In the movie Coal Miner's Daughter, Moody Lynn describes his wife, famed country singer Loretta Lynn, as "ignorant". In his case, he used the term in both the pejorative way and the literal way. Loretta had lived a life of poverty and ignorance of the ways of the world. She wasn't stupid. She just didn't know things that others outside of the hills and hollers of Kentucky knew.
These days, if someone calls you ignorant, you can bet they mean that you are stupid...dumb...unable to comprehend even the most obvious things. The literal meaning of the word, however, has to do with lack of knowledge and experience...simply not knowing. I like that definition better. If you were to plunk me down in the middle of a roomful of computer programmers, I would be lost...ignorant. I don't know the jargon. I wouldn't have a clue what to say or even how to act, even though I'm not stupid. Put me in a roomful of educators, however, and I would get it. I would know most of the lingo (although I've been retired for nine years now, and things do change). Still, I have experience and understanding for the latter that I do not have for the former. Make sense?
Having said that, I was in shock this past week when I saw online videos of two women in two separate incidents in two separate places in the country being attacked/intimidated by white males--one because she was wearing a shirt that had Puerto Rico on it, and the other for no reason at all except that she was a woman of color. She was sitting all by herself at a table outside of an establishment, quietly reading. Alcohol was quite obviously involved in the first case...and maybe the second. Still...
In the first case, the woman with the Puerto Rico shirt had arrived at a park shelter in Chicago--a shelter she had reserved by paying a fee--and was waiting for her family to arrive to celebrate her birthday in the park. A man nearby took umbrage at the fact that she was wearing a shirt that represented the Puerto Rican flag. He gave her a hard time about wearing it in America...as if she had no right to do so, as if she weren't an American citizen. (Sooo many people, including our president, Donald Trump, seem not to understand that the people of Puerto Rico are American citizens!) He got alarmingly close to her in a way that seemed threatening. All the while, within sight and earshot, was a police officer outside of his vehicle that had ICE (Immigrations and Customs Enforcement) written on the side. (I'm somewhat curious about why that officer was there, to begin with. Did he think he was going to grab some illegals at a Puerto Rico birthday party? I'd still like to know.) In spite of at least three or four requests from the woman to the officer that the offending man be removed from her presence, the officer did absolutely nothing. It's all on video.
In the second instance, an African-American woman was sitting, all alone, at a table outside an establishment, reading something. A man came at her, swinging what looked like a piece of metal pipe. No provocation whatsoever. He came very close to hitting her. The only thing that saved her was the action of another person on the premises who moved in and backed the dude down. I'm not sure the police were called on this one. I just know that the poor woman just packed up her stuff and left. (Need to research this one a bit more.)
As ridiculous as this sounds, these incidents cut me to the core--not because of the obvious display of ignorant racism. Neither of these men knew the women they were attacking. Also not because they were (probably) both drunk, because people do stupid/ignorant things when their inhibitions are removed by booze. What bothered me the most was the fact that both of the men in question weren't gang bangers...weren't thug kids...weren't arrogant young know-it-alls. They were old folks, like me.
They were Baby Boomers...men who were raised in the same generation as I, having been through the same experiences in society as Baby Boomers. We survived (translate: lived through) the assassination of President Kennedy, the assassination of Robert Kennedy, Malcomb X, and Martin Luther King. We got through the Kent State University massacre; the Vietnam War with all of the protests nationwide; the resignation of President Richard Nixon. We endured the integration of schools in the south amid anger and hatred. We went through the freedom marches, with MLK, Rosa Parks, and the church bombings and senseless racial murders. I THOUGHT we Baby Boomers had been through enough together that we at least agreed that life is too precious to risk it by acting ignorantly. I was wrong.
I don't like to be wrong.
I have no clue what particular burr was under their bonnets to make those guys behave like idiots.
The guy at the park has now been charged with two felony counts of hate crimes, and the policeman on location has resigned.
I'm not sure what happened with the other incident.
I'm willing to bet that nothing will come of it beyond what has already happened. No one was hurt, in either case. The first guy had a history with police, which means they probably think he's harmless, even when drunk. That, of course, doesn't help the young woman who felt threatened.
I feel threatened, too.
Do NOT remove my sense of security in being an American in America.
Do NOT pretend that your "rights" in this great country of ours usurp the rights of others.
Do NOT show yourself to be ignorant of what is good and right by pretending that you are a Christian (if you do) and still behave like a heathen.
People who do this kind of thing are as ignorant as the people who crucified Jesus. They followed the crowd and listened to the wrong voices in their ears. At his death, Jesus said, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do." He had more forgiveness than I do. Jurisprudence says "Ignorance is no excuse of the law". I just want it all to stop!!
Sunday, July 15, 2018
Saturday, July 14, 2018
Salvation?
Eleven years ago this month--July of 2007--I survived a ruptured brain aneurysm. I still don't know why. I was visiting at my sister's near Springfield, IL. Was violently sick to my stomach, with a horrible headache. My neck also hurt. I didn't even feel well enough to let my sister take me to medical care until the middle of the next afternoon. I just thought I had picked up a mega-bug.
The next day, a trip to prompt care sent me to a hospital for a CT scan on my head...and the rest is history. I was life-lined to Peoria's St. Francis Hospital to their neuroscience department and found myself in the ICU. A full day after that, I experienced a craniotomy so the aneurysm could be clipped.
