It's Mother's Day. I think that this is supposed to be one of those sentimental days - one where people buy the real Hallmark cards with the pretty pictures rather than Shoebox or Maxine. I must confess that I am not the sentimental type, especially about Mother's Day. Don't get me wrong; I love my kids and I love being a mother, but those things happen every day, not just on Mother's Day.
I don't have a very good track record for Mother's Day celebrations. Last year I spent the day in bed with a stomach virus. The year before that I spent in the ER with Mike because he had a kidney stone. This year was was not so bad - I cleaned my bathroom. Really cleaned - cleared everything off the counters and scrubbed, disinfected the shower, scrubbed the grout with a toothbrush, washed all the towels and rugs. I love being a mother! Actually, I love it when everything is clean. This is a real treat because it happens so infrequently. It was my gift to myself. Now that the tub is clean I could have a nice soak in the jacuzzi tub. Hmmm . . .
What did my kids give me for Mother's Day? Well, they too cleaned their rooms. Another great gift. I like it when I can walk into their rooms and not trip over a week's worth of dirty laundry or be overcome by the smell of said laundry. Also, all the glasses have been returned to the kitchen! I can have friends over and we do not each have to have a straw and share the same glass. It really is the simple things in life that make me happy. Well, and cookies.
Brooke made me vegan peanut butter chocolate chip cookies. They are REALLY good. Don't let the vegan part worry you. If I didn't tell you they were vegan, you would never know. I promise. I had a few while taking breaks from the scrubbing bubbles. I could probably eat a whole batch but I was good.
Tonight, after finishing folding the laundry, I came for one last cookie. There were only two left. OK, I know that I did not eat more than two or three. I asked Brooke where she had put the rest. We came to the conclusion that Adidas had helped himself. Two problems here: chocolate is bad for dogs and HE ATE MY COOKIES. I guess no one told him it was Mother's Day and he should be nice to me! He seems to have no ill effects from the chocolate.
And the other half of the parental unit? He is in South Africa. The lengths some people will go to to get out of buying a gift. I could just buy my own. Nah, shopping is too much trouble. I'll just buy Brooke some brown sugar so she can make me more cookies. Then I will eat them all before the dog gets to them. Fat and happy - that should work.
On this Mother's Day, I wish you all clean bathrooms and lots of cookies!
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Saturday, May 12, 2007
This Is Your Brain On Education
I came home from rehearsal last night to find Brooke in front of my computer just staring. It was nearly 11 pm on a Friday night so I was fairly sure it was not the beginning of an all-nighter to finish some paper that "she forgot about." I bravely asked, "What are you doing?" In a most enthusiastic voice she responded, "The University of Chicago Scav Hunt is going on. They have posted pictures and I am looking at this year's list!"
What is the UC Scav Hunt you ask. It is the reason that Brooke is going to Chicago. (During our visit to campus they said in passing that the vegan team had won the hunt a few years previous. That was enough to sell her.) Seriously, the Scav Hunt is probably the most famous UC tradition - it has its own Wikipedia entry. This is not your average scavenger hunt. It is a list of about 300 things compiled by a group of people with some brilliant but very sick minds!
This year's list includes things such as the worst hair on campus, the most disgusting ice cream flavor on earth, proof of your (or some team member's) royal heritage, a prosthetic limb that goes beyond the call of duty, and "Carhenge". These are the easy things. No discipline or hobby is left untouched. This is true for those of us who are fiber artists. We are charged with hyperbolic crocheting and spinning a yarn. To view a complete copy of this year's list and the rules look here. I was hard -pressed to figure out where to begin the search for some of these things.
Doesn't this sound like fun! This is truly a way to fully engage the mind. Yes, it is a sick, twisted, bizarre, mind, but they need exercise too! I would love to have had an educational experience where this was part of the curriculum. How much is learned from such an adventure? OK, some of it may even be useful information! I admire an institution of higher learning that takes pride in such antics rather than trying to hide them.
This time next year, Brooke will be taking part in her first Scav Hunt. What a thing to have to look forward to. As for me, I get to look forward to paying her tuition! Oh well, hopefully it will be a good investment. Where else can I find someone who can get me a tooth fairy carved from a tooth or a chainsaw carving of a chainsaw? The stock market has nothing on the return I will get from my investment in this kid's education!
