We were little girls. Sisters flying down to Florida to visit our grandparents during winter recess. Winter recess was a week off from school in February, in between the December holiday break and Spring Break. I've never heard of anywhere else that has Winter Recess. We lived in New York, in a predominantly Jewish town. I don't recall getting two whole weeks off around Christmastime. I think it was a week for each of the three breaks. Anyway, I digress...
My sister and I were going to fly alone for the first time. I don't recall how old we were exactly, but I was definitely still in elementary school, which meant my sister couldn't have been too much older than that. We're only two and half years apart. Only one parent was allowed to walk us on the plane, so we said goodbye to Dad in the terminal and Mom walked us on the plane and to our seats. We weren't scared. Mom may have been, but we weren't. She kissed us goodbye and handed us each a small, white paper bag. We looked at each other and then at her, and we all smiled. We recognized those bags as treat bags from Lazar's, the local chocolate and candy shop in downtown Great Neck, where we lived.
Those treat bags are the earliest memory I have of how much my mom loves Valentine's Day. It's also how I remembered it was Winter Recess and not Spring Break. Winter Recess was in February. February meant Valentine's Day, and Valentine's Day meant heart-shaped treats from my mom. My mom loves hearts. Jen and I each unrolled the tops of the bags and peeked inside. No surprises, it was usually the same thing. But knowing didn't make it any less delightful. My sister had a bag of red foil-wrapped chocolate hearts, and my bag was filled with heart-shaped red hots. I always envied my sister's treat a little. I was highly allergic to chocolate as a child, and I couldn't even have the handmade chocolate from Lazar's. Nonetheless, I loved my red hots, and to this day I still love cinnamon candy.
We tucked our treat bags away, and mom reminded us to behave and give lots of hugs and kisses to our grandparents, and she walked off the plane. The flight attendants doted on us "unaccompanied minors." We were brought sodas and those old funny earphones that looked like stethoscopes. There would be a movie after take-off, and they would bring us kids' meals. Eastern Airlines was the carrier at the time. They were the official airline of Walt Disney World. When they brought us our meals, they were in large flat boxes, almost like shirt boxes. The front cover was a photograph of Mickey and friends at Disney World. Inside there was the food of choice. Hard to believe, but chicken fingers weren't really a thing yet. I'm pretty sure I always had a hot dog. None of the real food mattered because the treasure inside was the bright red, cherry lollipop in the shape of a Mickey Mouse head.
Flying was quite an event back then. Not like today's tiny narrow seats, one ounce pack of pretzels and a drink you rush to swig down before the flight attendant comes back for the trash. Even the two and a half hour flight from NY to Florida had meals and movies back then. And there were people who were nervous, same as those who get seasick on a cruise. But the atmosphere wasn't so somber and guarded. People weren't white knuckled and terrified to get on planes. I have to admit, I'm still not afraid. I might be more aware and in tuned. But I'm not afraid. I'm looking forward to heading out tomorrow on vacation. I'll be joining my sister at a stop over and we'll finish our flight together. I should've picked up some red hots, or tried to find some foil covered chocolate hearts. I'm not allergic anymore.
This is an actual photo from the Lazar's website. They're still in business!
My mom went to Israel last month. She had a wonderful time, as everyone who goes does. I can't wait to get there myself one day. She brought us back some thoughtful gifts. Things she hoped we'd like and we did- all of them. My husband likes his Maccabee Beer shirt, we all love the beautiful rug she purchased from the Druze community. She also brought my son and me, each a piece of jewelry. Both of the pieces are Judaica.
She bought Jacob a cool handcrafted leather necklace with a metal pendant. On one side it has י engraved in it, which is the Hebrew letter yud. Yud is the first letter in Jacob if you say it in Hebrew. On the other side there is a Star of David engraved in the metal. My mom said she got it in case Jacob wanted to wear the star side face down, because the Hebrew letter just looks like a design to anyone who doesn't know Hebrew.
She bought me a really pretty bracelet. It's a green woven bracelet with a gold disc in the middle. At first glance, the gold looks like it's formed into an abstract design. But if you look closer, and you know what you're looking at, it actually says שׁמע ישראל (shema Yisrael) which means Here O' Israel. These are the first two words of a section of the Torah that is part of the daily prayer in Judaism. It's known as "the Shema." If you are interested, you can read more about the Shema here. We both love our gifts, and I have worn mine several times already. Jacob has worn his too.
But I got to thinking. My mom had really good intentions in purchasing these gifts for us. They allow us to wear a piece of our heritage with us, and at the same time not have to feel like we're putting it out there on display. For that, she is thoughtful and practical. However, the fact she feels she needs to take this in consideration is a bit sad to me too. She worried her gifts would not be worn or maybe even liked, if by wearing them we had to publicly proclaim our Judaism, and that's a bit disheartening. She worries we'll be treated badly or that we wouldn't be proud of who we are.
I've written about my religion before, and it's just hard to explain. Being raised and/or identifying as a Jewish person is not just about G-d and the way we pray. It's about our family culture and our heritage. We should be able to celebrate that and be proud of it the way anyone else is about their heritage. My mom bought be the perfect gift. I can wear that close to me, and share it with those who are interested or who ask me about it. I have the choice to share it with people who feel safe to me, and to choose to just treat it as another piece of jewelry to anyone else. It will always be special to me because my mom brought it home to me from Israel. I will hold it dear to me every time i recite the shema the way my mom told me she did when she stood at the wailing wall.
It was only once.
That's what she said. It was only once.
