The End of Another Summer

This has been the worst summer of my life, far worse than the summer I broke my leg. This summer has been continuous emotional pain, which scars much more deeply than physical pain. It's been bad enough that people have actually felt sorry for me. Truth be known, I felt kind of sorry for me, too.

I love to travel, but I could not take the trip to China that my sister had planned for us. I have dismally accepted that I will probably never get back to China because my body is weakening as I age, and getting around in China isn't easy. (Heck, when I was in good health I needed a couple of farmers to carry me up the steps in Chung King, but that's another story and I digress.) So, I lived at her house and took care of enough animal poop that I felt like I was low man on the totem pole at a pet store. When I did get home to Maryland, I could count on a fight with the post office over the holding/unholding of my mail. I felt isolated and was pretty much left alone this summer because, well, you know, (say this in a hushed tone) she has family obligations.

My brother has been sick.  He has gastrointestinal cancer and possibly pancreatic cancer.  He began chemo, and I took him to and fro.  The treatments have been brutal, and watching him suffer has taken a toll on me.  I've been at his beck and call, and I hope my being here made his unrelenting misery somewhat more bearable. Though I did my best to always be cheerful no matter what he took out on me that day, the stress of worrying about him actually caused me to lose a little weight. If he couldn't eat, my stomach churned and I couldn't eat either. I watched him shrivel as the summer days passed us by.

Labor Day signals the end of summer, customarily with a hammering finality as the weather abruptly turns cold enough to need a sweater.  Usually, we are disappointed because it's too cold or rainy to squeeze in those last few precious days at the pool. Cookouts get rained out. It's inevitable; the fun is over and it's back to the grind of school and work. However, this year, this strange summer, even Labor Day was different. My sister and I were remarking on what a beautiful weekend this had been, and how much we had enjoyed the sunny weather. I got to spend some time at the pool with my girls. We even had a barbecue at the neighbors'.  So this year, Labor Day has come and gone in such a way that I can safely say that summer isn't over yet. It seems to have promised us that there are good days yet to come.

And I take that as a good omen.

Back to School

I remember a long time ago, probably thirty years, sitting on the steps of my friend's apartment building and waiting for her to come home.  A neighbor boy, approximately four or five years old, plopped himself beside me and asked what I was doing.  Thus began a conversation that lasted ten minutes or so. During our talk, I told him I was a teacher.  His eyes grew wide and he was so excited to meet me because he was going to start school in September and he couldn't wait to meet his teacher. He knew he was going to love school.

Eventually, the little boy's mother found us and scolded him for wandering off. "But Mom," he said, "I was talking to my teacher."  Yep, I was already his teacher.  I probably would be his teacher when he got to seventh grade, but I doubted either of us would recognize each other.  I never forgot that little boy and his excitement about starting school and meeting his teacher.

I hope all of my teacher friends, and those teachers who would be my friends if I was still working, are having a great summer.  I hope they are relaxing, recuperating, and regenerating their enthusiasm for a very special calling.  In a few short weeks, they'll be back on the job.

Teachers are rarely appreciated. The administrations of most schools make showy attempts on those first few days to give lip service about how they value their teachers while at the same time making their jobs harder by having  schedules incomplete and holding boring, pointless meetings during times teachers could better use to prepare their classrooms and lesson plans. I would get so overwhelmed and depressed those first few days back.  Nothing I did was ever "enough."  It was so discouraging.  (I do post a disclaimer here-the Wayne Perry years were some of the most satisfying of my career.  But admins like him, Bill Hallock, and Natalie Holloway are few and far between.)

Finally, the kids would come.  And despite what they'd heard about that mean old Ms. S, they couldn't wait to meet me.  They laughed with me.  They willingly completed my first homework assignment-writing a short letter to me about what I needed to know to be a good teacher to them. They had hope in their eyes for a good year.  They had hope that their teacher would understand them and be patient with their shortcomings.  They were excited to begin.

