for many years until
different, additional voices could emerge.
In Grand Rapids, I was assigned by a local
online magazine to attend a gala held by Grand Rapids Opera, an event held in
their rehearsal hall on Fulton Street. The rehearsal hall had an immense glass
wall installed on the northern exposure. People sitting at the cafe across the
street could watch the rehearsal although not hear the music. The party,
likewise, could be watched from the coffee house too. People walking the
sidewalk could look in the one-way window, but we couldn't see out of them.
The director and his wife welcomed gala guests
personally. I introduced myself and mentioned my assignment. I was graciously
welcomed and a woman from the chorus made me a beautiful name tag. The party
progressed along the theme of Guys and Dolls and I won plenty of fake money
playing Blackjack and Craps. The musicians entertained us, singing numbers from
the musical, especially a memorable version of Fugue for Tinhorns.
I wrote up a glowing article, but my editor had
dropped the piece before I had even arrived at the rehearsal hall. She hadn't
even sent a staff photographer. She thanked me for my article, and she
apologized. I don't think the Opera company even cared. I nibbled on the plenty
they had spread out for their supporters. Maybe my presence had even added to
the evening.
I loved to notice how the Grand Rapids Opera
loved to give everyone a chance to see the show. Students were invited to the
late dress rehearsals. And people who were poor could slip in too. We are all
students, especially when it comes to the arts and music. I was afraid to ask
if I could join because I don’t always have money for musicals and opera.
However, I never had the courage although I was sure the answer was yes.
Nixon in China: Act One --- News
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5Tv3hrZmcEk
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