I honestly couldn't believe it. That's what one of the girls at my school argued to me in defense of listening to Chris Brown. And I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Forget the whole Chris Brown thing, and whether or not you agree with fandom or consumerism in support of people you don't respect or share views with. This is not about the music.
It started as a lighthearted "calling to the carpet" of one of the girls by her counselor while waiting for the bus at dismissal. The student told her counselor she was allowed to listen to music on the computer during class (not true), and during dismissal her counselor heard a side conversation with a teacher that indicated otherwise. So she called the girl over and outed her. No biggie. This kind of stuff happens at our center all the time. Anyone who works with teens knows they try to get away with harmless things that make them happy, just because they want to. No one was saying she was in trouble, and there was even some giggling as she got called out. What surfaced in the interaction, was her counselor's mention of the music choice: Chris Brown uncut version, or original album. In other words, it was the explicit lyrics version which was notable to the counselor.
I might have been out of line, but I couldn't help myself because the mention of Chris Brown makes my skin crawl (so does the mention of R. Kelly or Mel Gibson, by the way). I turned to the student and those around her and said, You know he beats up on women, right? Of all issues to stand up against, when you work in an all girls school, it seems appropriate to point out those who mistreat women. It's important for us to denormalize what is portrayed as normal in entertainment and media. As if Brown was their brother or cousin or best friend, the girls jumped all over me! They started slut shaming Rihanna and defending Brown. I was pretty well shocked. Mind you, I don't know a lot of the details of their story. I am not a fan of hip hop music, and I don't follow entertainment "news," unless it's something that goes mainstream. But here are some of the things they said:
She gave him an STD. He only did it once. Maybe he's sorry for what he did. She cheated on him.
I was totally blown away. They sounded like abusers. They sounded like the men who defend beating on women. They blamed her. They are so conditioned by their surroundings and what they see on TV and the internet. I'm still in awe just thinking about it. I responded in the only level-headed way, and the counselor agreed with me. I don't know their story. I don't care what she did or what she said. I don't know anything about Rihanna or her role in the relationship. But there is nothing you could tell me she did or said that makes it okay for him to beat on her. There is no excuse, no reason for a man to ever be violent toward a woman.
I wanted my argument to be universal. It didn't matter whether it was Rihanna and Chris Brown, or their mom and dad, or their best friend and her boyfriend, or them. Violence against women and girls or anyoneis not okay. They continued to argue with me, to trash talk Rihanna, to defend Chris Brown. Finally, as the bus pulled up, I had to end it by saying this:
There is no situation you can give me that makes violence by a man toward a woman acceptable.
And they pouted and rolled their eyes. Then they got on the bus and went home, probably listening to Chris Brown on their headphones. We've got a lot of work to do, not just at PACE. Everywhere.
On our collaborative blog this month, my writing group members responded to this prompt about writing unsent letters. Of course the reason many unsent letters are unsent, is because we fear offending people, or we're not ready to be honest with people for whatever reason. As I brainstormed the exercise, there were several on my list which will remain unwritten, at least for the time being. One day perhaps, there will be a time and a venue for such letters. Until then, I wrote one on our group blog, and I had an idea for another. When I started this blog, I initially thought much of my writing would be about my son's last year in high school, and quite possibly his last year at home. I realized for a daily blog, that was a lot of pressure to produce. This letter though, is the type of writing I had envisioned...
Dear College Admissions Committee,
I write to you not just as a parent, but as a teacher too. My son, Jacob, is a senior in high school this year, and he is applying for admission to your University as well as three or four others. I submit this letter as an accompanying document to his application, because I know what you see in his "application package" is not even close to what you need to know about my son to consider him for admission.
At frist glance, you are going to see exceptional performance on state examinations. He has time and again scored in the 90th + percentile in most areas. You will also see above average ACT/SAT scores, though nothing in the National Merit Scholar range. His transcript will reveal advanced course selections and less than stellar grades. In fact, in some areas his grades will make you wonder what happened. When comparing these parts and pieces, you will likely conclude he's lazy. But I assure you this isn't really the case.
You see, my son just doesn't play school very well. He has a difficult time jumping through hoops to complete tasks he deems unmeaningful or unworthy of his time. Please don't mistake my explanation for my approval. But I've lived with him long enough to know, there is nothing much I can do as a parent to change this about him, no matter how hard I tried. As a teacher, it comes with a tremendous amount of guilt about my parenting and what I did or did not do to make my son a better student. The truth is though, he argues this: If I can achieve the highest scores I need to on these tests that measure whether I have met the expectations and requirements for my my grade and for graduation, why does the other stuff matter. As a parent I want to respond by telling him it matters if he wants to get into college. As a teacher, and a scholar in the area of curriculum, I think to myself, he's got a point. I know his attitude about this will change as he gets to college and sees that at the post secondary level that learning is more subjective. I want him to see that demonstrating learning and understanding isn't just black and white, and college professors understand this. My son is a learner. He is a self-driven real world learner, in the way the K-12 educators preach they want their students to be. Let me explain.
Jacob is in the Academy for Technology Excellence (ATE) at his high school, which just happens to be the first Microsoft Certified High School in the country. He earned a slew of industry certifications which you can read on his application. But that's not even the half of it. He reads extensively in trade periodicals and on social media sites. He watches videos and learns hands on by doing. He has built several computers, rebuilt handheld electronics, and is knowledgeable about various aspects of technology, from PCs and networking to audio-visual technology. When we talk as teachers about critical thinking skills and problem solving, this is the kind of behavior we're talking about. My son's car speaker wasn't working, so he took the door apart looked up how to fix it and figured out how to repair it on his own. One of the components of his computer isn't performing optimally, he takes it apart, reads about it, and trouble shoots it. He is self-directed and confident in his ability to work things out. He rarely calls Mom or Dad to bail him out of a challenging situation. He faces it head on, and that's what I think he'll do in college.