My ICU roommate was a woman who didn't survive her ruptured brain aneurysm. She was being kept alive for organ transplant purposes. I didn't know this. I had commented to my male nurse that I didn't want to disturb her with the TV. His comment was, "I WISH you could disturb her. She had the same thing you have, but she didn't make it." My surgeon's nurse came to me before surgery to let me know that I was, so far, one of only 20% of sufferers to survive a brain bleed like mine without disabilities. She said that 60% of ruptured aneurysm victims don't even make it to the hospital. At no time did I ever think I was going to die. I was a fool. I could have died...should have died...and would have died had something or someONE not stopped the bleeding in my head long enough for surgery to take place.
Did I get lucky? Why should I get lucky then? I'd never been lucky before!
And no one was praying for me because no one, including my poor daughter, even knew I was in trouble. I was praying, of course, but more for relief than salvation. I just wanted the nausea to stop because I had no clue how seriously ill I was. My dear sister was just doing what she had to do to get me to a doctor. I'm not sure she had time to pray. It all happened so fast...
No, I was saved by God's grace. The Creator of the universe had somehow decided that He wasn't finished with me yet. I have no clue why. I've never done anything exemplary. I haven't lived a sinless life. I'm not a stellar example of how to live. What God gave me that day, besides life, was reason to believe that I still had work to do before it was my turn to go. I'm not always sure what that work is, but I'm trying to understand, even all these years later.
I'll get there, Lord. Please be patient with me!
The next day, a trip to prompt care sent me to a hospital for a CT scan on my head...and the rest is history. I was life-lined to Peoria's St. Francis Hospital to their neuroscience department and found myself in the ICU. A full day after that, I experienced a craniotomy so the aneurysm could be clipped.
My ICU roommate was a woman who didn't survive her ruptured brain aneurysm. She was being kept alive for organ transplant purposes. I didn't know this. I had commented to my male nurse that I didn't want to disturb her with the TV. His comment was, "I WISH you could disturb her. She had the same thing you have, but she didn't make it." My surgeon's nurse came to me before surgery to let me know that I was, so far, one of only 20% of sufferers to survive a brain bleed like mine without disabilities. She said that 60% of ruptured aneurysm victims don't even make it to the hospital. At no time did I ever think I was going to die. I was a fool. I could have died...should have died...and would have died had something or someONE not stopped the bleeding in my head long enough for surgery to take place.
Did I get lucky? Why should I get lucky then? I'd never been lucky before!
And no one was praying for me because no one, including my poor daughter, even knew I was in trouble. I was praying, of course, but more for relief than salvation. I just wanted the nausea to stop because I had no clue how seriously ill I was. My dear sister was just doing what she had to do to get me to a doctor. I'm not sure she had time to pray. It all happened so fast...
No, I was saved by God's grace. The Creator of the universe had somehow decided that He wasn't finished with me yet. I have no clue why. I've never done anything exemplary. I haven't lived a sinless life. I'm not a stellar example of how to live. What God gave me that day, besides life, was reason to believe that I still had work to do before it was my turn to go. I'm not always sure what that work is, but I'm trying to understand, even all these years later.
I'll get there, Lord. Please be patient with me!
Tuesday, July 10, 2018
When a Policeman Dies
Our men and women in blue have a special fraternity. Policeman, fireman, EMT, whatever...they consider themselves "brothers" in the purest sense of the word, even though many of them are women. (I don't take offense to that, as a woman. I totally understand it.) When one of them dies, whether from natural causes or in the line of duty, they have a sort of rite of passage. Online, at least, they each check in with their respects, and then say something to the effect of, "Rest in peace, brother. We'll take it from here."
I don't know why this moves me so. It's an acceptance of continuity, that the work will carry on in their name. A recognition that their dedication and their work will be unbroken, in spite of their passing. It's as if the mourners are taking on the burden of the work yet unfinished. And it occurs to me that I've been there.
The night my grandfather died--long story--he had been in an unresponsive coma for a week. He'd had some sort of bowel blockage that was causing him extreme pain. He was 89 years old. The doctors really didn't want to operate on him because of his age, but the alternative was to have him live/die in excruciating pain. He never came out of the anesthetic. When his body finally decided to give out once and for all, I was the only family member the hospital could reach because his daughters had gone out together after their week-long vigil. I knew where they were, so I called them, then headed to the hospital. The daughters were 25 miles away. I was in the hospital town, so I got there first.
When I arrived at my grandfather's room, the nurse said, "When I called you, I was going to tell you that Mr. Armstrong had expired, but it seems that he has rallied some." He was still unconscious and unresponsive, but his vital signs were still going, monitored by all kinds of sensors on his body. And then, after just a few minutes, his vital signs faded into nothingness...and he was gone. It was as if he was waiting for someone from the family to be there to be with him in his passing, and I was the chosen one by default. It was up to me to be the adult for my mother and my aunt who were on their way. Circumstances had passed the torch to me, as if my grandfather had. "I am passing. Now you need to take care of my children as I once took care of them." I asked the nurse to remove the tubes, etc., from my dear grandfather so his daughters would see him in a more natural state. I shed some tears of my own, then went to wait by the elevator for the arrival of my mother and her sister. "It's okay, Popo. I'll take it from here."
No one will ever, ever convince me that it was all coincidence. When my family stepped out of the elevator, I was there to meet them and said, simply, "He's gone." My mother slumped in my arms, but I think she understood that a huge burden had been delivered from her shoulders. When she and her sister went into the room to see their father in death, she said, "Oh...that's not so bad."
