A Mother's Wish

"You never stop worrying about your children," she always told me. She was not kidding. Most of what my mom told me about being a parent is true. I know it seems cliche for a mother to write to her kids about all she wishes for them, and to offer her sage advice when she reflects on what she did and did not do, and the choices she made in her life. But when you get to be a certain age, it just happens. Right now my concern for my son and his future consumes a vast majority of my thoughts. At any given moment, my mind is flooded with questions: Will he learn the proper study habits? Will he score ok on the SATs? Will he get into college? Will he get into the college he wants to attend? Will he be happy there?

Then there is all the non-school related stuff. Will he meet the right girl? Will he pick the right girl? Will he/they make good decisions about their relationship, their futures? Everyone (except for parents of boys) says it is easier to raise boys, at least you do not have to worry about them getting pregnant, right? Wrong. What about the worry that he will knock some girl up? It takes two, the last time I checked. In the loving, respectful, and responsible family in which I grew up, the values are such that both the kids' lives would be affected by an unplanned baby. Both their futures would be altered, affected forever. I only hope these same values will help prevent an unplanned pregancy. But let's face it. Good people make bad decisions sometimes and mistakes happen. I worry about all of this. Don't all parents?

But I also worry about his life in general. I worry about his happiness as a person. Will he be happy in life? WIll he find work that he loves? Will he feel successful and accomplished at whatever he chooses to do? Will he realize that there is more to life than work and career, and live his life as such? Will he continue to be kind and generous? Will others love him for the person we know him to be? As a teenager my son has such a lust for life, he has since he was a tot. He loves adventure and inquiry, technology and interpersonal relationships. He has a kind heart, a witty sense of humor, and an enormous sense of wonder about the world. 

So you may wonder why I worry so much. Maybe it is because he is my only child and thus the focus of all my energy, attention, and concern. Maybe it is because that is just what moms do. So as we begin his 16th year, and look forward to driving, working, dating (oh boy), and college, here are my wishes for my only child, my heart, my son Jacob:

I wish for you the courage to always follow your dreams, no matter how crazy others may think you are. But still, chase them with a sense of care and appreciation for those who help you along the way.

I wish for you a world that embraces you for the unique individual you are, and whose inhabitants never coerce you into conformity. But still, accept others without need to coerce them.

I wish for you the patience to make good, informed decisions, and the forgiveness of yourself and others when those decisions do not work out so well. But still, provide the same forgiveness for others who make mistakes, because even the ones you love will.

I wish for you the ability and the intuition to see through people who will claim to be genuine and selfless, when they may be just the opposite. But still, be as honest and genuine toward others as you want others to be to you.

I wish for you the understanding that hard work is more important than intelligence or talent, for without the first the others go to waste. But still, do not sacrafice your talents or intelligence to make others feel better.

I wish for you a life with minimal pain and suffering, and the grace to come through whatever comes your way. But still, remember to standby others who are suffering and in need.

I wish for you a partner in life who is as good to you as your father is to me. But still, show you have learned from his example by being the same to her. 

Most of all, I wish for you what all parents wish for their children. I wish for you to always be healthy and happy.

A Shot in the Arm and a Boost to the Ego: Spending the Day with Mom

You should send some of these in somewhere, she responded when I shared some of my blog with my mom for the first time yesterday. I had not realized my mom was unaware I have been blogging. For some reason she and I mutually agreed quite some time ago not to friend each other on Facebook, something about giving each other privacy. Not important here, but due to the fact my blogs mostly get circulation via Facebook, that meant she had never seen any of them. It is actually strange, because I tell and talk to my mom about pretty much everything. This was just an oversight...

Yesterday morning I filled up the gas tank and drove to the other coast, about a two hour drive, to spend the day with my mom. We try to do this every time I have a school break, and it is extra special when my 15-year-old son, who is the light of his Grammy's life by the way, is otherwise engaged so mom and I get all of each other's attention. Such was the case yesterday, as the golden child is away at Boy Scout winter camp this week. Mom basically gives me the choice to do whatever I want, listens to me rant about all the important and unimportant things in my life, and on my brain. She looks into my face with joy and wonder, and love. It is a real shot in the arm. No pretenses, no phoniness, just me and quite possibly the person in the world who is more happy to see me than anyone else I know (Dad, my husband, and my sister might argue- they all come pretty close. But if you are a mom, you know).