In addition to his drive and initiative in his field of interest, let me tell you a little bit about how unique my son is as a human being. He was a Cub Scout beginning in 2nd grade, and has been a Boy Scout since 5th grade. He has wilderness survival skills, tackles high adventure activities with little fear, and has learned to live by the characteristics included in the Boy Scout Oath. He is kind and polite, he is honest and trustworthy, and he is a caring and sensitive young man. He has served with his troop in service projects for his community, for Veterans, and for others in need. By the time you read this, he will likely have earned the highest rank of Eagle Scout. He is a four year varsity athlete on his high school swim team, and he volunteers at the local Humane Society. Of course, he is also in the Tiger Tech Club at his school. He is an extremely well-rounded young man.
Perhaps the most notable to me as his mother, is the way he conducts himself on a personal level. Though his grades might indicate otherwise, he has a strong work ethic. He has two jobs, not because our family is in need financially, but because he wants to earn his own money and learn to do different jobs. Socially, he spends time with a close knit group of friends talking tech, tinkering with computers, or playing games and he's very close with his extended family including grandparents, aunts and uncles. He interacts seamlessly with adults and children of all ages. He's just genuine, and seems to know no other way.
My son is growing into an exceptional human being. I know he will be a strong contributor to the workforce and the world of technology. His genius is endless. But he needs to learn the lessons that only college can provide. He needs to experience an interactive learning environment where a test isn't enough to show what you know. He needs to be in a place where his creativity and his savvy can fly. I know there will be tough lessons. I know he will find it all challenging. But I believe he is up for it, not just because I'm his mom, but because I am a teacher and I want there to be a place in the world for students like Jacob. I'd be willing to bet, his resilience and humble confidence will make him as, if not more successful than your straight A, top of the class admissions. He is a nonconformist who has learned to survive in a system unwelcoming to his kind. I know in college, he will be unleashed and unfettered, and his creative genius will fly.
Please give Jacob a chance. I am certain you will not regret it.
Life is a journey, not a destination. -Ralph Waldo Emerson
Life is a journey not a destination.
Life through the focused lens
is tightened on each detailed experience.
The frame holds now, right in front of you.
Journey along the undiscovered and unexpected,
not to an end, or a finish line, or the predictable.
The beauty is not knowing, allowing life to lead you to the
destination when you're ready.
Friday night is one of my favorite times of the week. I finally get to tie up a long workweek and come home and relax. It's a rule in my house, Mom does not cook on Friday nights. Occasionally, we'll go out to dinner, but mostly my husband and I stay home and order in pizza and watch a movie. This time of year, it's extra cozy because we often get an evening rainstorm. A few years back we went to streaming all of our TV and movies. Between Netflix, Apple TV, and Amazon Prime we usually have plenty of access for minimal cost. Tonight we watched Ted. Oy. I was skeptical from the beginning, but it got so popular and was widely talked about so we said what the heck. Actually, it was more my husband, but that's ok. Married people compromise, and I didn't have an alternative to suggest. Besides, the list of actors was good: Mila Kunis, Mark Wahlberg, Joel McHale, Giovanni Ribisi, Patrick Warburton. How bad could it be? Answer: Pretty bad.
I can't for the life of me figure out why people enjoyed this movie so much. There were a few cheap laughs, but it was so incredibly stupid! Add to that Seth McFarland's voice, which really was nothing other than Peter from Family Guy, and I checked out in the first half hour. I suppose I should have known. I do not enjoy Family Guy or any of the shows like it, and Seth McFarland created this movie. This movie was an embarrassment to these actors and I find it hard to believe they all agreed to be in it. The best jokes were borrowed from other movies like Airplane! and Flash Gordon.
Joel McHale, who is arguably the funniest guy in the cast, did't even have any funny lines. He just played a jerk. All of his scenes were pretty much the same. He was the lost talent in the movie. Giovanni Ribisi is a great actor too, and I'm not sure why he agreed to play the creepy guy. Not a great part for him. I'm wondering if this was just a collection of Mark Wahlberg's actor friends who all agreed to do the movie with him. Or maybe they're all friends of Seth McFarland. Either way, the movie pretty much sucked. I have a really hard time believing they made a Ted 2. Needless to say, I'll be taking a pass on that one.
The good news is, we had some really yummy pizza, and we spent a cozy evening at home in our pajamas. Not all was lost.
I wonder if I met you and pretended not to know you,
if the same things would attract me to you now as did then.
I did not know then that you would grow more handsome with age
or become a wonderful father or that your young calloused hands
would one day be strong and warm, host to a band of gold, a band of steel.
I wonder what I would notice about you first,
some things about you have changed since we were young.
Would I notice your kind smile or the way you wink if you catch me staring
or the way you drink IPA and eat more salads and you always wear a belt.
Would I see the salt in your pepper hair or the reading glasses in your pocket.
I wonder what you would say to me first,
with no teenage friends or rock concerts to speak about.
Would we talk about buying a Tesla or your dream of living off the grid
or patronizing local business and watching documentaries and Netflix shows.
Would we stay out late talking all night even if we didn't have a curfew.
If we met right now for the first time, would we be the same.
