Denton, a hip city votes to ban fracking!

I need to write a more substantial interview article to match what I assigned to everyone in Writing 7A, but I am running a little behind schedule on it.  In the mean time, I wanted to share some articles that were written recently about my home town, Denton!  I wrote an article on it below, but these are much more descriptive.

Here is one published in the Guardian celebrating its quirkiness and small-town vibe.

Here is one in the New York Times on its recent vote to prohibit Fracking, a very lucrative but environmentally questionable practice for extracting natural gas.

And here is an article about the likely upcoming litigation over the ban.

J. Houston Elementary

Houston!  Eagles!  Houston!  Eagles!  A crowd of 800 children aged four through eleven shout back to Elia Camarillo, a smiling principal in jeans and a blue Houston Eagles t-shirt, holding a microphone. 

“All right Houston Eagles! It’s Friday!  Now I want all of you to show your Houston pride and respect as we list off the birthdays this week!  Ready?” The kids sit cross-legged in rows, grouped by grade level.  Some kids are fidgeting or leaning over to whisper to a friend; others are quietly looking up.  A few walk on tiptoe between their classmates, trying to find a spot to sit on the cafeteria floor. The names are announced with each birthday celebrator standing up and getting a colorful birthday pencil.  Everybody sings “Happy Birthday Cha Cha Cha!” to raucous joyful applause.

I worked for two years at J. Houston Elementary in the Dove Springs neighborhood in southeast Austin. The orderly chaos of morning assembly in the cafeteria was just one of the many ways that the space filled with life and energy.  Later in the morning, while the students were divided up in their classrooms, a group of mothers spent an hour dancing and exercising with Zumba, swinging arms and legs rhythmically with Cumbias, Reggaeton, and Bachatas.  On some days, guest speakers would come; the front half of the cafeteria could be the solar system, and kids would revolve around each other, rotating to demonstrate the gravitational interactions of the heavenly bodies.  On another day, pre-teen musicians would perform, having come from Medez Middle School a few blocks away to demonstrate their instruments.  

At the end of the year, the fifth graders would dress up in their finest dresses, dress shirts, and slacks, proudly marching across the stage as a symbol of their graduation, their progress from elementary school to middle school.  Parents would sit at tables behind them, cheering and taking photos as the fifth graders shook hands with the administrators and took their diplomas.  They, then, ceremoniously served cake and punch to their parents.

Leaving the cafeteria, and walking outside, there are sidewalks; one goes straight toward the Fifth Grade Building and the portables, and another goes left towards the Fourth Grade Buliding and the gymnasium.  Next to the gym is a basketball court with a tall blue tarp spread out above it like a monochromatic circus tent.  This space too was a center of activities and action.

Fall Carnival would appear in October with dozens of games, hundreds of prizes.  Soda bottles set up like bowling pins: if you could throw a ring around one, you could take it home.  Plastic fish in a kiddie pool full of water: if you hooked one with a plastic fishing lure, you would get a real live goldfish in a clear plastic bag full of water.  You would be very lucky if it was alive the next day.  Haunted houses in the small portable classrooms, a train that circled the concrete in between the portables.  Wrappers, plastic bottles, and other assorted food trash littered the grass and dust in between the concrete surfaces.  Teachers, custodians, and perhaps a few kids picked some of it up, and would take care of the rest on Monday.

These memories adjoin with many experiences for me, and I was only there for two years.  My colleagues who have spent 20 or 30 years must have so many more.  The kids, who spend their childhoods there, perhaps even more.  It is a special place, with a core of pride and at times a community spirit that would amaze anyone.

Improv Comedy

Improv Comedy

This is happening in the moment. There’s no plan, and it’s so spontaneous it even the people creating it are thrown off their guard at times! Improvisational comedy, or Improv, as its fans call it, is a form of theater in which everyone on stage is inventing their lines as they say them.  There is no script; there is no memorization.  Quick-witted performers have to stay on their toes to deliver hilarious (and sometimes heartbreaking) lines and time them so that an audience stays on board.  

