Sesame Breadsticks and a Happy Heaven Birthday

Published on by Kelly Suellentrop9 Comments

I just wanted to make a quick little post because today my grandpa (a.k.a. “Papa” to me and a.k.a. “DooDa” to Grace) would have been 87 years old. But he’s been gone for almost five years now. Or has he?

A picture of the rainbow that encircled the sun on the day of my grandpa's funeral.
Some say that after a loved one passes, he or she will send you little signs occasionally. I’m not sure I believed that until my grandpa was gone. And he wasted no time in making it abundantly clear that he was okay, and that he would be watching us. After his funeral, the family gathered for your typical Irish wake. In the midst of beers and Bloody Marys and laughter and one-upping “Big Ed” stories, someone glanced toward the sky and saw a most unusual sight: a rainbow encircling the sun. Not a rain cloud for days, not even the smallest of haze…but still, a ring of color where none of us had ever seen one before. Coincidence? Maybe. An unusual scientific phenomenon? I’m sure it is. But at that moment, it felt like Gramps was finding his own way to crash the party.

Papa and his little Keeny

I’ve experience other little reminders of him gently nudging me throughout the years. And gosh darn it if Big Ed didn’t send me one today, on his very birthday. I was at the grocery store in the salad dressing aisle. I was walking rather briskly, barely paying attention to the shelves, because I knew I did not need anything in this particular area. All of a sudden, my eyes deadlocked on a package of sesame breadsticks, and I stopped in my tracks…and smiled. You see, my grandpa ate these ALL the time…so much so that we nicknamed them “Papa Cookies.” I don’t ever remember taking notice of them at the store before (mostly because they are right next to things like capers and olives, which as a rule, I usually avoid). Without a second thought, I picked up the Papa Cookies, put them in my basket, and whispered to myself, “Happy Birthday, Papa.”

Grace and her DooDa on Halloween 2006

So today, yes, I am missing my grandpa, missing the fact that he’s not physically here. Missing the tree trunk arms that would wrap around me. Missing the way he would bite his lower lip and smile when he was proud of me. Missing the way he would always greet me with an enthusiastic “Hello Keeny!” as if I was still the little girl who couldn’t pronounce her own name. But if it has to be this way, and by nature’s law it does, I am happy to have our time together over things like rainbow enshrouded suns and unexpected lunches of sesame breadsticks.

I’ll leave you with a poem by Chief Tecumseh that my cousin Bill, my grandpa’s nephew and godson, suggested because it embodies the man my Papa truly was. If I did not know better, I would have thought my grandpa penned these words himself, because he certainly lived them:

So live your life that the fear of death can never enter your heart. Trouble no one about their religion; respect others in their view, and demand that they respect yours. Love your life, perfect your life, beautify all things in your life. Seek to make your life long and its purpose in the service of your people. Prepare a noble death song for the day when you go over the great divide.

Always give a word or a sign of salute when meeting or passing a friend, even a stranger, when in a lonely place. Show respect to all people and grovel to none.

When you arise in the morning give thanks for the food and for the joy of living. If you see no reason for giving thanks, the fault lies only in yourself. Abuse no one and no thing, for abuse turns the wise ones to fools and robs the spirit of its vision.

When it comes your time to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled with the fear of death, so that when their time comes they weep and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way. Sing your death song and die like a hero going home.

Papa, you were one hell of a man. Now you’re one hell of an angel. Happy Heaven Birthday.

Love, Keeny

Dancing on Betsy Ross’ Grave

Published on by Kelly Suellentrop23 Comments

What a strange title for a blog post you say? Perhaps I am about to launch into a commentary on civil liberties in our country. Or possibly I am researching unusual burial rituals throughout history. Maybe it is just a clever ploy to attract readers.

Or maybe on our Spring Break trip to Philadelphia last week, my son did just that: danced on Betsy Ross’ grave. Aside from being utterly embarrassed and a little afraid he may have committed a federal offense, what else can I do but blog about it?

So, yes. While perusing the grounds outside of Betsy Ross’ Philadelphia home, reading various plaques extolling her act of bravery in facing charges of treason by creating the very first flag of our grand country and bearing the heartache of losing not one, not two, but three husbands, I look up to find my son has climbed up onto the little wall protecting the sacred ground and is hopping around on the cement marker of her final resting place.

I would say I was horrified, but that would be a lie. In order to be horrified, there must be some element of surprise. No surprise here, as unfortunate as that is to say. There was a split second I thought about slowly backing away and saying to no one in particular, “Where are that boy’s parents?” But then I quickly faced the truth that I must own him…and it would have been pretty crummy of me to let my husband take all the judgmental stares boring into him alone.