Would my eyes reflect to you something familiar, a part of you
that resides inside of me. Would my soul recognize you as Polaris,
within the crowded sky. Not flashy and attention seeking, but stable and true.
Would I fall in love with you all over again.
They were young when they met. People were a little skeptical. It was the end of the year, and she was finishing up her freshman year, he his junior year. One more year and then he'd be off to college, and she was just getting started. It didn't matter to them. The future wasn't yet on their minds. They were teenagers living in the moment, something characteristic of kids their age. And what Jon wanted in the moment, was someone to listen. He needed someone in his life to love, and who would love him back.
Jon's childhood was not unlike so many others. He had always been close with his mom, but the recent divorce with his dad was putting a lot of stress on her. Things just hadn't been the same. His dad had an accident a few years back and gradually became addicted to painkillers. Painkillers and drinking can really get in the way of working and raising a family. Tom was numbing his own pain and leaving the rest of the family in a world of hurt. Jon's sister got pregnant and moved out of the house, and though no one expected it of him, Jon took on the responsibility of caring for his mom and the family home. She worked and cared for her kids, but she had been emotionally broken over her husband's downward spiral and the demise of their marriage. She had allowed it to go on long enough, and eventually Tom drained her finances and her emotional wellness so she asked him to leave. From that day forward, Jon struggled to remain a relevant part of his dad's life. Unfortunate really, because Jon wanted nothing more than to have a dad. He craved a male role model, someone in his life to teach him to become a man.
Over the years, there had been a couple of men who tried to take the place of his dad in the form of guides and mentors. Jon's Boy Scout leaders tried to fill the void. Having once known and been friends with his dad, they felt a healthy obligation to help one of their boys develop into the man they knew he could become. They picked him up for meetings, helped pay for him to go on scouting events, and they were always available for a ride or an ear to listen. Though the absence of a boy's dad will always have a lasting impact, Jon managed to grow up into a respectable and kind young man. He even started to bring Nicki around to the dinners and holiday parties with the scout troop. It was an unspoken assumption he wanted his extended family's approval, and they to give it.
As the two continued dating, things started to get serious. Jon gave everything to the relationship, heart and wallet. It was as though he was the man of both households. Nicki's mom was a single mom too. Everyone started to wonder if Jon was getting in too deep. He and his girlfriend were still very young, and he would be graduating at the end of the year. She would still have two more years to go. But they insisted they were in love and they would work it out as they went along. This is when his stand-in dads really struggled with their boundaries. None of them after all, was his parent.
Jon started to flounder a bit. Though he had tried to recover his GPA, he was still paying the price from a difficult freshman year. He had a difficult time adjusting to high school and his grades suffered. He gradually started to climb his way back up, taking less challenging courses in an effort to bring up his grades. Now, as a senior, he was trying to figure things out. Once he was convinced he would be going to college, maybe even on a scholarship. Now, he didn't know what he wanted. He could feel himself losing focus, and nothing seemed certain anymore.
Midway through his senior year, word spread pretty fast when Jon made a sudden announcement. "I signed up with the Navy. I'm shipping off to basic training right after graduation."
They were young when they met. People were a little skeptical. It was the end of the year, and she was finishing up her freshman year, he his junior year. One more year and then he'd be off to college, and she was just getting started. It didn't matter to them. The future wasn't yet on their minds. They were teenagers living in the moment, something characteristic of kids their age. And what Jon wanted in the moment, was someone to listen. He needed someone in his life to love, and who would love him back.
Jon's childhood was not unlike so many others. He had always been close with his mom, but the recent divorce with his dad was putting a lot of stress on her. Things just hadn't been the same. His dad had an accident a few years back and gradually became addicted to painkillers. Painkillers and drinking can really get in the way of working and raising a family. Tom was numbing his own pain and leaving the rest of the family in a world of hurt. Jon's sister got pregnant and moved out of the house, and though no one expected it of him, Jon took on the responsibility of caring for his mom and the family home. She worked and cared for her kids, but she had been emotionally broken over her husband's downward spiral and the demise of their marriage. She had allowed it to go on long enough, and eventually Tom drained her finances and her emotional wellness so she asked him to leave. From that day forward, Jon struggled to remain a relevant part of his dad's life. Unfortunate really, because Jon wanted nothing more than to have a dad. He craved a male role model, someone in his life to teach him to become a man.
Lately I've been told several times over I have quite a reputation. Not the bad kind. Not the insult slung at teenagers who sleep around or famous men who cheat on their wives. I've been complemented, flattered, and maybe somewhat bamboozled by people who think I've got what it takes. To do what? I'm not sure. I work my ass of, always have. I know no other way than to give everything I have to everything I do, and I try to operate with the highest level of ethics. The things I do need to provide some return for me, not in dollars and cents, but in learning and growth. I want to earn enough to make my life comfortable, but the time I save is as important as the money I make. I won't bullshit you, even if I have to tell you something you don't want to hear. Lies don't serve either of us. I've been asked to fix programs and schools, to edit books and papers, to deliver training and professional development. I have a reputation. I am authentic, genuine to a fault at times. I can be a bit loud, a bit brazen. But I do good work, and people ask for my help. I'm just trying to figure out, am I chump?