As always, we went out for a lovely lunch. She took me downtown to a Vietnamese restaurant where I had a delightfully healthy dish I had never had before. I do not remember what it was called, but it had fresh shredded lettuce, julienned cucumbers and daikon radishes, combined with rice noodles and a sliced up eggroll that was only delicately wrapped, not oily and deep fried tasting. It was served with a very light, slightly sweet and spicy sauce. After lunch, we went down to the chocolatier/bakery and shared the most decadent heart-shaped chocolate truffly cake thingy. We ate it in the car, giggling the whole time about how yummy it was, and stopped at Target for some belated Christmas gifts for my nephews. We walked most of the store, collecting items along the way that mostly never made it to check out, but rather were left behind like breadcrumbs tracing my mom's steps (sorry for outting you mom!). We both picked up some comfy pajamas that were on the 40% off rack, only to find at the register that they were mismarked. Neither one of us wanted to pay the original price, nor were we willing to wait around to insist the manager honor the signs. So we paid for the toys and left.

After considering a movie, but finding nothing with a convenient time, we decided to go back to her place and just hang out until I had to head back home. It was fun. We talked about everything and nothing, and then uneventfully in conversation, I mentioned my blog. I didn't know you have a blog, she said to me. I told her I have two. She seemed delightfully surprised, as did I. It was not something I kept from her intentionally, but as I said we are not Facebook friends and that is how I post. So how could she know I have been writing. The corners of her mouth lifted, giving her the tickled look anyone who knows her would recognize. Then she looked at me and said, I was wondering what was coming next. You have been out of school for a few months, and you are always doing something. I laughed because what might seem like a jab at what my mom calls my nuginess [pronounced noo (as in book)- jee- ness] was really her affectionate way of telling me she knew that finishing my doctorate did not mean I was done. 

Limited to my iphone because G-d Bless her, she did not know the password for me to access her wifi on my ipad, I read her a few of my posts. I started with the one about Christmas, showed her the poem I wrote in my post, Early; and then I read her my post, Up In Smoke because one of my friends from my writing group told me it was some of my best writing. That is when she said it. In true every-good-mom-thinks-her-kid-is-brilliant form, you should send these in somewhere. I had to laugh, and then I asked her where. I only wondered where my mom meant for me to send them. She had no idea where she wanted me to send them, but she said it was really good. There was the ego boost. We talked about my writing and she told me my face is really animated and lights up when I talk about writing. Does anyone ever know you better than your mom?

A Different Kind of Christmas

I am a Jew. My husband a gentile, a term I only use because he does not self-identify as anything other than a believer in G-d. There has been much controversy over the past several years around the Christmas season, concerns I never really heard years prior.  According to some, there is a "war on Christmas," there is discontent over the phrases "Happy Holidays" and "Seasons Greetings," because they leave out the word Christmas. Last year and this year, the most popular slogan on bumper stickers, car magnets, internet e-cards and memes seems to be, "Put the Christ back in Christmas."

Before I continue, please understand I mean no offense. But having been born and raised during my early childhood in New York, and later on living in the Ft. Lauderdale-Miami area, I never gave too much thought to Christmas, other than the commericalism it brings this time of year. Some people celebrated Christmas, others did not. I guess in New York it seems less noticable when you are different. I never celebrated Christmas, nor missed it. I never had to. I am Jewish, we do not celebrate Christmas, we do not have lights or trees, and despite common misconception Chanukah is not the Jewish Christmas. In the United States, we have simply succumbed to the commercial pressures of the retail market this time of year, just like those who celebrate Christmas. Chanukah is a fun celebration filled with delicious food and cultural games, songs, and traditions, but it is not really a gift-giving holiday. One present for each of the eight nights, gift exchanges, these are American traditions adopted by Jewish people in America. In Israel for example, there is no gift exchange. Anyway, the biggest Christmas-time tradition for my family was simply a convenience of the season. Before my parents split, when winter break came and Christmas hit 5th Avenue and the rest of Manhattan, we would get dressed up in our finest and go to a Broadway show. Then we would go out to eat in Chinatown and walk the beautiful city of New York, which never looks more exquisite than it does dusted with a light snow and decorated for Christmas.

