Past tense

In which we see Ms. Bradstreet try to digest an unexpected flavor

The Maria Chronicles, #33

Maria looks with regret at the substantial remainder of the fried ice cream on her plate. She's not sorry she ordered it -- any dietary resolutions will not kick in until after the new year -- only that after the black bean soup and the excellent fajitas (not to mention the pair of margaritas), she simply has no more room in her stomach. Who knew there was good Mexican food to be found in Dobbs Ferry. The best part will be the short trip home.

It's been a pleasant evening. Besides filling each other in on their respective childhoods and marriages (Jack, she's learned, has a daughter in Washington and a brother in Oregon; she's explained that her parents met in Texas when her father was stationed in Fort Hood), they've had a substantial discussion about the the avowed purpose of this dinner, Ted and Nancy Sizer's The Students are Watching. Maria has never quite gotten her mind around the way the Sizers turn morality into a series of verbs: "modeling," "sorting, "bluffing," and her favorite, "shoving," the idea that prodding students to move outside their comfort zone can -- sometimes -- be the right thing to do. It's not that she rejects these ideas; quite the contrary. There's a strangeness to them that she finds alluring. It's hard for her to explain, and she never quite gets Jack to understand. But he listened attentively, and that was good.

"So you never told me about the origins of your career," Jack says after taking a sip of his coffee. "I mean you told me how you became a teacher, but not why you became one."

Maria takes a sip of her own. "Well, I could tell you, accurately, that pretending to be a teacher was one of my favorite activities as a child, because I wanted to be like my mother. It's funny that I somehow never pretended to be a newspaperman like my dad, given that I felt so much like him. Maybe it's because I wanted her approval. Anyway, after college, I just couldn't see myself going into corporate America like a lot of my friends did, among them my best friend Janice. It was a kind of like a process of elimination: the thing I had the least trouble imagining. The work I did at the Catholic school in Newton was fine, but no great revelation. When I got into the Ed school at Harvard, I felt like I had finally found my calling. It really boosted my confidence."

"Funny. Getting into Harvard, Harvard College I mean, really hurt my confidence. I went around feeling like a fraud for a long time."

"That's too bad."

"Well, maybe not. The flip side is that I tended to think a lot of other people there were frauds, too. It made me a bit jaded, but also less likely to be intimidated."

Maria is not sure what to say about that.

"The operative words there are 'less likely.' At my best, though, I have a healthy respect for authentically talented people."

"Are you at your best now?" She smiles at him.

"Are you telling me that you're authentically talented?"

"Jack Casey is that you?" A large, burly man has suddenly steps up from behind Jack. "You old devil! What are you doing here?"

"Hey, Mack," Jack says, and Maria catches the faintest whiff of distaste in his voice (or so she hopes). "Mack McDonaugh, this is Maria Bradstreet. Maria, this is Mack. We used to work together at Bear Stearns."

"Hey Maria," Mack extends his burly, albeit well-manicured, hand and looks at her briefly before focusing his gaze again on Jack. "So what the hell have you been doing with yourself lately? Did you give up the loft?"

"Yeah, I gave it up. I live out here now."

"No shit. I just came up here to meet an old college buddy of mine and was headed toward the bar when I saw you. So what are you doing these days?"

"Oh well, you know. A little of this and a little of that. Actually, I've been moving into high school teaching."

"High school teaching? No way! Are you shittin' me?"

"No, no. I really am. I mean, I don't know if I'll stick with it, but I'm giving it a try."

"Well now, I've heard everything. High school teaching. I surprised they let you near those kids." Mack chuckles at the thought. "But listen, have you heard from Ray Odierno since the collapse?"

"No, like I said, I've been laying pretty low."

"I imagine you have." He smiles conspiratorially. "Well listen: Just last week I was talking with Ray, who's now at Wachovia. He was telling me that they've totally overhauled the refi department down there and he says there are some tremendous opportunities. . . ."