Slow grumbling thunder,
come forth and bring us your storm
the winds have rushed through and are now gone
everything is thick and still in anticipation
the sky grows grey as the sun prepares to retire
and the clouds sneak in ever so slowly
the birds have fled, taken cover
children all safe inside their homes
windows are closed, the blinds are open
the stage is set and the audience is watching
tickety, tickety, tap, tap, tap, tap
our ears are on alert
as the sky begins to let loose
tap, tap, tap, tappity, tappity
the rain has begun picking up speed
and a single bird chirps a rapid repetitive song
a beautiful song in praise of the rain
This story might sound familiar to country music fans. It was inspired by Kenny Chesney's The Good Stuff. I don't claim to own the rights to the characters, I was just playing around with the story. I've always loved this song, and I've provided the official video below for those not familiar with it.
"When are you going you get off my case?" he pleaded with her.
"You just don't understand what I'm trying to tell you!" Heather insisted while holding back her tears. She knew Steven was thinking she was a nag, but she just wanted him to understand how she felt. It wasn't about being a controlling wife, or not letting him have a social life outside their marriage. It was about the way he made her feel when he stayed out late tonight. The third Friday this month.
"I know, I can't possibly understand you 'cause I'm just some dumb-ass, right?
"It makes me sad you'd rather be out with them than spend time with me," she tried to explain. "I'm not trying to make you feel guilty. It's just... it hurts my feelings." And she burst into tears. He threw his hands in the air with disgust and they shared a look of frustration. Their eyes locked ever so briefly but forcefully, and for an instant they were both at a loss for words.
"I need to cool off before I say something stupid." He fumbled to get his keys off the hook by the door, grabbed his jacket off the back of the couch, and he was off slamming the door behind him. Heather just stood there, caught between anger and hurt. She was overwhelmed with despair and just sank to the floor and wept. All her fears poured out of her in tears, each tiny drop like words of a sappy love song, coming together in a puddle to tell their story.
It was their first fight. Every married couple eventually has one. Of course there had been disagreements and arguments over what color to paint the bathroom, or whose family to visit during the holidays. But this was different. It was their first big fight, and it wasn't about decorating or their families. It was about them and their relationship. That's why it hurt so much. She couldn't understand why he wanted to go drinking with his buddies every weekend when he had her. At the end of a workweek she couldn't wait to get home and unwind, but with him. She thought about what he said, "Oh, so now that we're married I'm supposed to drop all my friends and never go out with the guys?" He was so defensive. That's not what she meant at all. In Heather's eyes it had nothing to do with his friends. She wanted him to have a life outside their home, but she was trying to balance how much. She was hurt because she wanted to be with him and he was choosing to be elsewhere. He was just receiving her message as a nagging request from "the old ball and chain."
She sat in the living room and cried, playing out all the things she wanted to try and explain to Steven when he came home. After a half hour or so, he hadn't returned so she decided to take a shower and change into her pajamas. She hoped he would be back by the time she got out. She knew she wouldn't sleep with him gone, and she worried about where he had gone and whether he really should be out driving. She cried some more.
**
Steven got in his truck and started the engine. He struggled to find words when he was upset, and he worried he might say something hurtful to Heather that he could never take back. It takes time to get used to being married. He loved her, and he was certain she knew it. Cooling off away from each other seemed like the right move. He drove a couple of miles at the speed limit with Willie Nelson playing just loud enough to hear. The music was an attempt at distraction, but all he could hear in his head was the argument, and Heather's crying. Driving alone in the dark, he tried to figure out what happened. He wondered if Heather had a point. He had been out the past few weeks, but he really hadn't give any thought to the fact it was three weeks in a row. All Fridays. It wasn't like he planned it. The guys asked him on the way out of the office. "Wanna get a couple of beers?" It wasn't like he was looking to escape or that he didn't want to spend time with Heather.
Steven was surprised at how few cars were on the road for a Friday night. They're probably all home with their wives, he said out loud and shook his head. About a quarter mile up ahead he noticed a neon sign blinking "Open." It was a quaint -looking neighborhood bar on the corner called Bill's. He'd been wanting to check it out and never did. Now seemed like a good time.
Quaint was an understatement. The bar was so quiet it was a wonder it was even still open. At the far corner there was an old-time juke box. A woman about his mom's age stood over it in search of the perfect song. She chose Alan Jackson and the familiar strum of Chatahootchie started to play. There was a young couple playing pool on the other side of the bar, and a scruffy old guy practically passed out over what couldn't possibly be his first glass of whiskey. At the end of the bar, seeming half asleep and ready to close up was a gentle-looking man of about sixty. He had white hair and what looked like a sailor's tattoo on the front of his arm. Probably retired Navy, Steven thought. The man nodded and said, "What'll it be?"
"The good stuff," Steven replied dramatically. He realized how cliche that sounded once it came out. The bartender stood still, didn't even flinch.
"You can't find that here." He looked at Steven with a stoic stare and Steven was confused.
"What do you mean? This is a bar isn't it?"
"Pull up a stool," the bartender said kindly. "What's on your mind?" Steven was surprised. He knew the old cliche of the bartender as shrink, but he never encountered one in real life. He thought it was only in the movies and on TV.
"Listen man, just pour me something strong. Make it a double." The bartender turned around and retrieved two tall glasses and set them down on the bar. He reached down to the under bar fridge and pulled out a gallon of milk. He poured one glass and set the jug down. He reached under the bar again and retrieved a bottle of chocolate syrup and a spoon. Steven looked at the bartender and then looked up at the wall behind the bar. There were framed photos from one end to the other. He glance back down at the bartender's hands. Aged and strong, he stirred a glass of chocolate milk and pushed it across the bar to Steven. He asked again.
"What's on your mind?" Steven took a long gulp of chocolate milk and softened.
"My wife and I had our first big fight. I needed to get some air."