Dear teachers, I hope you are rested and raring to go.  I hope you don't let the lack of support from your administration discourage you.  I hope you don't let the constraints of a canned curriculum defeat you.  Stay strong, stay positive, and remember that all kids can learn and most students really want to learn.  Be kind.  Be consistent.  Be the adult, not the buddy.  Be their teacher.

My former students are adults, some in their twenties and some all the way in their fifties.  When I see them in town, they remember me.  When they introduce me to their children, they call me "my teacher."

Teacher friends--that is who you will become to this year's students.  You will be their teacher. It's an honor.

Call me Caitlyn

Bruce Jenner is now Caitlyn Jenner, and she debuted with glorious pictures taken by the legendary Annie Leibovitz.  Since I think Annie could even make me look glamorous, lucky Caitlyn to be photographed by such a talented artist.  There's been a lot of media hoopla and a lot of mean "jokes" about the transformation.  I wish people would just shut the hell up about what they don't understand and try to put themselves in someone else's high heels.

Twelve years ago, three of my high school classmates and I traveled to Las Vegas to celebrate entering the nifty fifties.  We met another classmate there, one who had undergone a major change. Our friend, and Donna's former prom date, was no longer John but Jennifer.  We were curious, but not one of us was critical.  We had always liked John, and we figured if this is who he needed to be, then we'd get used to the change and the new pronouns.

She was beautiful.  Her long brown hair was healthy and shiny.  She had a cute little figure and she looked great in a dress.  She enjoyed wearing makeup to express her femininity.  I remember thinking what a shame she had to wait to be fifty to do this. Here we were, her contemporaries, and by this age we were tired of that stuff.  Short hair was much easier to do.  Why wear dresses and pantyhose when shorts and a T-shirt were much more comfortable? Shoes? Ha! The more comfortable, the better. Jennifer loved her shiny mary janes because they made her feet look cute;  I loved my practical walking sandals because they didn't give me blisters. And makeup? Hells bells, it would only melt in the heat, so lipstick was enough for us.  Poor Jennifer, while the rest of us were glamming it up in high school, she was yearning to dress like us, be like us. She was suffering in a way entirely unimaginable to us.

When Jennifer debuted, she did not get the reception Caitlyn did.  Her family cut her off completely for years.  Her marriage did not survive.  While she needed this change to be whole, many holes grew in the form of absences from her life.  It was not an easy transition, but it was necessary for her well-being.

Our classmates in Pennsylvania were unaware of her metamorphosis because Jennifer lived in California and hadn't kept in touch.  All of that changed when a story about her journey (later developed into the documentary I Stand Corrected) was broadcast on public television.  She was definitely the talk of the town, the subject of nervous giggles and speculation, but I don't remember anybody being excessively mean or ignorant about it.  She came to our last high school reunion, and we welcomed her.  In fact, one of the guys asked her to dance, and it was sweet to see.  From what I understand, her family is coming around.  And I have to chuckle because just like the rest of us sixty year old women, Jennifer complains about fighting that inevitable battle of the bulge.  Life is back to "normal."

Nobody goes through such a transformation on a whim.  People who dismiss Caitlyn as nuts or an attention seeker just don't get it.  I get especially irritated by "celebrities" who claim they will still call her Bruce. What arrogant jerks!  Why not just be thankful that you have not lived a life of such painful confusion?  What does it hurt to be compassionate?  To be kind?  Just because you don't understand, doesn't mean you have to condemn.

Welcome to the world Caitlyn!  May the rest of your life bring you that elusive butterfly known as peace.

A Message from Above?

The strangest thing happened to me yesterday.  Where better to share than on my blog?

When I left my sister's house, I decided to use that handy dandy feature on my car's dashboard called "TRAF." I know that it uses the radio to search for traffic problems, but I never used it before so I wasn't sure how it worked.   Since we're talking holiday weekend, I pushed the button.

The radio searched and the words "SEEK TRAF" flickered as it did its job. However, I glanced over when I could see out of the corner of my eye that the words had stopped flashing. A song was playing and these words appeared where the flickering words had been, "PRAY TO GOD."

