Day 290: Use Your Words Martin Loother (sic)

I am bored of blogging about Berkeley, and the things that happen here. This is good, since I'm going to New Orleans tomorrow to (what else) write. I've never been to New Orleans, and do not remember my only foray into the state of Louisiana itself when I was five. But we went to lots of states I do not remember the year I was five, as my parents moved me to Michigan and back in our Volvo taking month-long scenic routes to look at national parks and things.

I guess I hadn't learned to read yet* on these car trips and so I listened to my Rainbow Brite tapes ("...a kaleidoscope of colors...") in the middle car seat in the back. I was big enough not to need a car seat, but I wanted to be a part of the experience and see out. Which might be dangerous as per car seat regulations. What also might be dangerous is telling your five year old that her imaginary sister Condoleeza (Condoleeza Rice was Stanford Provost then, not the Secretary of State yet) was living in the duffel bag on the roof of the car. Or telling your five your old that the plastic switch on the dashboard Uncle Gayne bought labeled Child Noise Control was a functioning tool to drown out her words.

Some parents say: "Use your words." Usually they are from Berkeley, actually. Not Lance and Barb, apparently.

Here is an example of what happens when small children do use their words. Perhaps it will convince you of silence for small ones. Again, this is courtesy of Little Tony. This particular essay in framed in our house. I have highlighted my favorite sentence. Perhaps one of his college professors can google him ("Tony Williams") and find this gem.

Dr. Martin Loother King, Jr.
by Tony Williams
Age 6

I lernd abot Martin Loother King at school.
I lernd lots and lots of things.
I know he did'nt wont violence.
I know he wontid to free the slavs.
The slavs had big fights.
Martin Loother King was famise.
A whit man kild him with a gun.
The whit man did'nt know love.
Everybody was sad but they folowd his rules.
They still lov him and he loves them.

The pictures today of are "my house" (Holly's House) in Mexico, where the upstairs kitchen drains onto the front porch. I miss Holly and Bo and Alison and everyone down there like hell. So, yeah.



*Although my grandmother believed I could read at the age of four, when I told her I could after memorizing a book about cows and some laundry line disaster.