What is the UC Scav Hunt you ask. It is the reason that Brooke is going to Chicago. (During our visit to campus they said in passing that the vegan team had won the hunt a few years previous. That was enough to sell her.) Seriously, the Scav Hunt is probably the most famous UC tradition - it has its own Wikipedia entry. This is not your average scavenger hunt. It is a list of about 300 things compiled by a group of people with some brilliant but very sick minds!
This year's list includes things such as the worst hair on campus, the most disgusting ice cream flavor on earth, proof of your (or some team member's) royal heritage, a prosthetic limb that goes beyond the call of duty, and "Carhenge". These are the easy things. No discipline or hobby is left untouched. This is true for those of us who are fiber artists. We are charged with hyperbolic crocheting and spinning a yarn. To view a complete copy of this year's list and the rules look here. I was hard -pressed to figure out where to begin the search for some of these things.
Doesn't this sound like fun! This is truly a way to fully engage the mind. Yes, it is a sick, twisted, bizarre, mind, but they need exercise too! I would love to have had an educational experience where this was part of the curriculum. How much is learned from such an adventure? OK, some of it may even be useful information! I admire an institution of higher learning that takes pride in such antics rather than trying to hide them.
This time next year, Brooke will be taking part in her first Scav Hunt. What a thing to have to look forward to. As for me, I get to look forward to paying her tuition! Oh well, hopefully it will be a good investment. Where else can I find someone who can get me a tooth fairy carved from a tooth or a chainsaw carving of a chainsaw? The stock market has nothing on the return I will get from my investment in this kid's education!
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Reality Check
I am one of those people that has no trouble separating fact from fiction. I don't watch super hero movies and think that I could be one, I don't watch CSI and think "I could so do that and not get caught!", and I don't read romance novels and believe that crap really happens. I am a realist. I am.
Today this conviction of mine was shaken. I am the prop mistress for the Denton Community Theatre's production of The Laramie Project, the story of the violent murder of Matthew Shepherd, a gay student in Laramie, Wyoming - a horrific true story. Though I am overly busy right now, I really wanted to work on this show. I can't articulate why. I just did.
Props for this show are relatively uninvolved - some notebooks and tape recorders for the reporters, a few beer bottles, a telephone, some stage cigarettes. Most of these things are easy to come by. The only things that I had to make were signs that are carried during a scene where a conservative preacher stages a protest during the funeral of the murdered Matthew Shepherd. This scene illustrates just how much hate there is in this world. Remember, this is a true story. The scenes are conversations and events that actually happened and the sentiments on the protest signs were carried in a public display. They read, "DEATH TO GAYS", "AIDS CURES FAGS", "MATTHEW IS IN HELL", "GOD HATES GAYS". I had to make these signs - constantly reminding myself that they are only props.
I guess the notion of creating something, whether it be drawing a picture, writing a poem, or making a prop, is sacred to me. I honestly believe that a spark of the divine is emitted from us each time we create something. I was having a hard time reconciling this belief while making these signs.
I wrote out each phrase so that I could count the number of each alphabet letter that I needed. I must confess that I used purchased stick-on letters so at least I did not have to write and color these words. That was little consolation. In to Michael's I go clutching my list of phrases and the accompanying tally of needed letters. All I could think of was, 'What if someone sees what I have written on this page!" I bought my 6" letters, in black, red and white, and some red, black, yellow, and blue foam core board and headed back to the theatre. I had put this chore of as long as I could. It was now time to make the signs. The show opens next week and the actors would love to have all of their props!
Erin and our favorite queen, Gerald, helped me make the signs. The fact that a gay friend was helping me made this whole experience even weirder. How did he feel knowing that these sentiments were being fired at him? We carefully placed the letters on each board. On the sign that said MATTHEW IS IN HELL, we painted the fires of hell all around the word hell. It is awful looking.
I don't understand how people can live with so much hate inside them. I understand dislike, fear, even disapproval, but not hate. I will probably never be able to comprehend such a deep seeded disdain for another human being. I guess an attempt at fostering understanding is the purpose of the show. It asks us all to look at how we feel about and treat our fellow man. Because we are all human. we all have certain people "for whom we do not have a fondness." It may not be gays and lesbians, but face it, there is somebody. As the song in Avenue Q says, "everyone is a little bit racist." The key here may be in the words "a little bit." A little bit I don't think translates to hate. And, it sure doesn't mean that you murder someone and leave them to die tied to a fence, alone.