Maria is initially repelled by this interruption, but suddenly finds she's grateful for it. "Jack, I'll be right back," she says, getting up and getting a nod of acknowledgment from him, even as Mack talks away. She sees a sign for "Senoras" behind her and makes a beeline for the bathroom, where she locks herself into a stall and pees. What the hell is she getting herself into? Even if she didn't have doubts about Jack in terms of his association with people like Mack -- which she does -- Maria was edging dangerously close toward flirting with the man ("are you at your best now?" Please.) Maria leaves the stall and washes her hands, splashing cold water on her face. She wishes there was somebody she could talk to now. She's tempted to call Jen Abruzzi, but as much as she likes her new colleague, she's not sure their friendship has reached this level of intimacy. Felicia would probably be weirded out by the thought of her mother on a date. Evan wouldn't, but could she really confide in him? Fuck it, she thinks and dials (clearly these margaritas have gone to her head). But Evan doesn't answer his phone. Thank God. She steps back from the sink and rests her head back on the cool bathroom tile. Slow down, Maria. Deep breaths. This is not a big deal. You've got your car; you're not trapped; you can play out the string. Get back out there.

Maria exits the bathroom and heads back to the table. When she does, she sees it's vacant, though it's clear that the bill has come and that Jack has paid it. She looks up and sees him holding her coat. Apparently Jack's beat her to beating a hasty exit. She'd be offended by his rudeness if she wasn't so eager to leave as well. As they head out the door, Maria sees Mack, who waves broadly to her and Jack.

"I'm sorry, Maria," Jack says when they're safely outside in the chilly but refreshing late December air. "But Mack has a way of taking over a room, and if we stayed I would have been chained to my chair recounting old war stories."

"Sure. I understand."

"So look, would you like to get a cappacino? There's a terrific Italian cafe down the street."

"No, I don't think so, Jack. It's been a really fun evening. But I think I need to get home now." Maria has decided a direct approach is best.

Jack purses his lip and nods, disappointed. "I understand. Well look, let me walk you to your car."

"No need. It's right here." Maria points to her Prius, only one car up the street. If Jack knows what's good for him, he won't hold her up. She looks up at him. "Jack, this has been a really nice evening. A very nice evening." Should she offer to help pay for dinner?

"Maria, I want you to know how much I appreciate this. These kinds of things are not easy. They're scary. Believe me, I know."

Yes, Maria thinks, that's good. "Well, I had a good time. Really."

"I hope that means we can do it again."

"I hope so too."

Silence.

"So look, will I see you at school after the break?"

"Yes. I think I'm subbing that first week back. A couple of precalculus classes."

"Great. So I'll see you then." Maria gets in her car. Jack stands there, a grim smile, as she starts it. I don't know, Jack Casey, she thinks as she makes a U-turn out of her parking space and heads home to her waiting apartment. I just don't know.

Western Air

Or why George Clooney is really John Wayne -- and why Up in the Air suggests a collective lack of political imagination

The locus of its settings may be American Airline terminals and Hilton hotels, but make no mistake: Up in the Air is a Western, and George Clooney is John Wayne (or, given his looks, maybe Alan Ladd in Shane). Like the quintessential Western hero, Clooney's Ryan Bingham is a loner who -- at the outset at least -- is content that way. Paradoxically, the very sense of mastery he exhibits as he enters a new environment marks him as an outsider. He's a hired gun for a private company that terminates employees on behalf of clients too timid to pull the trigger themselves: Bingham comes to town and fires at close range. And yet he's got an undeniable, if perverse, sense of charm. Indeed, like many a Western hero, we find ourselves rooting for him, even as we recognize that he is operating outside any conventional sense of law or even justice.

Naturally, there are complications. Some of those complications are female, and take the form of challenges to the hero's sense of moral order, an order which we may initially think he lacks but which becomes clear to us as the story proceeds. (Part of what makes this movie a modern western in the way in which the females act against, and are not simply subject to, that moral order -- and as such are potential villains as well as victims.) Bingham learns that his boss has hired a hot young maverick who wants the company to cut its travel budget and instead conduct firings by video from the company's home office in Omaha. Bingham makes compelling objections to this approach, which results in him reluctantly taking on the role as mentor for an upstart he regards with distaste. Which makes sense, since surrogate fathers are staples of Westerns.