Over the years, I’ve seen some great shows. One group that I have enjoyed consistently over the years goes by the unwieldy name of Parallelogramaphonograph (P-Graph for short).  They consist in four members – three of whom are co-owners of the Hideout Theater – and they perform long-form shows that last around one-and-a-half hours.  The setting and genre are often determined from the beginning; I’ve seen shows ranging from family photos from the 1950s to Victorian comedies of manners to a Sci-Fi space movie parody.  They study and plan for the character types, time period, location, and other broad-brush genre characteristics, but the action and dialogue of the play are completely improvised.

Another popular style involves a host who introduces actors to short challenges or scenarios.  Maestro is the Hideout Theater’s incarnation of this, but many people have seen this style of performance on the television show “Whose Line Is It Anyway?”  These short pieces often involve audience suggestions, and the actors have to incorporate the audience’s idea while playing a two-headed monsters or pretending to speak and/or interpret non-sense gibberish.  Often there is some method for scoring these short performances; the judge may gauge audience applause or may use his or her own preferences to rate the performers.  At the end of this style of show, one performer emerges as the winner, although I don’t think there are any real prizes; the competition aspect seems more of a gimmick for the audience.

So, how does improv work?  What allows a scene to continue and flourish rather than slump and die?  The principles known as “Yes, and…” has a lot to do with keeping the momentum of a scene. This guideline encourages actors to always affirm what the other actors have stated; improvisers never shoot down ideas, but rather build on what their collaborators have created.  If one actor says, “Look at this amazing guitar – Jimmi Hendrix played this guitar at Woodstock!” Don’t kill her mojo by saying, “No it’s not.  That’s stupid.”  Welcome her suggestion, and add to it.  “That’s right – Mr. Hendrix gave it to my grandmother that very day, and she has had it in our attic ever since!  Would you like to play it?” In this way, the actor moves the action forward and gives the others something to work with to make the story continue in a creative way.

Voice seems to be a really tricky piece of Improv, and acting in general.  None of us has a perfectly consistent voice; we change our approach and our patterns depending on our situation and whom we’re talking to.  However, for a character in a play, the audience needs to believe that you are one person.  The voice needs to be consistent enough to be convincing.  That’s a good reason to be very cautious when trying to do an accent that is not your own.  If you start it but can’t keep it up, the failure will be very noticeable.

However, improvisers say that failure is opportunity.  They welcome failure as a lesson in humility and in resilience.  Everyone flops on stage sometimes, but the ones who are able to resurrect the performance are the ones who really amaze an audience.

Improv comedy can be found at the Hideout Theater, Cold Towne Theater, Salvage Vanguard Theater, and many other locations.  I highly recommend checking out a show and trying a class.  You will meet very creative people of all personality types, and you’ll get a chance to exercise your own creative muscles.  It’s also a great way to get over stage fright or insecurities about speaking with strangers.  I hope you’ll give Improv a try!

My home town: Denton, TX

Will Slade

My Home Town

Denton, Texas has been my hometown since I moved there with my family in 1991.  It is situated nearly equidistant from three key landmarks: 40 miles south of the Red River, which marks the Oklahoma-Texas border, 40 miles northwest of Dallas, and 40 miles northeast of Fort Worth. Its population is growing rapidly, with currently over 121,000 people, which is twice what it was when my family first moved there 23 years ago. 

The culture and identity of Denton is not simple to nail down.  Local residents often call it Little D, in relation to Dallas, and we assert that it is the northern point of the “Golden Triangle” with Dallas and Fort Worth even if residents of those bigger cities may not think of us as true members of their club.  Many Dentonites, when traveling, will not even say they are from Denton.  They collapse our fair city into what is known as the DFW Metroplex, or simply Dallas. 

In that way, we resemble a suburb. That identity that is both real and imagined; we have a sprawling area towards Dallas with cookie cutter houses, few trees, and many cars with which families commute into Dallas. My family’s house is on the border of this area, in a more unique and treed neighborhood with spiraling streets, but my dad does the hour-long commute to his office with IBM in northern Dallas every day.

