The Dept. Of Nance Is Fifteen!

...And they said it wouldn't last.

Actually, no one really said that. Maybe I did a few times, and a few times I almost did quit writing here. But here I am, Fifteen and hanging on.

By the way, I'd never go back to actually being Fifteen. It wasn't terrible, mind you: I was editor of the high school paper, had lots of friends, did well in school, and from what I remember, pretty much enjoyed my life that year. But Memory being what it is--soft and blurry and unreliable--tends to shield us from some Crummy Stuff. Fifteen is hard.

I taught sophomores for the bulk of my 30+ year career, and I know of what I speak. I loved teaching sophomores. They weren't as crazed as freshmen, not as caught up in romance or jobs as juniors, and not as lazy and stressed as seniors. (Yes, seniors are lazy and stressed at the same time. Trust me.)

In honor of my Fifteenth Anniversary here, I'm going to share some of the questions I get most often about my Teaching Career.

1. Do you miss Teaching?

The actual Teaching, yes. I really do. I especially miss sharing the wonderful American Literature poetry, novels, and plays I got to introduce and read along with my sophomores. I loved watching them grab onto the nuances inherent in them, the colour symbolism in The Great Gatsby, the importance of the motifs in The Catcher in the Rye, the huge humanity in the works of Walt Whitman, the subtleties in Arthur Miller's stage directions for The Crucible. I appreciated their dogged determination as they plodded through grammar and the real triumph on their faces when they suddenly grasped the formulas of complex and compound sentences and could identify them in real writing, like President Lincoln's Gettysburg Address. It was The Best.

2. Why don't you substitute teach or volunteer at a school?

First of all, subbing on the high school level in my district (and surrounding districts) is NOT teaching. It's the worst parts of being a Teacher: taking attendance, crowd control, discipline, boring worksheets or idiot lesson plans. It's like the first day over and over again. Volunteering at a school? Same thing. Not Teaching. I don't want to run copies for someone or make endless cutouts for someone or sit and grade papers. All of that is stuff I hated about my job--the Not Teaching Stuff.

3. Do you miss the kids?

Yes, I really do. I miss being around teenagers. My job kept me informed about What Was Cool, What The New Slang Was, and all the current important business in the world of The Youth. I also miss being around people who are just fun a great deal of the time. And who don't talk about problems, health, or politics. They were always refreshing and always interesting. True, they were often too focused on themselves, but once they got out of their own bubbles, they were fascinating to me. I taught in a huge high school with an enrollment of 2000 with a significant minority population and more than 60% of students qualified for free or reduced lunch. Many led lives I could not imagine. Many drove me batshit crazy. Many made me cry with empathy. The majority gave me great joy.

4. Why don't you...?

People are always tossing suggestions at me for other career moves. Why don't I teach at a (fill in the blank) program? Why don't I write a book about my career? Why don't I look into this or that? First of all, perhaps you did not get the Memo. I AM RETIRED. And I love how people act like writing a book is just a simple nothing. It's a lot of work, and in case you have not noticed, I have enough trouble showing up here on a semi-regular basis. I AM RETIRED. Besides, my career was not special in that it would make a wonderful book for anyone but me, and I have the Memories.

5. Do you remember your students?

Oh, yes. I remember a great deal of them. Some I remember by name. Some I remember by face. Some I remember only in a little scene or snippet. Some I remember in a combination of those. Several have become treasured and cherished friends. Still others are friends of my sons, so I see them or hear of them regularly. There are so many that I still think of from time to time. So very many. What is so wonderful is that they come into my life now and then. Most recently, we bought a car, and the saleswoman was my former student. She is still delightful and caring. That made it so much easier; I knew I could trust her. She showed me pictures of her family, and I was happy for her Happiness.

**********
I told many Teaching stories here at the Dept. of Nance while I was in The Thick Of It.  If you're interested, you can click the tags Classroom, Teaching, or School.

Thank you for reading here at the Dept. Thank you, especially, if you are a Commenter. Life for all of us is a question of Priorities and Demands. That you would take Precious Time to read--and comment!--means that you have prioritized me and my writing and thoughts. That means so very much to me.

I look forward to Sixteen.

original image

Change Your Life: Third In A Series--If At First You Don't Succeed, Build, Build, Build

I'm not even going to pretend that this week's Sentence has the potential to Change Your Life. It's so shopworn, so banal, so BeenThereDoneThat as to have formed the basis of innumerable Talks and Lectures given to not only Me, but my three siblings hundreds and hundreds of times Way Back When. The speaker was my father, to whom Character Building was not only the World's Noblest Pursuit, it was also the one in which we should become the most proficient. By the time I was about fourteen, there was nothing I hated more than Character Building, unless it was perhaps Building Character.

Here is Life-Changing Sentence Number Three (as I suffer a few shuddery flashbacks):

You learn more from failure than from success; don’t let it stop you. Failure builds character.

Okay, first of all, it's not A sentence; it's two. And it's way too long and wordy to be truly successful as a life-changing mantra or a motto. It's like they crammed three separate ideas into one:

You learn more from failure than from success!
Don't let failure stop you! (And isn't this implied in the first saying?)
Failure builds character!

(I added all those exclamation marks to keep myself from falling asleep.)

By now I want to remind a lot of people that, whilst many do, in fact, learn from Failure, a huge percentage of people do not. They go on to repeat the same mistakes, hoping for a different outcome and creating collateral damage along the way. The jails are full of Failing People, the schools are full of Failing People, the court system is full of Failing People, the republican party is full of Failing People, and hell--my grocery store was full of Failing People today who continued to leave their carts in the middle of the aisle whilst they wandered all around and gathered their items. I push their carts along, adding a few things I want them to have when they're not looking. Do they learn? No.

It is also clear to see that the Failure of the republican party to keep their majority in the House of Representatives taught them nothing at all. Nor did it seem to build any Character.

Aside from the nitpicky or the obvious, this Sentence is okay at best. Lots of valuable information can be learned from Failures IF you choose to analyze your mistakes, own them, and correct them. And you can Build Character by being humble and learning where your weaknesses are and, if necessary, asking for help. But while this Sentence is generic and general, it's also potentially plain wrong.

I learned a lot from my Successes in several arenas such as teaching, writing, parenting. In some cases, I learned more from Successes than Failures. Not everyone has to fail in order to learn a great deal or a powerful lesson. Many times I found that piling up Successes taught my students more and was more helpful for them personally and emotionally. (That, my friends, helps Build Character!)

I learned an endless amount about Life And Other Things from my father. I still call up his wisdom to this day. Things he told me for the forty-one years I had with him occur to me far more often than I could ever have imagined. But after many of his lectures about Character or Character-Building, all I ever felt was exhausted and angry.

Here's the thing: sometimes, Failure should stop you. If you aren't good at something and it makes you miserable, stop it immediately. Go do Something Else. And not everything can be about Building Character. Sometimes lousy stuff is just Stuff You Have To Get Through and your Character is already fine with or without it. Not everything has to mean something.  Nor will it.

I think I would have felt way better if I had been told that and been given a big hug.

So here is "Sentence" #3 again: You learn more from failure than from success; don’t let it stop you. Failure builds character.

Did this "give you the power to go on" or "change your life for the better" as the article promised? Let's talk about it in Comments.

original image

They Are Students; They Are Victims; They Are Change--Ready For The Revolution

Is it almost Every Day now? Because it feels like almost Every Day--that almost Every Day a school is On Lockdown, or there is a School Shooting, or we're in the Aftermath of a School Shooting. It feels sad and hopeless, yet I'm full of outrage and anger and motivation, like I have to lift a wrecked car off of my child in order to save him.