Sigh. Nobody knows the woes of the mother of a three-year-old boy…except for another mother of a three-year-old boy. Like I said, there was not one hint of surprise at the sight of my son doing a jig on the burial ground of a beloved historical figure. Because frankly, the boy is a destructor of just about anything, sanity included. The number of near catastrophes that would have landed us on the news as “the family who destroyed the [fill in the blank with your choice of historical Philadelphia buildings]” caused me to wonder how history ever survived thousands of years of three-year-old boys. I wouldn’t be surprised if the REAL culprit of the Liberty Bell crack was a small grubby-handed child of the male persuasion.

****BREAKING NEWS**** Right now, as if on cue, my husband just yelled down to me and asked if I was still working on “The Michael Blog.” Because apparently the kid just rinsed off his toothpaste-sudsy toothbrush in the hubby’s iced tea. Now, back to our program…

I know, as a reader, you will be disappointed to find I do not have a photo of my son dancing on Betsy Ross’ grave. For once I did the responsible thing and stopped my child from doing something outlandish instead of prolonging it so I could get a good picture…which I may have been known to do in the past.

So here are some of those other pictures (which also serve to illustrate why the above incident was not surprising in the least):

And then there’s the poop story. No one wants to see pictures of that.

There it is. My son, in a nutshell. It’s a good thing he is cute. Hopefully Betsy Ross thought so too and decided NOT to come back and do some vengeful haunting.

Similar Tastes: A Letter to My Daughter On Her Birthday

Published on by Kelly Suellentrop6 Comments

Dear Grace,

Today you are seven years old.  Birthdays mean something different to parents than they do to kids. To us, we cannot help but think about the day our child came into our lives, and every day since then. As this day approached, I have had a certain song playing in my head:

“You can’t fool me I saw you when you came out. You got your mama’s taste but you got my mouth.”

I remember hearing these lyrics to “Gracie” by Ben Folds soon after you were born. Gazing at your tiny, delicate features, acquainting myself with this new little person I had always loved but just met, it was clear that you did in fact have your daddy’s mouth. But only time would tell if you had my taste. I would have to wait and watch you grow. At the time, that was beyond my realm of imagination. I was content to keep you my dribbling, nuzzling little bundle forever.

Sometimes I miss Baby Grace and her big, squishy cheeks that were irresistible to kiss and her downy hair scented with the freshness of baby shampoo and the natural sweetness of brand new life. But if I had only had Baby Grace for these past seven years, I would have missed out on all the things you have become and all the things you have created that I have packed away in my heart.  And I would not have discovered that you, my dear little Gracie, do have your mama’s taste.

There are times I observe you and have the feeling I am looking in the mirror, only at a reflection that does not look like me. In your face I see your dad, which has resulted in a beauty my own face has never and will never know. But what goes on behind that pretty little face, that is where I have left my mark. And I cannot help but think this might just give me an advantage in parenting you. I’ve been there, kid. I know what you are thinking and feeling, because already it has been apparent to me that your brain is trying to interpret the world in many of the same ways mine did as a child. So this means I can help you when you need it, if you are not too stubborn to let me…which you probably will be. And I will have to fault myself for that.

But maybe before you get too old to want to listen, before you cringe in utter embarrassment and disbelief that you are anything like your mom, I can let you in on a few little things.

Dad loves to claim you get your artistic interest from him. But we’ve seen him draw, well, anything. So we know the truth. Let that passion live inside you always, and don’t forget to use it every now and again, even when it seems you have more important things to do. Right now, you want to be an artist when you grow up. And you very may well make that a reality. But if you choose another living for yourself, don’t let your love for your other interests fall by the wayside. The pride and sense of accomplishment that comes with creating something is important, even if you only create for yourself.

From very early on, it was apparent you are a dreamer. And by many accounts, you dream like me. I remember the time you sheepishly asked me if I ever pretended to dance with a boy when I was your age, as if you thought you were the only one. Dreaming is a necessity. It is the gateway to imagination, and imagination leads to all kinds of good things. But I also think I would be an irresponsible mom if I did not tell you to keep sight of reality. People will tell you that you can be anything. Well, that is not really true. Everyone has limitations, but those are a blessing if you recognize them and see your limits as guides, directing your focus toward your gifts. Find a gift that fuels passion, then dream as big as you can. And remember that the bridge between dreams and reality does not build itself. Only your own strong work ethic, and maybe a bit of luck, will make that happen.

