Peggy, the International Star!

 When I first started keeping a blog, so many years ago, it was more of a daily personal diary.  Over time, it has evolved more into op ed offerings of wisdom, humor, frustration, and fear.  I try not to take myself too seriously.

As a college English major and lifelong teacher of English, I do know how to write formally, but I'm retired now and have fallen into the habit of keeping the blog informal; i.e. deliberately misusing punctuation and/or producing incomplete sentences for emphasis.  Like this one.  That way, I can always fall back on that as my excuse, as my daughter once did, every time she stumbled or hit a doorknob with her arm: "I meant to do that!"  (Still, it does bug the dickens out of me when I re-read a post I've already published and find an error that I did not intend.) 

I live alone.  My choice.  My solitary life has always been enriched by: lunches out with former students; adult Sunday School at my church, plus a little club called Golden Girls comprised of older women from the church that meets every other Friday for fellowship and worship: dinners out with adult friends who are past child-rearing years; trips out to Washington to be with family for special occasions or just because; et cetera. The advent of the Corona Virus pandemic has changed all of that, of course.  I only go out for necessities, and no one is allowed in.  (Well...one person is.  This would be my housekeeper gal.  I held off as long as I could, thinking this mess would all be over soon.  Silly me!)  In short, I go whole days--sometimes weeks--without much by way of human conversation/interaction beyond Facebook and Google Hangouts.  Therein lies the reason that I end up relying on ancient memories to write about in my blog.  It's an outlet for me so I don't lose my ever-lovin' mind.

I am aware that my blog is stark.  No pictures or fancy borders.  (That's a learning curve for me.)  Basically just words.  I read other blogs of people I don't know and envy their styles and visual aplomb.  Thus, I understand that my blog isn't significant except to me and my family.   

One day this week, my phone rang.  Yikes!  My phone never rings, except for telemarketing or fundraising calls.  The Caller ID said it was from an Unknown Name, and the area code was a bit wonky, so I figured it was a scam or telemarketer and didn't pick up.

A couple of minutes later, I got called from that very same number.  Hmmm....  It's not like telemarketers to call back so soon, so I did pick up.  A heavily-accented female voice on the other end asked if she was talking to Peggy.  Aha!  Must be a scammer.  My response was, "Who is this?"  As she started to talk, I recognized her accent as Australian.  Usually scammers or telemarketers have Indian or Nigerian accents.  We didn't have the best connection, but as she was telling me who she was, I recognized the word "blog".  I asked her to speak slower because the combination of accent and connection was making it difficult for me to follow, but we finally got it right.  

Her name is Libby, short for "Elizabeth".  She was calling from Adelaide, Australia, where is was 2:00 AM.  She just wanted to chat for a bit because--and this is what blows my mind--she follows my blog and read something there that worried her about my health.  Wait!  "You read my blog in Australia??"  After I took my jaw up off the floor, we talked.  Libby is eight years younger than I, a mother and grandmother.  We chit-chatted for almost 20 minutes on her nickel.  (Would hate to see the bill on that call!)  And when it was all over, I was shocked, amazed, and thrilled.  Someone in another country--continent, actually--not only reads my lowly blog but says she likes my style!  And you know what?  I like her style, too.  How many people do you know would pick up the phone and call a blogger just to touch bases?  (I have no clue how she got my phone number, but there is no privacy on the internet these days.)  

It's that latter part that makes my daughter totally suspicious, and rightly so.  Meg said, "How many people do you know who read a blog and say, 'I think I'll just pick up the phone and call the author?' Be careful, Mom."  I was being careful.  My conversation with Libby had to do with health and family, and the benefit of cloth "nappies" (diapers) over disposables.  (She's about to become a grandma again.)  

So, Libby from Australia, if you aren't for real, don't tell me!  For what it's worth, you made my day when you called.  I'm still in awe that, somehow, you found my blog and stuck with it.  Thanks for the boost!           

Some Funny School Stories

 Not everything involved in education is dead-on serious.  Sometimes an event is funny.  Sometimes an event is funny only if you were there.  In the major scheme of things, all of the events are worth telling.