However, the sector that many Dentonites claim with pride is its “mini-Austin” identity. Its universities and the people who surround them promote a vibrant intellectual and cultural life. The University of North Texas is a bastion of jazz and classical music, with a diverse student population from all over the world and a cutting edge environmental science program.  Texas Women’s University used to be all women, but is now co-ed; it has a beautiful campus and really strong programs in theater, occupational therapy, and education.  Both of these campuses border a charming downtown with an old-fashioned courthouse and lots of quaint shops.

Denton also extends into the countryside, with ranchers and cowboy types who have a strong drawl and fit a Texas stereotype from movies and TV.  I went to school with kids from this background, but did not identify much with them and do not have a very nuanced understanding of their lives.

As most cities in the United States, Denton has a history of racial segregation. Black Dentonites have a sad history of being re-located from one part of town to another due to racism and unfair power structures.  In response to that, much of Southeast Denton has grown strong and connected through African American churches, sports, and clubs, which have grown in influence and prominence in institutions throughout the city. However, racism persists and many of the inequalities in terms of educational attainment, incarceration rates, and joblessness rates continue to plague our communities of color.  In turn, such injustices are toxic for all of us who participate in them.

Also, in the past 30 years, a large Mexican and Central American populations have moved to and grown in Denton.  According to the census data, Hispanics now make up 21.2 % of the total population and 22.4 % of Dentonites speak a language other than English at home.  Much of this community is diverse and transforming.  Schools are attempting to implement Dual Language programs to serve families and help children maintain their home language as well as gain access to the job benefits and local prestige of English.  The music, food, and cultural celebrations of Latinos are becoming more ubiquitous in Denton, as the population integrates and grows.

My Denton straddles all of these cultures. I feel a lot of affection for my town.  Would I move back?  Sometimes I think I’d love to.  But the majority of my next few blog posts will attempt to explore the unique elements of Austin that have kept me here so far.  Dentonite?  Austinite?  I will claim both for now.

As the semester ends

I personally regret not writing more in my blog.  I wonder what I can do in future semesters to keep everyone and myself more accountable to this easy, weekly practice, which I think is very valuable.  Are pen-and-paper journals better?  I prefer typing, but I need it to be more immediate and in my attention when so many other things are going on. 

I should thank Nijla for inspiring me to write today (I got an update in my e-mail that she had posted about the hardest job in the world).  Young also inspired me the other day when she told me about her plan to blog about the horrible tragedy in South Korea two weeks ago, when a ship sank with many high school students and other innocent victims. 

These sorts of topics are perfect for writing in a journal.  They are in our consciousness and they affect us personally.  Writing can be a really productive way to process them. 

One issue of blogging is that it makes us vulnerable.  It puts our stories out in the world.  I've been reading a lot about the power of vulnerability in a book called The Gifts of Imperfection by Brené Brown, a researcher who is also a really great storyteller.  I just found a YouTube video that Brené Brown did, and I think you may like it a lot!

https://www.ted.com/talks/brene_brown_on_vulnerability

I want to write more.  I am going to re-commit to writing more!  I hope you will too.  I'm writing this on my blog, think I'll send this in an e-mail as well.

A controversial topic in my field



  I may have shared this on Canvas, but here it is on my blog!  It's just an introduction and summary of an article on a controversial topic in my field.

  For my field (language education), a very controversial topic deals with what the best way to educate young immigrant students.  Some purport that English-only is the best strategy, so that students are immersed in their new language and learn it almost as native speakers.  Others cite evidence that many of these students feel stigmatized, frustrated, and end out less academically successful than ones who learned academic skills in their native language.  However, bilingual education also comes in many forms.  Transitional bilingual education, maintenance bilingual education, dual language immersion... and I believe there are others as well.  
An article on this controversial topic is by Stephen Krashen, entitled "What Works: Reviewing the latest evidence on bilingual education" deals with this topic. If you can't click on that link, check out this URL: http://users.rcn.com/crawj/langpol/Krashen-McField.pdf
 

          Krashen cites multiple meta-analyses of the research on different bilingual models, and shares the conclusion that bilingual education students succeed at greater rates than students in English-only programs.  Krashen notes that the different investigations found limited evidence for one superior program among the different varieties of bilingual programs, but mentioned that one analysis suggested that late-exit bilingual programs proved more effective than other programs that send students out earlier.
 