"Air, now that'll do you some good. The bottle? That won't help any. Just makes things worse." Steven looked up again at the photos. He saw a black and white photo of a beautiful woman. She had to be the wife. He looked at the bartender and nodded toward the photo. "Yup, that's my Bonnie. That photo was taken on our first anniversary."
"She's a pretty lady."
"That she was."
"Oh, I'm sorry."
"That's ok. It took a long time for me to acknowledge she's gone. Spent five years in the bottle after the cancer took her from me. But I've been sober three years now."
"How'd you do it? You work in a bar."
"The one thing stronger than the whiskey is the memories I have of the beautiful life we lived together before G-d called her up. I would rather remember all of that than drown my sorrows in a bottle until I black out. It wasn't easy. It still isn't. But I'm still a father and a grandfather. That's the good stuff."
"I'm not proud of the way I behaved. Whether I did something wrong or not, she deserves someone who will listen when she's just trying to be honest. I was a little insensitive. Do you remember your first fight?"
"Never tried. I remember learning to listen. I remember how much I loved her and still do. And I remember I would do anything to keep her from feeling any kind of pain. In the end, I didn't have that power." Steven listened warmheartedly and intently as the bartender shared stories of his life with Bonnie, their two children, and three grandchildren. The two men laughed and enjoyed half a gallon of milk before the bartender encouraged Steven to go home. "Now go on outta here. Go home to that beautiful wife of yours and wrap your arms around her tight. Whatever you were fighting about, it doesn't matter." He told Steven when he opened the door to the house, his wife would probably start to cry and say she's sorry. "There's only one response for that, and it's 'So am I.'"
Steven looked at the bartender with graciousness and resolve. He left a twenty on the bar and the bartender pushed it back. "Put that in your pocket. Go home and look into your bride's eyes, and drink it up. Every last bit of it, drink it up. That's the good stuff."
"Thank you." Steven knew he'd be back. He just knew he'd have to bring Heather back to meet the kind man he met that night. They waved warmly to each other and Steven left. "Goodnight."
**
As Steven pulled out of the parking lot, he became anxious to get home to Heather. His parents told him marriage takes work, but you don't realize until you're living it. The love part is easy when you've met the person you want to spend your life with. It's the other stuff. Like trying to understand the other person's perspective. Like considering someone else's needs and wants when you make decisions. He was starting to realize life was going to change. A lot. But he was okay with that. Going out with his buddies wasn't a choice he made over being with Heather, but he realized now it seemed that way to her. Instead of getting defensive and yelling at her, he could have listened and reassured her. He started practicing in his head what he would say to Heather when he got home, and he promised himself he'd cut down on afterwork happy hours. It was a start.
Steven pulled slowly into the driveway. He thought about gingerly inserting the key into the lock so he could sneak in, assuming Heather was sleeping. Instead, he jingled the key deliberately as he pushed into the lock so he could alert her of his return. And when he opened the door, she was standing in the middle of the room, flushed. She had run from the bedroom when she heard him pull in. She was wearing his blue striped pajama bottoms and a worn out white v-neck undershirt. He was reminded how much he loved her natural beauty. How she looked beautiful in anything. She balled up the used tissue in her hands and sniffed the loose snot in her nose, making it clear she had still been crying. She looked up at him. Her furrowed brow was a futile cover up. The anger had faded away to softness when she saw the remorse in his face. Her puffy eyes stared into his baby blues.
"I"m sorry, baby," Heather said at the edge of tears. And in that moment Steven thought, this is the good stuff, and he replied,
Sometimes when life has you down, or you're not feeling your best, the way to lift your spirits is to be productive. You've heard of people who clean their houses or cook to clear their heads. Getting things done is a good way to make you feel better. That's how I felt today. I started the morning getting down the beginning (and ending) of a short story I plan to write over then weekend. That alone made my day. But then I went to work and had a remarkably quiet day. I got in early and completed a bunch of things on my "have-to" list in the first few hours. Then I was able to work on a project I've been waiting to have time for. I wrote a framework for a new course I'm designing to be used at school. Last month I had two preliminary meetings with the two teachers who will be teaching the course, and I had a pad filled with notes and ideas just waiting to be turned into something substantive. Today I got the chance, and it is all starting to come together. I have outlined the seven modules, aligned principles, and started a list of topics, curriculum materials, and activities for each one. It was an exceptional way to button up a very long week, and man it feels good!
This word. This word has come to have much significance in my life. I went to work for PACE Center for Girls more than two years ago. I really couldn't have known what I was getting into. It's been quite a journey. I have met friends at PACE in an age span of more than 30 years! I'm talking lifelong friends. I have learned a lot about myself personally and professionally, developing a level of empathy and understanding that surprises me and tests me on a daily basis. I have sharpened my professional chops and affirmed for myself all that I learned in graduate school. PACE has changed me permanently. I'm not sure where it will take me or for how long, but I never could have imagined the impact it would have on me.
But the word pace, in all lowercase letters, that's something new. Today my writing group met for our monthly get together, and this month our meeting was special. We celebrated a year of our shared blog Trailbrazen. One of our brilliant members (there is an abundance of genius in the group) suggested we read through the blog posts from all year, select a favorite from each person, and write a note to each one about the piece. It was wonderful! There was so much love and positive feedback, and truly genuine commentary on each other's writing. As writers we've come to know each other so well, and we know there is honesty in all we write and all we say within the group. That's what made tonight so special.