Over the course of my teaching career, I was also scheduled to direct school plays, because I was certified in Speech/Theater as well as English.  Since 100% of my teaching career was spent in semi-rural school districts whose focus was always on sports and NOT the arts, it was a balancing act to find kids who were available to be in plays instead of on The Team.  (Don't get me started!!)  In all of the schools, there was a stage, which may or may not have been raised above floor level, and a stage curtain, in a multipurpose room. (Never an auditorium.)  No other amenities even remotely resembling a real stage.  And budget?  Ha!

Picking a play was the hard part.  I had to make certain that the required sets weren't above our capabilities and that the available "talent" was adequate.  There were always more girls than boys that tried out.  Then, too, I couldn't pick anything too popular due to royalties and cost of scripts, but I also didn't want to put on silly little school pot-boilers.  Blah!

I can't always tell you which play was what in the course of the funny stuff, but here it is:

1.  I was a directing a Gay Nineties Melodrama, complete with villain, hero, and sweet heroine.  One actual performance night, the villain put his gun in the back of his pants instead of his pocket where he usually did.  When it was time to draw his gun and aim it threateningly at the hero, he slapped his pockets but couldn't find the gun.  Ever the trouper, the kid pulled a finger gun out of his pocket.  What made this funnier than even I could have imagined was that the audience could see the gun in the back of his pants all the while.  It was the biggest laugh of the show, and the poor kid didn't have a clue!

2.  Another play, I enlisted the help of one of my ham radio friends.  He is blind and had a lovable blonde labrador named Sparky as his service dog.  He helped me with some of the technical stuff, and the kids loved both him and the dog.  We coordinated by radio, with me in the audience area and him backstage.  It worked.

On the night of the last performance, when every director of school plays has to be alert for pranks, a prank happened on stage right in front of me.  Suddenly, my friend and his dog walked across the stage, stopped in the middle, and exclaimed, "Sparky, I don't think this is the restroom."  Then walked off.  I could have shot him!  I accused him of throwing in with the heathens.  He claimed that certain people in the cast had told him that, if he didn't do it, they would de-pants someone on stage.  He thought he was saving me from embarrassment.  Yeah...okay.  Thank goodness, the audience laughed.  Whew!  

3.  That same play, I had a set of non-identical twins in the cast in big parts.  Unbeknownst to me, they had their tonsils taken out just ten days before performance.  Ten days should be enough recovery time from semi-outpatient surgery, right?  Wrong!  Toward the end of dress rehearsal, one of the twins started spitting up blood into a waste can.  Uh oh...  His parents couldn't be reached to come pick him up, so I started the process of shutting down dress rehearsal so I could take him home.  I was the only adult there--the only one with the school authority to be in charge.  I couldn't just leave the other kids to find their way home.  I scrambled to make sure everyone got out and on their way home, then took my sick kid home, out in the "boonies". And THEN, I had to figure out how to replace him in the play the very next night!  

I had a student that was quite competent in front of people.  I called and begged him to replace a cast member on less than a day's notice.  He was willing, God bless him.  I was able to get him excused from all of his classes except one that day.  He spent his whole school day reading script and memorizing lines.  At performance time that evening, his performance wasn't perfect but quite happily adequate!  This whole episode wasn't really funny, but when I look back on it, I think it was.  We all survived, and Rob (our young savior) got to take a special bow.  I could do a Happy Dance!

4.  On performance nights, I made it a point to be in the back of the audience rather than backstage.  My rationale was that I had, by that time, done everything I could do for the show.  The performances were now up to the cast.  I always checked in backstage between acts to encourage the kids, etc., but I wasn't present there during performance.  

This particular stage had an anteroom, used as a small classroom during school days, that had steps and a door leading up to the Stage Right area.  The kids could use that room for their Stage Right entrances and exits.  

During one play's final performance, I was in the back of the audience at my usual perch when I could hear rumbling noises that I couldn't identify.  It was internal.  No thunderstorm or anything outside.  In the break between acts, I went backstage to ask what all the rumbling was.  The slightly-older brother of one of my young actresses stepped in to say, "My sister and [insert female name] got into a physical fight, but it's okay, Ms. McNary.  I took care of it."  It was as if he were a cop, saying, "Move on.  Nothing to see here, folks."  Except I--the one in charge--was the one he was saying it to!  It tickled me that I was being protected from the reality of what happened.  Funny?  Well...maybe just amusing.  