I was more than midway through my teaching career when Columbine happened in 1999. Despite teaching in one of Ohio's "Big Urbans," I doubt one of us ever imagined a single one of our students capable of a mass shooting. Some of our kids were in and out of juvie, several had incarcerated parents, and to find more than a handful in class with the same last name as both parents (or their single parent) was relatively unusual. A high percentage qualified for free or reduced lunch. Many lived in public housing. The odds were stacked against so many of our kids, yet the idea of a Columbine-like event at our high school of 2000+ was unthinkable.  We were largely ignorant as to the profile of the typical adolescent mass shooter, and we were never given any education, even after the incident.

After it happened, the school district immediately tightened security. All exits would remain locked; teachers would be posted at the doors, admitting no one except through the main entrance (and no, we did not get hazard pay).  Students and staff were photographed for I.D. badges, to be worn on a lanyard around their necks at all times, which the kids found ridiculous and irritating. I reminded them that we were a huge school of three floors, three buildings, and that outsiders had sneaked into our school plenty of times. Besides, it wasn't costing them any money.  "This is stupid!" they protested. "The Columbine shooters were Columbine students!"  The discussion pretty much stopped when one student said, "The I.D.'s are so they can identify our bodies."  I retired in 2011, tossing my I.D. badge into the trash can.

Six months later, I joined a community of bloggers trying to grieve the losses of more than twenty grade school children at Sandy Hook by "writing it out". And astonishingly, two short months after that, and about fifty miles from my home, a terrifyingly disturbed boy walked into Chardon High School and murdered his classmates.

Incredibly, I still have so many of the same Outrages, Questions, and Sadnesses today. Because of Inaction. Because of Unwillingness. Because, it seems, of Abject Cowardice by the same politicians and, overwhelmingly, the same political party. Do they not have Children? A Sense Of Humanity? A Soul?

I know that so many of you share my feelings. And I hope you have had a chance to watch and listen to the empowering and encouraging speeches given by the young activists at the March For Our Lives in Washington, D.C. They are inspiring and moving. (Just search "March for Our Lives speeches" on YouTube). These Parkland teens have benefitted from a rich program of the arts and debate and a school system that helped them understand critical thinking and verbal expression. Add that to their ready use of social media platforms, and a true Movement was born. The most vital part of the speeches--aside from their obvious emotional impact--was the idea that they stressed VOTING FOR CHANGE. Tables were set up at these and sibling rallies to register voters and to provide information regarding voting. This injects more momentum to the already-inspired women and minority voters and candidates who have scored seats locally and statewide, building to a Blue Wave in the midterms.

Before I end, I want you to meet Parkland survivor Sam Fuentes. As she took cover from the shooter, a bullet tore through her leg, and shrapnel chewed into her face. Pieces of it behind her eye and cheek will remain there forever, like the memories of her ordeal. She had to post pictures of her injured face from her hospital bed and screen shots of her bleeding body being loaded into the ambulance to try and silence social media trolls and pro-NRA conspiracy theorists. She watched her friend Nick Dworet die, and it would seem her struggles with PTSD are likely far from over. Despite all of this, she took the stage on Saturday and read a slam poetry-styled speech, displaying the humanity and authenticity that is sorely lacking in Washington, D.C. Her courage and conviction, in the midst of becoming physically and emotionally overwhelmed, should inspire us all.  Please watch and listen;  you'll be so, so very glad that you did.




protest sign

In Which I Pause The Alphabet To Talk About Harper Lee And Books And Reading

Today brought the news of Harper Lee's death. She died peacefully in her sleep, said her family, at the age of 89. I sighed deeply and took a few moments to think about her and the literary treasure that is her legacy. To Kill a Mockingbird is, to me, one of the most important books I ever read and taught.

So many of the Twentieth Century writers who became important and special to me over the years are now gone. And each time I heard of their deaths--Arthur Miller, JD Salinger, now Harper Lee--I felt a real sense of loss, and the same loss, one so final and so helpless, even though I did not know them personally, nor had I ever met them.

I think after teaching a book or play so many times (and reading it again each time), it becomes personal. At least it does to me. Because I have not only read the text of the work, I have researched the history of it, the life of the author him- or herself, and anything I can find regarding it. Maybe more importantly, as all Readers do, I have dissolved into the book or play itself. With To Kill a Mockingbird, I fell in love with Atticus as a father. My heart ached for Jem as his pre-adolescent idealism crumbled and broke apart. And my voice always, always faltered when I read aloud Boo Radley's simple request, "Will you take me home?", especially since we knew he was only a child, too, but he had no one to look after him or love him at all.

All the books I ever taught became personal to me. They came to life for me when I taught them, and I always found something new each time, often through the eyes of my students. But even as a young reader, I folded a lot of books into my heart, and they live there still.

That is the Thing With Books. Books are timeless and books are Forever. I still have my copies of The Crucible, The Catcher in the Rye, and To Kill a Mockingbird, among others. And that is wonderful. The Thing I have a hard time with is that, somewhere deep down inside, I expect their authors to be the same way--always There, Timeless and Forever Alive.

I know it's Impossible. I know that isn't a very Grown-Up Way To Feel. I realize that, in a way, I have conflated the Book with its Author. And that is why I feel a sense of loss. It is as if I have lost a friend who I haven't seen in a long time, but one to whom I was very close at some point in my life and shared a great deal with. There is a brief shock, a moment of memories and some wistfulness, but life will go on just like before.

The death of Harper Lee makes me even more resolute in my efforts to bring books back into my life. It has been slow going, but I am making progress. Maybe I'll read To Kill a Mockingbird for the fifty-something-th time, this time without guiding ninety teenagers along with me. My Reading Journey reminds me of something Scout said about her own Reading Journey. Faced with the prospect of never reading with her father again because her teacher said first-grade Scout must start fresh learning to read along with the rest of the class, adult Scout mused, "Until I feared I would lose it, I never loved to read. One does not love breathing."


image

Today's Top Ten List: Lies My Parents Told Me

Growing up, my mother and father told me all kinds of things. On balance, most of them were Very Good Things, and I listened to a great deal of them. But like most parents, they also told me a lot of things that were simply Not True. Sometimes they were Nice Things, sometimes they were Comforting Things, and sometimes they were Folksy Things that were passed down for eleventy generations or merely things that became part of their DNA once my eldest sister Patti was born and the Parent Gene was flipped to the On position.

Here then are the

Top Ten Lies My Parents Told Me

1. You're Prettier Than All Of Those Contestants
2. Just Ignore Him/Her And He/She Will Leave You Alone
3. If You Don't Bother The Bees, They Won't Bother You
4. You Don't Need Makeup/Only Whores And Streetwalkers Wear Makeup
5. Piercing Your Ears Is A Tragedy
6. It's School, Not A Fashion Show
7. The Best Thing For A Headache Is Putting Your Hands In Warm Dishwater
8. 8th Grade Is Too Early To Be Shaving Your Legs
9. You Think Too Much
10. We're Not Having Any Pets In This House

I know. Bless their hearts.

1. Both Mom and Dad said this every single time we watched any beauty pageant throughout our lives, and they said it to all three of us girls. We all rolled our eyes because it was Patently Absurd. Some of those women were gorgeous and had perfect bodies. We, ranging in age from Patti--seven years my senior, to Susan, five years my junior, could not possibly imagine how any of this could be remotely true.

2. Absolute bullshit, and almost every day in my family it was proven False by my brother, who terrorized me daily with taunts about my weight. I could never suitably retaliate because he was invincible physically and emotionally. We're very close now, but growing up was hell.

3. Someone needed to tell the bees. I suffered an unprovoked attack--twice--while minding my own business. I didn't even disturb a nest or flight pattern. Ouch.