In my typical fashion, I responded with, What the hell?

Not one to take chances, I immediately prayed.  Then I listened to the music, figuring I'd stumbled across a Christian music station that could somehow channel its message onto my radio screen. No, just a regular old station. So, I pushed the traffic button again, and the radio started its search.  It stopped on a few stations, but never again during the ninety minute ride home did that particular message appear.

So I ask you, what happened?  Did I indeed get a message from above? Was it a message for me alone? Am I supposed to share this message with the rest of the world?  Has something like that ever happened to anyone else?

I don't mess with God; I need Him too much.  So I prayed, for clear roads, safe travels, family, friends, and the health of those close to me.  And if I have motivated you to say a prayer or two, can you spare one for my brother as he begins a serious battle with cancer?  And one for his family who are preparing to fight this with him?

Thanks.

Mother's Day 2015

This week, I've read a lot of blogs and commentaries bemoaning Mother's Day.  Many of the writers complained about the sadness of the holiday due to lost children, incomplete pregnancies, and fertility issues. While I have not personally experienced the depths of their pain, I can understand this much. Mother's Day and all the hoopla surrounding it comes once a year.  You can't stop it, but you can work with your reaction to it.  Do not expect churches to be "compassionate" to you and not recognize mothers on that day. They will.  And this year, when Fr. James called all the mothers to the center aisle for a special blessing, I went with them.  Although I have never conceived, borne, or lost a child, I, too, am a mother.

I am a mother to my dog, Trixie, (and before her my dog, Lucy).  I am responsible to feed her, exercise her, keep her healthy, and mostly to love her.  I love my little companion.  I call her my baby and I am her Mommy.

I am a mother to my Godchild, Sarah.  I was an active part of her life as she grew up, but now that she is married I don't see her as much.  She is always in my prayers, and that is what a Godmother does.  She knows I will be there when she needs me.

I was a mother to many of my students.  So many of them came from lonely homes, and I was there in school to build them up and care about them.  In fact, every now and then, I'd have an angry parent tell me she was sick of her kid always talking about me and would I back off.  Many of them came to me with personal crises, and they trusted me enough to let me pass them on to the person who could do more to help them than just listen. I paid for lunches. I bought clothing. I loved them.

And I continue to love and care about my former students.  Right now, I am mothering one lonely soul who literally has no one in this world.  All he asks of me is to listen. To care.  I have found jobs for him to do at my house so I can pay him because he will not take money from me any other way. With my friend Nadine, we are working to get him some stability in his life.

I mother my siblings.  My sister knows that she can come to me for anything, and I will help.  With our brother's current illness, he needs me in a way that a mother is needed.  I sat with him all day every day that he was in the hospital.  I put cold compresses on his forehead.  I fed him ice chips when the nurses told him no gulping water. I did whatever he wanted so he wouldn't have to wait for an overextended nurse.  I am the eldest sibling.  I remember when Mom passed away thinking, I am the adult now.

I mother my nieces.  I was with Helen when she adopted them in China.  I call them my children that I keep at my sister's house.  I have never loved two people more in my life.  I have paid for private school, and I'm saving for college.  I take them to horse camp, shopping, to the pool, the movies, and out to dinner.  In November I am taking the family on a cruise.  That is something my Mother would have done had she lived a little longer.  So, I'm doing it for her.

So yes, I stepped into the center aisle at church and claimed my blessing.  For I, too, am a mother.

The Violence in Baltimore

Most of the country is aware that Baltimore was the scene of violent riots recently. Much of the country blames a corrupt and racist police force. The Mayor, who has been severely criticized for her lack of action, seems to think that an investigation into the police department will root out all the evil and make the Baltimore streets once again safe, and most importantly, tourist friendly.

If only it were so simple.