After greeting the audience at the end of the performance, and breaking the set, when I thought everyone had gone home, I departed the school building only to discover the Sheriff there, talking with the father of one of the girls pressing charges against the other.  Ugh!  Since I was in charge of the whole event--although I hadn't witnessed the altercation between the girls--I checked to see if anything was required of me before I went home.  I was assured that nothing was, so I left.  

For weeks, I waited for the shoe to drop that I would, somehow, be held responsible for the fight between two adolescent girls, but it didn't happen.  YEARS later, I was in a restaurant with my daughter and husband when I ran into the older brother who had taken control of the backstage fight.  We both laughed about the ridiculousness of the whole situation.  Love it!

5.  One of the biggest laughs I ever had in my teaching career happened in an event with one really sweet fourth grade girl in my class.  Her desk was right in front of me in front of the class.  That day, I noticed that she had a small tube of Vaseline with her.  She had it in her mouth, holding the crimped end between her teeth, and flicking it up and down with her fingers.  In the middle of a lesson, I heard a *CRACK* and looked down at her.  The tube had broken.  The kid now had a big blob of Vaseline on her lip, and all she could do was stick her lip out and go "Duuuurrr..." and point to her face.  It was hysterical!  The child knew I wasn't laughing at her but rather at the predictable situation.  I let her go to the restroom to clean up her face, but the student and I still laugh about it to this day.  Nothing like a glob of Vaseline to make things funny!    

        

School Stories That Involve Administration

 I already told the story of how I was chastised for not tutoring a student who was not on my list to tutor, and others, involving administration.  Allow me to move on with other stories in the same vein.

1.  I was attending an interview for a teaching position in an elementary building in the south suburbs of Chicago.  (Back in the early 70s.)  The principal who was interviewing me was a long and lanky guy, reminiscent of Abraham Lincoln but without the beard.  Late in the interview, he took me on a building tour.  In one room, he led me into a storage closet, and suddenly, he got personal.  He looked in my eyes and put his hand on my shoulder.  It was, at best, creepy.  I felt very uncomfortable and found a way to duck out of that storeroom.  I never mentioned it to a soul because, after all, I could have been wrong about his intentions?  Yeah...no.  I got that job but that particular administrator either retired or was fired before I ever set foot in the classroom.  Thank God!

2.  Once, I volunteered to do Homebound Instruction for a young man who had been in my class before his disability hit.  His disability?  He had gone to Florida on spring break, got into some sort of cocaine called "ice", and had a psychotic episode.  He wasn't emotionally fit to return to school, and his doctors wondered if he would ever be mentally "right" again.  He hadn't exactly been a stellar student even before the vacation trip.

The principal told me that, under no circumstances, was I allowed to cut this kid a break.  He had to do whatever I assigned or would be cut off from Homebound Instruction.  I took it to heart.  Sometime into my experiences with this student at home, I came to understand that he just wasn't doing anything, so I wrote a memo to the principal to report what was going on.  At the very top of the memo subject line was "confidential"...and then I cut loose, thinking what I was writing was confidential between professionals.  I was wrong.

Sometime after that, in one of my visits with the student, he mentioned having the memo.  Surely not!  He said the principal had shared it with him...not only shared the contents, but GAVE him a printed copy!  So much for confidentiality!  I confessed to the student that I had, indeed, written that and asked if I could keep the copy.  He gave it to me.  Interestingly, neither the kid nor his parents seemed angry with me, but you'd better bet I was angry with the principal!  He had violated a sacred professional trust and totally embarrassed me.  I never confronted him with it, but I should have.  He was known to lie to save his own rear, so I had no hope that he would admit to betraying me.  I never trusted him again.  Lesson learned: never put something in writing that can be used against you, unless it is required.  

I'm sure I will think of other stories.  Wish I had a way to organize things things by topic rather than simply as a recall them.  

Teaching the Teacher School Story

 Many's the time over the course of my 40-year teaching career, people have told me, "I could never be a teacher.  I don't have the patience for it.  I would probably end up in jail for hurting someone."  Yeah...I get that.  Sometimes, I could have been the person saying it!  

