Still Learning

When we were in the U.S. last year, Tim stumbled on The Gospel in Life workbook with CD by Tim Keller. He bought every member of the team a workbook and announced that we were going to do this study together because it was fundamental to how we relate to ourselves, our work, and one another. I was not prepared for the view in the mirror. Keller talks about how we have particular idols in our lives, basic attitudes that show up when our idols are not fed. For example, one idol might be approval. I subtly think, "Life only has meaning/I only have worth if...I am loved and respected by ...." Or another one: "Life only has meaning/I only have worth if... I am highly productive and getting a lot done" (p. 43). That latter business gets at idolatry of work.

While Keller's definitions may seem extreme, I began to see that on days when I am not productive, and especially after three weeks of coughing and hacking and getting little to nothing done, I don't feel very good about me. In America, we pride ourselves on being busy. "How are you?" "Great, but really busy!" is the answer we heard over and over last year while back in the States, as though "busy" is to be commended because if I'm busy, I'm important. I'm doing good stuff--and often the people who told me how busy they were went on to list all the wonderful things they were doing. I got sick of hearing that word "busy," but gradually I realized I too was "really busy" and getting a lot of inward strokes from a full calendar. An idol, just like Keller says. Only I hadn't seen it quite that way before. And certainly not in me. After all, I was just "redeeming the time." Or was I?

And this past summer, when I felt a lack of respect from someone I considered a friend, I went to my balcony flower boxes (no garden here) and ate quite a few worms. When I sensed a lack of respect from someone for my husband, I realized that too was an idol. Not very pretty. As one of my teammates said, "We're pretty hard on the Israelites for making a golden calf and worshiping it. But we each have our own golden calves." I would add, I'm don't just have golden calves; I'm pretty busy polishing them until they shine brightly, not thinking of them as idols at all.

Talking about leaving Berlin has also made me take stock (excuse the pun). At first, Tim and I said, "We'll go anywhere! Do anything God wants us to do!" Well, not quite. As various things have cropped up, the "anything" gets more and more narrowed down. There are things about living and working in Berlin that I frankly just don't like the idea of giving up. Things like being in charge of my time, of living somewhere interesting and a bit exotic, of being respected and approved of because I'm doing something others seem to think is significant, of ... of ... of ...

Keller's subtitle is "Grace changes Everything." I'm only in chapter three. I've got a lot of looking in the mirror to go!

In Honor of Roger

I was 21 when the news came that my 62-year-old godly father had slipped into the presence of the Lord. Sitting quietly in the old Morris chair, his hand symbolically resting on the book Lord, Change Me, a butterfly pictured on the cover, the Lord gently called him home. My mother believes he must have briefly cried out when he saw Jesus, for she could not explain why, instead of waiting for Daddy to bring her morning coffee in bed, an established ritual designed to help her start the day civilly, she suddenly awoke and was compelled to go into the living room. There Daddy sat, still warm, at perfect peace.

I was not acquainted much with death. My grandfathers had died before I started puberty, the one I barely knew, the other precious to me, but other than summers, not a daily part of my life. So when Daddy died, my world came crashing in. A month before college graduation, God carried me through the days and weeks to come, and I became my mother’s companion. We spent ten months together, grieving together, my mother going on with speaking engagements valiantly. I went through a period of intense anger which I took out on Mother. Funny—I never saw her angry, and the memory of her love for me in those horrible months still brings fresh tears. My mother and father shared a study, and because my mother now had to take over Daddy’s tasks, she began sitting at his desk. It was strange to see my mother in his place, her place empty, and part of my anger was resentment that God took my very capable father, forcing my mother and me to limp along, doing what he had always done for us, paying bills, shoveling snow, servicing the car. My mother couldn’t be Mother and Daddy both, and weirdly, I had to forgive her this failing. Bringing in wood for our stove one day, I found it was easier to be angry with her than with God. When I blasted her with resentment over this task, she gently said, “Yes, darling, I miss him too.” I finally made the connection that grief made me unreasonable and impossible. She knew, and had long forgiven me. That moment, standing on the stairs, arms still full of wood shavings, my anger dissolved, and I was deeply grateful for her godliness and love that gave her wisdom even as she grieved.