As stupid as this may sound, my own daughter sent her son on an airplane this afternoon to be with his father for 6-8 weeks. Just getting him on the plane was an exercise in patience and stupidity--the airline's, not the kids'. When his plane finally took off, I felt like telling them to relax and let ME "take it from here". I knew that wouldn't happen, but I was willing to try. I love them all that much. I'm old. The burden isn't that hard for me. Sometimes, all we need is to know that someone has our back, supports us, and helps to carry our burdens. We can't really rest peacefully if we think our mission in life will go undone without us. We need reassurance that someone will carry on in our name.
I think the police traditions have something there...
I don't know why this moves me so. It's an acceptance of continuity, that the work will carry on in their name. A recognition that their dedication and their work will be unbroken, in spite of their passing. It's as if the mourners are taking on the burden of the work yet unfinished. And it occurs to me that I've been there.
The night my grandfather died--long story--he had been in an unresponsive coma for a week. He'd had some sort of bowel blockage that was causing him extreme pain. He was 89 years old. The doctors really didn't want to operate on him because of his age, but the alternative was to have him live/die in excruciating pain. He never came out of the anesthetic. When his body finally decided to give out once and for all, I was the only family member the hospital could reach because his daughters had gone out together after their week-long vigil. I knew where they were, so I called them, then headed to the hospital. The daughters were 25 miles away. I was in the hospital town, so I got there first.
When I arrived at my grandfather's room, the nurse said, "When I called you, I was going to tell you that Mr. Armstrong had expired, but it seems that he has rallied some." He was still unconscious and unresponsive, but his vital signs were still going, monitored by all kinds of sensors on his body. And then, after just a few minutes, his vital signs faded into nothingness...and he was gone. It was as if he was waiting for someone from the family to be there to be with him in his passing, and I was the chosen one by default. It was up to me to be the adult for my mother and my aunt who were on their way. Circumstances had passed the torch to me, as if my grandfather had. "I am passing. Now you need to take care of my children as I once took care of them." I asked the nurse to remove the tubes, etc., from my dear grandfather so his daughters would see him in a more natural state. I shed some tears of my own, then went to wait by the elevator for the arrival of my mother and her sister. "It's okay, Popo. I'll take it from here."
No one will ever, ever convince me that it was all coincidence. When my family stepped out of the elevator, I was there to meet them and said, simply, "He's gone." My mother slumped in my arms, but I think she understood that a huge burden had been delivered from her shoulders. When she and her sister went into the room to see their father in death, she said, "Oh...that's not so bad."
As stupid as this may sound, my own daughter sent her son on an airplane this afternoon to be with his father for 6-8 weeks. Just getting him on the plane was an exercise in patience and stupidity--the airline's, not the kids'. When his plane finally took off, I felt like telling them to relax and let ME "take it from here". I knew that wouldn't happen, but I was willing to try. I love them all that much. I'm old. The burden isn't that hard for me. Sometimes, all we need is to know that someone has our back, supports us, and helps to carry our burdens. We can't really rest peacefully if we think our mission in life will go undone without us. We need reassurance that someone will carry on in our name.
I think the police traditions have something there...
Friday, July 6, 2018
Those Strange Little Moments in Life
There are the little moments in life that leave us scratching our heads in wonder. The bubble over our heads are saying, "Huh? What just happened there?" I've been collecting some of these in my brain just in the interest of trying to connect the dots to a clearer picture. Interestingly, the process of writing them out usually just proves that they make no sense at all! These are not in any particular order:
1. Until recently, it was illegal to purchase package liquors in Indiana on Sunday. I don't think the ban on Sunday alcohol sales was about morality. It was more about the fact that liquor lobbyists wanted the businesses they supported to have a day off but didn't want grocery stores to get a leg up on alcohol sales. One could still have beer and liquor on Sunday if one ate at an establishment that did so-many-dollars-worth of food sales. And the biggest draw of the year for Indiana/Indianapolis-- the Indy 500 race (which always occurs on Memorial Day Sunday)--sells liquor and beer inside the track...OR...spectators can bring their own as long as it isn't in glass containers. We are talking 300,000-500,000 people in one two-mile oval who come two days before the event to pump their money into the local economy, and arrive early in the morning of the race already drunk from the alcohol they had purchased the day(s) before. (I worked the race for my radio club for three or four years. Saw it first-hand.) While the ban on Sunday alcohol sales made Indiana look like a totally pious, Bible-thumping state, the reality is that all it did was create generations of good ol' boy drinkers who were trained, like monkeys, to stock up on Saturday.
2. On the topic of alcohol, I relate this story. Awhile ago, I went to Walmart for the express purpose of purchasing a gallon-sized jug of wine. (I buy it because it's cheap and goes far. Walmart is the only place I frequent that carries it these days.) On my way in, I was welcomed by the disabled greeter whose relief-worker had just shown up. We all three exchanged short pleasantries, and I went on to shop. I came out through the self-service lanes, which requires a cashier to by-pass the restrictions on alcohol sales. The big bottle, complete with a handle on the neck, was the only thing in my cart. I didn't bother to bag it because of the handle, plus I hate those blasted bags. I came out of the self-serve area right next to the greeter's area, where--just to make nice-nice--I asked the gal who had replaced the last greeter if she was tired yet. Her response was to ask me if I had a receipt for my bottle of wine. Uh...yeah...I did. I wasn't offended. She was just doing her job, right? It did occur to me, however, that if I were someone trying to steal a big jug of wine, I wouldn't have stopped to say anything to her. I would have headed for the door trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. Oh well.