But in December of 1989, Christmas changed for me. A few months earlier, I met the boy I would one day realize was my soulmate. He was raised in a Christian/Catholic home and of course they celebrated Christmas. I was 16, and at this point in my life I had never been to a church (other than the old converted one that served as the gymnastics gym I practiced in as a kid), and I never participated in a Chirstmas or Easter celebration. I was actually a little intimidated by Christmas. I was a teenager, young and insecure. I was not sure what it meant to my sense of "Jewishness" to participate in a celebration of Christmas, the birth of Christ. I joined my husband's family that year for Christmas Eve and every year after for Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, or both. As I matured, I realized that sharing a cultural observance or celebration with someone else has no bearing on your own beliefs. It is simply sharing, learning, and embracing the differences that make our union special.

For me, Christmas is not about Christ. I understand why it is for people of Christian faith, and I certainly respect that this is why Christmas is. But for me it is about being welcomed into my husband's family. It is about sharing with them traditions that are important to their family culture and history, even though I do not observe them in my own home. It is about togetherness and love. I am pretty sure neither my husband, nor his family, expect that it means anything more to me than that. Much the way, I would expect nothing different from any of my friends or my husband's family coming over to my house to share in Jewish holidays or traditions. 

So I wonder. Is it ok that there is no Christ in my Christmas, or should I not have one at all? Would Christians say to me it is not my holiday? Is it unacceptable to others to share in the holiday cheer, if the holiday does not hold the same meaning for you as it does for others? I ask without snarkiness or mal intent. I am completely serious. Is it alright for someone to celebrate when they've taken Christ out of Christmas? 

Added Note: 

I posted this on the morning of Christmas Eve, failing to mention that I would be spending tonight's festivities at my friend's house. She's Catholic and all the other guests there, though not all Catholic, celebrate Christmas as part of their religious faith. I was totally welcome by not only my best friend, but all of her guests as well. It did not seem to bother any of them that our beliefs are not the same. Tomorrow, I will happily be going to Christmas dinner at my husband's sister's house.

A Writerly Year in Review

I have truly had an inspired year. I made a commitment to making writing a daily part of my life, and I have successfully done that. My life has changed as a result. Everything I experience in the world is different because I experience it through writer's eyes. I process information and thoughts differently and more completely. I look for meaning in the seemingly meaningless. I exploit the minutia of my life and extrapolate all I can from daily living, to better appreciate my life and all I have, and to develop my skill and commitment as a writer.

I started two blogs this year. This one devoted to personal writing and reflection of all types, and another one devoted to writing about education (backwithclass.blogspot.com). I read a lot about writing, and I subscribe to websites, e-zines, and Facebook pages devoted to writing. Perhaps most importantly, I joined together with four more women who are equally enthusiastic about writing, and we formed a writing circle in which we meet in person once a month, and share writing in a closed group online. It has been wonderful!

Writing has become such an integral and wondrous part of my life this year. It is a realization of who I am, what is important to me, and who I want to be. I have evolved from a teacher of writing (which I still am) into a writer. For the first time in my life, instead of calling myself a teacher or a person who loves to write, I actually refer to myself as a writer. Wherever I am, whatever I am doing, there is a piece of writing inside of me. Sometimes at night I am unable to fall asleep because I am writing in my head. Other days I wake with a piece oozing out of me. This morning while folding laundry, I was beginning to formulate this post in my head. Wearing my writer's eyes makes me happy.

Everyone has an end of year countdown; it is what people do this time of year. Though I do not often follow the masses, as I reflect on this year I feel grateful, and figured why not? Writing has been an important part of my year, so here are the top 13 pieces of inspiration I gathered online from various sources this year. Why 13? I tried a top 10 and was not able to narrow it down enough. Since it is the close of 2013, I thought 13 was appropriate. I chose online sources because quite frankly, they are fun to look at!

#13

This is how my writing circle got started. A friend and fellow member of the National Writing Project contacted me after reading several of my Facebook posts. We realized both of us were searching for something and looking to commit ourselves to make writing a priority in our lives. There are no excuses if you want to be a writer. You simply need to make time. When you see everything as an opportunity for writing, it gets easier. Whether journaling your thoughts for yourself, or putting writing out there for others, it has to become a regular part of who you are. Now.

#12

This is in the same vein as the last one. Just because you write it, does not mean someone else has to read it. Just write something, it does not matter what it is. It is like going to the gym. You will be happy you did it once you get motivated to do it.