People talk about the “firsts” in grief: the first birthday, the first Christmas, the first wedding, the first… One day I walked into Mother and Daddy’s empty study. My mother was out, and there was Daddy’s empty desk, just as he had always left it, his favorite red Parker pen lying on top of a piece of paper as if he had just left the room. I stood dumbstruck. That pen was a first, bringing back waves of memory of my father, sitting at his desk. I suddenly saw him turn his head slowly and look at me full in the face. “Yes, Sweetheart?” he asked quietly. I could feel myself come and put my arms around him, interrupting his train of thought for a brief kiss and a hug. Years later, reading his books, I realized that this was God’s grace in his life. An introvert, deep in thoughts of the wonder of God and seeking to order those thoughts on paper, he did not cherish interruptions. I never knew this. But the pen—the pen, yes,…the pen. A first. He was not there. He did not look at me; he did not embrace me. He would not embrace me again. I would not hear his voice, directed at me. I would not see that look in his eyes. I was not to know that the gift of a dream could bring that back, as though it had actually happened, and that 30 years later, I would still see that look, and that a hug from our German friend Heinz or my brother Rick would “feel” like Daddy.

My grief was put on hold when, eleven months after Daddy’s death, I boarded a plane for Japan. Life went on for my family. They finished grieving; they had many more “firsts.” Two years later, my mother even had a boyfriend, a dear friend of Daddy’s whose wife Julia had also died, and who hoped for my blessing on their renewed friendship. I gave it, gladly, although coming home, I felt grief crash in on me again. I was in love myself, marrying Tim, and where was Daddy?

I moved with my husband to Grand Rapids, where I began studying for my Master’s degree. I had waived and tested out of all of the English requirements in college, so to become an English teacher, I had to make up all of the literature requirements. I had hated poetry as a teenager, but now I found comfort in the words penned by authors I was just discovering. Emily Dickinson reached out over a hundred years, and embraced me:

Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labour, and my leisure too,
For his civility.

We passed the school where children played,
Their lessons scarcely done;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.

We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.

Since then 'tis centuries; but each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity.

My mother remarried and found comfort in being able to talk naturally about my father with her new husband, his friend. I visited her in her new home, and noticed the picture of Julia, framed on his dresser, the picture of the two of them framed in their living room. My mother found it too difficult initially to have a picture of my father on her dresser; she was glad, however, to have these memories of Julia around. I realized that love made room for another, but that loving another man or woman did not diminish the years of love my parents or Amos and Julia had shared. Mother and Amos’ love for one another and shared grief taught me by example. They took me out for lunch, and sitting there, Mother shared something about my father; I don’t remember what. I told her of my studies, and mentioned that I had come across a poem that had meant much to me Quietly, sitting across from Mother and Amos, I quoted Emily Dickinson:


The bustle in a house
The morning after death
Is solemnest of industries
Enacted upon earth.

The sweeping up the heart
And putting love away
We shall not want to use again
Until eternity.

A sharp intake of breath--my mother was caught off guard and I saw her tears. I remember Amos taking her hand, gently, looking first lovingly at mother and then at me, as I, too, wiped away unbidden and unexpected tears. He understood, and we all sat silently until the grief gradually subsided.