I don't want to give away too much of the plot here except to say that in the broadest sense this is a movie that begins with a protagonist who chooses a life because it represents the fullest sense of freedom as he understands it (here connoted by the metaphor of the empty backpack) yet finds unexpectedly finds himself in that life out of a sense of necessity, and even duty. Bingham returns to his childhood home in northern Wisconsin -- one of the striking aspects of Up in the Air is that for all the screen time occupied by national franchises, it has a remarkably rooted sense of place in the Midwest -- and as it turns out, he has a redemptive role to play there. But as happy as he is go home, it's utterly evident that while he may be in that world, he's long since ceased to be of it. And can't be.

It's often the case that the movies that make the deepest impact on us are those that have an unexpected inevitability -- endings that we didn't see coming but which make perfect sense as we see them in retrospect. Up in the Air had that quality for me. But I found myself coming out of the movie disturbed by the surprising potency of the film's conservatism, something I didn't quite, but perhaps should have, expected from writer/director Jason Reitman, who preserved so much of the cheekiness of his source material in his film versions of Christopher Buckley's 1994 novel Thank You for Smoking (2005) and Diablo Cody's screenplay for Juno (2007). Like those movies, Up in the Air, based on Walter Kirn's 2002 novel, has a light comic touch, and a satiric stance toward those who who take abstractions of any kind too seriously. All of Reitman's movies show us protagonists whose libertarian instincts get reined in. But they all also betray a strong sense of skepticism about liberal solutions, whether government regulation (Thank You for Smoking) or abortion (Juno). Reitman's vision, while undeniably appealing in its earthy realism, also implicitly accepts, if not endorses, the status quo. Which is what most Westerns do. To put it more plainly: this is not a movie in which political solutions, collective action, or even seeing seeing the chief beneficiaries of others' misery get their comeuppance ever gets discussed, much less depicted.

It's not hard to see why: such an approach would strike most audiences as stilted, preachy, unrealistic. But if we really want to understand why it is that banks get bailed out and corporate executives get obscene bonuses while ordinary people lose their jobs and their homes, this movie points toward an answer. We seem to have a difficult time imagining a plausible alternative. As long as that's true, the only balm we're likely to get for our wounds is the illusion of George Clooney jetting into our lives to spend a few hours with us over the weekend before he takes off into the sunset.

Note: This blog post owes much to the durable influence of film scholar Robert Ray's "Thematic Paradigm," and his argument that many American films are in effect "disguised Westerns." See A Certain Tendency in the Hollywood Cinema, 1930-1980 (Princeton University Press, 1985).

Jim is observing Christmas. One of his favorite gifts that he received this year is June Skinner Sawyers's new coffee table book, Bruce Springsteen: Halfway to Heaven & Just a Mile Out of Hell. Besides an exceptionally rich array of photographs spanning Springsteen's entire career (from 22 different collections -- clearing them must have been an immense task), the book functions as a brief, elegant, and yet comprehensive biography of Springsteen from his earliest days through his Working on a Dream tour. Of particular note are the many sidebars, which contextualize Springsteen's career in terms of well-known literal and figurative landmarks as well as literary figures like Stephen Crane (another famous Asbury Park denizen) and John Steinbeck. Sawyers, author of Tougher than the Rest (2006), a collection of mini-essays on Springsteen songs, and Racing in the Street (2004), an anthology of writings on Springsteen, is a superb tour guide. Halfway to Heaven is a terrific keepsake the for the dedicated fan as well as a fine introduction for anyone wondering what the fuss is all about. Published by Metro Books under a licensing agreement with Barnes & Noble, you're more apt to get your hands on it there than anywhere else.