4. I was in my sophomore year when my mother found my mascara and face powder. She immediately tattled to my father, who gave me a terrible lecture, including the above quotes. Ironically, in later years, every time I would show up at Mom and Dad's without any makeup, my Dad would ask, "Are you feeling alright? You look pale and a little wan." Sigh.

5. In the seventies, everyone was wearing cute earrings. Except me. I waited until I was eighteen and went to the jeweler to get mine done so that I could do it without parental permission. When Dad found out, he was devastated. Somehow, though, I managed to survive it. So did he.

6. As everyone in the universe knows, School IS a Fashion Show. It shouldn't be, but it is. Even as a teacher, it was still, for me, a Daily Walk On The Runway.

7. Oh, St. Patsy, you really thought you were the clever one with this. We all knew what you were up to.

8. No! No, it wasn't! Not when you are mostly Eastern European and your legs looked like gorilla legs and you had to dress for gym. I ended up surreptitiously shaving them while home alone after school one day and took off about a foot of skin on my shinbone because I pushed too hard on the razor. That's another story.

9. St. Patsy still tells me that I Think Too Much. I am not one to brood, but I do analyze. But not overmuch, usually. How is Thinking a Bad Thing?

10. Oh, this one was the biggest lie of all, perpetuated by my mother. For a complete list of the TEN pets "not allowed" in our house and the full explanation, click here and read the post over at Stuff On Our List.

Your turn. What Little White Lies did Mom and Dad tell You?

Today's Top Ten List: Thankful For Retirement

Today's post is not meant to Gloat--far from it. I am still Basking In The Glow from my retirement four years ago. Do I feel Guilty, having retired at age 52? Absolutely not. I spent thirty years in a tough public school system, one of Ohio's Big Urbans, teaching kids that, in many cases, no one else wanted to teach. Later in my career, when I was able to teach Honors and Creative Writing, the latter a course I designed and wrote curriculum for myself, I still worked hard and taught students all across the spectrum since our school did not have any requirements for entering the Honors Program.

I had kids arrested in my class, a kid with a gun in my class, my share of convicted murderers, rapists, B & E specialists, felons, and all manner of criminals. At least two of my favourite kids now reside in state prisons. My heart has been broken so many times reading the local court report.

Having said all of that, here--in no particular order--is today's List Of Ten, my

10 Reasons That I'm Grateful For Retirement

1. Easing Into My Day
2. Using The Bathroom Whenever I Want/Need To
3. Every Day Feels Like A Weekend
4. No One Is My Boss
5. No Bell Every 50 Minutes
6. Christmas Preparations Are Less Scroogeful
7. 99% Of My Stress Is Gone
8. Grocery Shopping Is No Longer A Nightmare
9. I Am Kinder, Gentler, And More Patient
10. I Have More Time With My Mother

You can skip this part if you don't want to listen to me explain these.

1. Rather than catapult from bed and into my Mrs. D. outfit and persona, I can wander into the kitchen, make coffee, read the paper, sit in my comfy chair, and do this for pretty much the entire day if I want to, getting dressed and beautified only in time for Rick to come home at five. And yes, that has happened a few times and no, he does not care one bit. In fact, he encourages it.

2. While I was teaching, my poor bladder had to get used to my teaching schedule. If I had no break until the final period of the day, well, tough. And yes, that was often my schedule. Now, my bladder is in charge. But it's nice to fall back on that incredible discipline.

3. Oh, is it Saturday already? Who knew? Because Tuesday and Thursday were...pretty much the same as this. I wish every single one of you could know this feeling. I truly do.

4. After 30 years of parents, voters, administrators, and yes, students being my Boss, it is heady stuff indeed to have NO ONE bossing me around. And no one had better even try. I talk back to television ads who instruct me, "Ask your doctor about Viagra" by saying, "Hey! I most certainly will NOT. YOU are NOT the boss of me!" Ask St. Patsy if even she can boss me around. Ha ha. It is to laugh.

5. After parceling out my life in 50 minute increments, each one signaled by a bell, I won't even have a clock in the bedroom. Time is inconsequential to me most of the time. I rarely look at a clock. I truly love and savour this luxury in particular.

6. Many times while I was working, our last day before Christmas vacation was December 22nd or 23rd. For those of you not in education, you undoubtedly work even on Christmas Eve. I raced to get gifts bought and wrapped, the big family open house planned and cooked and cleaned for on the 24th, not to mention all the other usual Christmas preparations. Now I can dawdle and shop at my leisure, like on Tuesday mornings in December. What a difference it makes.

7. My job was my stress. Period. I could go into it more than that, but I won't bother. Public education is not getting better as a career choice; it is only getting more thankless and more of a Whipping Boy for society's ills. It was never The Kids. Let's just say that.

8. I used to go straight from work to the grocery store and try to do a month's worth of shopping in an hour and a half. Or Rick and I would go on a Saturday and try not to kill ourselves or anyone else. Nightmare. Now, I can go once a week at my leisure, usually on a Tuesday morning when no one else is there, and it is a Non-Event.

9. Because all of my Stress is eliminated, I can be a Better Me. I can be kind. I can be Gentle. I can be Patient. I don't mind waiting while someone, who has had the entire time she has been in line waiting, chooses to search for her checkbook only when the cashier tells her the total of her grocery order. What else do I have to do? What good will it do me to be upset? Instead, I play Words With Friends on my phone.

10. St. Patsy is 85, and if she does not cut back on her sodium and pie, she will only have another twenty or so years left. (I am her Medical Overseer, so I am fully empowered to say this.) Being retired has allowed me the time and patience to be with her more often, and not just to haul her off to doctor appointments and to see her sister in Gettysburg. She is feisty and funny and once in a while tells a story I haven't heard yet. I have lots of friends who have lost their moms, and I am grateful to still have her around.

As I got closer to my retirement, I dreamed about it quite a bit. I'm happy to report that it has more than lived up to my expectations. I am happy and busy and I haven't regretted my decision one bit.

Dear Readers, what are you most looking forward to in Your Retirement? Or, if you are already retired, has it been everything you'd hoped for?

The Dept. of Nance Is Ten!

The Dept of Nance is ten!

You know, I almost missed it. Ten years ago this month, I started writing here, and I'm still at it. Along the way, lots of things happened: I outlasted a president (twice!), a major hurricane, plenty of blizzards, and The Recession. I saw the election and re-election of the first Hawaiian President of the United States who also happens to be black. We've had three popes and three new Supreme Court Justices. Gay people can finally get married. Lebron James came back to Cleveland. Arthur Miller and JD Salinger died. Nutella finally got real and stopped advertising itself as part of a nutritious breakfast.

To celebrate the Dept.'s Tenth Anniversary, I've decided to do Ten Posts Of Top Ten Lists. Assisting me will be Jared, who not only gave me this idea, but who has also co-written some list posts with me before.

Today's Top Ten List will be just mine. But before I begin, let me thank all of you, Dearest Readers. In the early years, I was writing, it seemed, just for me. Then, suddenly, there You were. And I cannot tell you how Very Much Better it has been ever since.

Shall we on, then? Here is the list of

10 Things That Happened To Me In The Last 10 Years

1. Retirement
2. Text Messaging
3. Driving
4. The Radio
5. Cats
6. Frozen Shoulders
7. Leggings
8. Shrinkage
9. The Menopause
10. Fantasy Sports

These are, of course, in no particular order, and this is not a comprehensive list. A few do require brief explanation. A few do not, but I'll probably talk about them anyway.

1. Retirement continues to be blissful and wonderful, and it's a damn shame that I couldn't have started it much sooner. I cannot begin to tell you how gorgeous it is to be able to slide into my day in my jammies with a cup of coffee rather than jitter into it full bore with high heels and a broken copier and a screaming hallway full of recalcitrant tardies.