And so it is, the day after the memorial service of one of my dearest friends, that I lay in bed, unable to sleep, and praying. I thought again of how, one by one, Karen’s 60 odd family members must go back to their jobs, their lives. I thought back on these memories as I lay there alone, my own husband gone ahead of me to America. My memories are made real and poignant by my own grief for Roger. Death has kindly stopped for Roger. For a time, his family and dear friends all entered the carriage, but then, first the friends, then the family, and last of all, Karen got out, and the carriage went on, carrying Roger to Jesus, alone. They have celebrated his life, and now will come the firsts. I picture Karen, coming into the dining room and seeing Roger’s place on the couch—empty. I picture her finding a scrap of paper with some odd bit of a list, and holding it in her hand, hardly bearing to throw away this little bit of Roger. I picture her, sweeping up the pieces of her life with Roger, little by little, one by one, grieving. And over the miles, here in Berlin, I pray that God will comfort her and hold her dear. I pray for Roger’s children, who will have their own Parker pens, their own road of grief, their crises of faith when their mother cannot be mother and father both or when they miss him so deeply that their ache is gut-wrenching, and they have to take in that sharp breath of air, tears springing fresh in their eyes. I pray for Roger’s mother, as I picture her remembering how this son held her when her own husband died. And then I pray again for Karen, whose loss I can only begin to imagine, and I remember another poem that comforted me, and that I hope will comfort my dear friend and her family, as I grieve with them here in Berlin. John Donne writes, full of faith:

Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then?

One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

The Race

This morning I have just returned from Spain, where our organization has its annual conference. It is a time of refreshment, laughter with friends, and incredible teaching. The hotel was just a five minute walk from the beach, where I picked up shells and was filled with thankfulness for a time to be away from Berlin. We purposely left our computers behind, logging into the hotel computer only a couple of times to catch our three kids who were not with us. The computer ate euros like bee drinking nectar, so we kept the computer use to a minimum.

On Saturday, I logged into our dear friends' blog to see how Roger was doing. (http://rogerbclark.blogspot.com/) This morning, first thing, I logged in again. His daughter had also been sending emails, so I had scanned my email quickly to see if there were any new developments. The last I had heard was "a tumor on the spine--we can probably shoot that." This morning I logged in, and read, "it is hard to hear the death rattle."

For a moment, as I read the blog, I had a vision, suddenly, as clear as watching television. I am in a stadium, with a lone runner rounding the corner. The stands are filled, and many of us are lined up at the edge of the track, held back from the track because you never step onto a track when a race is on. I am standing with Roger's family and other dear friends.

We are yelling for the man Roger, his body racked with cancer, limping and dragging as he finishes the race. We yell and shout for him, "RUN, ROGER! RUN!" His eyes lock on the goal and he begins running harder, more upright. Suddenly, I see that I can see beyond the finish line. There is a second crowd, much bigger than ours, lining the track on the other side of the finish line. As Roger nears the finish, the shouts of that "great cloud of witnesses" become a roar--they rise to their feet, cheering and clapping, yelling "HOME, ROGER!" Their voices join ours, we hear them, and for a split second, we see them; we see Roger cross over into eternity--we hear how our voices fade, and we see that all Roger can see is Jesus. For a split second, we too see Jesus, not as in a glass darkly, but in the fullness of glory, as Roger sees him. The window closes, and we feel at once exhilarated, our voices hoarse from shouting, and then depleted. The race is over for Roger--we have seen a glimpse of what it is we are all one day called to do. Our brother has gone before us, and all pain and suffering melts away. He has crossed the finish line--he has run the race well, unencumbered, pure. And now his real life begins. How grateful I am to call Roger friend, to know that when I one day cross, Roger's voice will rise above the rest, yelling, "HOME! COME HOME! HOME TO JESUS!"

ACCOUNTING 101, Grade: NP (Not Passing)

I was teaching English in Japan at the time, but it could have been anywhere, really. It was the days before email, so my mother sent me a hurried letter: “Sweetheart, the bank called, and three of your checks bounced, so I’ve put an extra hundred in your account to cover the cost of the bounced checks and anything else you may have written. Please check your math!”

I never did find the error, which was lost somewhere in decimal points and accuracy, a quality of mine that is quite lacking. My husband sometimes complains that I exaggerate to make a story better. Well, I guess I had exaggerated in my accounting, and thought I had quite a bit more money in my account than was, in actual fact, there. Too bad.