Hopefully, what I'm about to write will not be brushed off as racist by some who read this. As has been pointed out to me before, I supposedly cannot speak of black issues because I am not black. If you want to believe that, then don't speak for me if you are not white. Ok?  Have we gotten that out of the way?  This is a people issue. (However, for the record, if not for white people, the NAACP would never have been formed.)  My track record as a teacher reveals my dedication to educating my students about our country's struggles over racial issues. When other teachers were talking again about Martin Luther King and Rosa Parks during Black History Month, my students were studying the integration of Central High School in Little Rock, Arkansas and the impact of the Civil Rights Movement on our country. They presented a choral reading of the timeline of our country's black history to their peers during an assembly.  I went to Darby Township Elementary School where I was a minority.  My mother was the first parent in my class to integrate birthday parties.  She got calls from the neighbors for this because they objected to my black athletic friend leading a bunch of us in a running game around the neighborhood. I overheard two of my students discussing me once. Student A insisted I was racist. Student B replied, "Ah she ain't racist.  She's just mean." I rest my case.

Baltimore City is a hot mess, and the idea that ferreting out bad cops will make it all good again, is simplistic and unrealistic. The problems run so deeply that how they'll ever be solved is beyond me. But maybe if lawmakers and leaders would get real and identify some of the difficult issues, a start could be made.

Let's begin with the family. I'm not going to throw out statistics, but too many of the children born in Baltimore are conceived by mistake, as the result of an act of recreation, as an attempt to hold onto a man, or in an attempt to prove some guy's manhood. This shit has got to stop.  Babies are cute.  But they have needs beyond anything that teen moms and social services can provide; it is not long before their constant crying and never ending need for attention is no longer cute. Once they pass the cute kid stage, city children are often neglected. These kids are susceptible to gang life, spousal abuse, drug dealing/using, theft, and a value system based upon what they see on TV. (NOT ALL KIDS.  Ok? Let's get that out of the way too.) If a male wants to father a baby, then that male needs to pay child support. No, baby daddy, an occasional delivery of formula and diapers is not child support. Women need to use those free clinics and not get pregnant out of irresponsibility or the stupid, stupid idea that the guy will stick around because you have provided him with an heir. In the city, lots of girls could be hatching his seeds.  Our city has a growing population of teens who have been raising themselves, who do not go to school, who seek gangs for support, and are ripe and ready to let off some steam through violent measures.  The rioters were not born to pillage and destroy. However, the lack of the family unit, in my opinion, has contributed to a breakdown in the city. The gangs are the new family units.  Crime is the new family recreation. The fights over territory, the fights over "respect,"and the absolute warlike activities in the city are the result of these communities being destroyed from within. Yes, there is a lot of police activity in the city. But are the Baltimore police going into the city and targeting blacks for the hell of it as so many seem to believe?  There is a tidal wave of crime in  the city.  Crime = police response.

When the same few shockingly glaring examples of police brutality are repeatedly broadcast by the media to convince us that the entire Baltimore City Police Department is full of violent, crooked, racist, incompetent police, I get angry. Yes, there are bad cops.  Yes, there are arrogant power hungry cops.  Yes, there are good cops having a bad day.  And yet, what would our city be without its police force?  I feel for the police men and women who go into the city daily to restore peace, solve crimes, rescue the innocent, get drugs off the streets, and protect the public.  They are often greeted with vulgarities that the general public thinks cops should just ignore.  They are physically assaulted. They are threatened with guns. They are shot in the face. They are lied to.  They witness the same people whom they struggle to arrest being released to re-offend. Nobody has their back. Seems like Freddie Gray, with an arrest record for drugs and all the related criminal activities that go with it, has the support of the media and a community looking to villainize a police department.

The Mayor seems content that arrests have been made in the Freddie Grey case.  I don't know what to think. If the police purposely denied him a humane arrest and proper medical care, they were definitely out of line. Such actions are wrong and shameful to the police department.  However, will anyone ever really know what happened that night?  One report states he was not buckled in, leading to his injuries.  Another report states he purposely tried to injure himself.  Who knows?  The federal investigators want to determine if Baltimore police "...use excessive force, including deadly force, conduct unlawful searches,seizures and arrests, and engage in discriminatory policing." The Mayor is convinced this investigation will reveal the truth of what happened that night and what chronically happens in  the police department. We'll see. I don't know what is next in the Freddie Grey case. What I do know is that the future of violence and discord in Baltimore City rests on its outcome.