I'd always been told that the first five years are the hardest, until you find your stride.  Your rhythm.  Five years?  Yeah, right!  If you move around at all and/or have your teaching assignment changed, you are starting back at Year One again.  Preparing new units, new assignments, new worksheets and tests takes up 90% of your time and half of your summer.  And here are some things the teacher (me) learned:

1.  You have no idea what skills the students do or do not have when you start out.  Once, when I was teaching fourth grade--which was a little lower down in my area of experience but still within my certification--we had a math lesson right out of the math book that required measurement using a ruler.  I was shocked to discover that my students had no clue how to use a ruler.  Measuring?  No.  Rulers were for catapulting paper wads into the air or vibrating on the edge of the desk!  The kids hadn't really had fractions yet, so finding a half-inch or quarter-inch on a ruler was Greek to them.  I had to scrap the lesson in the book and go back to develop a skill the math book company assumed the kids had.  Could I blame previous teachers for not teaching measuring skills?  Not on your life!  I had seen so many times before that skills that had been taught in previous years were either forgotten or not mastered in the first place.  The measuring lesson is only one example of times that I had to drop my assumptions in favor of teaching/reteaching things that had been (or should have been) already taught.

2.  You create a lesson that will take up the whole period.  Ha!  First teacher lesson is:  OVERPLAN.  Some students are faster than others (for many reasons, most of which have nothing to do with intelligence).  The fast ones will race through the assignment and have it done in ten minutes.  What are they supposed to do for the rest of the period while the others continue to work?  Left to their own devices, the kids will take control of the classroom out of boredom or frustration.  They need to know what to do after they finish what you thought would take the whole period.  Sigh.

3.  You can't please everyone.  (See #2 above.)  In an effort to even out the effort, you might buddy-up the students, a faster one with a slower one.  Research shows that, under the right circumstances, both students will benefit.  Tell that to the parents!  Parents of the faster students will gripe that their kids are being held back by the slower ones.  Parents of the slower students will gripe that their kids are being traumatized by dealing with the faster ones.  And then, of course, there is the phenomenon of the faster buddy doing all the work while the slower one is happy to be relieved of it.  It only works on paper.  I gave it up after a while.  Not worth the grief.  (Once, while teaching fourth grade, I paired a responsible student with a slower one to administer the spelling test which the latter had missed the previous Friday due to absence.  The kid turned in a perfect test, which was highly unusual for him.  When I questioned the test-giver, I inquired if he had, perhaps, supplied the answers?  His lower lip began to tremble and he confessed, "He asked me to".  Peer pressure is a powerful thing, even at that level.)      

4.  The parents are worse than the kids about not following directions.  Yes, it's true.  Every year at field trip time, we had to do battle with parents who hadn't sent in signed permission slips, etc.  When our district went to software to keep track of assignments and student grades, to which the parents were privy if they signed in, I had a parent get upset with ME because his kid had failed a memory assignment.  We traded a number of emails.  I made memory assignments never less than four weeks before due (usually more like 5-6 weeks).  I gave weekly warnings in class.  The parent complained that he--the parent--didn't know about the assignment, or he would have made it happen.  I countered with, "Maybe you didn't, but your son did."  Just to resolve the situation, I gave the kid until the following Monday to learn it--three days away.  Needless to say, the student still failed it.  I think he and his father both were pulling a scam to get the kid out of realizing the consequences of his protected behavior.  

5.  There is no honor among thieves.  This might seem a bit damning, but kids in trouble eventually will rat on their accomplices when they realize they could be going down alone with consequences.  Then, too, there are others who witness things with other students for whom they feel no loyalty and will tell the truth--sometimes simply volunteering the info without being asked.  They also talk among themselves about things.  If the teacher is vigilant and listening to the rumor mills, much truth can be discerned.  There are so many examples of this that I could cite, but one big one comes to mind.  My classroom was close to the student restrooms.  Close to the bell, someone reported that the girls' room smelled of cigarette smoke.  A kid in the next classroom who was waiting for the bell to ring, saw me and reported which of our young ladies was in there, smoking, which prompted the admin to check the surveillance cameras.  Before the next period even started, the young smoker was nabbed and sent home, complaining about her stupid luck of having been caught almost before the nicotine could hit her bloodstream!  