Your mama likes to dance to the beat of her own drummer sometimes, and so do you. This became completely evident a few months ago when I asked if you wanted to sign up for softball. After saying no, I asked if you were sure, because all your friends would be playing and I did not want you to feel left out. You looked right at me and said with conviction, “Mom, I don’t have to do what everyone else does.” I was cloaked with pride at that moment. Because you were right, and I hope you remember those words all your life.  At the same time, the part of me that wants to enshroud you in bubble wrap and hang a sign on you that says Please say only nice things to my daughter whimpered, knowing what lies ahead for a kid who goes against the grain. There will be teasing. There will be times of loneliness. People will hurt your feelings and try to make you feel bad about yourself. But try to remember this in the midst of it, though it will be hard: you are exactly the person God meant for you to be. Not everyone will like you; that is a universal truth for everyone. So you should never change yourself for someone else. Otherwise, you will be changing all the time. And you will find people who love you for who you are…I will always be first on that list. And you will never be truly alone, because your dad and I will be here for you anywhere, anytime. I have been down many of the roads you will be traveling, and I promise I will do my best to remember how it feels to be your age. You may not always like what I have to say, but my love for you will always be boundless.

So you have grown another year’s worth of becoming who you are, who you will be.  Seeing you discover yourself has been one of the greatest privileges of my life, and it will continue to be as I watch you add new layers. But underneath it all, “you will always have a part of me nobody else is ever gonna see but you and me…my little girl…my Gracie girl.”

Two Peas in a Pod

Happy Birthday, Boo.

Love, Mom

 

•••

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Confessions of a Birthday-Party-Planning Junkie

Published on by Kelly Suellentrop7 Comments

I have a confession: I am a birthday-party-planning junkie. Full on. I can’t help myself. As soon as one of my children’s birthdays begins to inch its way closer on my calendar, I begin vibrating with possibilities. It is almost as if I have my own little competition in my head with Martha Stewart. And it is completely and entirely unnecessary.

Let’s face it. Kids really are not that hard to please when it comes to this stuff. So why do I insist on doing more than I need to? I usually ask myself this question when I am drowning in handmade decorations, when my fingers are stained with icing color, and when I am to the point where I need a spreadsheet to keep track of all the activities and details on the agenda. So basically, I am asking myself that question at this very moment because, presently, that is the stage I am at in preparation for Grace’s birthday party this weekend.

I have to admit that when Grace told me that this year she wanted to have an art party, I was elated…unlike when she chose Dora the Explorer for her third birthday. Where is the creativity in that? Sheesh, three-year-olds know nothing. I am completely energized when my kids choose a party theme I can run with. It’s a sickness. Really, it is. And an art party has the perfect combination of specificity and openness for interpretation. Grace just wants to “do art.” The rest is up to me. Now, a normal mother would realize the gift she has just been given with that statement. The bar is set pretty low. Some paper. Some crayons. Do art, kids! And then we’ll eat some cake. Badda bing, badda boom. You got yourself a party. But no, not me. I took that statement as a challenge, scoured Pinterest, and had an entire sheet of paper full of ideas mere hours after Grace had informed me of her chosen theme. Like I said,…a sickness. If only I approached more things in my life with such zeal

 

I am not going to kid anyone (or myself for that matter) and say I go party-crazy simply for the benefit of my kids. Part if it is selfish. I love doing stuff like this, even if sometimes I bite off more than I can chew. But I can at least rest easy in knowing my intention IS for my children. The way I look at it, birthdays are special. I may fail in other aspects of parenting, but at least my kids can always look back and say, “Mom sure threw us some kick-ass birthday parties.” After all, in my eyes the reason for these celebrations, the days my children were born, were better than any party I could ever have. So the least I can do is try to convey the immeasurable joy I felt on those days through some streamers and party games.

So I guess overall, it is not such a bad thing that I am a birthday-party-planning junkie. I also realized that this year, Grace has taken an interest in helping me with the preparation. She was so excited when I came home with bags from Hobby Lobby and Wal-Mart full of supplies, and she wanted to help me make the decorations. I have to say, that was pretty cool. To watch the delight she was taking in the anticipation of her party, of having a hand in creating it, made me realize that planning these parties WITH my kids might be just as much fun as the party themselves.

And at the very least, I am getting free labor out of it. 🙂 Now enough of this blogging. My free labor is at school right now, and I have some paint chip garland that won’t make itself.

