BACK TO SCHOOL; TEACHING HOPE

Every August it happens.  Long before the charming sound of leaves crunching underfoot and the unbidden glaze of an early-morning frost have signaled the season and start of another academic year, my brief dance with summer ends.

I don't suppose I am alone in this, and I know that for many summer is merely a sunnier and warmer variation on their every working day.  But for a significant portion of my life summer had meant only one thing:  No School;  and although it has been decades since I have been an active participant in any student body, the rhythmic passage from spring to summer and summer to autumn still remains scholastic and wound around the theoretical loins of entrapment versus unrestrained freedom.

I say entrapment because as a child, I was of the opinion that school was a vile, cruel and unnecessary punishment heaped upon the smallest and most vulnerable of society by adults who merely wanted to get us out of their field of vision for several hours each weekday, and who were either too inexperienced or too soft-hearted to thoroughly punish us themselves.  Therefore, they sent us to school where other adults, trained in such torture, could to it for them.

Needless to say, I was not a fan of the school environment nor of the dastardly educators that ran the place, and although my appreciation for learning evolved over the years, the hugely negative experiences I had of most of my teachers from kindergarten through high school failed to soften my view of educators in general.

However, in keeping with my altruistic resolve to hold no hatred, I sought to remedy this prejudice:  I married a teacher.

My husband has been an educator for over forty-five years, and after nearly twenty-eight years of marriage, I have not only come to better understand just what that title infers, but I have thoroughly eaten my prior perception of and distain for them as a whole.

While I still believe that there are an unfortunately large number of poor teachers out there, those who began suffering burnout in their fifth year of teaching and are now in their twenty-fifth, there is also that small but stellar number for whom teaching is not what they do but who they are.

Every August I watch with fascination as my husband winds down his summer of tutoring and shifts his focus towards those students as they will sit before him in his small classroom.  He is a reading specialist in elementary school and as such, he will see only those children who have fallen behind from either a learning disability, emotional handicap or otherwise.  They are the ones who struggle and they come to him in those small bodies with the massive baggage of repeated failure.  They are far too young to see themselves in such a dim light.

At the start of every school year, my husband gets to know each child as they arrive at various times of day to his classroom, and eventually every one is assigned a nickname based on personality, a play off their given name or a preference.

They all call him "Mr. Spongebob." Some whose innocent affection and comfort extends beyond protocol just call him "Bob."  But because he has taken the time to really notice them, they adore him and find it their greatest joy to work hard on their lessons in appreciation of his sincere attention.

His success rate is mind blowing.

But it isn't only that he teaches non-readers and poor-learners to read; he offers them a tomorrow laced with the promise of remarkable.  How many of these children if gone unaided, would resort to darker corners in which to brood and find relief from self-loathing and peer cruelty?  Teachers like my husband give these kids the chance at a future with a softer edge and a more promising bloom.

And they never forget him.  Especially those young souls who by design or fate, are meant to walk the periphery of inclusion well into adulthood.  These are the ones that as children are most in need of validation from the adults in their lives because adults represent the future and a time when they themselves might be free of the pain of ostracism and more able to cope with the lamentable label of different.


My husband still receives phone calls and cards from students who are now adults yet remain walking that unforgiving road on the outside of in while continuing to overcome the stigma of their brand of different. 

Some are now into their forties, but they have not forgotten the teacher who helped them learn and more importantly, who helped them find value in themselves during those fragile and formative years at a time and in an environment when their chief value seemed to be only as the target for a good laugh by their peers.

A good teacher is more than what the name implies.  A good teacher bridges the choppy waters of insecurity and ignorance with a sturdy rope of confidence and enlightenment and instructs his or her students how to knot and weave one of their own; so that in future days when passage becomes dicey, they will have recourse to the other side.

A good teacher holds hope when his students grapple with despair and indicates the way towards that point of light and out of dark confusion.

My husband came home from the annual teacher's convocation last week with a story that illustrates this point:

A fellow teacher at a nearby elementary school had noticed that one of her third grade students was not like the others.  She saw that he was always sullen, that his hair was frequently dirty and his clothes, seldom washed.  He quickly became the target of the other children who mocked him for these things.  After inquiring about his history she learned that his mother had very recently passed away and that his father was desperately struggling to keep providing for his family and, consequently, was not always available to his children.