Black lives matter.  Police lives matter.  When do we wise up and realize that all lives matter?  Is this 2015 or 1968? Are we a civilization or a dystopia? So many questions; so few answers.

A Look Back at The Old Neighborhood

Quite a few years ago, I awoke to hear a commercial on the radio suggesting everybody go to the Rusty Scupper and welcome in the new year with Ed Prutzer.  Prutzer, now that's a name you don't hear every day.  But for a time in my life, I did hear it every day.  Ed Prutzer's family were our next door neighbors on Stratford Road.  Stratford was a short row of what is now referred to by relators as townhouses, but we knew what they were: row houses.  Not row homes, but row houses with thin walls. We knew our neighbors very well. Ed Prutzer was a bit of a rascal, so we often heard his mom calling him by both first name and last name, the classic call for kids who were really in trouble. And Ed was in trouble a lot, almost as much as (or maybe even more than) my brother.

Eddie was the first person ever to tell me how babies were made.  I was horrified and didn't want to believe him, but he told me it was the truth.  I reluctantly agreed he ought to know; his Catholic parents had a lot of babies packed into that tiny row house.

It wasn't long after that first radio ad that my friend Dottie and I went to a show in the City and then decided to have dinner there and check him out.  Sure enough, he was Eddie from The Old Neighborhood.  Another time I brought some high school friends to dinner there and Ed greeted us; but it had been years since my last visit.  I recently heard another commercial, so I knew he was still there.

My sister, her daughters, and I saw the musical Wicked  yesterday.  Helen and I decided to go to the Rusty Scupper and say hello to Eddie as well as introduce him to her children.  When we got there, the place was very busy, and the staff at the door told us they would not be able to seat us at all that whole night. We were ok with going somewhere else for dinner, but we asked if Ed could come out for a few minutes to say hello to Barbara and Helen from The Old Neighborhood.  Miraculously...a table with a lovely water view opened. The very solicitous staff seated us and fell all over themselves serving us. My first experience with name-dropping!  Ed came over to talk and we caught up on old times in the 'hood.  Then Ed asked if we remembered our rabbit.

Of course we did. I remembered the bunny very clearly.  She was a black and white ball of fluff named Snooks.  Dad built a cage for her that we kept by the back door of our house.  One morning a neighbor called and we children were not allowed to go outside.  That was strange because in our neighborhood, the moms kicked the kids out and we weren't allowed home until we heard them calling for dinner. It turns out that a dog had torn into the cage, killing the rabbit, and leaving its remains on one of the front lawns.  My father watched for that dog to return.  When he did, he followed it home and confronted its owner.  He told the woman that if the dog ever came back on our property, he would shoot it. The woman told him that if he did that, his kids wouldn't have a father.  I hated dogs for a long time after that.

But I digress.  

Ed told us that his dad had died a few years ago.  We talked a little about how most of the old neighbors were gone, how sad we were that our parents had died, and so on, but Ed had a story he needed to tell us.  Towards the end of his life when he was very sick, Mr. Prutzer told Ed about something that had bothered him for fifty years. He asked if Ed remembered our rabbit.  He did, and he remembered a stray dog had killed it.  No, said Mr. Prutzer in full confession mode, the Prutzer dog did it!  The little part doxie tore our bunny out of her cage and ended her life.  We were in shock.  Ed's dad wanted him to apologize to us if he ever saw any of us again.  So, he apologized, and  we accepted.  I'm so glad Dad never killed that stray dog, and I'm glad that Mr. Prutzer could finally rest in peace.

The bonds of The Old Neighborhood.  The subject of novels. The fabric of life... and deathbed confessions.