In this time of rest, reflection, and savored blessings, Jim would like to thank the many friends -- some personally known to him, some not -- from around the world who took the time to visit American History Now in 2009. This blog represents an ongoing experiment in a time of tremendous upheaval for all with a stake in the fate of the written word and its intensifying orientation toward, and evolution within, the World Wide Web. Thanks to all of you who stopped in to read about Felix, Maria, and other subjects, and thanks to the engineers at Google who made blogging an idiot-proof proposition. Whatever the future may hold for a corporation that has engendered anxieties from citizen and competitor alike, it only seems fair to express thanks to a company which has created immense new possibilities and empowered individuals for self-expression and communication.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night (and weekend).

--J.C.

A home for the holidays

In which wee see Ms. Bradstreet dozing in time

The Maria Chronicles, #32

Maria is dozing on the couch opposite the Christmas tree. She can hear the sink running; her daughter Felicia is washing the last dinner dishes. She can hear the football game her son is watching on the TV behind her, his socks sticking out over the ottoman, where he's perched. A bottle of wine from the case her friend Janice has sent her sits empty.

Maria feels more content than she has in memory, certainly since she moved to New York. The sense of depression that set down over her once the divorce decree became final was like a streak of dismal weather she couldn't shake off. That was Thanksgiving, which she spent alone. Felicia was always planning on coming for Christmas; with Evan you never know. Apparently things with his girlfriend are on the rocks. He came and he came alone. Maria is grateful that he suppressed his own sorrows. Once he saw that she lacked a tree, he and Felicia went to get one, trimming it in a somewhat improvised way. He made a nice dinner. They had talked about going to the movies, and they still might, but Maria is happy to just lie there.

She thinks about her students. There's Willie, telling a funny story over dinner. There's Kenny tinkering with a new piece of software. She imagines Peter texting with Ali. Vanessa no doubt is shopping online. Her school sits silent and empty. It has the last few days; it will for the next week.

Derek Clark. Where is Derek? She's not sure she's ever seen him smile. Maria would like to make him her project in the coming year.

Ten years ago her kids were teens, sleeping late on Christmas morning and scheming to see their friends. Twenty years ago they were up at the crack of dawn to see what Santa brought. They were a real family then. Ten years from now, God willing, she'll be a grandmother. Maria will be almost sixty. Retirement on the horizon.

She thinks of Jack Casey, surely with his daughter now. They'll be thinking about their lost wife and mother. Jack is clearly trying to move on. Maybe Maria should too. But right now, there's a joy in stillness.

She senses Felicia nearby. Through half-closed eyes she sees her pick up the empty wine bottle. "Should we open another one?" she asks her brother. "Nah," he replies. "I gotta drive back to the hotel. I guess Mom's too tired to go to the movie."

"No I'm not," Maria says through her eyes remain closed.

"Oh you're not, are you?" asks Evan, clearly amused.

"Let me just sit here for another minute," Maria says. Is this what happiness is, she wonders? "All right then," she says, opening them to see the apartment in pristine condition. "Let's go."

Watching students watch

In which we see Ms. Bradstreet do some serious reading

The Maria Chronicles, # 31

Maria is listening to Jack Casey -- the man who she until recently referred to in her own mind as "Cuff Man," for the way he wears his sleeves partly folded up -- over lunch at an otherwise unoccupied table in the cafeteria. Well, sort of listening, anyway. Jack has been pontificating over the course of the last few minutes, trying to explain the degree to which Ted Sizer, the man whose book they agreed to meet and discuss, might or might not be considered a realist. Maria is regretting that this conversation is happening, a conversation in full view of her students and colleagues, which she thought made it safe: this could not, in any meaningful sense, be considered a "date." Thank God they're not in some restaurant where Maria would feel pinned to her chair, pining for an excuse to hide in the women's room. She is troubled, however, to see her student Derek Clark staring at her from the crowded table in which he sits, curiously alone. This rattles her.

"Wouldn't you agree?" Jack is eyeing her curiously, seeking a reaction.

"Uh. Yes. I mean sorry. I got distracted there for a moment."

"Well that's a relief," he says, smiling.