The fact that I have had such a visceral reaction to making these props probably mean that the members of the Techtonic Theatre Group were successful in their mission for creating this show. They have made me, and hopefully everyone who has seen and will see The Laramie Project, stare in to the eyes of hate. It is heart wrenching experience.
The redemption in all of this is that I have one last prop to make - a three foot parade banner that is to read, ERASE HATE. Ah, I am grateful that there are two sides to everything. And in this case, both sides are visible. So, tomorrow I will make this banner. And tomorrow, the protest signs will be used on stage for the first time. I am not sure how I will feel the first (or the second, or the third . . . .time) I see them under the lights. I guess that I will live in the hope that because physically the ERASE HATE banner is bigger than the hate posters, so too will its message be bigger.
Oh to live in a world where hate, all hate, was erased. Just think how big that metaphoric pink pearl eraser would have to be! We can all make a start with the little eraser at the end of our Ticonderogas. Each small erasure will help to remove unwanted marks on our world.
Today this conviction of mine was shaken. I am the prop mistress for the Denton Community Theatre's production of The Laramie Project, the story of the violent murder of Matthew Shepherd, a gay student in Laramie, Wyoming - a horrific true story. Though I am overly busy right now, I really wanted to work on this show. I can't articulate why. I just did.
Props for this show are relatively uninvolved - some notebooks and tape recorders for the reporters, a few beer bottles, a telephone, some stage cigarettes. Most of these things are easy to come by. The only things that I had to make were signs that are carried during a scene where a conservative preacher stages a protest during the funeral of the murdered Matthew Shepherd. This scene illustrates just how much hate there is in this world. Remember, this is a true story. The scenes are conversations and events that actually happened and the sentiments on the protest signs were carried in a public display. They read, "DEATH TO GAYS", "AIDS CURES FAGS", "MATTHEW IS IN HELL", "GOD HATES GAYS". I had to make these signs - constantly reminding myself that they are only props.
I guess the notion of creating something, whether it be drawing a picture, writing a poem, or making a prop, is sacred to me. I honestly believe that a spark of the divine is emitted from us each time we create something. I was having a hard time reconciling this belief while making these signs.
I wrote out each phrase so that I could count the number of each alphabet letter that I needed. I must confess that I used purchased stick-on letters so at least I did not have to write and color these words. That was little consolation. In to Michael's I go clutching my list of phrases and the accompanying tally of needed letters. All I could think of was, 'What if someone sees what I have written on this page!" I bought my 6" letters, in black, red and white, and some red, black, yellow, and blue foam core board and headed back to the theatre. I had put this chore of as long as I could. It was now time to make the signs. The show opens next week and the actors would love to have all of their props!
Erin and our favorite queen, Gerald, helped me make the signs. The fact that a gay friend was helping me made this whole experience even weirder. How did he feel knowing that these sentiments were being fired at him? We carefully placed the letters on each board. On the sign that said MATTHEW IS IN HELL, we painted the fires of hell all around the word hell. It is awful looking.
I don't understand how people can live with so much hate inside them. I understand dislike, fear, even disapproval, but not hate. I will probably never be able to comprehend such a deep seeded disdain for another human being. I guess an attempt at fostering understanding is the purpose of the show. It asks us all to look at how we feel about and treat our fellow man. Because we are all human. we all have certain people "for whom we do not have a fondness." It may not be gays and lesbians, but face it, there is somebody. As the song in Avenue Q says, "everyone is a little bit racist." The key here may be in the words "a little bit." A little bit I don't think translates to hate. And, it sure doesn't mean that you murder someone and leave them to die tied to a fence, alone.
The fact that I have had such a visceral reaction to making these props probably mean that the members of the Techtonic Theatre Group were successful in their mission for creating this show. They have made me, and hopefully everyone who has seen and will see The Laramie Project, stare in to the eyes of hate. It is heart wrenching experience.
The redemption in all of this is that I have one last prop to make - a three foot parade banner that is to read, ERASE HATE. Ah, I am grateful that there are two sides to everything. And in this case, both sides are visible. So, tomorrow I will make this banner. And tomorrow, the protest signs will be used on stage for the first time. I am not sure how I will feel the first (or the second, or the third . . . .time) I see them under the lights. I guess that I will live in the hope that because physically the ERASE HATE banner is bigger than the hate posters, so too will its message be bigger.