2. Oh, yes; absolutely I am The Person who said that I would never, ever tap away on a teensy keyboard to anyone, ever, and I do it regularly now, even to my 85-year old mother who has an iPad and sends me text messages right back. Please feel free to scream I TOLD YOU SO! with a big, smug smirky face. It's perfectly justified.

3. Previous to my retirement, I drove almost nowhere. I drove the Capital Beltway alone in dense fog earlier this summer. I used to be a fearful driver. Yesterday, I passed a dump truck. And a Mustang. At the same time. Laughing at them...because I drive a Prius.

4. When I was teaching, I could not stand to listen to the radio in my car. Maybe, maybe NPR for five minutes. But never music. It was too much for me. Now, I listen to music all the time. My current favourite: Shut Up and Dance by Walk The Moon.

5. In the past ten years I have sadly said goodbye to two cats, TravisCat and EmilyCat. I was blissfully hair-free for a few years, but lonesome for a pet. Enter Piper and Marlowe, whose hair is everywhere. I am on a Three Lint Roller Program: one in the car, one in the bedroom, one in the bathroom (where the light is merciless).

6. I had two bouts of adhesive capsulitis, one of which was misdiagnosed as a torn rotator cuff and for which I was operated on, unnecessarily as it turned out. What a horrid, horrid time this was, for everyone.

7. Yep! You get to feel superior again. I think I banished leggings in a post once; now, they're my fall and winter uniform. Do I make absolutely certain to wear something that tastefully and discreetly covers my derriere, like a tunic or long sweater or duster? Of course! Is said long overshirt loose and not clingy? Obviously. And I wear boots. That outfit is so much warmer than jeans or regular pants and shoes. Bash away at my Hypocrisy. I deserve your scorn.

8. In the course of the past ten years, I shrank from a size 10 down to a size 0. Part of it was from Topamax for migraines, part of it was illness. I settled in at a size 2 for a good long while until...

9. The Menopause. Basically, this is the stage in a woman's life when her body turns against her and gives her The Finger. Everything went to hell. My migraines went crazy. My weight went up. My skin and hair got dry and my nails got peely. Is it worth it to stop having to buy Tampax? Now that things have rebalanced...YES.

10. What in the hell am I, a retired English teacher, whose other interests are decidedly not sporty, and who has never played a sport in her entire life, doing with a Fantasy Basketball Team? For four years running? It's so, so silly. But I love it.

There's lots more, but that's pretty good right there.  Again, thank you so much for Being There.  Perhaps in Comments, you can tell me How Long You've Been There, and then you can tell us all what you've been up to in the past 10 Years.

Oh, and do have some cake!

littlecowcreativecakes.co.uk

image10

Money Isn't Everything, And We're Worth Way More Than Twenty Bucks

Forgive me, Dear Readers, for this is certainly Old News to all of you, but I am only now hearing of the Campaign To Put A Woman On The Twenty-Dollar Bill. (I know; nothing gets past me for long.) Certainly this is something we need to talk about, and I haven't even sorted my own feelings about this yet. It's all terribly Grace Bedell-esque, isn't it?

In case anyone else has been similarly Out Of It, a little girl wrote to President Obama last year after doing a report on Anne Hutchinson, a Puritan woman who audaciously believed that God could speak to individuals, not just ministers, and who was termed a Jezebel by the local clergy for holding prayer services in her home. When this nine-year old student, Sofia, was watching other students give their reports, some of the others used paper money or coins as illustrations of their historical (male) figures. Sofia could not; neither could any of the other students who chose women. (Apparently no one chose Susan B. Anthony or Sacajawea.) She decided to write to the President and see if he could do something about this.

President Obama wrote back, albeit rather belatedly, and the Interwebs are now all aflutter with a campaign. Replacing President Andrew Jackson was the easy choice because of his tarnished reputation with Native Americans. ( The fact that he adopted two American Indian sons is not enough of a neutralizing factor.)  I'd rather we replace Benjamin Franklin because of his reputation as a known plagiarist and terrific bore, but no one asked me. (His reputation as a Big Deal among the French, especially their women, still amazes me, but then the French are quite fond of Jerry Lewis, too, so I have to say that they have historically Bad Taste In Men. Only their cuisine and wine save them. But I digress.)

Anyway.

The Interwebs got up a bigass poll as to which Historically Notable woman we want passed around by consumers in exchange for goods and services instead of President Andrew Jackson, and therein lies my Big Issue.

Obviously, I'm overthinking this. But the Principle Symbolism of passing around Eleanor Roosevelt, Harriet Tubman, Rosa Parks, or Chief Wilma Mankiller in exchange for stuff is ... icky to me. I feel as if it defeats the Purpose of the thing. These women didn't traffic in a currency as low and mean as money. They stood for principles much more meaningful, much more important. They worked for Freedom, Equality, Rights, Dignity. I hate the idea of putting any of them on money.

Yes, I'm aware that my own Personal and Revered Hero, President Abraham Lincoln, is on two kinds of currency, coin and paper money, and for the most part, I've never given that much thought. But I do cringe at the commercials that use his likeness to trump sales for insurance in an undignified way, and caricatures or other likenesses on Presidents' Day. I hate it. It's sad when historical figures have no control over their names or likenesses (Don't get me started on the TV show "Salem." They should be ashamed and in court.) If I had my way, President Lincoln wouldn't be on money either. No one would be. Put the flag, the eagle, the purple mountains majesty on there. It's more dignified all the way around. (Look what happened in Canada with Spocking Fives.)

It's not that I'm against money. I like it, and I hope to see a lot more of it. But money should not be a monument. (To some people and political parties, it already is.) Money doesn't increase awareness of the people whose image it bears. That's easy enough to prove. Grab ten people off the street and ask them if they know whether Hamilton or Franklin was a president of the United States. (For the record, neither one was.)

Sofia, the letter-writer herself, seems to be unaware that we already have two women on currency. How much awareness of Susan B. Anthony and Sacajawea did those coins raise? And while a good argument can be made that the dollar coin is an unfamiliar and rarely used form of American currency, is a twenty-dollar bill really a teaching tool? Ask any nine-year old like Sofia to name who is on the nickel and who is on the quarter and see if she or he knows that they are two different presidents.

President Obama's response to Sofia is lovely and encouraging in just the right way. The response of the Interwebs is, in the words of William Shakespeare (not Benjamin Franklin, although he would steal them outright for his "Almanack"), "full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing."

Speaking for myself, I'd rather not have my life commemorated by appearing on currency. Its value goes up and down; it is passed around to hands of varying repute. It is used for things that I may never have foreseen or sanctioned. I would rather, if a person of note, leave my life in the hands of careful and kind teachers and historians.

Sofia can learn more from her report on Anne Hutchinson by following the example of Anne Hutchinson than she can from envying the lazy posters of her classmates. Become a keeper of the flame by teaching about notable women and become a Notable Woman herself. She has a lot of examples already to follow.

image

In Which I Catch You Up On All Sorts Of Things And Offer The Afflicted A Freebie (With A Side Of Salinger)

Welcome to December, Dearest Readers, a month for which I have the Highest Hopes. Before I begin with the actual Innards of this post, let me remind you that, Officially, you may set out your Christmas Mugs, put up your Christmas Trees and Other Yuletide Decor, and listen to all the Christmas Music your merry heart desires. Now that November has cleared out, it is Perfectly Acceptable and sanctioned by the Dept. of Nance.

November was a Massive Disappointment for me, and while it's a little early for Festivus and The Airing Of Grievances, I have a little bit of Random Business to attend to in this post. I know you'll indulge me.