Fortunately, living in Japan meant I rarely needed checks, and since my mother had covered my tracks, I was fine for the present. I arrived back home eventually with my messy checkbook in hand, and immediately hit upon the perfect solution. Open a new checking account, and let the old one die a natural death. Fortunately, the bank had some kind of system whereby a certain amount of savings meant no-fee checking (which gives you an idea of how long ago this took place), so I could let that old checking account lie fallow for a year. A year later, I decided that all checks would have been cashed, and so I went to the bank and closed the account, believing that their math had to be better than mine, and so whatever they said I had in the account would suffice.

Meanwhile, admitting this rash act to my appalled husband shortly after saying “I do,” resulted in one of the single best decisions of our married life. He would manage all the money. 25 years later, still banking in two countries and now filling out FAFSA, that system still works great for me. I’m not much of a big-time spender, so we have few discussions about money: “We have it.” “We don’t have it,” my husband tells me. I choose to believe him. The alternatives are too chilling.

This morning I was reading an article totally unrelated to banking when I suddenly had the thought: Jesus really is not much of a finance manager, either. I mean, usually, when we think of God, we picture some kind of huge ledger. The things I do for Jesus go on one side of the ledger, and all the things I fail to do, do poorly, or do wrong, go on the other side. It is as though God is some kind of cosmic accountant, working in the mysterious area of monthly bank fees (things like going to church, giving the clothes I hate or am too lazy to mend from my closet to the Goodwill, and reading my Bible or praying for the missionaries) and cancelled checks (being forgiven for losing my cool when my teenage son forgets to empty the dishwasher, grousing about my coworker, or playing Spider Solitaire when I should be praying more for the missionaries).

It hit me this morning that God really isn’t much like my husband, who, every month, pays all the bills, looks up exchange rates and submits insurance forms, and then figures out what the monthly wire from our US checking account needs to be for the next month. Then, after handing me a wad of cash for groceries, he cryptically informs me of how much of the month will be left at the end of the money. No, God is much more like me. He hates math. He’s a terrible accountant, but not because he can’t, but because he chooses to be. When He asked me if I would prefer to let Jesus pay my bills, handle my accounts, and make deposits to handle all my overdrawn failures, He cashed in my old bank account. He ripped it up and said, “No more checks here.” He gave me a fresh start and released me from that world of numbers and decimal points. He handed me a new checkbook, and said, “Write all the checks you want, Lyn. There’s always more money at the end of the month than you can use up.”

I’m released from the anxiety of measuring up, of having to know just what’s in my account, and of keeping track. I haven’t changed from that same 23 year-old that can’t keep accounts balanced. But the good news is: I don’t have to.

McWhat??!!

I have been quite busy, nursing a nasty cold, so I am just getting around to the final installment on my McBlog. I actually wrote this right before Thanksgiving, so you have to pardon the stale references to a holiday already in our dim past. T, chiming in from who-knows-where, thoughtfully sent around a link you won’t want to miss. It was all about our favorite restaurant and how it is expanding into new areas. Those of you planning a trip to Europe in the near future simply must see this video, and as Tiffany says, “note the colors of the hotel”:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FcD-Fn-LzU0

Please note also that I did not write this blog while logged into my tutoring shift. Instead, I spent my pre-Thanksgiving hours diligently working on some stock explanations I give to students, you know, for those students who think a strong comparison-contrast essay is on the merits of owning a computer as over against owning a dog. My computer-whiz son helped me figure out the wild world of bookmarks, not to be confused with scraps of old McD burger wrappings slid between the pages of Jane Austin, leaving a grease mark for all posterity. Incidentally, my son has both a computer AND a dog. I keep meaning to ask how he would compare the two . . .