#11

This is so true! Once you decide you are a writer, or you want to be a writer, everything changes. My mind never takes a break from being a writer. It is as though I look at the world through a different lens, and my vision changed. Just as your eyes adjust to a new pair of glasses and your vision adapts permanently, so does the writer's lens change you forever. If I am not writing, I am thinking about what my next piece is, or gathering research and information for one I have already started. Sometimes I actually have an experience in narrative form because the writerly part of my brain is already processing it and telling it through my lens. 

#10

Writing is most certainly a labor of love. I am talking about real writing, not the kind you do for a teacher or your boss, but the kind you do for yourself. For me, as a writer, it so incredibly satisfying to have an idea and for the articulation of the idea to flow out in just the right words. This is not to say the first draft is the final draft, but to be able to get the whole thing out without an interruption in my thought process makes me extraordinarily happy. Most pieces or posts that I write require me to step away and come back, sometimes because of time and sometimes because I just cannot seem to get it out. When the words flow... pure joy.

#9

As a writer I often struggle with the truth. To clarify, I do not have trouble with honesty in my writing, but I often fear my honesty will somehow get me into trouble. At one point my husband suggested I blog anonymously so as not to jeopardize my career or personal relationships with my writing. After much discussion and soul searching, I made a decision. If I am genuinely committed to becoming a writer, I have the right and the responsibility to own my words. I do not want to hide my identity or my truth. 

#8

Toni Morrison hit the nail on the head for me. Writing is thinking, feeling, processing, creating. Depending on the piece, the moment, the purpose, it can be any combination of, or all of these things.

#7

I do not remember where this gem came from, but I love it! My students would interpret this as exact measurements for paragraphs, pages, and manuscripts. I can just hear them asking, "Does a paragraph have to have exactly 50 words?" Obviously, these figures are reminders for aspiring writers that the mountain can be climbed. I am working particularly hard on number four and number six this year. I want to print this as a poster for my workspace!

#6

It is a little difficult for me to admit, but I do write for me. I write to "exorcise," to explore, to share. Though I want others to read and to enjoy my writing, I generally write to purge my thoughts and feelings, my ideas and my worries. It is extremely cathartic and therapeutic for me. See #5 as well.

#5

Allowing myself written expression keeps me from exploding. Sometimes creating a story or journaling my thoughts are the only way I can keep myself from going utterly bonkers. Have you seen my post Up in Smoke?

#4

Whether it is to reveal something personal in my writing, to try a type of writing that takes me out of my comfort zone, or to quite literally write about fear, I try to remember this. If we do not take risks we do not get the rewards, especially that of personal growth. I have drawn great strength from the members of the National Writing Project and my personal writing circle. They give me the courage to write and to share.

#3

This is so true! I try to impress this upon teachers of writing when I talk about writing. Anyone can write, with time and commitment to writing. It is the human experience and human emotions that link the writer and the reader. If you are human, if you feel, you can write. I try to remember this when I feel inadequate as a writer.

#2

Oh how I love this quote! I encountered it online sometime in the spring or early summer and it became the inspiration for my poem Word Shower (6/24/2014). I am a logophile, a word nerd, a lover of language. When I read Crane's words of being drenched and soaked in words, I can picture myself in a giant bathtub filled with words (don't judge- many of you would say this about wine or chocolate, or countless other things). I love new words, new language, and finding just the right way to say and describe what it is I want to say as a writer. This idea, that poem I wrote, were all the springboard for seriously committing to the writerly life.

#1

In the same vein as numbers 7 and 8, this is a reminder to me to stay true to myself. I never want my writing to become someone else's writing. I want to say what I need to say and let it be. Whether it gives someone an ah huh, a little chuckle, or a big realization, I cannot know when I write. True honest writing will last as long as it needs to in the hearts and minds of my readers or me.

Thank you for reading. I am more committed than ever to continuing to live a writerly life. I hope you will come back and share my posts with anyone you think may enjoy them or benefit from them. 

Happy New Year!

Peace, love, language.

Early

Soft fingery tickles 

Tender warm caresses

He gently sweeps the wispy hairs from my face

And cradles his thighs beneath my buttocks

He pulls me close and whispers

I love you

Pressing his skin to mine

I can feel his heart

He pulls his fingertips the length of my arm

Each of my tiny hairs stand on end

It is early, I insist with my eyes still closed

He pulls me in closer

A kiss behind my ear

And I feel his love

His early morning affection

My daily vitamin

My husband and I have a one-of-a-kind relationship. Together since we were 16 and 18 years old, happily I might add, we have been called unique, unusual, not the norm, an anomaly, a miracle. We know how lucky we are and talk about it regularly.