3. Once upon a time, the admin at my school decided, in their infinite wisdom, that soft drinks would no longer be allowed in class. Okay with me as a teacher. So how to enforce this? Some teachers let it happen under the radar but took administrative heat if it came out. Some followed the rules. The admin decided that they needed to unplug the vending machines to make them unavailable during school hours....but, somehow, that never seemed to happen. Why? Funny you should ask! It seemed that the pop/vending machines generated $35,000/year for the athletic department. Anything for sports, right? Meanwhile, the band works tirelessly to come up with funds for their activities. No vending machines for them! And so it is....
4. We are all encouraged, as citizens, to conserve resources. Water, electricity, gas. But if we conserve too much, we are charged less, and the utilities are under a crunch. Way back in the 70's, there was an ice storm that put Indiana in a world of hurt. (I lived in Illinois at the time. We didn't have the same problem, but my in-laws in Greencastle, IN, did.) People were asked to do their part to conserve. My parents-in-law took it to heart--so much so that they were actually reading by candlelight whenever possible for awhile. For what it's worth, the Helens and Arties of the Indiana world did such a good job conserving energy that their utility rates were raised. Huh?? What's the point??
5. Indiana prides itself as supposedly being on the cutting edge of political decisions. Question: according to whom?? While the rest of the concerned world is talking about banning plastic grocery bags that seem to breed and produce more in my pantry, Indiana --under now-Vice President Mike Pence, who came to you from being the Governor of Indiana--signed a law saying that no community in Indiana could ban the use of those horribly polluting plastic bags. If there is anyone in the nation that thinks Mike Pence would be better than Donald Trump should Trump somehow be gone, think again. Talk to an Indiana resident!!
6. I know how lives of crime develop! Once upon a time, maybe about ten years ago or slightly more, I bought a car and used my own credit union for the loan. Because my credit score was bad--a result of some idiocy on my part, now fixed--I was charged 13% interest on the loan. Wait...what? So...uh...if you don't have any money, you get charged MORE money to have what you need? That was the last loan I ever floated. I paid cash for my last (used) vehicle, which is already 11 years old but will likely be the last buggy I ever own.
7. It occurs to me that late in life, when people are aged and need more assistance just to function, there should be more reasonable services for us old folks. I never had the luxury of a spouse who actually cared how I came out in life. He had himself to care for, regardless of what he did to me. I realized that long ago and took over my own life. Still, I once looked at skanky-looking people walking hand-in-hand in public and wondered why I wasn't worthy of that. I WAS worthy of that, but my standard had been raised. I was no longer willing to accept attention, or even affection, just because. It actually is somewhat of a blessing that I have no spare money. No one can ask me for anything--or rather, they can ask, but there is nothing in the bank to help. Thankfully, my only child is doing quite well, thanks to her husband and her own frugality. My sister, however, is still somewhat controlled by her family's needs. (Sorry, Shari...but it's true.)
If I think of more "moments", I will write them. In the meantime, I'm managing to hang on by my fingernails!
1. Until recently, it was illegal to purchase package liquors in Indiana on Sunday. I don't think the ban on Sunday alcohol sales was about morality. It was more about the fact that liquor lobbyists wanted the businesses they supported to have a day off but didn't want grocery stores to get a leg up on alcohol sales. One could still have beer and liquor on Sunday if one ate at an establishment that did so-many-dollars-worth of food sales. And the biggest draw of the year for Indiana/Indianapolis-- the Indy 500 race (which always occurs on Memorial Day Sunday)--sells liquor and beer inside the track...OR...spectators can bring their own as long as it isn't in glass containers. We are talking 300,000-500,000 people in one two-mile oval who come two days before the event to pump their money into the local economy, and arrive early in the morning of the race already drunk from the alcohol they had purchased the day(s) before. (I worked the race for my radio club for three or four years. Saw it first-hand.) While the ban on Sunday alcohol sales made Indiana look like a totally pious, Bible-thumping state, the reality is that all it did was create generations of good ol' boy drinkers who were trained, like monkeys, to stock up on Saturday.
2. On the topic of alcohol, I relate this story. Awhile ago, I went to Walmart for the express purpose of purchasing a gallon-sized jug of wine. (I buy it because it's cheap and goes far. Walmart is the only place I frequent that carries it these days.) On my way in, I was welcomed by the disabled greeter whose relief-worker had just shown up. We all three exchanged short pleasantries, and I went on to shop. I came out through the self-service lanes, which requires a cashier to by-pass the restrictions on alcohol sales. The big bottle, complete with a handle on the neck, was the only thing in my cart. I didn't bother to bag it because of the handle, plus I hate those blasted bags. I came out of the self-serve area right next to the greeter's area, where--just to make nice-nice--I asked the gal who had replaced the last greeter if she was tired yet. Her response was to ask me if I had a receipt for my bottle of wine. Uh...yeah...I did. I wasn't offended. She was just doing her job, right? It did occur to me, however, that if I were someone trying to steal a big jug of wine, I wouldn't have stopped to say anything to her. I would have headed for the door trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. Oh well.