But before we all break for Christmas, I do want T to know that I, for one, watched the U-Tube video. It was fabulous. Thanks so much! When I have the option of McHotel available to me, I cannot imagine why I would ever choose to stay in a tiny little Swiss hotel on a mountainside, disturbed by the feather pillow and comforter, annoyed by the tinkle of cow bells in the distance. Why have a view of the mountains from my open window when I can have the golden arches in my room? And why eat cheese fondue and chilled white wine when I can have a burger and a McCocktail? And all served in my room for which I’ve paid only $160. Wow. Maybe I’ll splurge and fork up (excuse the pun) the $1200 for a suite. At the very least, I’ve got to get myself a headboard like that somewhere. It is the ultimate in trends. While my husband was on a business trip to America, I truly contemplated surprising him with a redecorated bedroom as a surprise. I was so inspired by the McHotel, that I truly thought he would appreciate the colors. After all, pickle, ketchup, and mustard colors are pretty close to the black, red, and yellow of the German flag . . .

Again, thanks so much for the information, T. I’ll be sure to keep this option for hotel choices in mind when my husband and I plan the next vacation with our teenagers in Switzerland. As I said, I really hated the view of the Alps and the Swiss Flag flying over our tiny chalet.

On a related topic, this thread has gotten a little out of hand, but I hope it has provided some amusement for the rest of you and that you will forgive me for my German-influenced remarks. For you who are logged in at McD's, furiously working away using McInternet, or for my family, who may be scarfing down McD’s while giving telephone hotline advice about the merits of cabbage in reducing engorgement, that’s probably the closest thing you will ever get to an apology from me. Meanwhile, I was sharing this thread with my American friend Tammie. She recently got a letter from a little kid who had to research other countries. To make the research more personal, he sent a standard letter to anyone living overseas whose email address his parents had access to. [That last sentence, ending with a preposition, sounds like one for a sharp tutor.]

Apparently, we have McGeography in America. Here were the child’s earnest questions:

Do you ride a car or a donkey? (Nope, no donkeys in Berlin as mode of transportation. Might be a cool trend, however, with Christmas coming up.)

What different types of food do you eat? (Not a bad question. Keep it up, kid! Since “hamburgers” come from “Hamburg,” maybe that would be an appropriate answer?)

Do you speak another language? Which one? (Um, well, I wonder what Germans speak. Spanish?)

Do you have any pets? (No, I traded my dog in for a computer.)

And then, the final, ultimate question: Do you have McDonald’s near you? Is the food the same?

Ah, now we get to the heart of what every kid wants to know about a foreign country . . .

As a response, my friend Tammie plans to take pictures of all the McStuff here in Berlin. Apparently Mc is known for fast and cheap, so we have:

McPaper—office supplies on many corners of Berlin
McGeiz—“McGreedy,” the German equivalent of a five and dime or a dollar store
McBike—grab your wheels and go
McBett—sells beds
McDöner—sells a lamb/beef meat from a spit, served on a thick pita. Not to be confused with Erin’s McArabia from Dubai and the McTurco from Istanbul. (Recently there was a big scandal about Döner meat being seasoned rotten meat. Döner shops are everywhere in Germany because of the heavy Turkish population. The report warned that any Döner costing less than 2.50 Euros was suspect. I’ll ask Tammie to check how much the Döner is at McDöner, just to put your minds at rest.)

Then there is my personal favorite:

McFit—a no-frills fitness company that costs 13.95/month instead of the typical 49.95. I would love it if it went hand and hand with a McDiet—there has to be a faster, cheaper and tastier way of dropping the pounds I gained at McD’s last year in America than eliminating wine and chocolate . . .

Not a single one of these companies have anything to do with McDonald’s; they are just take-offs on the name. I believe in America, adding “Mc” and using the concept fast and cheap is now copyrighted, but no one seems to have caught up with that here!

Well, before I send this, I do need to grab the dog, who is once again not as good as my computer because she eats homework instead of helping you research it. I’ll head down to McPaper and maybe get a McDöner for dinner.