But she also saw that this young boy was extremely bright and she championed his intelligence.  As the year progressed, he came out of his shell and gradually, as a result of his classroom successes and her obvious encouragement, the other kids eventually ceased their taunting.

On the last day of school as the students were giving the teacher gifts of appreciation, the boy approached her desk with a small package wrapped in the brown paper of a discarded grocery bag.  At first the other kids began to chuckle, but she motioned them to silence and opened the gift.  He had given her a small, rhinestone bracelet with one or two missing stones and a half-empty bottle of perfume.

The teacher expressed her delight and in front of the class she put on the bracelet and gave herself a light spray of perfume after which the boy looked up at her, smiled and said, "You smell like my mother."

Teaching does not begin in the fall and it does not end in the summer, and the lessons we learn from those teachers dedicated enough to listen and wise enough to care have no season and exist beyond time.

I am proud to count my husband among them, and I extend my gratitude to the many like him.
Because of teachers like these Back to School can become the very beginning of everything good and all that verges on remarkable.


They do more than change lives, they help create them.

Mr. Spongebob taking one on the sponge at the school fair

BATTLING THE GODS OF TOUGH LUCK

I should not move today.  Not one centimeter more.  I should barely breathe.

Although I am almost at the halfway point in my daily eighteen-hour cycle of conscious participation, it has already been proven to me beyond argument that this is NOT my day.  Today, I have a newfound respect for Murphy and his vile law.

However, I still don't care much for his attitude.

I could list my litany of failings within those easy modules of routine; the ones that are supposed to remain just that, but I am afraid.

It is as though The Gods of Tough Luck are lining the walls of my room stifling giggles and just waiting for another weak, unguarded moment before they pounce again and further derail my fragile grasp on confidence.

They have already participated in the breaking of several dishes but not before they allowed the heavy cabinet door which housed them to come off of its hinges in my arms sending my box of Special K, my cereal bowl and all of it's soggy, milk saturated contents flying across the kitchen practically at the speed of light.

While I am sure it was not what the commercial had intended,  it did put a lively twist on the meaning of the "Special K challenge."

And this came well after the four a.m. wake-up call from my seasoned Chihuahua, Juan, who began both of our days by eliminating the contents of his last meal about two and a half inches from my pillowed head.  (Note to self:  Gummy Bears are not a suitable snack for a pint-sized, aging canine no matter how small the pieces.)

At six a.m. my daughter texted me from her apartment in Arizona complaining that she was also sick and had been eliminating the contents of her last meal in the same manner as Juan for the previous two hours.

It is possible she consumed Gummy Bears last evening while attending her grandfather's 80th birthday celebration, and if they were the root cause of her suffering, someone should alert the Department of Health or the Smurfs or the Sugarplum Fairies in the Magic Kingdom before it becomes a Gummy pandemic.

For my part I rest on the very small consolation that, at least in the instance of my daughter, I was not at fault; and Juan needs me too much to hold a grudge.  If he cops an attitude, he knows I have the power to withhold his little sweaters in winter and actually force him to confront the snow no matter how many feet over his undersized body it gets.

I did have plans to meet a friend for lunch today, but that was cancelled due to an unavoidable early-afternoon meeting at work for my friend and the fact that it is presently 102 degrees outside with a heat index of over 120 and humidity so dense you could easily drown just standing on the sidewalk.

Our aim was to try these famous fried mushrooms my friend raves about, but with the temperatures being what they are this afternoon, we figured we might just be saving the fry cook's life by opting to sample them on a cooler day.

Of course, with my ill fortune being what it has been thus far, the option of not leaving the house may be lifesaving for me as well.  I should count my blessings.

I should also try not to redesign anything more on my blogspot site.  They have changed the design protocols since last I created it, and I am not doing well in understanding their new options or in how to navigate them.  I tried to insert a new photograph of myself into the header since the other was verging on two years old, and while the new replacement was successfully installed, it is also ten times larger!

When you open the page now, it is not unlike the impression you get at a drive-in movie the way the screen dramatically dwarfs the surrounding cars and trees giving you the alarming sensation you'll be swallowed whole at the next cinematic close-up.