6.  There are "teachable moments" that are more important than the curriculum.  By the time kids hit middle school, they have already learned that if they can distract the teacher from the lesson, they might get off without the boring stuff or homework assignments.  What they don't know is that experienced teachers know all about that but deliberately choose to allow their lesson plan to get derailed in favor of something that might be more meaningful.  We call those teachable moments.  Of course, some students get frustrated because they think the teacher is being manipulated, but they eventually take part in the conversation on a personal level.  (See #3 above.)  In any case, I was one of those teachers who would willingly leave a lesson plan behind.  I mostly taught literature, which is a finger on the pulse of mankind and had roots in history.  We can't separate them successfully.  It was my job, I hoped, to make kids think critically about the written word and their place in society.  With some of my classes, I was merely trying to keep the lid on.  I understood that English and literature wouldn't be a big part of their future lives.  But some students got it, I think.  I was never selected to go to the Top Ten Banquet for seniors, which meant that I wasn't special to them, but the kids a hair lower down the ladder still remember me.  I don't think I was a great teacher, but no one can ever accuse me of not caring about my kids.  Some of them, I am still helping 11 years after retiring.

7.  Teachers simply don't know how they will touch the lives of their students.  Know what I remember about my elementary teachers?  I remember my 2nd grade teacher because she gave me an "adult" book to read, Miracle on 34th Street, because she knew that I was ahead of the class in everything.  Do you have any idea how special that made me feel? 

 I also remember a teacher who shamed me by making fun of my finger painting.  It was Thanksgiving time.  She told us we could paint anything.  Everyone else did turkeys.  I did a design because I didn't want to do what everyone else was doing.  She actually took me around the perimeter of the room where the pictures were drying on the floor and made fun of my picture.  "Everyone else did turkeys, but just look at what you did!"  This same teacher also read my math paper to the class to shame me because I got all of the answers wrong.  They were money subtraction problems, and the question at the end of each was, "Is the change right?"  I read "change" as "chance", and though I puzzled about it, I just guessed about the chances that the change was right.  I was too shy to ask questions, of course, so I messed up the whole paper and got shamed for it.  I never got the opportunity to explain.

My sister and I were enrolled in a rural K-12 school near my grandparents' farm when we returned to the States from Japan, in February of 1958.  I was the new kid in a tentative situation, as usual.  I was in the latter half of 5th grade.  I was a good student, even if a bit shy, especially in a new situation.  The teacher--can't even remember her name--had a glass/ceramic bell on her desk that she rang when she was taking away all of part of recess.  The class hated that bell!  I went up to her desk one day to ask a question and somehow managed to knock that bell off her desk, which broke into pieces on the floor.  Her first words were, "Oh no!  I have had that bell for (pick your own number) years!"  While the class silently celebrated, I was mortified.  I told the story to my family when I went home.  We went out and shopped for a bell to replace the one I had accidentally broken.  When I delivered it to the teacher, she said, "You didn't need to do that.  The other bell just came with some bath salts."  To this day, this is the ONLY thing I remember about this teacher.

I've always been so aware of the impressions that I might make as a teacher.  Some loved me.  Some hated me.  I did the best I could.  As with raising your own kids, you hope the love shines through the discipline.  

I've had students who were living with grandparents because both parents were in prison for different reasons.  I've had students who didn't know what bus to get on because no one had custody of them.  I've had students who were inspired enough about their lives to share their triumphs with me.  I've had students who went on to become pharmacists and doctors and medical assistants, and others who became electrical linemen, tow truck drivers with the BIG stuff, airplane mechanics, and welders.  I hope to GOD I never discouraged a one of them because of anything I did or said.  

I learned almost everything there was to learn, but only just before it was time to retire.  You never stop learning, and you never stop teaching.  And guess what?  The "you" is all of us!       

Leg Update

 Why am I writing this stuff in my blog??  I guess I always consider that someone else might be suffering from the same thing and might be interested.  Yeah...let's go with that.

My cardiologist prescribed a diuretic to reduce the swelling in my legs.  He prescribed one pill per day.  Didn't do a thing.  So I increased it to two (on his recommendation).  I piddled more but the swelling in my legs didn't go down.  I gave that up, probably too soon, but it is what it is.

Meanwhile, my toenails were out of control.  Hadn't been cut since December.  I really can't reach them to cut them myself.  I was told that a podiatrist could handle that via insurance (instead of nail salons) and I would get foot care in the process.  My cardio doc recommended seeing a podiatrist, so this Tuesday, I did, and boy! am I glad I did!  We are at least on track to figure out what's going on with my poor legs.  Had blood tests today and am on an antibiotic for cellulitis (although it doesn't seem to be helping with the heat and redness).  I just keep on pluggin'.  