And while I always enjoy a good compliment (even though they're sometimes hard to receive), hearing my fellow Trailbrazens tell me what they love about my writing, makes me feel really special because I admire them all and value their opinions. Tonight, I am grateful for all they said, but was particularly taken aback by one of my friend's comments. She told me I am a master at pacing, and she begged me to write more fiction so she can learn from me. Imagine that. She thinks she can learn from me. We laughed about this because I can't explain what I'm doing- I don't even know I'm doing it. I'm not sure what makes my story writing pace so masterful, and man I wish I did because I would make sure I do it more.
Anyway you slice it, my writing sisters take the cake. They inspire me, and push me to do more with my writing. They build me up when I'm not feeling worthy. They encourage me to do more of what they see in me, even when I don't recognize it as anything special. They are brazen and they make me brazen. Together we are Trailbrazen.
"There are only two days in the year that nothing can be done. One is called yesterday. The other is tomorrow. Today is the right day to love, believe, do, and mostly live.
-The Dalai Lama XIV
It's okay not to be the first one to the office or the last one to leave.
It's okay to acknowledge there's suffering in the world, all the time, everyday
but to know there is not much you can do about it today,
except love those around you a little more and treat strangers with kindness.
It's okay to give up now and then, on the obsession with pleasing everyone
and trying to meeting everyone else's needs, to instead focus on your own.
It's okay to give up your power and surrender to the universe sometimes.
What power do we really have anyway?
We have the power to love and to live.
It's okay to slow down and be present,
to stop worrying about the past and planning the future.
Now, in this moment, I am okay to love and to live.
I'm tired. I'm tired of a lot of things. I'm tired of working more than enjoying. I'm tired of Florida's summer humidity causing debilitating allergies. I'm tired of politics and the presidential campaign. I'm tired of hatred and violence. But mostly I'm tired of thinking. Today, I am just tired of thinking.
It would be easy to turn into a thoughtless drone. Actually, for me I don't think it would be that easy, because my brain never turns off. Today it feels tempting to try. I'm tired of thinking about assessments and standards. I'm tired of losing any sense of relief about a big hurdle at work because the next one is coming faster than I'm ready for it. I'm tired of thinking about the awfulness in the world. I'm tired of hatred and bigotry, and homophobia and sexism, and antisemitism, and hatred. It hurts my brain to think about all of it. I'm just tired of thinking. I'm even tired of thinking about what I wish I could be spending my time doing. I'm tired of thinking there is something else out there.
My writing group has been experimenting with original forms of poetry. See an explanation on our blog, with subsequent posts of original poetry by the members.
Inspired by the words of Rumi, here is an original form poem I wrote. Check out another one I wrote called Inner Voice, at the blog link.
Graphic retrieved from Pinterest: Artist, Anita Burnaz
Lovers
Lovers don't finally meet somewhere. They're in each other all along.
Lovers comfortable together in silence, they
don't need words to communicate. They
meet as one, eyes locked in gaze with resolve.
Somewhere inside there is a familiar reverberation
they're connected, spirit and soul
in search of a song, wandering
Each one knows they heard the tune before
Others listen and see. It is clear
all the melodies are between them.
Along the harmonious journey, a lovers' song.
Searching for inspiration in the nighttime sky
in the beauty and poignancy of song lyrics
in the soothing melody of an instrumental
in the nonsense of the internet
Seeking inspiration from all that is around us
instead of looking inside ourselves
instead of reflecting on the beauty within
instead of digging deep into our own souls
Finding inspiration is not finite
it is a dynamic journey
it is a fantastical adventure
it is a meditative reflection
It is not a thing or a place
or a goal or an end
it is you.
Transition
trans meaning across-tion meaning action
to take action and transition across
from where you've been
to where you are going Invest in the future
Transformation
form meaning shape
actively evolving,
across time and space,
taking shape Embrace growth and change
Graduation
grad meaning step
taking steps to further your journey
appreciating each of them
big and small Value the wisdom of time
While students all over the county were celebrating the last day of school today, only eight of our students were saying goodbye for summer. Technically we don't "graduate students" at PACE. We do however, have a transition ceremony each semester as we celebrate the accomplishments of our girls who have come to the end of their time with us. It's a beautiful time, when our girls engage in a sharing of thoughts and kind words. Those who are leaving have the opportunity to say thank you and offer words of encouragement, and the girls and staff who remain share words of pride and encouragement as we send the girls off. It gives us a chance to truly Honor the female spirit. It's a time to be reminded of the amazing work we do and the blessings we receive working in a place like PACE. I wrote this poem in honor of those eight girls. To Anjelique, Monica, Kayla, Arely, Lexi, Jazline, Amy, and Shantasia. May light follow you where ever you go. Once a PACE girl, always a PACE girl.
Suggestive sounds of moaning and groaning
lyrics, innuendo or straight up sex
rock and roll, raw and visceral.
Even with it all stripped away
with no words, the singer silenced
there's always the guitar.
Electric shredding
gentle acoustic
grinding, whining
and begging
mellow, warm
and soothing
Plucking the strings of the soul,
willing the hips and swaying the body.
Leaning long on the whammy bar
the guitarist plays the inside out.
Reading what you want,
leaning in and playing to libido,
his and yours.
Sensual, primitive, sultry
riffing hot on his instrument.
Two of my favorite guitar players: Dave Rude and Frank Hannon of Tesla.