I opened my newly-designed page and for the first time in my life, I became afraid of myself!

I am going to have to come up with a less-risky way to employ my time indoors.  I don't want to frighten unsuspecting visitors to my blog in cyberspace.  The Gods of Tough Luck are cagey and highly creative.  They might further my doom by crashing my computer.

This morning, before I realized my lunch plans were red-lighted, I decided that since I seldom leave the house and my studio here, I would put in some extra effort enhancing my appearance just to make sure it was not so obvious to outsiders that driving three miles from my house is a hugely exciting deal.  I figured if I blended in with a certain level of sophistication, I would appear normal.

And so I thoroughly scrubbed my hands removing all remnants of ink and paint from my nail beds, put on clean, normal summer clothing (as opposed to the paint-splattered overalls or jeans and T-shirts I ordinarily don) and even decided to take a curling iron to the ends of my long, greying blonde locks.

Why I thought that handling a device only slightly cooler than a branding iron would be a reasonable move based on the declivitous trend of my morning thus far just further illustrates the lengths I am willing to travel down the path of denial in order to make sense of my life.  No sooner had the tool reached maximum heat when I fumbled it; burning both of my hand and the middle portion of my left cheek.

It is a good thing I will not be seen in public today.

However, we are supposed to be heading to a local bar later this evening to hear a Grateful Dead cover band perform a tribute to the late Jerry Garcia.

After days like today, I fully understand why the dead are so grateful.

I know that the band came into prominence in the Summer of Love and that their music is all about peace with some sex, intrigue and references to drug busts thrown in for good measure.  But I wonder if anyone will notice or care if I come dressed in battle fatigues and camouflage paint?  I'd like to be prepared in case The Gods of Tough Luck are not yet done with me.

Somehow, I don't think this day will end anymore lightly than it began.

And if I'm going to go down,  at least I'd like to go down fighting.

Keep on truckin'.  Or something like that.

Lessons of Happy Jack

"When in doubt, write."

I tell myself this often and while it hasn't solved all of my problems or unfailingly steered me away from every disaster, it has provided enough clarity through pause that I am usually able to go through most days without irreparably hurting myself or badly wounding another.

I learned this from my father.  Not necessarily the part about writing before I leap, but the part about pausing long enough before I take that proverbial plunge to consider the risk of injury to myself and, more importantly, to someone else.

My father is big on theoretical bridge maintenance.  His theory being that you never know when you might have to do some reverse crossings, which are much easier if you've retained access to that bridge rather than having to forage your way back through the mucky waters of the mess you've created; all against the hard tide of bad feelings and regret . 

He is right, you know.

Of course, there are always those times when honor, reason, logic and safety mandate radical bridge burning, but those instances are rare and you can always tell when it is necessary by the state of your emotions while in the process of detonating:  A feeling of impartial, centered grace endorses the obliteration; a twisted knot of retributive gratification signals the need for another meeting between the dual mind of conscience and petty conceit.

He trained me to notice the nuanced messages from heart to mind and back again that will alert me to my true motivation; to it's purity and whether it maintains closer ties to the ego or the higher instincts of inspired understanding.   He told me that these crucial missives are whispered and that I would have to kneel close to the center of objectivity to hear them.  

He taught me that while it is perfectly alright to recognize and entertain one's ego, it is a potentially risky business to place it at the helm of our decision-making process.  It's narcissistic and insatiable quest to seek it's own rewards irrespective of the collateral damages that result is a clear indication of it's flawed design.

Reason follows that it's best to wait until all the bugs are ironed out before featuring one's ego in any significant capacity.  This is not likely to happen in our lifetime.

He believes in keeping our initial negative, critical and petulant opinions about life and others largely to ourselves and honoring that purgative pause to reinstate objectivity and calm so that truth has half a chance of being recognized.  He says that it is always better to error in the privacy of one's own mind than to broadcast your ignorance to the world.   God may know you are an idiot but there is no reason to share that unfortunate revelation with everyone else.

He taught my sister, brothers and I that there is no shame in being unique; adhering to our own higher principles through the gracious insurgency of a decent life but that it is a keen indication of self-righteousness and pride not to extend that same latitude to others. 