But I have always wanted to capture that early morning feeling I get waking up next to him. We both have trouble sleeping when the other is away, and those early morning minutes whether workday or weekend, between waking into consciousness and getting out of bed, are some of his most tender moments. It is as though before the weight of the world hits us, our love is pure and private and just us. It is not a particularly sexual feeling, but an emotionally secure and loving feeling. This poem is my tribute to him and that feeling.

Finding Tesla (the band)

I'm not entirely sure when my love affair with the band Tesla began, or why. I do know that I started listening to them about 1989, the year I met my husband. There might be a meaningful correlation there, but I'm not certain. I do know that a common interest and affection for each other and the band's music fueled a joint passion over the years. We've since passed our love of the band onto many around us, including our now 15-year-old son, who has since the age of about 7 proclaimed the band to be his favorite. To know our son, is to know that he does not "just say that," as he is a multi-genre music enthusiast. Though it is likely his initial interest in the band was because of us, he has since deepened his devotion to Tesla on his own.

Of course the relationship of a band and its fans is mostly about the music, but there are some additional things about this band that are really cool. For example, the reason they chose their name. As those familiar with the inventor may have suspected, Tesla the band named itself after Croatian born Nikola Tesla. Tesla is now believed to be the inventor of the technology that led to the radio, previously credited to and commonly believed to be the work of Marconi. He also discovered alternating current and was responsible for the technology that Edison used to make the lightbulb. Tesla was a true inventor not concerned with fortune or fame but with science, so many of his ideas were not patented or were stolen and patented by other people. He was thought an eccentric and a fool, and others took advantage of him. It wasn't until more modern times that Nikola Tesla was recognized and appreciated for his genius. 

    Nikola Tesla for more: www.teslasociety.com

Tesla the band pays homage to their namesake in a totally rockin' song called "Edison's Medicine," found on their album Psychotic Supper. They also named their first two albums 

    Mechanical Resonance                                

    The Great Radio Controversy

with clear references to Nikola. On their website Teslatheband.com, they used to also include the biography and influence of the inventor. It's no longer there, unfortunately.

They also reached some commercial success with an all acoustic CD that came out well before the MTV unplugged era. Five Man Acoustical Jam was a live album on which they sang a lot of covers, including the at-one-time overplayed "Signs" originally recorded by The Five Man Acoustical Band, thus the name of the album. They also played the Beatles, Rolling Stones, CCR, and of course original music. But it was clear their music was grounded in roots, not a teased hair and make-up freak show. They were often grouped in with hair bands because of their timing on the hard rock scene. However, though they've sported long locks (then and now), they've never been cheesed out like a true hair band. A couple of early videos evidence the influence of the era- the hair is a little bigger and I spy some eyeliner, but it would be a downright sin to group these guys with bands like Poison and Motley Crüe. These guys are the real deal. Heavy guitars, sound music. More torn jeans and rock and roll t-shirts, less spandex and Aqua Net. Just downhome guys from Sacramento, California banging out some heavy metal music. Jeff Keith, lead singer, was a truck driver who practiced singing to himself on the road while trying to get the band signed.

The band toured with Def Leppard on the Hysteria tour, really putting them out there. Many of the articles report, and interviews and videos further support, that the band members became quite good friends. Tesla would record "Song and Emotion" in 1991, a tribute to the guitarist Steve Clark of Def Leppard, who died that year from drug and alcohol addiciton. Though there is great guitar, as there always is in Tesla songs, this song was more about the lyrics and their sadness following Clark's death. It is one of their most widely recognized songs and is a fan favorite at live shows (I've been to at least 5 shows over the years).

Which brings me to my favorite thing about Tesla. If you've followed my blog at all, you know I'm a logophile (a word nerd). And I love Tesla lyrics. Jeff Keith has a raspy melodic voice, perfect for taking in the words. Not all, but a large number of the band's songs are positive. They're about living and loving, not about death or how much the world sucks. Don't get me wrong, they're not sugary, candy coated songs about how perfect the world is. They tackle issues like losing loved ones, the horror of 911, tough relationships, questioning God. But somehow, overall the outlook always seems like, take the world by storm and live and love with all you've got. Naturally, their lyrics inspired found poetry that has been long in the making. Enjoy, and please check out the band on iTunes. (Skip Twisted Wires-the only album I regretted purchasing).