1. The Medical. Yesterday was the first day I actually felt Well. My cold developed into sinus and ear infections, and I became so very weak and sad. Complicating matters was the fact that I am presently without a general practitioner, and I was in no shape to sit in a waiting room, alone, trying to fill out forms when I could barely sit up. My situation was dire, so I resorted to technology and downloaded the app Doctor On Demand. Within twenty minutes I:   had a private consultation with a doctor, was prescribed medications which were called in to a local pharmacy, and had a comprehensive write-up of my session to refer to any time I wanted. All for $40. All while I sat in my chair in my jammies and blanket. As much as I hate going to the doctor and sitting and waiting, this was worth it. And I was given a code to share with anyone I wanted, which offers patients a discount. Here it is if you're ever in a similar, non-emergency situation: ac68f0se . (No, this isn't a sponsored post.)

2. The Holiday. As you might imagine, being so ill made Thanksgiving difficult. Luckily, I live with a Superhero. Rick made everything except the dressing/stuffing, and that included the two pumpkin pies. The boys (and Zydrunas) came over early in the day to help out with things, too, so all I had to do was check on the turkey and eat. My oven soldiered through it all, which is good because when I called to get service, I was told that it would be Impossible--Frigidaire (aka The Great Satan) no longer makes any parts for that appliance. Just so you know, That Appliance is less than ten years old. I want to say Terrible Things about Frigidaire, but I have used them all up already. Since so many of you Gracious Living-ers are dying to know, we did not have a centerpiece on the table; I served an oaked Chardonnay and a Rosé, and no silver-polishing was necessary because we didn't use anything which required it. Zydrunas was angelic until Marlowe suddenly made an appearance, and then all bets were off for approximately the four seconds it took for the chase which ensued. (I didn't see Marlowe again until approximately 11 PM.)

3. The Government. I've kept calm and quiet here regarding all of the governmental bullshit over the past months because A) I'm trying to maintain my Zen, and B) it's pointless to get my undies in a bunch, but honestly, it's crap like this quote from Sen. Harry Reid--yes, a Democrat--that makes me want to zip down there and smack the entire Congress: “We have a lot to do. And there isn’t much time to accomplish it. I urge all senators to work hard to complete our work in a timely and efficient fashion. We may have to be here the week before Christmas." Can I see a show of hands from Every Single Person Out There who has/had a Lot To Do and had/has to work the week before Christmas all of the time? I'd like to quote the nitrous-addled kid from the YouTube video when I say, "Is this real life?!" If you want to make yourselves sick, go here and look at how little your Congress is working for you. These goldbrickers are rarely in session, ever. And many of these blowhards are the same snots who want to cut teacher pay because, according to them, teachers only work nine months a year. So when these Congresspersons tell you that many of the days that they are not In Session, they are still, in fact, Working, tell them THAT'S EXACTLY WHAT TEACHERS DO TOO! And teachers don't have paid staffers to help them. Not even ONE.

4. The Paid Cyberbully. Speaking of a paid staffer, let me say this about republican EX-staffer Elizabeth Lautner, the congressional aide who took to her TwitPinFace account to bully the President's teenaged daughters. It's the ugliest thing in the world to use kids for your own adult agenda. Why in the world would you ever, ever be mean and nasty to a kid simply because you didn't like his or her parents? It's hard enough in the world to be a kid in the public eye, and someone like Elizabeth Lautner just made it ten times harder. I'm not going to parse her objectionable comments because we all know what she said and what it meant. But picking on teenaged girls via social media is, to me, the equivalent of beating a toddler at Candyland. And I'm still waiting for a true apology because the one Lauten provided--after several hours of intense prayer, supposedly--was a non-starter, and every sincere person in the world knows it.

5. The American People. You know, I've covered this territory before, but holy crap, how pathetic are They? And don't say, "Nance, you are an American Person, you know!" Honestly, I am seriously starting to wonder. I really, truly am. Because It's scary. Look at the results of the newest CNN/ORC poll:

50% of Americans believe the GOP taking control of the House and the Senate next year will be bad for America
52% expect it to lead to more gridlock

68% Americans polled say the GOP isn't cooperating enough with President Obama
57% say it's Obama who's not cooperating enough with the GOP

44% of Americans view the Democratic Party favorably
50% view it unfavorably

41% of Americans view the republican party favorably
52% view the republican party negatively

Who voted in this last election?  Did they bus in a bunch of idiots who think that the earth is flat and that spray cheese is all the science they ever need?  I know I voted.  I voted SO HARD.  But thanks to careful gerrymandering, it's not going to matter much anymore. Take a look at Ohio's district map.

6. The Theory. As I've mentioned before, both of my sons have a Twitter account, and occasionally I stalk them (purely for amusement). I've often felt that Jared has a little Holden Caulfield in him, and that quality twinkled at me when I read this particular tweet:

Women always show up to a place like they're going to be there for a couple weeks.

(Oh my, Chapter Eight; Ernest Morrow's mother who leaves her goddamn bags in the middle of the aisle and her hands lousy with rocks! Sigh.)

******************

It's good to be Alive again.

image

Bus Stop

For the past few weeks, I've been watching the same sad drama unfold outside my living room window every morning at about 8:30 AM. It's not that I sit and wait for it; I'm already in my big armchair, reading the newspaper and having my second cup of coffee. Or, if Piper has decided it's Time, I'm having a Snuggle with a huge orange marmalade cat, rendering any movement at all completely impossible. (More than once, I've mistakenly played an Unintentional Word in Words With Friends; it doesn't always work out advantageously.)

But I digress.

At 8:30 in the morning on Mondays through Fridays, a school bus pulls up to the house two doors down, and the sound of a child crying and wailing begins. Soon, a little boy of about six appears, backpack on his back. Sometimes his mother carries him; other times he slowly walks, rubbing his eyes or his head with one hand while holding his mom's hand with the other. It's crying only--no words, no complaints--just a steady bawling which reaches a higher pitch as soon as the doors whoosh open. Each day, the little boy and his mom have been greeted by a cheery, merry bus aide. She calls out his name--it sounds like it might be Charlie? Marty? Barney?--and asks how he's doing. Is he ready for school today? She carefully takes his hand and helps him to walk up the steps to the bus. She won't carry him; he has to walk himself. The doors close, and the bus lumbers away.

The first time this drama unfolded, I initially focused on the little one, naturally. My heart broke for him. He clutched at his mother; he looked so tiny and his backpack looked so large. He's so afraid! I thought. And he has to go on that big huge bus! That poor baby. What if he cries the whole way there? What if someone is mean to him? Then I looked at his mother, who lingered at the end of the driveway, watching and waving, then standing there, hands clasped at her chest. How awful for her! To know that her baby is so sad and so upset, and to be unable to do anything but watch. I remembered my own guilt: I couldn't take my own kids to school on their first day because it was always the first day of school for me, too. I would always spend odd moments of the day wondering. So much of raising children is Heartbreak!

In the ensuing days, the tears have not subsided when the bus comes. Each day, the mother brings the little boy to the bus, still crying. The bubbly aide tries her hardest to jolly him up, but nothing has worked thus far. "He's a little crabby today," said the mother yesterday through the wailing. I wondered why she bothered to say anything. Maybe, though, he does stop crying on the bus at some point. Certainly he would at school. I'm not entirely certain, however; today as I was gathering my mail, the bus dropped him off. He was crying.

All of this is in stark contrast to the other little boy three doors down from me the other way who used to get picked up by a van for his school. A happy-go-lucky sort of kid, he was very hyperactive and didn't seem to have any sort of concerns about going off to school at all. As a matter of fact, one morning as he was leaving, he yelled loudly, "So long, suckas!"