3. Once upon a time, the admin at my school decided, in their infinite wisdom, that soft drinks would no longer be allowed in class. Okay with me as a teacher. So how to enforce this? Some teachers let it happen under the radar but took administrative heat if it came out. Some followed the rules. The admin decided that they needed to unplug the vending machines to make them unavailable during school hours....but, somehow, that never seemed to happen. Why? Funny you should ask! It seemed that the pop/vending machines generated $35,000/year for the athletic department. Anything for sports, right? Meanwhile, the band works tirelessly to come up with funds for their activities. No vending machines for them! And so it is....
4. We are all encouraged, as citizens, to conserve resources. Water, electricity, gas. But if we conserve too much, we are charged less, and the utilities are under a crunch. Way back in the 70's, there was an ice storm that put Indiana in a world of hurt. (I lived in Illinois at the time. We didn't have the same problem, but my in-laws in Greencastle, IN, did.) People were asked to do their part to conserve. My parents-in-law took it to heart--so much so that they were actually reading by candlelight whenever possible for awhile. For what it's worth, the Helens and Arties of the Indiana world did such a good job conserving energy that their utility rates were raised. Huh?? What's the point??
5. Indiana prides itself as supposedly being on the cutting edge of political decisions. Question: according to whom?? While the rest of the concerned world is talking about banning plastic grocery bags that seem to breed and produce more in my pantry, Indiana --under now-Vice President Mike Pence, who came to you from being the Governor of Indiana--signed a law saying that no community in Indiana could ban the use of those horribly polluting plastic bags. If there is anyone in the nation that thinks Mike Pence would be better than Donald Trump should Trump somehow be gone, think again. Talk to an Indiana resident!!
6. I know how lives of crime develop! Once upon a time, maybe about ten years ago or slightly more, I bought a car and used my own credit union for the loan. Because my credit score was bad--a result of some idiocy on my part, now fixed--I was charged 13% interest on the loan. Wait...what? So...uh...if you don't have any money, you get charged MORE money to have what you need? That was the last loan I ever floated. I paid cash for my last (used) vehicle, which is already 11 years old but will likely be the last buggy I ever own.
7. It occurs to me that late in life, when people are aged and need more assistance just to function, there should be more reasonable services for us old folks. I never had the luxury of a spouse who actually cared how I came out in life. He had himself to care for, regardless of what he did to me. I realized that long ago and took over my own life. Still, I once looked at skanky-looking people walking hand-in-hand in public and wondered why I wasn't worthy of that. I WAS worthy of that, but my standard had been raised. I was no longer willing to accept attention, or even affection, just because. It actually is somewhat of a blessing that I have no spare money. No one can ask me for anything--or rather, they can ask, but there is nothing in the bank to help. Thankfully, my only child is doing quite well, thanks to her husband and her own frugality. My sister, however, is still somewhat controlled by her family's needs. (Sorry, Shari...but it's true.)
If I think of more "moments", I will write them. In the meantime, I'm managing to hang on by my fingernails!
Wednesday, June 27, 2018
My Daughter
I have one child. ONE child.
She was my entire focus from the day she was born...and, admittedly, still is.
She's 39 now. The same age I was when my own mother died. As independent as I thought I was, and as independent as she is now, I was not prepared to lose my mother. Not then. Not ever.
A few days after Mom's funeral, I went alone to the remote cemetery where Mom was laid to rest. In a moment of raw grief that I am glad no one witnessed, I wept uncontrollably because, just six feet below me, rested my mother. Just one more touch, God. Please...just one more moment with my mother. Never to happen.
As awful as it was to be forced to give up my mother, I pray to God that nothing takes my daughter or my grandchildren away while I still live. It sounds so corny to say, but that reality would be the end of me. I could never recover from it.
I was never a huggy kind of person, and my child isn't a huggy kind of person. Coincidence? Probably not. I wasn't brought up that way. My family hugged and kissed upon arrivals and departures but not on a regular basis in between. We didn't need that kind of validation. I knew my parents loved me. There was never a doubt. Everything they did, for the most part, was to provide for us kids, giving us the very best of what they could afford. We weren't spoiled. There was simply a reason and rhythm to the way things were. We were just tight-knit because family was the only stable thing in life. I think (hope?) that it is the same with my daughter and me. Since her birth, every single thing I did/do was/is for her benefit, and I can only hope that she's figured that out.
Yesterday, I was late to a meeting at church because she called just as I was walking out the door. She rarely calls, although we do communicate daily on the internet, and I knew the meeting at church could start with or without me. I wanted to stay and talk to her. I love hearing her stories and seeing her pictures. Eventually, I had to cut the conversation short. but I really didn't want to. My kid is raising teenagers and finally "payin' for her raisin' " as my mother would have said. And I am an interested bystander.
My daughter keeps me young. (Well...not young, but younger.) I know the ol' saw about not being able to teach old dogs new tricks, but it's not true. Every single day, I learn how to be a better parent from watching her and listening to her. I made awful mistakes in raising her, but it never was because I didn't care or was authoritarian. We joke that I spoiled her, but actually, I didn't really. What I did was compensate for what she didn't have by way of my bad marriage and our divorce. Watching her, and following her lead, I am more informed. I am a better parent to her now, in her adult life, than I probably was in her youth. Who knows?
I would love to know what things she has learned from me. Part of me begs for validation before I die because, even though I talk a good story, I really think death is the end. Too late to get that last little bit of satisfaction from those who reflect on my life after I'm gone. Flowers die, eventually. Words never do.