"Excuse me?"

"Well, for a minute there, you were agreeing that tangerines make for excellent shovels. I realized I had lost you, and wanted to see how badly by posing a nonsensical question. I like Gertrude Stein."

Maria's face registers a reaction somewhere between confusion and disgust. How big a jerk is this guy?

Jack is laughing now. "Oh my God, that expression is priceless," he says. "Forgive me, Maria. This is not a joke at your expense. Actually, it's a joke at mine. I realized that I was talking at you -- a vice of mine, though one I usually hold in check -- and wanted to break out of the hole I dug myself into. I was trying too hard to impress you." He looks away, and then suddenly gazes right at her and Maria sees a tint of regret, maybe even defeat, in those grayish-blue eyes. "And I guess I've made an impression, all right." He tosses his napkin onto his tray. Lunch is over; she can escape to a discussion of the Compromise of 1850.

But it somehow seems too mean. Maria looks across the room again, and sees that Derek is still stealing a look at her, even as a boy now sitting next to him makes some remark that seems to call for a response. He knows what's happening. This somehow seems to embolden her in a weirdly defiant way. "The students are watching," she says aloud, more to herself than Jack.

"Watching what? What is it that they're seeing?"

"No, I mean the book. It's another Sizer book. One he wrote with his wife -- The Students Are Watching."

"I don't know that one," Jack says. "Is it good?"

"I really like it. I read it, I dunno, maybe ten years ago, but never unpacked it when I moved here." She looks back at him.

She can see he's got questions that he wisely decides not to ask. There's a shift. "Well, I'm game," he says, a bounce returning to his voice. "Should we read that one next?"

There's such charm in his hope that she can't bear to shoot him down. "All right," she says neutrally.

"Great!" A pause. "You know, I myself recently moved to Dobbs Ferry. Not exactly the upper west side, but we've got some terrific restaurants. You like Mexican food? There's a place I took my daughter to last week when she was in town that I really like."

Now it's Maria who has questions. No wedding ring. But that doesn't mean he isn't married.

"My wife died of ovarian cancer three years ago," Jack says. "That's why I left my job. Not right away -- I probably should have quit before she died, not after. But that's why I left -- just in the nick of time, as it turned out. Got lucky with that, anyway. It's why I'm here."

Derek is getting up to leave, carrying his tray toward the kitchen. He's not looking at her. Jesus, Maria thinks. Suddenly this is happening very quickly.

"Maybe we should just meet here for lunch," Jack is saying. "After the holiday break? You can let me know."

"I like Mexican food."

"Bueno!" He's beaming now. "Tell you what: How about you dig me up that copy of the book -- I'll be here again on Monday; you can leave it in the main office -- and I'll get you dinner. Next Sunday sound good? That weekend after Christmas?"

No; she'll get a new one, Maria thinks. She'll order it, express delivery, on Amazon after class, which she suddenly realizes starts in three minutes. "Sounds good. She points at the clock. Gotta run."

"Oh sure. Thanks, Maria. This was fun."

Maria's not sure she agrees. Hell, she's not sure of anything. Except the Compromise of 1850. Thank God for that.

A good year for the Boss

2009 caps a remarkably productive decade for Springsteen

One of the distinguishing characteristics of Bruce Springsteen's career is that he's always thought in terms of producing an extended body of work. Yet for for him, as for anyone whose career has been marked by a sense of longevity, he's had his peaks and valleys. Any summary of his work would note that he burst into public consciousness in 1975 by releasing Born to Run and appearing simultaneously on the covers of Time and Newsweek; he reached the pinnacle of his fame in 1984 with the release Born in the USA and his (unwelcome) invocation by Ronald Reagan in the presidential campaign of that year. Conversely, legal troubles with his manager impeded his career for much for the years following Born to Run; most observers believe his work of the early nineties (see Human Touch and Lucky Town, though I regard the latter as underrated) is relatively undistinguished. It's in this context I say that 2009 was a banner year in Springsteenland. If it doesn't represent a professional summit, the year was nevertheless a period of remarkable productivity and public esteem. Moreover, in a profession in which youth has always celebrated and premature endings are almost proverbial, Springsteen has demonstrated a capacity for creativity that affirms and inspires those who seek a rich and full life, even if they have not been blessed with the scope of his talents.