Teachers are excited and kids are derailing this time of year. Summer is here and schools are either out for summer, or in their final days. Here in Lee County, Florida, we're down to three "early release" days. Funny name, really. When I was a kid we called them half days. I guess because they're now only two hours shorter than the other school days (that means the day is longer than half), school boards have changed the names. Sounds a little like get-out-of-jail-free cards. You know, early release- like time off for good behavior in jail. Anyway, while the teachers and the younguns are ready-set-go, not everyone is celebrating.
Let me take a brief moment here to dispel any notion by readers that I might be complaining about teachers getting summers off. This is not the focus of this post. I was a teacher for years, and still consider myself one at heart. Though I am now an administrator and I do not get the summer off, I still 100% and wholeheartedly support summers off for teachers. Now that I got that out of the way, let me get to the point.
Besides the boo-hoo I don't get to take summer off work just because my kids are home. Here are some reasons this time of year can be difficult for parents.
For every one of those proud mom posts you see on Facebook of the child with A honor roll, or 9,000 AR points, or the award for the highest grade in math, there are 25-50 kids who feel like they don't measure up. I'm not talking about the slacker kids who don't care about school (though I urge you to think about why a 10 year old would act that way). I'm talking about the girl who busts her ass day in and day out to do her very best, and still can't get an A in History. Or the boy who has worked all year to improve his writing, but still can't get his thoughts out cohesively enough to write an A- paper. Teachers, you know the kids I'm talking about. The kids who beg their parents to stay home on class awards day. The kids who don't show up to awards nights. The parents who feel like it's a reflection on their parenting because their children didn't win anything. I'm not advocating for giving out undeserved awards, just soliciting some sympathy and tact in the name of children who gave their all and still came up short this year.
If you're not a teacher, you may not realize state testing results are supposed to be released this week. That's right. They've finally figured out a way to get the results out quickly. Amazing huh? Seems like we just got the results from last year. Oh wait, we did. Parents are finding out their 3rd graders couldn't cut the mustard on the state test and have to repeat 3rd grade. Tenth graders are finding out they weren't really taking the FSA for the last time, because they didn't make the cut score. High school students are finding out they didn't pass the Algebra EOC, even though they passed the class. How does a parent console her children? How does he explain that sometimes hard work doesn't pay off? And teachers, whoa. What a way to start summer break, by finding out how many of your kids didn't make the gains they were expected to make.
If you live in a high poverty area, and many of the schools in the district are title 1 as we are, many children are going home for the summer wondering how they are going to get fed everyday. Don't even dare make a comment about people who dishonestly "live off the system." We all know there are people who do that, but most of the people who take public assistance need and deserve it, and all of the children do. Summertime out of school means no breakfast and no lunch. Before you pass judgment on others, thank your lucky stars you have a good job and a decent income if this isn't a concern of yours.
I don't mean to be a downer about summer. I just live in a world where all of my students deal with at least one of the above mentioned problems. Unfortunately, as a year-round facility, summer brings limited excitement to our school. We do try to mix it up and have a little fun, but the fact is our teachers and staff are tired and they have to keep going. Same goes for our students who are watching and listening to all their friends get ready for break, while they await their summer course schedules. Hey, at least they get two meals a day by showing up to school. That's one problem eliminated.
My husband and I have recently started watching a Netflix original series called Bloodline. It stars a couple of famous actors, including Sissy Spacek, and a couple of others you might recognize from other shows- like the dark-haired guy from that old show Friday Night Lights. We're enjoying the show after a few episodes, but it has gotten me thinking. The storyline has been a bit confusing, only because it's the first season and lots of questions and relationships are unfolding. But the episode we just watched is revealing some family secrets. The family at the center of the series is somewhat dysfunctional, though it's not obvious to outsiders. As viewers, we are becoming aware little by little, of family secrets causing tension between some of the characters.
It's got me thinking about the dramatic effect of family questions and secrets. I realized I need to be writing in more replaces than one. I have questions too. Not so many secrets, but questions I'd like to dig into and stories I'd like to tell. Problem is, I'm not prepared to put them out in the rest of the world which means they are not blog material. I've got to get back into regular journal writing.
My writing group is always encouraging me to write more fiction. I've dabbled in some character sketches, a couple of short stories, but I generally don't get too invested. Sometimes I think it's because I'm not into writing fiction, and other times I think I may be afraid I'm not any good at writing fiction. Recently, I wrote about my high school friend who the writing group thought would make a great fictional character. I might experiment with her eventually. But tonight I was out at Barnes & Noble. Yes, an actual book store still exists in our town. My husband needed a gift, and he was browsing. I already have too many partially started books I'm having trouble making time for, so naturally, like a compass pointing north, I ran right to the journals. This is my favorite spot in the bookstore. Truth is, I purchase most of my reading books online. In the bookstore however, I can pick up the journals, flip through the pages, and hold it. I can tell if I would enjoy writing in it. Heaven knows I need another writing journal like I need a hole in the head. But like my husband says about toilet paper, you can't have too much because it will eventually get used!
I happened upon a red journal I had to pick up. "Complete the story," it said on the cover. I had to know if this was inspiration to write stories, or if it was literally a complete-the-story journal. I opened the cover and riffled the pages. On each one there was a story starter, and I read a couple. I closed it and held onto the book while I thought about whether or not to buy it. I put it back on the shelf. Then my dad, who was standing with me waiting for my husband said, "That's pretty neat." My stepmom picked up another copy and starting looking at it too. I decided to take it, and when my husband was ready to check out, I told him he could buy the journal and I handed it to him. He thanked me with a wink of sarcasm and bought it.
I was exhausted when I got home, but I got started on a quick piece. I opened the journal to a random page because starting at the beginning is boring. Here's my first tidbit.