She was my entire focus from the day she was born...and, admittedly, still is.
She's 39 now. The same age I was when my own mother died. As independent as I thought I was, and as independent as she is now, I was not prepared to lose my mother. Not then. Not ever.
A few days after Mom's funeral, I went alone to the remote cemetery where Mom was laid to rest. In a moment of raw grief that I am glad no one witnessed, I wept uncontrollably because, just six feet below me, rested my mother. Just one more touch, God. Please...just one more moment with my mother. Never to happen.
As awful as it was to be forced to give up my mother, I pray to God that nothing takes my daughter or my grandchildren away while I still live. It sounds so corny to say, but that reality would be the end of me. I could never recover from it.
I was never a huggy kind of person, and my child isn't a huggy kind of person. Coincidence? Probably not. I wasn't brought up that way. My family hugged and kissed upon arrivals and departures but not on a regular basis in between. We didn't need that kind of validation. I knew my parents loved me. There was never a doubt. Everything they did, for the most part, was to provide for us kids, giving us the very best of what they could afford. We weren't spoiled. There was simply a reason and rhythm to the way things were. We were just tight-knit because family was the only stable thing in life. I think (hope?) that it is the same with my daughter and me. Since her birth, every single thing I did/do was/is for her benefit, and I can only hope that she's figured that out.
Yesterday, I was late to a meeting at church because she called just as I was walking out the door. She rarely calls, although we do communicate daily on the internet, and I knew the meeting at church could start with or without me. I wanted to stay and talk to her. I love hearing her stories and seeing her pictures. Eventually, I had to cut the conversation short. but I really didn't want to. My kid is raising teenagers and finally "payin' for her raisin' " as my mother would have said. And I am an interested bystander.
My daughter keeps me young. (Well...not young, but younger.) I know the ol' saw about not being able to teach old dogs new tricks, but it's not true. Every single day, I learn how to be a better parent from watching her and listening to her. I made awful mistakes in raising her, but it never was because I didn't care or was authoritarian. We joke that I spoiled her, but actually, I didn't really. What I did was compensate for what she didn't have by way of my bad marriage and our divorce. Watching her, and following her lead, I am more informed. I am a better parent to her now, in her adult life, than I probably was in her youth. Who knows?
I would love to know what things she has learned from me. Part of me begs for validation before I die because, even though I talk a good story, I really think death is the end. Too late to get that last little bit of satisfaction from those who reflect on my life after I'm gone. Flowers die, eventually. Words never do.
Tuesday, June 12, 2018
Protecting Kids
If you are reading this, I am guessing that you are older than 12-years-old, which means that you were 12 once. What do you remember about it? Did you do dumb stuff? Did you think you were invincible because you were still under your parents' protection but were beginning to feel the urge to express your independence? Did you totally understand why you did anything you did? Assuming you came from a "normal" non-abusive family, would you expect the childish decisions you made back then to follow you for the rest of your years? No? Why? Because you were a CHILD. Because you were immature. Because your brain was still growing, and you were unable to comprehend the long-term consequences of your youthful decisions.
Statutory rape laws in this country address this very thing. According to law, a person below a certain age, no matter how emotionally mature, is not capable of giving consent to having sex with an adult. And the names of victims of statutory rape are not revealed so that what happened to them doesn't taint their future. (That's the theory, anyway.)
Several weeks ago, a 7th grader at a Noblesville, IN, school shot up a classroom, injuring the teacher and critically injuring another student. Although his name and face are known to the locals in Noblesville, to this day, the rest of us have no clue who the perpetrator was. The media can't/won't report it. Why? Because he was a child making an adult decision. Should his decision affect the rest of his life? It will, whether it should or not...but no one needs to help that along.
Someone near and dear to my life was "outed" on Facebook a few days ago for something that happened three years ago...when she was 12. The person who spilled the beans was someone who should have cared and should have known--a close adult. When the CHILD asked the person to cease and desist, she was given a virtual middle finger...told that the poster had "freedom of speech" and would just make sure that the child would no longer see what the adult posted. So how are we supposed to teach our kids to respect authority when authority doesn't give a big rip? Pretty sad, really.
I have lost every vestige of respect that I had for the poster At this point, the child is acting more mature than the adult. Not my circus; not my monkeys...but, if I were asked to choose sides, I would vote in favor of the kid. We aren't talking about a school shooter here. We are talking about a child who put herself at risk in an effort to get the hell out of a bad situation, part of which had to do with the adult in question.
I'm being deliberately vague here because I have no desire to spill beans that aren't mine to spill. Those involved will recognize themselves, although I am 100% certain that the adult will not admit to any wrongdoing....yet virtually thumbing one's nose at a child who asks that private information not be shared publicly is just wrong.
I have no clue how things will shake out in this relationship in the future, but I don't foresee anything good--which is a shame because I really do think the adult worked very hard to make things work in the face of nasty circumstances. She was hurt by the outcome. I get that. What I don't get is why she can't just admit her hurt, accept responsibility for the way she feels, and make a clean slate for the future. The child is expected to do that. Why not the adult?
I won't be writing about this again. I'm just still appalled at all that I've seen and heard in the last few days. May cooler heads prevail!
Statutory rape laws in this country address this very thing. According to law, a person below a certain age, no matter how emotionally mature, is not capable of giving consent to having sex with an adult. And the names of victims of statutory rape are not revealed so that what happened to them doesn't taint their future. (That's the theory, anyway.)