Oh to live in a world where hate, all hate, was erased. Just think how big that metaphoric pink pearl eraser would have to be! We can all make a start with the little eraser at the end of our Ticonderogas. Each small erasure will help to remove unwanted marks on our world.
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
Make A Wish
This picture was taken by Erin this afternoon - using my camera. It is always a pleasant surprise to sit down at my computer and see what pictures she has left for me. I think we have a pretty good deal - I share my camera and she shares her eye on the world.
May all of today's wishes come true for you!
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
The Rose
I can see desire in your eyes-
For a white rose
With its unfurled petals
Gently reaching for you.
This flower's fragrance
Is a wandering agent of seduction
And its stem
Thrusts life toward you.
Your hand reaches,
Not with grace, but desperation,
As if you fear it will soon disappear.
Your fingers blindly dance around its thorns
Pulling the bloom close to you.
Suddenly ecstasy fades and disappointment rages.
The blossom is not really white, not pure,
But yellow and imperfect.
Your heart sinks. How can this be?
Fantasy is pruned by reality.
No longer do you find life in its stem,
Beauty in its petals,
Safety in its wholeness.
Your warm breath of passion
Has turned to a cold wind of death.
The rose withers and dies,
But only in your mind.
KME
For a white rose
With its unfurled petals
Gently reaching for you.
This flower's fragrance
Is a wandering agent of seduction
And its stem
Thrusts life toward you.
Your hand reaches,
Not with grace, but desperation,
As if you fear it will soon disappear.
Your fingers blindly dance around its thorns
Pulling the bloom close to you.
Suddenly ecstasy fades and disappointment rages.
The blossom is not really white, not pure,
But yellow and imperfect.
Your heart sinks. How can this be?
Fantasy is pruned by reality.
No longer do you find life in its stem,
Beauty in its petals,
Safety in its wholeness.
Your warm breath of passion
Has turned to a cold wind of death.
The rose withers and dies,
But only in your mind.
KME
Monday, May 7, 2007
What Do You Remember?
This is the last week of school. Because I teach sophomores at the junior college level, most of them have applied to four year colleges and will move on at the end of this week. Music theory is a core course for all music majors. The skills and information that I have given them will be the backbone of all of their upper level courses. As I grade final exams, panic sometimes overcomes me. Did I teach them all that they need to know? Will they remember what we did long enough to pass a placement test in another school? Did we cover the "right" pieces? Will they thank me or curse me a few years down the road? Who knows?
Sometimes I wonder for what I will be remembered. What will my students remember about me? What will my kids remember about me? What will my friends remember? There are those who want finite answers to these questions so they write their own memoirs. Though they may be interesting, are personal memoir and autobiographies really the most accurate representations of ourselves? Wouldn't it be nice if we could all leave an autobiography. Only those things we want to be remembered would be included. We would have the freedom to "edit" our stories, even fictionalize our lives. Maybe something along the lines of an historical novel.
Most of us will not leave behind a great work of art, or literature, or music. Nothing that will forever have our name on it. Maybe there will be photographs-unless you are like me and are always the one behind the camera. I am willing to bet that the photographer, in the majority of cases, is not remembered by the photos he takes. Only the subjects on the printed page are preserved.
Maybe I will live on in something I have knit - an afghan, a sweater, a stuffed animal. Although, the thrift stores are laden with such handmade items. Stacks and stacks of knitted and crocheted baby blankets. It is obvious to me that these were hand-made. As they wait to be bought for a dollar or two, another person is forgotten. The mother, or aunt, or grandmother who lovingly made these blankets no longer has a name or a face. The new owner can only wonder, at best, who stitched the work and for whom it might have been made.
Just as I believe that autobiography may lead to unauthentic memories, so can living our lives trying to force who we are and for what we will be remembered. If every moment of our life is spent trying to "make a mark" through which we will reign eternal, rather than living the life to which we are truly called, we are again met with a false picture of who we are. Why are so many of us afraid to be who we really are? Whose judgement do we fear?
As I ponder these questions for myself, I come to the realization that I would be happy if I were remembered for nothing other than being one who lived truthfully, authentically, simply - where what you see is truly what you get. Can I do this? I don't know. I guess that trying honestly may be as close as I can come.