I’ll Always Have Stars in My Eyes for The Boy from Manchester

Published on by Kelly Suellentrop7 Comments

In recent years, Davy Jones of The Monkees would often joke, “I used to a be a heartthrob. Now I’m a coronary.” Those words flashed into my brain and sent chills through my body as I pulled into my driveway while the dj on the radio announced that Davy had died today at age 66 of an apparent heart attack. Well, the Manchester Cowboy always did have a great sense of humor about himself. Not ten seconds later as I opened my back door, the phone rang. It was my dad: “Are you in mourning?” Continue reading “I’ll Always Have Stars in My Eyes for The Boy from Manchester” →

What I Have to Tell 100 People…

Published on by Kelly Suellentrop8 Comments

My blog just officially hit 100 followers!

Between the “Are You Finished Yet?” Facebook page, Twitter account,  and email and WordPress subscriptions, I am now potentially reaching at least 100 people every time I post something. Continue reading “What I Have to Tell 100 People…” →

Parenting Advice from Some Hippies

Published on by Kelly Suellentrop12 Comments

It occurred to me today that I should add something new to my children’s diets: dreams.

This suggestion did not come from my pediatrician, or Dr. Oz, or some celebrity chef who would likely scrutinize my sometimes questionable lunchbox choices on days when I hit the snooze button too many times or on mornings before the weekly grocery shopping trip.  In this case, my unlikely nutritionists go by the names of Crosby, Stills, Nash, & Young. Wait, not Young. No, yes Young. Let me check….yes, & Young.

“Teach Your Children.” I have heard the song more times than I can count, mostly thanks to my father and his almost pristine taste in music. So when I heard it on the radio today, it should not have been any different from the thousands of other times. But then those voices in silken harmony began their sage advice: “Teach your children well. Their father’s hell did slowly go by. And feed them on your dreams…” BAM!

CSNY...parenting gurus?

It was as if I had heard those words, “and feed them on your dreams,” for the very first time. I apparently had never been listening before. But now I was. And all I could think was how beautiful that statement was. How poetic. How decadent in imagery. How representative of the generation of peace and love. How…wise and oddly practical. It was the best parenting advice I have heard in a long time. And it came from hippies.

Parenting is a competitive sport these days. We train prior to the big event. We scout experts and other parents, researching new approaches to the game. We are constantly adding pages to our playbook. We scrutinize every move we make. When we fail, we analyze where we went wrong; when we are victorious, we are awarded the right to brag about our “natural” skills and our abilities to outplay our children. And we are all working toward the same championship prize: for our well-rounded, intelligent, successful child to smoothly transition into a well-rounded, intelligent, successful adult.

That is what I have been told anyway. By whom? Pretty much the entire world, that’s who. Everyone has an opinion on parenting, and we are constantly bombarded by “experts” telling us how we should parent, how we should not parent, how much we should parent, all the things we are doing wrong as parents, and so on and so on. Are you a Tiger Mom? Are you a helicopter parent? Would you be a better parent if you were French? Is my child overweight because there are toys in Happy Meals? Are Disney princesses warping my daughter’s brain?

I am starting to think we are so busy reading about how to be parents that we forget to actually parent. Just pin that parenting tip on your Pinterest board labeled “Kid Stuff” and that’s all you need to do, right?

I am certainly guilty of all of this. I can be a bit of an over-analyzer when it comes to just about anything, my own parenting skills included. This is compounded by the fact that as a high school teacher, I was exposed to teenage behaviors on all points of the spectrum, thereby contributing to an irrational fear that every time I screw up in the parenting arena I have most definitely set my children on the path leading to the defiant, disrespectful, morally corrupt section of that spectrum. Maybe I should hover a little closer. No wait, maybe I should stop catering to my children’s needs like French parents. Or maybe I need to just nip this in the bud right now, pull out some Tiger Mom moves, and start calling my kids “garbage” until they start acting correctly.

Or maybe I just listen to Crosby, Stills, Nash, & Young and feed them on my dreams.

My dreams for my children are pretty simple. Love and happiness. Sure, I want my children to do well in school. Sure, I want them to have ambition and drive. Sure, I want them to be successful in life. Would it hurt if they ended up making nice, hefty livings for themselves so they could one day hook up their old crotchety parents with a sweet retirement timeshare in Florida? No, it would not. But deep down, I truly believe that everything I want for my children, everything I dream for them stems from love and happiness. If I feed them love and happiness everyday, that will nourish their spirits, their confidence, their minds, their hearts. It will grow them into beautiful people, and beautiful people do great things.