My father is a very educated, erudite man.  He has lived an honorable, successful and impressive life.  But he would not want me to list the specifics since it would go against one of his principle tenants in living rightly, which is to cultivate humility ceaselessly and dispense charity liberally.  

His generosity is legend among those who know him although it has only been through the backdoor of third-party communications that I have been able to learn about the actual depth and breadth of his charity.

You will never hear him speak of these things.

And it is perhaps as a direct result of this selflessness that he possesses what I consider to be the most important trait of all:  He remains cheerful and full of gratitude every single day no matter what.

In the past eleven years the man has suffered prostate cancer, a broken neck, a heart attack, a stroke, several severe falls, has become an insulin-dependent diabetic; and if that is not job-like enough, he was hit also by a car while walking his dog and suffered serious injuries to both of his hands as well as to his face and body.

I can barely remember a day in over a decade when he has not been in significant physical discomfort, and yet neither can I recall a day when he has not ushered himself through it with a smile on his face and, usually, humming a jaunty, if not entirely recognizable tune.

He has taught me that happiness is compelling, contagious and approachable so that when you smile, others will draw close and be comforted.  You become a healer and a counselor without having or needing to say one word.  And that by it's very nature happiness implies forgiveness, strength and hope, which are admirable assets to anyone's catalogue of human aspirations.

Today my Dad celebrates his 80th birthday; a tenure on earth that by sheer number inspires a sort of reverent homage to tenacity.  

Yet because of his exceptional life and the even more exceptional way he has conducted himself throughout all of it, this birthday demands more recognition and respect than it is possible to convey from this distance and within the limitations of my small laptop.

But I have learned well from him and will interject Happy into every corner of my own gratitude at my good fortune in having him as my father.   HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DAD!  I LOVE YOU!

OZZIE AND HARRIED

In the recent absence of any definitive structure and order to my days, it came as a relief this morning when I realized I had an early-afternoon, routine dentist appointment.  Normally, I would wince at the notion of having to hand over any portion of my precious time for such a mundane obligation and viewed these bi-annual dental forays as the ultimate buzz kill.

But this morning I prepared for my visit as though I had been selected by merit for an audience with the Tooth Fairy.

Apart from the thirty-five minutes I devoted to brushing, flossing and whitening my teeth, I also showered and then ironed a clean, white shirt to wear, as if the color would compliment my now radiant smile and further emphasize all of my hard work.

I am that disoriented.

It has been four days since my daughter and her husband moved out of state, thereby rendering my home  officially divested of offspring but also with these two gone, of the possibility that any will be dropping in; and on some level I think I am still in a period of serious confusion.

The fact that this reorientation has hit full-tilt in the middle of summer only adds to the instability because my husband-the-teacher, has these months off; and while he maintains a daily schedule of tutoring, the hours vary and are constantly subject to changes and last-minute cancellations as everyone is predominately in vacation mode and pool time is vastly more alluring than tutor time.  What this means is that he lurks.


His spotty but relentless appearance throughout the day adds a moody layer of surrealism to my waking hours and creates another substantial hurdle between this current state of seasonal and familial flux and my newly-gained autonomy.

I am neither totally liberated nor totally alone; both of which cause me to raise the white flag of surrender every time the thought occurs that I might now sit down to write or begin that new illustration or sketch out the underpainting for a new piece.

These summer interruptions are frequent and random and because I am the one who relishes solitude and  the fertile promise of quiet and he is one who goes into a complete panic if he is forced to endure more than thirty minutes without company and compulsive dialogue, our preferences clash.

However, because I am also the one with the genetic predisposition of an Oriental rug, I lay down my agenda and oblige with a well-intentioned ear and eyes only slightly glazed over as they betray my struggle against total preoccupation.

I think it is part of the marital contract or something; feigning interest under penalty of till death do us part.   Lord knows I am well-tenured by now.

In any case, this explains my infrequent posting and the inefficiency of connecting to my cerebral side while reorienting my expectations and redefining busy.

I now feel more like the lone nurse on a mental ward in charge of one highly unpredictable patient whose needs must be met when called upon but are impossible to anticipate.  And like any underpaid, over-worked, well-trained nurse, I smile through my clenched, newly-cleaned teeth and do my job.

Nothing quite says, "You're screwed!" like hearing those words:  "Honey, I'm home!"