The Old Gray Mare, she ain't what she used to be!

Still Another School Story...Yet Again

 When I was teaching high school--sophomores, I think--I had an issue that started before class even began.  As the kids entered the classroom, one young man put another in a headlock and wouldn't let go.  The other kid was struggling and fussing, and I was in a quandary about what to do.  Single female teacher alone in a classroom with two boys about to get into real fisticuffs before class even started.  Whoa!

The offender said, "I'm not gonna hurt him, Ms. McNary.  I just want him to stop running his mouth!"  I had no clue what had gone on in the hallways to cause all of this.  All I knew was that it was up to me to stop this, somehow, before it escalated with class about to start.  

I was considering my options in the few seconds I had.  I gathered my courage and went over close to the boys and said, "I'm going to ask this in the nicest way I know how:  Please stop!"  To my total shock and surprise, the aggressive kid let the other one go, and the one who was released didn't fight back.  The incident was over.

Wait.  That WORKS?  All I have to do is ask them to stop, and they will????  Wow!  I felt so powerful in the moment, but in reality understood that the result only happened because of the one kid who respected me enough to let go when I asked.  I got lucky!  I had to write him up for the encounter.  He took his punishment like a man.  He went on to become a Marine after high school, and a union welder after that.  

That same young man, while still in my class, said something disrespectful to another English teacher as our classes shared the Media Center one day.  She told me about it, and I knew that it was my job to fix it.  I asked her what she would consider an acceptable outcome.  She said an apology might be nice.  Wow...how to get this kid to apologize for something he felt righteous about seemed impossible.  Nevertheless, I tried.  I hauled the young man into the hallway with me and the offended teacher.  As we talked, he came full circle to say he'd screwed up and was sorry for being disrespectful to her.  He fully apologized to the other teacher, and my jaw dropped to the floor and stayed there for a very long time.  I hadn't even asked him to do it!  Of course, it didn't hurt my pride that the other teacher was impressed with the way I had handled the situation, but the truth is that I was flying by the seat of my pants.  Sometimes there are surprises!  I am a Facebook friend with this fellow now.  God works in mysterious ways!     

A Bullying School Story

 Teaching school is stressful but not always for the reasons one might think.  It's a juggling act, complete with balls in the air while walking a tightrope, and spectators that either cheer you on or hope you fall to your death.  If you are the teacher, you are on stage, all day, every day, trying to serve each student as an individual while still maintaining the integrity of each class as a whole.  It's exhausting, but sometimes it just breaks your heart. 

Where there are kids, there is bullying.  It's especially bad at the middle school level for both genders.  Hormones, emerging personalities, home environments, etc., all come together to create...well...problems.  Particularly in 8th grade, which is what I taught for the last five or six years of my teaching career.  Some days, it seemed that all I accomplished was to put out brush fires to prevent the whole forest from going up in flames.

One particular class each year had the bulk of my special education kids in it, mainstreamed with the rest.  This actually gave me a special ed. aide for that period to help me keep ahead of learning modifications for the kids.  We made it work.  I had one young man in that class that year whose name I no longer remember.  I'll call him Paul.  Paul was notably autistic, plus he had a speech impediment that caused him to stutter and sound weird to the other students...but he was smart.  One grading period of that year, he had the highest grade in the class, and I made note of it on his report card.  Paul needed all of the good vibes he could get!  Paul had been picked on so much in his young life that he had developed anger issues.  Teachers who knew him knew when he was about ready to blow.  His eyes would get wild and his voice get loud.  Because of this, Paul had, as one of his IEP modifications, permission to be sent to a predetermined destination for a cool-down time out.  This wasn't punishment.  It was in recognition that he had been triggered and needed to get away from the source.

In that same class, there were also some good-looking, popular boys who couldn't lower themselves to be kind to Paul.  They loved to push his buttons so they could laugh at him.  I had to be ever-vigilant to keep Paul safe from his bullies, and his bullies safe from the well-earned consequences of whatever they were dishing out.  I hate that.  There is a part of me that wanted to allow Paul's temper to be unleashed on his tormentors, but (obviously), I couldn't.  