Several weeks ago, a 7th grader at a Noblesville, IN, school shot up a classroom, injuring the teacher and critically injuring another student. Although his name and face are known to the locals in Noblesville, to this day, the rest of us have no clue who the perpetrator was. The media can't/won't report it. Why? Because he was a child making an adult decision. Should his decision affect the rest of his life? It will, whether it should or not...but no one needs to help that along.
Someone near and dear to my life was "outed" on Facebook a few days ago for something that happened three years ago...when she was 12. The person who spilled the beans was someone who should have cared and should have known--a close adult. When the CHILD asked the person to cease and desist, she was given a virtual middle finger...told that the poster had "freedom of speech" and would just make sure that the child would no longer see what the adult posted. So how are we supposed to teach our kids to respect authority when authority doesn't give a big rip? Pretty sad, really.
I have lost every vestige of respect that I had for the poster At this point, the child is acting more mature than the adult. Not my circus; not my monkeys...but, if I were asked to choose sides, I would vote in favor of the kid. We aren't talking about a school shooter here. We are talking about a child who put herself at risk in an effort to get the hell out of a bad situation, part of which had to do with the adult in question.
I'm being deliberately vague here because I have no desire to spill beans that aren't mine to spill. Those involved will recognize themselves, although I am 100% certain that the adult will not admit to any wrongdoing....yet virtually thumbing one's nose at a child who asks that private information not be shared publicly is just wrong.
I have no clue how things will shake out in this relationship in the future, but I don't foresee anything good--which is a shame because I really do think the adult worked very hard to make things work in the face of nasty circumstances. She was hurt by the outcome. I get that. What I don't get is why she can't just admit her hurt, accept responsibility for the way she feels, and make a clean slate for the future. The child is expected to do that. Why not the adult?
I won't be writing about this again. I'm just still appalled at all that I've seen and heard in the last few days. May cooler heads prevail!
Saturday, June 9, 2018
Why I Became a Teacher
If someone were to ask me why I became a teacher, I would have to confess that it happened by attrition. It wasn't a calling. I wasn't drawn to the profession more than any other endeavor except that I was guided in that direction, in a way, by my parents. It was a "known". My parents were teachers, as was my grandmother, at one time.
We do our children a disservice by expecting them to be able to commit to a life's work by age 18 when they graduate from high school. Unless one has a particular passion, asking him/her to take a track to the future at that age is just ridiculous. What does one know about life and/or self at that age? The human brain doesn't stop growing until age 25, and the last part to mature is the part that helps make decisions. What could go wrong? A lot!
In my family, it was a "given" that I would go to college. By the end of high school, I was adrift on a sea of confusion. I was in love with a fellow from Wisconsin. Had been since the summer before 8th grade. I looked into Wisconsin colleges thinking I might get a little closer to him by going there...but...my mother told me we couldn't afford out-of-state tuition (something I knew nothing about), so that notion got quickly squelched. I didn't do any college visitations. I applied to ONE college, Illinois State University--my parents' old Alma Mater--and was accepted. So much for where I would go. Now, what to study while there?
At its founding, ISU was ISNU--Illinois State Normal University. (The town that grew up around it was named Normal, IL.) A "normal" university was a teacher-training institution, although it had grown way past simply that by the time I was ready to attend. (1965) What to study? What to be??
Honestly, I didn't have any passions. My only real goal in life was to be a devoted wife and loving mother. To create a nurturing family home. But, true to the times, it was also obvious that I needed a career with which to take care of myself in the absence of a husband to take care of me. (This is a reflection of my parents' generation. I was literally raised with the notion that a woman should have a career to fall back on should something happen to her bread-winner husband.) I remember a conversation that my mother and I had where she told me that Secretary, Nurse, or Teacher were respectable professions for a woman. I believed her.
I didn't want to be somebody's secretary, although I figured I'd be good at it. Nurse? Does that mean I would have to give shots to patients? No, that won't do. What's left? BINGO! I decided to be a teacher, not because I thought I would want to but because it was comfortable and respectable. At the very least, I figured maybe I could do it just a bit better than my own teachers had. I wanted to make content interesting and relatable to contemporary students. But what to teach?
I had been a four-year A-student in French in high school. I considered being a French interpreter at the UN. Yeah...how often does that happen? My first semester in college at ISU, I took the lowest level French class that was available to me--French Novels--and spent the entire semester with upper-classmen who had studied in France and were much more fluent than I. My nights were focused in French vocabulary dictionaries. I was lost. I felt somewhat betrayed by the highs I felt by being the best of the French students in high school, only to discover that throwing me in with the real world showed how totally deficient I was.
My whole passion in my senior year of high school was music and theater. Loved it. Was good at it.
Before I entered college, I gave up the notion of studying music because I understood that it would then become work, not fun. I could read music but understood that music students had to be proficient in one instrument or another. I could play piano, sort of. My understanding of scales and chords and keys was extremely rudimentary. I quickly gave up studying music as a thing.
Entered college as a theater major, with English as a minor. (I was also good in English in high school, although I had no real verve for it. I mean, EVERYBODY speaks English, yes? Where is the passion in that?) In one class during my college freshman year, a theater instructor asked which of us didn't have any scholarships. I raised my hand, as did others. It seems that there were talent grants available for theater students that weren't being used. I got one just by nature of being in that class. Didn't have to do a thing to have it. It gave me a tuition break. I liked that part, and so did my parents.