Springsteen's year began, as it did for so many of us, on a note of hope, with the election of Barack Obama. It took decades for Springsteen to move from a cautiously abstention from public issues to active involvement in contemporary politics; he made his first endorsement for president in 1984 by performing on behalf of John Kerry's ill-starred campaign. So it was all the more satisfying in 2008 to support a winner -- one who joked when he ran for president because it was the next best thing to being The Boss -- and that Obama returned Springsteen's esteem by having Springsteen play a prominent role at his inaugural celebration concert. He rendered a memorable version of "The Rising" (a signature song at Obama rallies) with a gospel choir, and used his musical platform to honor Pete Seeger, with whom he sang a rousing version of "This Land is Your Land."

Later than month, Springsteen released his fifteenth studio album of new material, Working on a Dream. No one would consider it Springsteen's best work -- I myself prefer Magic, released in late 2007 -- but the record is a testament to Springsteen's productivity and the capstone of a remarkable decade that saw the release of a live album (Live in New York City in 2000), a multi-volume greatest hits collection (The Essential Bruce Springsteen in 2003) and four studio albums (The Rising in 2002, Devils and Dust in 2005, Magic in 2007, and Working in 2009). The new album, more upbeat in tone than any Springsteen album in many years, featured a catchy title song, a reflective meditation on love and aging in "Kingdom of Days," and a surprise return to the almost-10 minute epics of Springsteen's early days in "Outlaw Pete," a rock & roll western. (See my blog post about it.) Given the perfectionism that almost derailed Born to Run in '75 and delayed many albums in the years since, Springsteen's willingness to disgorge (though surely not empty) his vaults represents a remarkable evolution in his working style in what might be termed his long Indian Summer.

In February, Springsteen and the E Street Band performed at the Super Bowl in Tampa for a 12-minute set that consisted of "Tenth Avenue Freezeout," "Born to Run," "Working on a Dream," and "Glory Days. "I want you to put the chicken fingers down and turn your television set all the way up!" he told the crowd. Given the enormity of audience and the brevity of time, a Super Bowl gig is more a form of cultural ratification for the acts that play than an opportunity to really ply their craft. But for Springsteen, whose work has always been rooted in a (large) sense of community, the honor, no less than the venue, was surely welcome.

In April, Springsteen and the band kicked off a seven-month tour to support Working on a Dream, merely months after the end of the Magic tour. These Working shows, which included farewell concerts at Giants stadium, were quickly followed by the 25th anniversary Rock & Roll Hall of Fame Concerts in late October.

In effect, the year ended where it began: with Barack Obama. Springsteen went to the White House as an honoree at the Kennedy Center, along with Robert DeNiro, Mel Brooks, Dave Brubeck, and Grace Bumbry. Musical tributes for this lifetime achievement award included included a John Mellencamp version of "Born in the USA," Melissa Etheridge performing "Born to Run," and Sting singing "The Rising." Famed violinist Itzhak Perlman, of all people, paid an insightful compliment to Springsteen: “He gives his audience what it wants, but he also lets them know what they want and helps teach them to want more,” Perlman said. The show will be broadcast by CBS on December 29.

While 2009 might have been a triumph in Springsteen's public life, there were indications of trouble in his personal life. In April he was named in a divorce suit, and was forced to make some relatively tight-lipped affirmations of his marriage -- not for the first time in recent years. (For more on this, and currents of infidelity in Springsteen and Patti Scailfa's music, see what was by far my most popular blog post.) For Springsteen no less than the rest of us, the gears of public and private life don't necessarily synchronize. There are times when that may be inevitable, and times when it may be a good thing.