Sometimes I wonder for what I will be remembered. What will my students remember about me? What will my kids remember about me? What will my friends remember? There are those who want finite answers to these questions so they write their own memoirs. Though they may be interesting, are personal memoir and autobiographies really the most accurate representations of ourselves? Wouldn't it be nice if we could all leave an autobiography. Only those things we want to be remembered would be included. We would have the freedom to "edit" our stories, even fictionalize our lives. Maybe something along the lines of an historical novel.
Most of us will not leave behind a great work of art, or literature, or music. Nothing that will forever have our name on it. Maybe there will be photographs-unless you are like me and are always the one behind the camera. I am willing to bet that the photographer, in the majority of cases, is not remembered by the photos he takes. Only the subjects on the printed page are preserved.
Maybe I will live on in something I have knit - an afghan, a sweater, a stuffed animal. Although, the thrift stores are laden with such handmade items. Stacks and stacks of knitted and crocheted baby blankets. It is obvious to me that these were hand-made. As they wait to be bought for a dollar or two, another person is forgotten. The mother, or aunt, or grandmother who lovingly made these blankets no longer has a name or a face. The new owner can only wonder, at best, who stitched the work and for whom it might have been made.
Just as I believe that autobiography may lead to unauthentic memories, so can living our lives trying to force who we are and for what we will be remembered. If every moment of our life is spent trying to "make a mark" through which we will reign eternal, rather than living the life to which we are truly called, we are again met with a false picture of who we are. Why are so many of us afraid to be who we really are? Whose judgement do we fear?
As I ponder these questions for myself, I come to the realization that I would be happy if I were remembered for nothing other than being one who lived truthfully, authentically, simply - where what you see is truly what you get. Can I do this? I don't know. I guess that trying honestly may be as close as I can come.
Friday, May 4, 2007
If The Shoe Fits . . .
Details are peculiar things; and, my relationship with them goes far beyond the peculiar. Details can be defined as an individual part of an item, particulars considered individually and in relation to a whole, and as a minor or inconsequential item or aspect. People who are detail oriented, which I am sometimes and only with regard to some things, are considered anal, obsessive-compulsive, perfectionists, and all-together pains in the ass. Yep, if the shoe fits . . .
Seriously, sometimes details are important and sometimes they are not. If you are making cookies and you miss one little detail like the baking soda, it is a big deal. If, on the other hand, the recipe calls for walnuts and you use pecans, probably not a big deal. If Friday is laundry day and you wait until Saturday to finish it, probably not a big deal- unless you have to wear red underwear under white pants or, no underwear at all. Then, the details surrounding laundry day are important.
Today has been a day of details for me. I have been finishing the last bit of editing on this issue of Spirit of Knitting. This is the kind of day where my penchant for being anal, obsessive, a perfectionist, and a pain in the ass definitely has its pluses. In SOK it is most important that all the pattern instructions be clear and correct. (I would prefer to say perfect, but I will settle for correct.) We don't want letters from readers that say, "Why does my sweater only have one sleeve? " Oh, did we leave out the part that says, Make 2? Sorry! Or," I tried to make that felted purse but for some reason it did not work with my Red Heart yarn!" Wool, did we forget to mention wool? You see, details are important here.
Then there are cases where I am not so sure that the details matter one iota. Yesterday Erin came home from school saying that one of the teachers who is a mover and shaker with the high school graduation exercises is terrified that Brooke is going to wear hi-top converse tennis shoes with her cap and gown to graduation. The horror! She probably will - unless someone tells her this is not acceptable. If the seniors are given a specific dress code, she will follow the rules; if left to her own devices, she will wear the red and black hi-tops with "veritas" embroidered down the back. Maybe they think that is a dirty word.
Their concern arises from the fact that she is graduating in the top twelve in her class and will have to sit on stage during the commencement exercises. As far as I know, she is number three and will not have to give a speech. (she has worked very hard not to graduate as valedictorian or salutatorian for this very reason.) But, she (and her feet) will be visible to everybody present. I am fairly convinced that footwear is not the true indicator of one's talents and abilities. Okay, maybe those people, women or men, who wear six inch stilettos are stupid! But Converse? Come on! I am fairly sure that she wore those hi-tops when she took her SAT's and scored a perfect score, when she went to class and earned her ranking in the top twelve, when she took the PSAT and scored well enough to be named a National Merit Scholar, and when she wrote her admissions essay to the University of Chicago. They seemed to have served her well in each of these instances. I don't think that wearing converse to commencement will deem her unfit to graduate. If shoes are the most significant attribute that teachers can see in their students, it becomes obvious why our education system is in so much trouble.