I know, I know…it sounds a little hippie dippie. But it is not as if I am never going to yell at my kids again, or tell them little white lies, or take away toys, or hold them accountable for their actions. I am still going to do all that. Maybe now I will just start trusting that the kind of parent I am is exactly the kind of parent I need to be, and that losing my cool after asking my children to stop using the couch as a trampoline for the twenty-fourth time is okay as long as it is accompanied by a large helping of love and happiness. Just like it is okay to have a Happy Meal every now and again, accompanied by a usually balanced diet. (That’s right crazy society, there ARE parents who do not need you take toys out of fast food meals. Some of us can make educated decisions all on our own. Shocking, I know.)

And because any view on parenting would not be complete without a healthy dialogue from  many perspectives, I am curious: what ingredients go into YOUR dream meals for your children? Or maybe you think this whole dream diet is just another fad? Or maybe you think I am plain crazy for taking parenting advice from hippies?

Or maybe you find it ridiculous that I just wrote a parenting blog post about how we over-analyze parenting?

Chuck E. Cheese Could Have Been Your Father

Published on by Kelly Suellentrop13 Comments

Chuck E. Cheese’s.

That is all you have to say to hear a collective, audible grunt from every parent within earshot. It may very well be the place “where a kid can be a kid,” but it is most certainly the place where a parent can get a preview of one of the circles of Hell. Okay, that may be a bit of an exaggeration. But a place where your money gets you a mediocre pizza, a temporary tattoo and fun size Airhead candy for a mere 100 tickets, and a lingering sticky film over your entire body is not what I envision Heaven to be. Maybe Purgatory.

But I can deal with all of that. And I understand that in the eyes of my children, Chuck E. Cheese’s is the ultimate restaurant. After all, as a kid I felt the same way about its predecessor, Showbiz Pizza. So when faced with having to take my own kids to this pizza funland for a birthday party or fundraiser night (because those are pretty much the only circumstances under which we set foot in there), my audible grunt is not rooted in my disdain for the place. My distaste for Chuck E. Cheese’s comes from the mouse himself.

Yes, Chuck E. has scarred me for life. Let me take you back in time to the day it all happened…

The year was 1993. I was a sophomore in high school. For some reason completely incomprehensible to me now, but which clearly made sense to the idiot teenage brain, I went to Chuck E. Cheese’s with a few friends. Maybe we really wanted a neon pillow shaped liked an alien head and figured the best way to get one was to earn tickets playing Whack-A-Mole for an entire afternoon. Anyway, I remember it clearly. I was in the middle of one of my personal best rounds of skee ball when I felt a large, cartoonish presence next to me. There stood Chuck E., mimicking my skee ball maneuvers. Ha ha. Funny Chuck E. Now move along and go high-five some six-year-old. But he did not move on. He stood there for a little while, looking at me. I tried to ignore him and continued playing until he left. To my dismay, he did not stay away for long. He followed me, silently, creepily, from one game to the next. Don’t you have to go perform “Disco Chuck” or “Rockin’ Robin” with your band right about now? It was incredibly disturbing.

Finally, it must have been Chuck E.’s break time, because he scampered away behind a door, and I started breathing easy again. That is, until I turned around and found myself standing face to face with a Chuck E. Cheese employee – a human one this time. I thought maybe he was coming over to apologize for Chuck E.’s annoying behavior and to treat me to five free tokens for my inconvenience. I was mistaken. Here is how the conversation went down:

Employee: “Chuck E. wanted me to come out here and tell you that he thinks you’re cute.”

Me: <crickets chirping>

Employee: He’s a really nice guy. He wanted to know what you thought of his tail.

Me: <crickets chirping>

Employee: So when he comes back, you wanna hang out?

Me: I don’t date mice.

That’s right, ladies and gentlemen. I WAS HIT ON BY CHUCK E. CHEESE. Of all the celebrities whose eye I could have caught, that was my one shining moment. Pathetic. Disgusting. And down right Creepy with a capital C.

And THAT is why I hate Chuck E. Cheese’s. Since that very unfortunate day, I shudder a little whenever I hear Chuck E.’s nasaly voice on a commercial. When we are at the restaurant, I get weirded out and have the urge to hide whenever Chuck E. starts walking the floor. But I grin and bear it, all so my kids can have their fun.