This article and the author are interesting to me, but I think for a speech I may choose a different article that provides a little more evidence and nuance in the analysis.





                  



Back to blogging

I have written several things that I haven't posted yet.  I guess I wanted them to be cleaner and more coherent, but according to me, that's not what this space is for.  This is for these random, quick, unpolished brainstorms.  These quick-writes.  I will post my grocery experience as soon as I find it.  I think I saved it on my other computer.  I do think that just sitting down and letting ideas flow out through your fingers is very valuable, and can be a pleasure rather than a chore.

I went to a conference today, and I talked with a children's book author.  I want to publish children's books that will be relevant to the East Austin Mexican-American population that I worked with during the past five years.  I have written two short stories that I think could be illustrated as children's books.  The author recommended that I submit them to publishers as manuscripts, that I not worry about finding an illustrator... but I feel that I could create something cheaper and more accessible if I don't go through the traditional publishers.  I saw presentations on books that students and teachers publish electronically on the Kindle and on paper through a software that Walmart provides (although that option was very expensive! Beautiful, though). 

I would love for y'all's (Writing 7's) Austin Food guides to be published for real.  I really do think that a lot of people are going to enjoy them!

You all are working on persuasive pieces, and I want to write one too.  I would like to publish something in the Austin American Statesman, or at least in the Daily Texan.  Hopefully some of your work will be published in a newspaper!  You all are really amazing writers, and I have confidence that if you submit some of your writing, you can get it published!

OK, I'm going to wrap up for now and write a recommendation letter for a former student. Still writing, but it has to be confidential; it can't be on the blog.  I celebrate you all's dedication to this project of strengthening your writing!  I am inspired by you and joining with you!

Habesha Restaurant - Ethiopian Cuisine -- Warm, inviting, and offering delicious meals to share with friends and family!

Hola!  OK, I’m committed to writing 20 minutes every day this Spring Break.  I would also like to play my cello for 30 minutes every day.  Good goals, right? 

I was thinking I’d like to do a restaurant review as our writing 7 class did last week.  I learned about so many different restaurants that I had previously not heard of, and I’d like to share one that I discovered yesterday.

The restaurant was called Habesha.  To get there, drive north from UT on I-35, exit Airport and stay on the access road until you pass Texas Cattle Company.  Right past its bright red sign, you’ll see Habesha tucked behind it. 

The day my friends and I went there was gray and dreary, but as soon as we entered, we were struck by the delicious smells of spices and incense; warmth exuded from the people, the food, and the ambiance.  Deep red and orange-yellow table clothes and paintings complemented this feeling.

We sat at a large table; we saw others were sharing large (2 ft X 2 ft) platters of spongy ingera bread, on which they dipped spicy lentils, chick peas, salad, and other amazing sauces.   We ordered a six-dish vegetarian combination and an injera, cottage-cheese appetizer.  If you’ve never had Ethiopian food, you’ve got to try it!  The spices are completely unique; tangy, spicy but not too spicy, rich.  I love the tangy, fermented injera bread.  Yum!

The circle seating around one plate, and eating with our hands also gave a feeling of togetherness that really promoted good conversation.  We ended our meal after an hour and a half, and we were completely filled.  Be careful not to fill up too much, because the injera bread seems to expand inside of you!  Our meal was completed with dark, rich Ethiopian coffee in tiny cups.  We had ours black without sugar; it has a different flavor than any other that I’ve tasted.

I highly recommend visiting Habesha, or if you want to stay closer to campus.  Check out Asther’s, which is also wonderful, and is just at Dean Keaton and I-35.

Food memories

This is a free writing exercise.  I am not organizing my thoughts, just letting them flow from memory to memory.

My grandmother’s house in San Marcos, we ate Mexican food.  My grandfather made a carrot salad with raisins and mayonnaise, and pecans.  I loved it even though I found it a little bit gross.  My grandmother and her fruit.  Always, every breakfast, my grandmother believed that we should eat some fruit.  She would have prunes, sliced oranges, grapes, grapefruit… it always felt like a chore the way she insisted on fruit with breakfast, but the English muffins with butter were delicious. 