On the whole, though, it appears that Springsteen has many blessings to count in 2009. "We worked really hard for our music to be part of American life and our fans' lives," he said at the Kennedy Center Honors ceremony. "So [the award is] an acknowledgment that you've kind of threaded your way into the culture in a certain way. It's satisfying."

Happy old year, Mr. Springsteen. And many happy returns.

Mexican menu

In which we see Ms. Bradstreet get a lesson in Yankee imperialism

The Maria Chronicles, # 30

Maria is lecturing on the Mexican War. Last week, she described the the rebellion of Texas, the "Oregon Question" and its resolution with Great Britain, and the class discussed John O'Sullivan's famous article "Manifest Destiny." Today she's outlined the outbreak of the war on the disputed Texas-Mexico border, the military campaigns (very little on this, not her favorite subject), and the occupation of Mexico City. She intends for the class to discuss an assigned excerpt from a Mexican textbook on the war, a neat little piece of curriculum she translated herself.

But first, a little detour (she's going to have to hurry to get those textbooks in). Though it's not really a major part of the ultimate resolution of the conflict, Maria has always been intrigued by the "All Mexico" movement, in which some politicians advocated absorbing the entire nation into the United States. What she's found interesting is the strong opposition to this idea, because it came from seemingly opposite sides: Northerners, especially those in New England, who opposed the war and were even more opposed to the seemingly inevitable expansion of slavery that would result; and some members of the plantation elite, like John Calhoun, who recoiled at absorbing large numbers of brown people into the nation. As she will soon explain, the Mexican War brought long-simmering sectional tensions into the open. But in this odd moment, abolitionists and racists found themselves on the same side. A good opportunity to illustrate the maxim that politics can make for strange bedfellows.

Peter raises his hand, and Maria acknowledges him. "I don't see why we just didn't take the whole thing. I mean we already occupied the country. Why give half of it back?"

Maria thought she had just answered exactly that question. But since Willie has raised her hand, perhaps she can do the job for her. "Because that isn't how we've done things," she says. "Mexico was already a big, developed country. It would be too hard for the Mexicans to adapt."

Not exactly how Maria would have put it, but all right. Unfortunately, there are now at least three sets of hands in the air. Reluctantly, she acknowledges Kenny.

"I disagree with Willie," he says. "America has always been a place where people adapt. I don't see why the Mexicans could not become successful Americans just like the immigrants did."

"Well, Kenny, you know Chicanos like to say: they didn't cross the border. The border crossed them."

"What's a Chicano?" Mia asks.

"A Mexican American." Maria's expecting this to somehow resolve the conversation, and she's just about to describe how Mexicans were deprived of their rights and property through subversion of the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, but hands persist. Vanessa's now seems even more urgent. Maria nods to her. "I agree with Willie," she says. "You gotta think about the cost. Would it really be worth it?"

"Yeah," Ali jumps in. "There would probably be resistance. Like Iraq or Afghanistan. The Mexicans might not accept American occupation. There would be guerrilla war."

This is a good point. But Maria is dismayed that Ali seems to be looking at this through the lens of the occupier.

The pretense of hands is now gone. Kenny: "I still think the Mexicans should get the chance. Look at California today. It's incredibly rich and powerful. Maybe the rest of the Mexico could have turned out that way." Now there's a chorus of cacophony.

What a group of little imperialists! The one quarter of Maria that is Mexican would like to give this gringos a verbal lashing. But she restrains herself. "Okay okay," she yells above the din, which quickly subsides. "You're raising some very good points. But let's a have a look at the reading now and discuss what the Mexicans themselves have said about the Mexican War. How would your characterize their view?"

All hands come down. Then the dutiful Willie raises hers. "Well, they viewed the whole thing as a naked power grab," she begin, going on to quote the textbook: "The acquisition is not going to erase the blot of iniquity which has been written into the pages of U.S. history."

These kids have no idea, she thinks to herself as Willie reads on. They still think the United States runs the world. They're in for a rude awakening. But that's not my job, thank God. That's a lesson they're going to learn down the road. Outside the classroom. She hopes to be long gone by then.