Teslove

How am I to show you

What I'm feeling deep down 

In my soul

I need your loving

I feel it deep inside 

I've got you right here in my heart

This love is real

One look at you

And I can see the light of day

You came and colored up my life

I'll never make it in black and white

I want to hold you in my arms, around my legs

As though our hearts were sacred knots

One look at you and I can see the light of day

One way or another we're going to make it

Everybody needs a special kind of love

Anytime you call night or day

Never matters just as long as we're together

The pain just slowly fades away.

Tesliving

I wanna live before I die

Always searching for a way 

To do the things that can't be done

The time is right

Into the now 

Time goes on and on like a driving rain

Don't want the world to pass me by

Happening day after day

We can change or stay the same

Today is yesterday's tomorrow

I close my eyes and everything will be alright

I'm caught up in a dream

I'm gonna wish for it all

I try so hard to believe

That anything is possible

You don't even know me

Where I've been or where I'm coming from

The way I see it, it's the way it's got to be

I think I know myself better than anyone else

Before I please somebody else

I've got to please myself

You ask me where I'm going

I don't even know myself

Me and my shadow, nobody else around

I ought to know what I want, what I need

What's inside of me

It's getting better everyday

Keep your mind at ease and heart close at hand

For everything in life there is a reason

You're extraordinary

Forever more

    The boys in the band- this is Tesla

Note:

All lyrics are copyrighted to Tesla the band and were reorganized to create poetry out of fondness for the band and their music. All Album art, photo of the band, and music came from Teslatheband.com.

Living Clean: It's Not What You're Thinking

As teachers in graduate school, we are taught to be reflective practioners. This means I am constantly thinking about how I teach, what would make me more effective in my classroom, and what kinds of things I can persue or do in order to help me continuously improve my practice. I am always considering what is working with a particular student, group of students, or an entire class, and also what is not. It means there is no end. There is no arrival. You never get to the finish line, because there isn't one. In the past ten years or so, I've come to realize that being a reflective practioner isn't difficult for me. I don't mean reflection is easy, in that it's easy to face my weaknesses and solve challenging problems in the classroom. I mean that making a habit out of the process of personal analysis and evaluation is not difficult for me, because I do it anyway. I am not just a reflective practitioner. I'm a reflective wife, a reflective mother, a reflective friend. I am simply a reflective person.

Being reflective is a bit of a curse, as it can often lead to over analysis. I sometimes wonder if I'm too worried about the outcome of certain decisions, or the impact my actions and decisions have on others. However, I've always believed if I processed circumstances, especially when things don't go the way I want them to, then I can take away a piece of something to possibly help me in the future. In the same vein, I try really hard to consider impending decisions from every angle. This is what I refer to as clean living. The outcomes of our decisions and our actions can't always be what we want or what we expected, but if we make those decisions for the seemingly right reasons and with the truth as we know it, then the decisions feel somewhat clean.

Take an example from a recent experience I had at work. There is a new teacher at my school with far less tenure than I. Truth be told, no tenure because said teacher is in the first year of teaching. Ever. This newbie is a bit older than your average newbie, as this teacher is a career-changer. I'm pretty sure there's not even a teaching degree, but a degree of some sort and a temporary teaching certificate. Yes, welcome to Florida ladies and gentleman. 

Wait a minute. Who am I kidding? I was trying to keep gender out of it, but I can't. You see, I've met guys like this teacher before. He was involved in another field, probably business. I'm making an assumption here, but it's probably a solid one, that things got tough when the economy took a turn, or jobs were hard to come by, so why not try teaching, right? Let me be clear, this has nothing to do with the idea of a male teacher. We have several great ones and I've met countless others. But this is the type, the guy, who seemed to realize there was some stability in the field of education in that there will always be a need for us (as long as we're willing to take all the shit that comes with job. But that's another post). Besides, they think, I'll just put in a couple of years and then I'll be a principal. So they turn in their suits and briefcases for Dockers and messenger bags, and they become administrators in training. Forget teaching and learning, assessing and progress monitoring, individualized learning. They're more interested in order and discipline. Tear them down to build them up. There seems no true understanding about the stages in human and child development or the learning process. 