“Is that your tail or are you just happy to see me?” photo from arcadeheroes.com

And that is exactly what I did this past Thursday when Michael’s preschool had their fundraising night at Chuck E. Cheese’s. I bought my pizza and tokens like a dutiful mother. I helped Grace score extra points on the basketball game so she could earn more tickets toward junk I don’t want in my house. And I even alerted Michael when I saw Chuck E. sauntering among the customers (no doubt scanning the crowd for some unsuspecting female on whom he could work his “playa” moves). Michael loves Chuck E. Cheese, and when he saw the mouse, he ran up and gave him a hug. As I watched, a bit horrified, I had the thought, “Oh Michael. You have no idea. Chuck E. Cheese could have been your father.”

Then I threw up a little in my mouth.

(The Chuck E. Saga continued a few years later. For the next chapter, click here.)

•••

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St. Louis Reads Because We Can

Published on by Kelly Suellentrop6 Comments

It is called vindication. And it reads like the sweet, smooth words of Jane Austen, the biting and truthful wit of Mark Twain, and the timeless universality of William Shakespeare. I should know, because I am from St. Louis: the eighth most literate city in America.

st. louis arch
By StLouisArchMultExpEV-4.72.JPG: Kevin McCoy StLouisArchMultExpEV-1.82.JPG: Kevin McCoy StLouisArchMultExpEV+1.51.JPG: Kevin McCoy StLouisArchMultExpEV+4.09.JPG: Kevin McCoy derivative work: Darxus [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0) or GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons
After ranting about a bogus report that St. Louis was the third most dangerous city in the world (see my post “Lock Your Doors: There Is Danger in The Lou“), I was a little over the moon this morning to hear that my beloved city finally fared well in one of these lists our society seems so enamored with making. And this one is actually legitimate, unlike the one that ranked us among world cities dominated by war and drug cartels. Apparently, a Central Connecticut State University study found St. Louis to rank among the top ten literate cities in America, according to a CNN article.

So we might shoot you, but at least we will be able to read the story when it makes in the papers the next day.

Every English teacher in the city should be proud right now. All those painful book reports we graded, all the groaning we let roll off our backs as we assigned homework chapters and summer reading, all those lessons in sentence diagramming, all the class discussions that resembled pulling teeth and exercises in non-sequitur thoughts more than literary dissection…they have all paid off.

It is nice to see our city rise to the occasion and succeed in an arena inspired by natives such as T.S. Eliot, Kate Chopin, Tennessee Williams, Eugene Field, Marianne Moore, William S. Burroughs, and Maya Angelou, instead of just being known as the home of rappers Nelly and Akon. That is a different kind of literacy, though I am sure we would probably rank pretty high on that list as well. I am going to say that makes us well-rounded.

Now if only we could figure out how to pronounce Gravois, mostaccioli, wash, and fork, I bet we would get bumped to #5 on the list.

We Read Because We Can

Published on by Kelly Suellentrop7 Comments

It is called vindication. And it reads like the sweet, smooth words of Jane Austen, the biting and truthful wit of Mark Twain, and the timeless universality of William Shakespeare. I should know, because I am from St. Louis: the eighth most literate city in America.

st. louis public library
We dig the library in The Lou

After ranting about a bogus report that St. Louis was the third most dangerous city in the world (see my post “Lock Your Doors: There Is Danger in The Lou“), I was a little over the moon this morning to hear that my beloved city finally fared well in one of these lists our society seems so enamored with making. And this one is actually legitimate, unlike the one that ranked us among world cities dominated by war and drug cartels. Apparently, a Central Connecticut State University study found St. Louis to rank among the top ten literate cities in America, according to a CNN article.

So we might shoot you, but at least we will be able to read the story when it makes in the papers the next day.

Every English teacher in the city should be proud right now. All those painful book reports we graded, all the groaning we let roll off our backs as we assigned homework chapters and summer reading, all those lessons in sentence diagramming, all the class discussions that resembled pulling teeth and exercises in non-sequitur thoughts more than literary dissection…they have all paid off.

It is nice to see our city rise to the occasion and succeed in an arena inspired by natives such as T.S. Eliot, Kate Chopin, Tennessee Williams, Eugene Field, Marianne Moore, William S. Burroughs, and Maya Angelou, instead of just being known as the home of rappers Nelly and Akon. That is a different kind of literacy, though I am sure we would probably rank pretty high on that list as well. I am going to say that makes us well-rounded.

Now if only we could figure out how to pronounce Gravois, mostaccioli, wash, and fork, I bet we would get bumped to #5 on the list.