One day, I committed a teacher's cardinal sin:  I asked the students to work in groups.  I had to assign a few kids to the groups.  My excuse was to even the numbers out, but it was actually to make certain that someone like Paul would be included.  I gave them an assignment, then moved around the room, as necessary.  The next thing I knew, Paul's eyes were wild as his temper rose.  One of the "studly" boys in his group was insulting him, and he was ready to erupt.  I hadn't witnessed what actually went on but knew the dynamic.  The one I really wanted to have a "talk" with was one that I was forced to protect from Paul's wrath.  Instead, I had Paul come out to the hall with me.

We talked.  I wanted to make sure that he understood that I was sending him to his private time out spot, not for punishment but because I thought he needed a break from the stress.  I explained to him that people who pick on others are actually insecure and feeling inadequate.  And then he said:

"Then they must know how it feels to be me." 

In that moment, my heart broke.  My eyes puddled up.  I could hardly speak.  I made sure that he knew I felt he made more sense than his classmates, and when I could pull myself together, we agreed that he shouldn't return to the class that period.  I never actually got over that moment.  I was so very angry with the kids who had perpetrated this circumstance on Paul that I could scarcely be nice to them on my return to the room.  I let them know, in terms that even they would understand, that they weren't as cool as they thought they were and that they should get down on their knees to thank Almighty God that they didn't share his "imperfect life".  "Would you like to be him, being shamed for things that you can't control?"  I admit, I was nasty.  Somehow, we got through the rest of the year without further problems, but Paul didn't make it through high school.  I heard that an incident had caused him to be sent home for homebound instruction.  

All this many years later, I still wonder whatever became of Paul...   

       

The Return of School Stories

 These stories just hit me at the oddest moment.  I haven't repeated any, so far.  The hits just keep on coming!

Sarcasm when dealing with students, even almost-adult students, is never a good idea.  Still, there are times when only sarcasm works.  

Usually, at the end of each period--but always at the end of the day--when the last kid left the classroom, I would go around picking up the trash, pencils, and whatever other stuff the kids had left behind before it was left to the custodians.  One day, I picked up a worksheet that had been handed back, graded, to a senior in my last class.  This particular kid was the son of a police officer.  I'll call him Tyler.

On the trashed paper, which had a failing grade on it, were the words, "Fuck you Ms. McNary."  The words weren't on the paper when I graded it, so I assumed that was Tyler's disapproval of the grade he got.  And then, somehow, he managed to leave it on the floor in the back of the room where he sat.  Did he want it to get found?  Was he just careless?  I don't know, but I decided to keep the paper.

I'd had some minor problems with Tyler.  Nothing much...just not necessary.  The next day, sure enough, Tyler did something to bring negative, smart-aleck attention to himself.  I dealt with it, then said: 

 "Oh...by the way, Tyler, I got your love note yesterday.  You know...the one that said, 'F--- you, Ms. McNary'?  Thank you!  That's probably the best offer I've had all week.  I AM single, you know."

The kids around him were now reacting:  "Ewwwww...Tyler...busted!"  They were all quite attentive now.  Tyler's face got red.  He asked if he could have the paper back.  I said no.  When he asked why, I told him I was keeping it for evidence.  

And that was the end of it.  I never did another thing with or about that paper, but he had to have spent at least a couple of days waiting for the school or his parents to drop the bomb on him.  The anticipation should have given him a little malaise.  I hope he learned something from it.  I know I wasn't proud of myself but did get a great deal of personal satisfaction from FINALLY being able to one-up a smartass!

That same year, or close, our district broke ground to build a new elementary school.  The old elementary was attached to the Jr-Sr High, and my seniors watched the destruction of what once was THEIR playground from my classroom windows at the beginning of each class.  I took advantage of the occasion and assigned a theme--a memoir of their youngers days on that playground.  What I got were some of the most heart-felt and personal experiences of their young lives, already looking back at themselves when they were less mature and happy.  I loved reading those themes!  Obviously, I didn't grade them, but I did read them in class without using the names of the authors.  The kids enjoyed them, too.  It was special!  

Triggered

 I haven't written much lately.  The truth is that I have tried--and failed--several times to organize my thoughts enough to make sense of them fit enough for others to read.  My mind rambles on and spins in wide circles of logic and reason.  Am I insane?  Am I demented?  Am I alone in my frustrations?  I don't think so, but I'm trying to keep it together when the rest of the world has gone nuts.  Or so it seems to me.