Happy McChristmas! Hope you all are having something other than McTurkey or McHam on that day!

McD’s, McDoof, McDo . . . part II

Apparently, I am not the only one who has strong feelings about McDoof, as I have previously affectionately called it in the vernacular, the German Vernacular, that is. For those who missed my previous very enlightening comments, McDoof is roughly “McStupid” in German.

Since writing my last post, G added his comments about how people in sunny Spain view McD’s. He remarks that “McD's is first and foremost seen as an affront to their strong and rich culinary heritage. The fact that it hails from the Great Satan doesn't help it much either, though. The general perception, then, is quite negative, but this doesn't stop McD's from doing business here. The pull on children is too strong for a lot of parents to fight, and I think many young Spanish couples are more than happy to have a dining experience while their children swing around on -- well, things that are meant to be swung around on, rather than chairs, legs (table and human), ceiling fans, etc. That said, my wife, now 35, grew up not being allowed to go to McDonald's; she was to stay clear away, as if they were pool halls on the wrong side of the tracks.”

I truly hope that G. has rectified the lapses in his poor wife’s upbringing.

A, from I’m not sure where, also wanted us to know that she had a scintillating essay submitted in response to an assignment which required the student to “write about a product and the way it shapes the minds of people.” Here’s what she reported to all of us: “The student's answer was that the cheeseburger, defined by Wikipedia as a hamburger that contains cheese, is so popular because it is affordable, has many variations, and tastes great."

A, if you are reading this post, I want you to know that when it is time to go around the table tomorrow at our Thanksgiving celebration, that I, for one, plan to thank this student and subsequently you for reporting his findings as to what a cheeseburger is. Wiki does it again! I really never could have figured that out. Personally, I hate cheeseburgers. Having lived in Holland, chief exporting country of excellent cheese, I believe that what I know to be cheese tastes very different from the yellow goup on a cheeseburger (which I now know absolutely and definitively to be cheese, thanks to your student). I believe the cheese on cheeseburgers is remarkably akin to plastic, adds extra fat to an already calorie-laden burger, and looks nasty.

I would love to add a fourth reason, if convention allows, which is that my three preschool and elementary school children's thrill of anticipation quickly turned to tears the first time their grandmother gave them a "cheese treat" on a visit to America. The "cheese" turned out to be the aforementioned product instead of good ole Gouda. They falsely assumed they had to eat it, since Mama's rule, passed down from grandmother, was applicable 99% of the time: "You don't have to like it, you just have to eat it." This turned out to be the 1% exception that proved the rule. After that, I reminded them before every subsequent visit to relatives that "cheese" in America was not what was commonly known as "cheese" in Holland.

Meanwhile, I don’t remember how I got to this link, but for what it is worth, this website reveals such startling information about world-wide cultural adaptation of McDonalds, such as the "Bulgoki burger" in Korea, McSpaghetti in the Philippines, and the McChutney burger in Pakistan.

http://wwff.wordpress.com/2007/05/18/royale-with-cheese/

In response to my comments about the McChutney burger, E. reported that her personal favorites are the “McArabia from Dubai and the McTurco from Istanbul. Out of sheer morbid curiosity, my intrepid husband tried both, and both turned out to be the exact same McUnitentifiable-"lamb"-patty on stale pita. Haute cuisine, indeed."

E reports further that she “is not partial to Americheese, either, but readily admits it's better than the Indonesian interpretation of cheese.” She’s also “disappointed that her computer's spell-check does not recognize "’Americheese,’ as an actual word." E, this is an issue I plan to take up with the student whose essay on computers being so much better than dogs certainly qualifies him to explain. Personally, my dog recognizes Americheese as an edible substance, even if I do not. I’ll let you know what the expert student says when he responds.

After all this hard work, I'm thirsty. Wonder if I can find one of those green tea flurries somewhere?