This guy, walks around our school like he is in a perpetual audition to be a school administrator. He is from another grade level, but barks at our students when they're in our care or supervision. He seems to find great pleasure in identifying kids who are not following a rule, celebrating with a victorious clipboard fist pump in the air when he catches one. "I got one!" he yells with great delight while he marches down the hall personifying the exact opposite of what is expected of us as teachers in a PBS (positive behavior support) school. One day he backed a student up against the wall, albeit with his eyes and stature, he did not lay a hand on the child. But he was in his face, yelling at him in front of the entire hallway filled with several teachers and all of the 4th and 5th grade students waiting in line for their busses at dismissal. The boy was not in trouble for saying anything disresepctful or for mistreating another student. He was talking. At dismissal. To a friend he probably hadn't seen all day. I realize we expect our students to be quiet so we can hear what's going on, but I don't understand the obsession with silence and soldier like expectations for 10 and 11 years olds who have had to sit down and shut up all day.

Others may be impressed, but my team members and I, we are not. We are disgusted by the joy he seems to derive from catching kids not on point. We are insulted by the attempt to undermine our authority with our students. We are downright pissed off by the false assumption that we can't handle our students without a loud, mean man to come save us. So what do we do about it? I have not confronted or undermined him in front of the kids (though it takes a lot of restraint not to). I have not hauled off on him with sarcasm asking how we could have possibly gotten along before he came to rescue us. I have not stuck my 15 years of experience or the nice Dr. in front of my name, in his face. I simply turned my back to him in the hallway and took it into a venting session with my team that afternoon.

The following day I went to speak with the assistant principal assigned to liaison with both our grade levels. I felt the feedback was better coming from her, as I am not his supervisor or even his APPLES (new teacher program) mentor, and he's not on my team. My AP took the information, rolled over ideas of how to address it without "outing me." Truthfully, I was not concerned about my anonymity, but she's a peacekeeper. I left it in her hands.

Here's where the reflection and over analysis kick in. I started to wonder if I should just go into his room and have a respectful conversation with him, expressing both my professional concerns and my personal feelings.  As an adminstrator, as a leader, I always had and always will support and encourage an emotionally clean working environment. Working teams should not be passive aggressive. They should express concerns, be able to exchange ideas without necessarily agreeing with each other. All of this should occur freely without resentment, if the team is truly committed to their work and their students. Easier said than done, right? Not really. It just takes practice and a group of people who buy in to previously stated commitment. The potential problem is when some buy in and others don't. This was my concern. Here are the things that came to mind as I considered how to handle the situation...

What is my real concern here?

Is my ego in check, or is it puffed out and taking a hit?

Am I overstepping boundaries by addressing it?

How will the other (said male teacher) react to me?

Is this a male/female issue?

Is this a veteran/new teacher issue?

Will I offend the other teacher?

Am I intimidated by the other teacher?

Did I "run and tell" because I wasn't willing to deal with it or because it was the right course of action?

Is this about what is right for kids, or is it about me?

The list goes on...

About now you're probably wondering if I'm sick in the head. Maybe she has OCD, maybe she's insecure, a worry wart. I can't think of any way to describe it but how I did at the beginning of the post. I am an extremely and sometimes overly reflective and analytical person (probably why I always did well on analogies- ever take the MIller's?). My ultimate goal- I guess I'm realizing in life, not just work- is to live cleanly. Not just physically but mentally and emotionally. HIndsight is very important to me. It helps improve future foresight.

So after all that, you know what happened? Though I'm not certain, it seemed as thought the AP did nothing. Several weeks went by and nothing changed. I continued to wait patiently for her to handfle it, and I continued to stonewall said teacher in the hallway. The resentment and sarcasm died down a little and I started to just write it off as his problem. I adopted the whatever attitude. He would walk by me and my teammates would glance in my direction as if to say, "there he is." They would have loved for me to open my big mouth and stick it to him (something most of them are never really willing to do so they often stand behind me and cheer me on). But I didn't. Finally my team leader and I had a conversation and she went and spoke to his team leader. Whatever transpired it seems to have worked. Things have died down and he seems a bit more reluctant to interfere with what's happening at our end of the hallway. He even smiled at me while passing me in the hallway the other day. 