A performance that was never, at least to my knowledge, repeated.

image

It's Like What Robert Frost Said

Have you ever asked a little kid what he wants to be when he grows up? The answers I love the most are when the kid says something like, "A killer whale" or "A kittycat." Once the kid gets older and becomes completely ruined by television/cable/DVDs/Netflix, the answers do too. Then he's likely to say, "I wanna be Batman" or "I wanna be fill in the blank with a Disney hero."

When I was a kid, I was awfully boring. St. Patsy confirms this. Actually, her response was, "Boring? No, you were just good and didn't give me any trouble when you were little." So, boring. I did all kinds of creative stuff with art supplies, but I was really a straight-up-and-down sort of child. And when anyone asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I always said the same thing, always.

So now, let me ask you, sort of, in a question supplied by a Dear Reader:

If you had to start over again, what career path would you choose?

My stock response back then would be my response now: a teacher. I've never regretted my career choice. There were plenty of things about it that I disliked, but the teaching was never one of them. If I could simply teach--just teach--right now, I'd do it. Not grade papers, not discipline, not fill out stupid forms, not supervise standardized testing, not babysit study halls or lunch, not all that UNteaching--just teach the books and grammar and writing that I know and love and can pass along and help others to understand and appreciate and learn. I would do it. Seriously.

Now, for those of you who say, "That's not fair. The question seems to imply that you must choose a new career path," I would say, 'I'm at a loss then.' I had dreams of being a veterinarian, as I discussed here before, but couldn't manage the high-level chemistry/math. Perhaps I'd be a Life Coach, specializing in teenagers and women. I really don't know.

But it's your turn. Let's hear what direction you might have taken, had your life made a different turn.

image

I Have Issues. Let's Talk About Them.

One of the many things I have grown to love about my retirement is the quiet.  After thirty years of generally talking all day, listening to other people talking, or being subjected to hallway noise of yammering and shouting, the relative silence is a true pleasure.  It's rare that, in the course of a usual day, I hear a single voice that is not my own.

Think of it! For days and days, from seven in the morning until four in the afternoon, aside from me chatting with my cats, there is not another human voice to be heard.  Unless my mother calls, unless Rick calls, unless a sister calls (all of which could happen, but seldom do), no voice interrupts my day.  I don't turn on the television or a radio.  I wallow in The Quiet.

Another part of the reason I enjoy the quiet might be that it's apparently difficult to have a sane discussion with people anymore, about anything.  It's terribly tedious when grownups link every little thing to The Politics and blame everything on their pet issue du jour.  I do it about the republicans for humorous effect here at the Dept., but Out There, it's reached a level of sheer idiocy.  I'm going to try my best not to add to the circus as I answer today's question, which is:

What is one political or social issue that drives you crazy when people talk about it?

(This question also adds the gentle and civilized note:  You don't have to give your opinion; just tell what the issue is.  Honestly, in this format, I don't know if that's possible.  Readers here know most of my opinions anyway, though, so it's not an issue.)

All of the Issues drive me crazy anymore, especially when David "Gregorius Interruptus" Gregory tackles them on Meet the Press.  Do not get me started.  That show should start with Rachel Maddow giving him a good, smart smack in the mouth every single week.

But I digress.

Firstly, the Affordable Care Act.  I hate like a root canal that Everyone calls it "Obamacare."  Yes, I realize that President Obama himself claims to embrace the term, but that was a political move to take the sting out of the term, I think.  Certain people speak about the ACA as if it were a product of The Great Satan--as if it says that, at some point, all the elderly among us will have to go to the woods and live off the land with only a backpack of dried fruit and a Swiss Army knife.  The most rabid detractors have no idea what the ACA even says.  Or does.  Or will do.  They just want Sarah Palin to run for president and drill for oil in snowy game preserves.  And shoot things.  From her snowmobile.  Named Prak.

Next, guns.  Chiefly, gun control.  This is an issue fraught with so much conflict.  The US has a very distinct gun culture, and within it are separate gun cultures.  Some of them are historical and go all the way back to our earliest regional heritages.  Some are simply violent and macho gangster posturing.  I'm not pretending to understand any gun culture; it's all alien to me.  But I will never believe that what we need are more guns, as in NRA president Wayne LaPierre's quote about the only thing that stops a bad guy with a gun is a good guy with one.  And I worry a great deal that all the rhetoric about beefing up mental health initiatives instead of legislating commonsense gun control will only serve to further isolate, stigmatize, and harm those struggling with mental health problems.

Finally--I'm going to confine myself to three or I'll get too fired up--public education in general and teachers specifically.  The amount of teacher-bashing and outright disrespect and belittling of the profession and individual teachers is both astonishing and breathtaking.  Wait--add "heartbreaking" to that list.  There are actually people, and a great deal of them, who think that a teacher is someone who gets paid way too much to work only nine months a year, then retires to a cushy salary for doing nothing.  These are the same people who, when they find out you are a teacher, say, "Oh, I could never do that job!" or "You couldn't pay me enough! Kids today...!"  These are the same people who want inexperienced kids from government programs to teach cheaply in public schools, but then raise hell when all teachers aren't perfect in the classroom.  "These are our children you're talking about!  That teacher is in a position of Trust! We expect the best for our kids." Basically, what they want is ... I have no idea.  Honestly, I don't know what in the hell they want.  They have free schools.  Teachers get paid little, comparatively speaking. It's painfully obvious that education is not a national priority, and nothing gets cut more on the national, state, and local level more often and more deeply than education budgets.  My entire career, I did more with less, year after year.  There was never a year that we didn't hear the phrase "Because of budget cuts...".  Teachers are Heroes.

Dammit.  Now I'm fired up.  Your turn in Comments.

image

Speak

Today's question is pretty straightforward.  Unfortunately, it will tarnish my reputation irretrievably in the eyes of thousands of people forever.  Oh, well.  As Lynn Anderson famously sang in 1970, "I never promised you a rose garden."  Here we go:

Do you speak more than one language fluently?  If so, how did you learn it?

Sigh.  The short answer is "No."  I hope you're happy now, Meme Mistress.  Thousands of my former students the world over are disillusioned and prostrate with incredulity.  Allow me to explain.

In my long career as a high school teacher (and one strange year at junior high), I used to, after giving directions, ask in several different languages, "Do you understand?".  A great number of my students used to make the assumption that I spoke all of those languages (French, Spanish, Japanese, Finnish among them), an assumption I did not take special care to disabuse them of.  I know enough French to be able to understand the language, to construct conversation, and to translate written French.  This also amazed and stunned my students, many of whom were only in first- or second-year French.

Additionally, my sons were in Spanish for all four years of their high school careers, attending the same school at which I taught.  I picked up enough Spanish from them and from living in my hometown for my whole life, a city which was home to the highest concentration of Mexicans and Puerto Ricans per capita, second only to New York City.  (Although, it must be noted that most of my Spanish-speaking friends back home spoke Spanglish.)  I could understand some Spanish and because it was so similar in some ways to French, I could translate it, too.  It also helped that I used to read Sesame Street anthologies to the boys, and they were chock full of Spanish vocabulary.  I tend to remember anything I am interested in, no matter how arcane, so Spanish stayed in a brain cubby along with birthstones, anatomy, and the lyrics to "Itchycoo Park" by The Small Faces.

Jared's and Sam's fluency in Spanish translated to a hike in their wages when they sought work in retail. Their ability to act as translator for customers was a desirable skill.  Their Spanish teacher early on was a dear friend of mine, Teresa, who both boys still adore and have vowed to take a bullet for. One of the most entertaining things was when, on car trips or even errands, Jared would translate song lyrics into Spanish, even partially, so that we could sing them that way.  My personal favourite:  El Partido de Crying.

My father was one hundred percent Croatian, first generation American, but because his mother wanted to be an American so badly, she forbid the language to be spoken in the house.  Consequently, he never really learned any, and neither did I.  I'm sorry about that.  I can't pass any of that on to my sons.