My other grandmother made amazing meatloaf.  I still remember it, even now after 15 years as a pescatarian and her dead now two years, not having lived in that house for 17 perhaps… since my grandfather died.  My grandfather loved pecan pie and ice cream.   He loved other foods that we didn’t realize until he had passed away.  We had no idea about the pickled pigs’ feet until we found tens of bottles of them in the pantry after his death.  Their house smelled of cigarette smoke and cloves in oranges.  Burnt countertops from cigarettes forgotten created a sporadic semi-pattern throughout the kitchen and dining room.  The foreign, fascinating sculptures and wood carved masks and figures cluttered the cabinets and shelves by the dining room table.  Dark wood, low orange light. 

Later at my aunt’s house, my grandmother could no longer taste much, but still loved to eat.  She delighted in a grapefruit and avocado salad that was simple but tangy and fatty and delicious.

I remember my mom’s quiche, her corn-cheese soup, her paella that we eat on Thanksgiving instead of the traditional turkey.  I remember the delicious meals that we would make together, or she would make.  My dad’s shrimp and raw oysters.  My brother’s picky eating.  Bread and cheese.  One year it was burnt toast and mozzarella.  Another year cheddar, and the bread didn’t need to be burnt.  The sodas.  I find sodas revolting now, but as a child I reveled in the sweet syrup that came out of the machines or tingled my nose in orange tangy flavors at the lake with my aunts, uncles, and grandparents.

Sahara Lounge Description - Saturday night 2/15/14

Sahara Lounge

On a small white hill by a broken down bridge that the city has been promising to finish for the past nine months squats a ramshackle old one-story structure with a brightly illuminated sign proclaiming “Sahara Lounge.”  Once known as far-east Austin’s most authentic blues joint under different ownership and the name TC’s, Sahara Lounge continues to serve the surrounding African American community with beats, eats, and drinks, but now the music tends towards tropical and African rhythms, and the audience has grown to include a diverse mix of people of all races from all over Austin. 

Tonight I am here to see my friends’ group, a collective of four men and seven women tonight that goes by the name “Origens.”  The front man is Brazilian, and the style is taken from northeastern Afro-Brazilian roots with deep, large, heavy drums and tinkling triangles and chiming cowbells.  The vocalists are female, from a range of nationalities and ages; they lead the percussion in Portuguese, harmonizing, meandering between different tunes and tones, rhythms and keys.  All the band members wear white, turquoise, or red tops with a variety of floral skirts, red pants. The audience claps and sways, shoulders circling, hips bouncing, feet stomping, shaking the ply-wood dance floor. 

At one point three of the musicians come down from the stage and create a circle, two-steps, clap, stomp in the middle; they grab the hands of audience members on the dance floor.  The vocalist sings a sad, minor-key melody, and the drums are simple, melancholy; however, our circle dance lifts the spirit – a paradox of emotions. 

The ceiling is draped with a chaos of cables, bulbs, strings of Christmas lights; pipes and wires snake above leading to spinning disco balls, one reflecting with tiny mirrors, the other shining seven colors in shapes of stars, squares, and circles.  Garish, bright beer ads in neon tube-bulbs advertise Budweiser, Negro Modelo, and a cluster of red roses are stapled onto a beam that marks the exit from the stage up to the seating area and the pool tables.  Above this step, a long then gourd has painted “Music Joy Amusement” then “Emotion Peace Soul Celebration.”

The show moves the audience.  We all applaud.

Glitter letters behind the musicians remind us where we are: “Sahara Lounge, ATX.”

Descriptive Writing - McKinney Falls

Walking across the white, gray stone, smooth but uneven; tripping, worn down, cautious, I crouch to keep my balance. Debris floats and catches in the waterfall, trying to pass over to stagnant pools at the edges.  Dead trees lie and lean on either side of the water, waiting to be cut and hauled away or to be pushed and pulled further into the river and down.

I remember verdant leaves on a small tree and a slender green snake dangling, balancing between fragile branches, escaping the attention and probes of visitors.

Losing our shoes, stepping through puddles and cold streams, the feeling in my toes escapes.  We sit on top of a concrete picnic table, speculating on dreams and questions.