As it happened, however, I became disenchanted with theater. I was only interested in the acting part. Couldn't have cared less about the technical parts, although the technical parts were those about which I had no clue. What I didn't know then, but soon came to know, was that MOST high schools in Illinois didn't have a drama department or even a real stage, unless located in the Chicago/suburban area. Some time in my sophomore year, I switched majors. English became my major and theater/speech became my minor. I had a good head start on that. (What I also didn't comprehend then was that English is a four-year requirement in schools. I did myself a career favor in flipping my course of study. I lost my talent grant but gained employability.)
The rest is history. With many starts and stops, I was able to support my daughter and myself through some rough years via my career. I don't begin to pretend that it was easy.
In retrospect over many long years, I have come to understand that I would have been a kick-ass counselor/psychologist. For reasons beyond my own comprehension, I did better dealing with the challenged students than I did with the ones who were the most like me. If I had my life to do over again, I'm not sure what I would do differently, but I DO know that I did what I did because that's what I thought I was supposed to do. Baby Boomers are confused like that.
Carry on!
We do our children a disservice by expecting them to be able to commit to a life's work by age 18 when they graduate from high school. Unless one has a particular passion, asking him/her to take a track to the future at that age is just ridiculous. What does one know about life and/or self at that age? The human brain doesn't stop growing until age 25, and the last part to mature is the part that helps make decisions. What could go wrong? A lot!
In my family, it was a "given" that I would go to college. By the end of high school, I was adrift on a sea of confusion. I was in love with a fellow from Wisconsin. Had been since the summer before 8th grade. I looked into Wisconsin colleges thinking I might get a little closer to him by going there...but...my mother told me we couldn't afford out-of-state tuition (something I knew nothing about), so that notion got quickly squelched. I didn't do any college visitations. I applied to ONE college, Illinois State University--my parents' old Alma Mater--and was accepted. So much for where I would go. Now, what to study while there?
At its founding, ISU was ISNU--Illinois State Normal University. (The town that grew up around it was named Normal, IL.) A "normal" university was a teacher-training institution, although it had grown way past simply that by the time I was ready to attend. (1965) What to study? What to be??
Honestly, I didn't have any passions. My only real goal in life was to be a devoted wife and loving mother. To create a nurturing family home. But, true to the times, it was also obvious that I needed a career with which to take care of myself in the absence of a husband to take care of me. (This is a reflection of my parents' generation. I was literally raised with the notion that a woman should have a career to fall back on should something happen to her bread-winner husband.) I remember a conversation that my mother and I had where she told me that Secretary, Nurse, or Teacher were respectable professions for a woman. I believed her.
I didn't want to be somebody's secretary, although I figured I'd be good at it. Nurse? Does that mean I would have to give shots to patients? No, that won't do. What's left? BINGO! I decided to be a teacher, not because I thought I would want to but because it was comfortable and respectable. At the very least, I figured maybe I could do it just a bit better than my own teachers had. I wanted to make content interesting and relatable to contemporary students. But what to teach?
I had been a four-year A-student in French in high school. I considered being a French interpreter at the UN. Yeah...how often does that happen? My first semester in college at ISU, I took the lowest level French class that was available to me--French Novels--and spent the entire semester with upper-classmen who had studied in France and were much more fluent than I. My nights were focused in French vocabulary dictionaries. I was lost. I felt somewhat betrayed by the highs I felt by being the best of the French students in high school, only to discover that throwing me in with the real world showed how totally deficient I was.
My whole passion in my senior year of high school was music and theater. Loved it. Was good at it.
Before I entered college, I gave up the notion of studying music because I understood that it would then become work, not fun. I could read music but understood that music students had to be proficient in one instrument or another. I could play piano, sort of. My understanding of scales and chords and keys was extremely rudimentary. I quickly gave up studying music as a thing.
Entered college as a theater major, with English as a minor. (I was also good in English in high school, although I had no real verve for it. I mean, EVERYBODY speaks English, yes? Where is the passion in that?) In one class during my college freshman year, a theater instructor asked which of us didn't have any scholarships. I raised my hand, as did others. It seems that there were talent grants available for theater students that weren't being used. I got one just by nature of being in that class. Didn't have to do a thing to have it. It gave me a tuition break. I liked that part, and so did my parents.
As it happened, however, I became disenchanted with theater. I was only interested in the acting part. Couldn't have cared less about the technical parts, although the technical parts were those about which I had no clue. What I didn't know then, but soon came to know, was that MOST high schools in Illinois didn't have a drama department or even a real stage, unless located in the Chicago/suburban area. Some time in my sophomore year, I switched majors. English became my major and theater/speech became my minor. I had a good head start on that. (What I also didn't comprehend then was that English is a four-year requirement in schools. I did myself a career favor in flipping my course of study. I lost my talent grant but gained employability.)
The rest is history. With many starts and stops, I was able to support my daughter and myself through some rough years via my career. I don't begin to pretend that it was easy.
In retrospect over many long years, I have come to understand that I would have been a kick-ass counselor/psychologist. For reasons beyond my own comprehension, I did better dealing with the challenged students than I did with the ones who were the most like me. If I had my life to do over again, I'm not sure what I would do differently, but I DO know that I did what I did because that's what I thought I was supposed to do. Baby Boomers are confused like that.
Carry on!
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