Some of my students claimed I didn't speak English because of the words I used and because of my correct pronunciation.  "You're not from around here, are you?" they used to ask.  "No, I'm not," I'd say.  "How did you know?"  They would look so proud, and someone would say, "You don't talk like anyone around here.  You talk different.  You talk proper and stuff.  Where you from then?"  It always killed them when I told them I was from the next town over.  Sometimes I do miss that; they're so easy.

original image

Yearbook

A few days ago Rick and I had occasion to drive by what used to be the site of a high
school in my hometown. Now it's just piles of dirt.  It wasn't my high school, but my sister Patti's.   She made lifelong friends there, had a lot of fun, and it was a big part of her life.  She's sad, noting that now, all three of the schools she attended have been razed.  No more Palm Avenue Elementary, no more Whittier Junior High, and now, no more Admiral King.

I went to Whittier and Palm Avenue, too, but by the time my brother and I were ready for high school, the city decided we South Side Kids deserved our own high school. Yet, if that school was knocked down tomorrow, I wouldn't think twice about it.  I had a great high school experience there, but to me, it's just a building.  It means nothing to me.  What I remember when I think of high school are the people, and when I do remember them, in many cases I miss them.

Esther was one of my more unusual friends, and not because she was Puerto Rican.  Where I lived, if you didn't have Puerto Rican and Mexican friends, then you simply didn't have very many friends.  Esther's mom spoke very little English, and her dad's English wasn't very good.  Esther had a motorcycle, and she used to ride it over to my house, nine blocks away, to hang out.  It took a ton of begging for me to be able to ride on the back, behind Esther, just to go back to her house. 

Over at Esther's house, I got treated like a celebrity.  Apparently, at one point my father, who was a security guard at US Steel, did her father a favor when he was coming in or leaving by the gate Dad was stationed at.  My dad's badge had only his last name, and Esther's dad unfailingly called me by my last name whenever I was there.  I'd come in and say, "Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Rivera.  Nice to see you!"  Their faces would light up, and a double-barreled barrage of Spanish would follow, interspersed with my last name and "Esther!" in varying degrees of intensity.  A whole menu of dishes and drinks would be translated and offered to me via Esther, her eyes rolling, and I would usually smile and refuse gently. Once in a while, something too good to say no to would appear, and when I'd accept, Mr. and Mrs. Rivera would be thrilled.

Esther's mom had a pet mynah bird named Jose who spoke English and Spanish, but his best trick was impersonating an airplane taking off. It was uncannily accurate.  Mr. Rivera had a pet rooster who was downright vicious.  Until the neighborhood kids got wise, Mr. Rivera used to put a heavy string around the chicken's ankle and then sit on the front step.  He'd call out to passing kids, asking them if they wanted to come and see his rooster.  As soon as the kid would come up the front walk, he'd let the slack out, and this Tasmanian Devil of a chicken would go tearing down the path wildly, squawking and flapping.  Those were the best Sundays of his life, I think.

We'd spend hours sitting on the Rivera garage roof when the cherries on her three trees were ripe.  She'd yell down to her baby brother to hand up her guitar sometimes, and we'd eat cherries, spit the stones at the robins, and then she'd play (and sing) the only two songs she knew on her guitar, Something Stupid and Spanish Eyes.  At one point, I think she started working on getting Strangers in the Night, but I don't remember exactly.  I do remember her mother being really upset about the whole garage roof/cherries thing.  She was sure that I would either fall or get sick.  She didn't seem too worried about Esther.

Senior year, one of the best-looking boys in school started paying a lot of attention to Esther.  A bunch of us were, unfortunately, surprised.  We always knew her as a tomboyish, quirky, brainy friend.  If we had paid any attention at all, we'd have seen what he had been seeing:  cute figure (stacked even), big dark eyes, long eyelashes, great smile, smart, effortless confidence and fun.  They started going together, but it didn't change a thing.  She was still just herself. 

Esther once made a Time Capsule during a slumber party.  Our friend Patty ended up with it.  I talked to her a few years ago and she mentioned it.  I think it was in a Tic Tacs container, or maybe even a Sucrets tin.  I don't remember.  Does it matter? 

I doubt it.  But again, I don't care about the container.  We had lots of slumber parties, each one more fun than the last.  And I have the memories of them still, even though Esther, Patty, Lana, and I have all moved away from our hometown and each other, and whether they knock down our school or not.

post header image from www.slate.com

Catharsis

Picture found here

The horrific tragedy in Connecticut has affected me--as I'm sure it has so many of you--on a variety of levels.  As I watched the news and learned more and more of exactly what happened at Sandy Hook, a school, for heaven's sake, I wept.

I wept because, of course, they were just so little.  And all they did was go to school.  They went off to school for a day of reading and learning and laughing and having lunch in the cafeteria and smiling at their teachers who were there to help them.  Maybe today would be somebody's birthday in their class, and they would have  cupcakes or little mini Snickers bars. 

Instead, someone blasted his way into their school with an assault rifle and slaughtered their classmates and their teachers. And instead of Sandy Hook becoming the first name ever associated with a school shooting, it joins a community.  Instead of Sandy Hook being a rarity, it lands on a fairly lengthy list.

After the two teenaged gunmen strode the halls of Columbine in April of 1999 and killed fifteen people, including themselves, nothing meaningful regarding sensible gun regulation happened.  I was teaching at the time, and our school's reaction was to devise a security protocol and institute student I.D.'s.  My students wanted to talk about the I.D.'s, mainly how silly of a response they were.  "The Columbine shooters were Columbine students!" they pointed out.  "That's not the reason," one student said darkly.  "They want to be able to identify the bodies."

As I was watching the coverage and crying, I was also angry.  Angry because Columbine had meant nothing, obviously.  Angry because it seems as if politics is more important than, ultimately, commonsense safety of our schools and our neighborhoods.  Why is the NRA allowed to bully our legislature?  Do students have to die so that people can take their guns to National Parks?  Buy guns freely at gun shows?  And do you mean to tell me that guns make us safer when the USA has more guns than any other large nation, yet we have more gun violence and gun deaths than any other large nation?  If you put fifty people in a room and give them all a gun, does that make the fifty-first person who goes into the room safer?

I also became angry because I thought of those poor teachers who went to school that day prepared to teach, yet walked into a survival situation.  I thought about how our country as a whole does not value teachers.  How many times do I hear about how teachers are merely overpaid babysitters?  How they only work nine months a year; how "those that can, do and those that can't, teach?" 

I became angry when I thought about the shooter, who was only a twenty-year old young man.  How disturbed he must have been!  Did he ever get any help, or could his mother, who was his custodial parent, not get assistance because of some problem with insurance?  I thought about all of the baloney that Rick and I sometimes have to go through just for prescriptions.  Why is our health care system such a mess?  Was this a contributing factor?

Lisa, over at Anali's First Amendment, said she was trying to write it out.  Write about the Sandy Hook tragedy as a sort of catharsis, to release her grief and make some sense of her feelings and reactions so that she could regain some serenity. 

That's what this post is, too.  I couldn't put something up here in this space without first acknowledging this event.  It was too vast for me to go unmentioned.  And it was too much with me to go unwritten.

The writing is not as refined as I would normally like.  I didn't go for style.  It's not pretty.  It's not impeccably researched.  It's probably not even coherent.  Now, look out for this last part because it's raw and ugly, but it's very, very much what I want to say.

I knew that this time, because the victims were very little children and because there were so many, that there was a better chance of getting some real discussion on gun control.  Maybe not actual Gun Control Capital G And C, but at least some substantive talk.  Because no one gives a good goddamn about teenagers getting shot up, it would seem.  I do, but who cares what I think?  But we all know that until some poor deranged shooter goes into the Congress and shoots a bunch of these stodgy old men right in their zippers(which seems to be the only thing that they do care about), no one in Washington will have a sense of urgency regarding commonsense legislation about regulating guns in this country. 