Growing old is hard enough all by itself.  Having to accept that I can no longer do things that used to give me joy--many, but not all of them due to my own stupidity through the years of taking care of everyone but myself.  But that's another topic, altogether.  I have not grown disabled gracefully.  I have fought it every step of the way--complaining and whining the entire time.  You don't need to feel sorry for me because I feel sorry for myself enough for all of us.  Still, I've been fighting my own battles with limited success.

Then along came Donald Trump.  I consider myself to be a pretty good judge of character.  I never cared for D. Trump as a private citizen whose life was quite public.  When he decided to go into politics, I considered it a joke.  America was too smart to elect this man...and then they did.  I took it personally.  I was mortified!  I became seriously depressed by all that I was seeing, and that depression remains to this day.  In fact, every day is some new nail in the coffin of his flagrant violation of law in this wonderful nation of ours.  I have inadvertently been radicalized against Donald Trump just by listening to/watching him.  No other influences.  And now, we are in another election cycle, and the hits just keep on coming.  

I freely admit that news from or about Mr. Trump triggers me into sarcasm and dark moods.  It raises my blood pressure and keeps me angry, which I don't need.  I simply can't stand the man.  I don't like to look at him, and I don't like to hear him speak.  I have stopped watching national news, from any source.  I've stopped reading the comments after articles on Facebook.  I have tried to be a voice of reason in an unreasonable world, but sometimes that feels empty and unheard.  

And then along came COVID-19.  It was predicted.  It came.  It's still here.  I am high risk, so I've had to isolate myself more than what I already was.  I had to cancel two trips to Seattle for family celebrations.  Everything shut down.  I was lonely before, but COVID made it worse.  I wore a mask.  I stayed at home.  I allowed no one in my house, and I went nowhere.  I washed my hands and used hand sanitizer when I couldn't.  I did it all so that the pandemic might be shortened and I might be spared long enough to see my beloved family again.  Unfortunately, a bunch of Americans decided that they shouldn't be fettered by restrictions, so they refused to follow the advice of health officials and even state governors.  And the resistance was led by none other than "our" president, Donald Trump.  So now, so many months later, there has been no progress with conquering the virus, and I am still as isolated and alone as ever--and even more frustrated because I DID what was asked, while others didn't, and now I am classified as a sheep...afraid of my own shadow...a "Boomer" who could very well die of other things before the virus comes around.  True, I guess.

I confess that I am terrified.  I live alone.  My daughter and family live 2,000 miles away under quarantines of their own.  If I were to fall victim to my age or the virus, my only child wouldn't be able to be with me for my last breath.  I don't particularly relish the idea of dying alone, yet I have this unnerving feeling that I will never get to see my family again.  But nobody wants to hear that from me because they don't know how to deal with the unfortunate truth.  

A couple of days ago, I received an email "forward" from the leader of my adult Sunday school class.  She said it was "something to think about".  It was political, starting out as something for Christians to read on both sides of the political fence, as if it was going to be a study of bipartisanship for people of faith.  It included lots of !!  and even more capital letters.  The bottom line conclusion was that the only voting choice for true Christians was Donald Trump.  Yikes!  I was instantly triggered!  My BP went up.  I saw red and didn't know what to do with my ire.  My knee-jerk reaction was to respond to the email with a nasty note, but I truly love the woman that sent it and didn't want to risk offending her.

I called my friend Judy who also goes to my church.  She is of the "other" persuasion, which is the reason we don't talk politics, but I knew she would have calming words.  And then I put a call in to my pastor, asking that he or his wife (whom I know and love) would call back.  SHE did, from Memphis, TN, where they were vacationing at their daughter's.  I mentioned why I was calling, and she put her husband with us on speaker.  We talked and prayed together.  We discussed the best way for me to deal with the situation.  I left the call feeling better.

The next day (yesterday), with a whole day between me and the offensive email, I had a choice between writing an email in response or just calling to talk to the sender.  I decided to call.  I'm so glad I did!  We talked about so many things--laughed together, cried together, and expressed our love for each other.  I got my point across in non-offensive ways (or so I think).  I felt good about it.

Still, nothing has changed.  Doesn't take much to trigger me, but I am trying to comprehend the other side of every side of every story.  I'm still alone.  I still don't like Donald Trump.  I'm still at risk for the Covid virus.  I'm working overtime to save myself from the things that trigger me, but it ain't easy!