McDoof—as it is Unaffectionately Known in the Vernacular

When people ask me about my job here in Germany, I have a lot of fun clarifying what I do. I explain about how interesting it is to click and receive an essay that might be from a developing student who is weak in her writing skills, but hoping nonetheless to get the help she needs to succeed in college. She might be in a remedial class or attending community college. I explain how delightful it is to see students learn to be their own best critics.

Or, I might get a very talented student who is submitting a literary analysis. I have a few stock examples of essays I have received to illustrate the broad palate. My friends usually say, "Wow. What a great idea. I wish that were available in German."

I also have a few stories absolutely guaranteed to make Germans double over in laughter. As background, Germans have a culture of eating which I have rarely seen in the U.S. We go to a restaurant and the table is ours for the evening. The waiter or waitress only comes to bring the menu, take our order and bring our food. Then the server MIGHT appear later to take away the dishes, but he or she fully expects that you would like to sit and enjoy the person you came with, and not be constantly interrupted by “Can I get you something else?” and other such not-so-subtle hints that really communicate, “Order, or leave. I want your tip, I want to quickly clean your table, and then I want someone who tips even better to sit here.”

Here you are at the restaurant for several hours, so you are left pretty much alone unless you signal. There is no pressure to give up the table.

That said, MacDonald's is seen as the absolute last resort of food choices among just about every person I have ever met. It is primarily frequented in a shopping center or by youth. My generation calls it “McDoof,” which, roughly translated, is “McStupid.” When a MacDonald's opens near a school, the public outcry is great.

So when I tell about how I got a persuasive essay one day on “MacDonald's—My Dream Job,” my friends laugh heartily. The student cited the variety in the menu, the free food, and the fact that he gets to see the same customers every day. Apparently this student doesn’t get out much. Variety? I remember telling Timothy that if every single option turned up negative, well, he could possibly consider McDoof as a summer job…

One of the very pleasant aspects of my job as an Internet tutor is the listserv, if you don’t mind weeding through about 100 emails a day (Most are, “Can you substitute? Help!”). Having 500 colleagues who have never met, are all earning low wages and have few prospects of either of these things ever changing tends to produce honesty and, on occasion a good laugh. The threads on the listserv range from “Does anyone know the grammatical rule for …” to “What if the student’s paper is absolutely impossible?”

So when tutor M., writing from California, wrote about her student’s paper on McDonald’s, I couldn’t help but respond with the story I’ve just written. A., chiming in from Japan, told us that, “Here in Tokyo the restaurants are similar - little to no turnover in one evening - 7:30pm to midnight is average dining time. The McDonalds, however, is popular for its teriyaki burger and green-tea McFlurry. This is the country that produces students who think that Americans have no culture! Harumpf!"

M., who started this discussion on McDo quite inadvertently, told us her student was not to be persuaded that perhaps her logic wasn’t watertight. The student wrote on the merits of exporting McDonald’s to Malawi. Now I’m sure the Malawians are just waiting with baited breath for McDoof to get there (if it hasn’t already). After all, this student has great reasoning: “Having a McDonald's in Malawi would entice tourists to visit it because of their longing for U.S. food,” reported M. Her response? She commented, “I know that can happen while traveling, but somehow, I didn't think a longing for Mc Do (as the French call it) would fit the profile of tourists to Malawi.” The student’s other two reasons were equally incontrovertible: “McDonald’s is good for you because they have apples,” and “Little kids love it.” No comment.

This student essay ranks right up there with the student I whose essay I clicked on a couple of months ago. He submitted a compare and contrast essay on "Owning a computer is better than owning a dog." One of his reasons was that you can use the computer to help in your studies, but you have to take the dog for walks. Of course. I've never known a dog good for anything in education except eating homework. Brilliant.

I think I'll rename my dog "Compaq." She's whining to go out. Maybe we’ll take a tram and head over to McDoof. I’m having a Mac Attack.