How telling that not a single pro-gun rights senator would appear on today's Meet the Press.

Of Food, The Facebook, Fantasy Sports, and Former Students--Life Is Good, You Know?

It's back to Real Life for me, I promise.  And with a vengeance.  Temps here have levelled off and although it's sunshiny and green outdoors, a quick step beyond the warm confines of the Dept. interior and I'm smacked in the yap with 44 degrees of More Sensibly March In NEO Weather.  And that's okay.  This is still the first winter in which I haven't had to wear my heavy coat more than twice.

A whole bunch of doodads have been bustling around in my brain this week.  I'm turning them loose for your consideration.

^)(^ Station KCRA of California, in an apparently slow news cycle, polled its listeners? viewers? fans regarding their most hated foods.  Of the list of 25, astonishingly, several are actually my favorite foods.  And of those remaining, I can honestly say that I would refuse to eat only two (okra and oysters).  Three of the most hated were actually on the menu of my childhood pretty much every Monday night during the school year--liver and onions, and lima beans.  I am not overly fond of:  raisins, tofu, and buttermilk (to drink), but I wouldn't say I hate them. I cook with raisins and buttermilk. Tofu...eh.  Not a fan.  I almost wept to see avocados on the list, and who could hate mushrooms?  And, really, peas?  Dear little peas?  Do NOT get me started on broccoli.  Or sour cream. What is wrong with America?

^)(^ Of course, you all know how I feel about The Facebook.  Apparently, however, I am on The Facebook completely against my will and on The Twitter as well.  This is thanks to my children, Sam and Jared, who have been so helpfully and kindly posting some of my text message conversations with them on their TwitFace accounts.  As you may recall, I am the owner of a Fantasy Basketball Team (and I made the playoffs, too, beating Jared out of a spot).  Many times, we discuss trades and do a little "trash talking" via text.  You may also recall that I can be rather profane colorful in my speech when I am...impassioned.  The boys think it is "funny" to post these on their TwitFace accounts where many of my former students see them and then make comments like, "I love your mom" and "The next time I see your mom, Imma gonna ask her to marry me" and "Ask your mom if she wants to be an owner in the NFL fantasy league" and "I love me some Ms D" and "I wish I could talk to my mom like that, that shit be crazy."  Again--and some of you want me to be on The Facebook! 

^)(^ Speaking of former students, I had an experience with one last week that reaffirmed for me just how privileged I was to have worked with my creative writers.  I had Eric in the 80s when I first started the creative writing program at my high school.  He swore he wouldn't write any stupid poetry, that all he wanted to do was write Stephen King-type stuff.  Long story short, I begged and got him to take my class.  He was brilliant, and we went on to continue a writer/editor relationship that developed into a deep friendship.  His work has appeared in a myriad of magazines; he has had a novella published as well as a couple of collections of poetry.  For years he made time to teach my class, many times for free, for a week.  Last week, he invited me to teach his.  I presented for a couple of hours on the topic of creative nonfiction using my blogs as examples.  Eric also presented me with an artist's copy of his latest book.  As usual, I burst into tears.  "You didn't even see the best part," he admonished me.  Turning to a flyleaf, he held it open, and showed me.  It was dedicated to me.

It's become fashionable to have a Life List, an inventory of places to visit or things to experience before Time Is Up.  I'm not a fan. I know myself too well.  Driven by Crossing Things Off, like so many To Dos or Chores, I'd lose sight of the Spontaneous Wonderfuls, like Having A Book Dedicated To Me, or Not Wearing A Coat In The Winter, or Owning A Fantasy Team, or even Trying Okra One More Time.

School's Out

Oh, Alice.  I can't say it any better myself, so I'll just borrow from you.  School's out for summer.  School's out forever!  Out for summer, out till fall.  We might not go back at all!

And I won't.  Go back ever, that is.  2011 is the year that Nance Finally Gets Out.  With my thirty years in, I'm retiring.  Or, retired, that is.  After doing the math, I can finish out my Illustrious Career by serving a little extra time (14 days) in July, thanks to the Nice People at HR. 

I have to say that I'm very comfortable with my decision for lots of reasons.  Thirty years is a long time to be in such a demanding, giving, calisthenic career.  I am confident that I am leaving while I'm still at the top of my game.  I had a good year with some terrific kids.  And I was fortunate to spend the vast majority of my teaching career at one school district, and one which afforded me an incredible amount of academic and professional freedom with colleagues whom I respected and had a good time with.

The only regret I leave with is that I had to mislead my students.  My decision to retire, once made, was a deeply personal and private one, and they did not know that this was my last year.  No one did. Many of them made plans to check in with me next year, either to be an aide for me or to contribute to the literary magazine for which I am the faculty adviser.  So many inquired about taking my creative writing class, knowing it was their only chance to have me again as a teacher.  I feel bad that I couldn't be entirely honest with them without making my personal life part of the public domain. 

Now, I will take some time to breathe.  I'm not sure what I'll do with all this English in my head.  Who will I share color symbolism and diction clues with in The Great Gatsby?  Who wants to talk about the Freudian elements in The Catcher in the Rye?  Anyone up for a discussion on the dynamic hero in Miller's The Crucible?  And whenever there's an impromptu forum on Emily Dickinson or Walt Whitman, please let me know.  I'm all over that.  If only I could just Teach and do nothing else of it all.  That was always my most profound Joy.

In the meantime, allow me to leave you with this most apt conclusion, brought to you by a junior student of my dear friend and colleague Melanie.  I quote it verbatim:

In this novel The Great Gatsby, things got crazy but in the end there was an outcome and everyone was okay.  The End!

War Is Hell...Wait, I Feel Like Someone Already Said That (Even Though He Wasn't In Public Education. Does It Still Count?)

In what can only be termed a Hostage Crisis Of Horrific Proportions, I AM STILL IN SCHOOL.  Certainly, this is a massive and terrible breach of the Geneva Convention (specifically, the third), and I feel much put-upon, at the very least.  Why am I being punished this way?  What have I done to deserve this?

AND I STILL HAVE FINALS NEXT WEEK!  WILL IT NEVER END?

Today, the following scene occurred in my room as I manned the SmartBoard and staunchly explicated the infinitive phrase to a roomful of long-suffering sophomore honors students who are just as strung-out on this Marathon School Year as I am.

Mrs. D.:  Okay, so!  That's the last of the verbal phrases.  Go grab the green book and let's---

Selena:  (sassy Latina girl, interrupts)  Miss D.!  How much more grammar? 

Mrs. D.:  (pointedly, in an attempt to clarify) What kind of question is that, Selena?  Can you be more specific?  Can you, say, add a verb?

Selena:  (pauses, thinks, tries again) I mean, will we be taking more notes tomorrow?

Mrs. D.:  Yes.  We have one more phrase to cover, the appositive.  It's not a verbal, but it completes our study of phrases.  Then that's it.  As far as grammar next year, I'm not sure how much you do in junior honors, but--

Selena:  (interrupts) We didn't do no grammar last year in Miss Addison's class!

Mrs. D.:  That's any grammar.  You didn't do any grammar.

Selena:  (resolutely nods head) That's how you know!

And, just for fun, here are some more student vocabulary sentences.  These come from my colleague Melanie, who teaches junior regs:

By you blasting that music, you are disquieting.

When I wrestled, I had two gain ten ponds, but I went over, so I was offset.

My shirt was susceptible when I tried it on.

It was hard for the slaves to inevitable for what they were going through.

Small animals are inhabitable in the woods.

Send help. And hurry.