The thing that makes this all so funny to me is that the school does not seem to pay attention to some important details - like the correct spelling of students' names. She received several awards, with accompanying certificates, at the academic banquet earlier this week. Her name (Elliott with one "t" instead of two) was spelled incorrectly in every case. You would think after four years they could get her name right. I am sure that it will be misspelled in the graduation program and on her diploma. I guess that is OK. I picked up her graduation announcements with their calling cards and they too had her name wrong. In this case, I filled out the original order form and know that her name was spelled properly. The error can not even be blamed on illegible teen-aged penmanship.
I do believe that spelling one's name correctly is a more important detail than what shoes a person wears. Perhaps I will wear my black hi-top converse with "Peace"written all over them in different languages to graduation. Brooke gave them to me for my birthday last year. Or, maybe my lavender ones would go better with my outfit . . .
Seriously, sometimes details are important and sometimes they are not. If you are making cookies and you miss one little detail like the baking soda, it is a big deal. If, on the other hand, the recipe calls for walnuts and you use pecans, probably not a big deal. If Friday is laundry day and you wait until Saturday to finish it, probably not a big deal- unless you have to wear red underwear under white pants or, no underwear at all. Then, the details surrounding laundry day are important.
Today has been a day of details for me. I have been finishing the last bit of editing on this issue of Spirit of Knitting. This is the kind of day where my penchant for being anal, obsessive, a perfectionist, and a pain in the ass definitely has its pluses. In SOK it is most important that all the pattern instructions be clear and correct. (I would prefer to say perfect, but I will settle for correct.) We don't want letters from readers that say, "Why does my sweater only have one sleeve? " Oh, did we leave out the part that says, Make 2? Sorry! Or," I tried to make that felted purse but for some reason it did not work with my Red Heart yarn!" Wool, did we forget to mention wool? You see, details are important here.
Then there are cases where I am not so sure that the details matter one iota. Yesterday Erin came home from school saying that one of the teachers who is a mover and shaker with the high school graduation exercises is terrified that Brooke is going to wear hi-top converse tennis shoes with her cap and gown to graduation. The horror! She probably will - unless someone tells her this is not acceptable. If the seniors are given a specific dress code, she will follow the rules; if left to her own devices, she will wear the red and black hi-tops with "veritas" embroidered down the back. Maybe they think that is a dirty word.
Their concern arises from the fact that she is graduating in the top twelve in her class and will have to sit on stage during the commencement exercises. As far as I know, she is number three and will not have to give a speech. (she has worked very hard not to graduate as valedictorian or salutatorian for this very reason.) But, she (and her feet) will be visible to everybody present. I am fairly convinced that footwear is not the true indicator of one's talents and abilities. Okay, maybe those people, women or men, who wear six inch stilettos are stupid! But Converse? Come on! I am fairly sure that she wore those hi-tops when she took her SAT's and scored a perfect score, when she went to class and earned her ranking in the top twelve, when she took the PSAT and scored well enough to be named a National Merit Scholar, and when she wrote her admissions essay to the University of Chicago. They seemed to have served her well in each of these instances. I don't think that wearing converse to commencement will deem her unfit to graduate. If shoes are the most significant attribute that teachers can see in their students, it becomes obvious why our education system is in so much trouble.
The thing that makes this all so funny to me is that the school does not seem to pay attention to some important details - like the correct spelling of students' names. She received several awards, with accompanying certificates, at the academic banquet earlier this week. Her name (Elliott with one "t" instead of two) was spelled incorrectly in every case. You would think after four years they could get her name right. I am sure that it will be misspelled in the graduation program and on her diploma. I guess that is OK. I picked up her graduation announcements with their calling cards and they too had her name wrong. In this case, I filled out the original order form and know that her name was spelled properly. The error can not even be blamed on illegible teen-aged penmanship.
I do believe that spelling one's name correctly is a more important detail than what shoes a person wears. Perhaps I will wear my black hi-top converse with "Peace"written all over them in different languages to graduation. Brooke gave them to me for my birthday last year. Or, maybe my lavender ones would go better with my outfit . . .
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