But as it's all behind us, I continued to reflect about what my purpose was, and I came to this realization. In a sense, I was bothered by "I think I'm a badass" man with no teaching experience coming down to our end of the hallway, where there were three experienced women teachers handling this just fine. I don't often stick my doctorate and my experience in people's faces, but I do expect people who know me and my record to demonstrate a little bit of respect for what I bring to the table. Yes, I suppose this is an ego issue. I admit it. But what bothered me more- and I really had to check myself to be sure this was at the root, more so than my ego- was this man's pleasure in berating children and celebrating their missteps. I found myself thinking above all: Does he have children of his own? Because all I could think was if anyone ever humiliated my child or treated him in such a way, I would be in the principal's office demanding it be addressed, and refusing to leave until she told me how it would be handled. 

That's when I knew I was clean.

A Laughter Journal- Week 1

October 14th is the birthday of author and poet e.e. cummings. Several of the writing websites and pages I subscribe to posted photos, quotes, and other cummings' musings. It was Monday morning and I was feeling it, so I saw this quote and posted it in a bright and cheery photo to get myself moving. This morning I made the commitment to try and laugh everyday this week.

I decided later in the day that I was also going to try and keep a laughter journal, because I believe cummings is right. Some days I feel like if I don't laugh, I'll cry. I do believe that we should find something to laugh about everyday. Even researchers and health specialists talk about the physical and emotional benefits of laughter. We stretch muscles, increase oxygen flow, and heck it just feels good. (See http://www.webmd.com/balance/features/give-your-body-boost-with-laughter).

Laughter Journal Week 1:

Monday, October 14, 2013

Today I laughed with a student's parents. The first academic quarter came to a close last Friday, and that means parent-teacher conferences at my school. Now keep in mind it's been a pretty stressful year for both parents and teachers. Common core mania has taken over and teachers are overloaded with changes, parents are trying to understand the changes, and states and school districts can often make it even more confusing for everyone. Throw into the mix that this student is new to our school and district, and you just never know what could happen. I had met her parents briefly at a curriculum night earlier in the quarter and they seemed very supportive of both me and their daughter, so I had high hopes for a productive meeting. The details of the conference are not important here, what's important is the occasion to laugh, afterall, this is a laughter journal. Here's what we laughed about:

We laughed about feeling old when we tell our kids we learned math differently when we were kids and they respond by saying, "Well that's not the way my teacher told me to do it!"

We laughed about the silliness of boys and girls writing notes to and about each other when they're ten, and what those notes are going to look like in middle and high school.

We laughed about the fact that the kids think they're smarter than us, and don't realize we see and know just about everything they do... often because we've done it ourselves.

We laughed about how cute this student's biography project was, and how her mom enjoyed helping her because they talked all about Charles Shultz, creator of the Peanuts, and she could tell how much her daighter learned from and enjoyed the book. We also laughed when her father admitted to not only having been the kid who waited until the night before a project was due, but once in awhile showed up to school saying, "Oh we had a project due today?" Needless to say, they left their daughter at home tonight.

We laughed about how badly I felt that I taught a group of students (including their daughter) a hard lesson when they swore to me they read and discussed a book in their literature circle. I made them all take a test, knowing they weren't being truthful, just to prove a point and they all failed it. Mom and Dad had no pity on the children by the way. (I did and I didn't count it because I think they got my point).

I laughed inside and smiled big when they told me how much their daughter loves school and at home constantly says, "Dr. Kemp this, and Dr. Kemp that...."

Tuesday, October 15, 2013

Today I laughed as I listened to two of my 4th grade students, a boy and a girl, argue over which I liked better: the Miami Hurricanes or the Miami Dolphins. One of them didn't understand the distinction between college teams and NFL teams. I don't know what was funnier, their argument, or the fact that it was over my favorite sports teams! For the record, I am a fan of both. Though born in New York, I didn't start watching NFL football until high school, and I moved to Florida in 9th grade. I've been a Fins fan ever since, though I also root for the currently pathetic Giants. I earned my undergraduate degree at The U during the glory years, and have been an avid Canes fan since the day I became a Cane. Laughing with the kids over this made today's highlight reel!

Wednesday, October 16, 2013

Seems like I laughed quite a bit today. That's a good thing! Lots of little things like giggly moments with my 4th graders, an article about the difficulties had by women with big boobs, and some chaos (though not terribly serious chaos) in the personal lives of my friends. But two things in particular stand out as having generated some good endorphin-releasing laughter. The first was following an invitation to write presented by one of my students. The invite itself wasn't funny. It was a cute rhyming poetry book about valentines. I always write with my kids and today was no exception. I wrote about the pressures of what to write in a Valentine or what gifts one should buy for their Valentine. I ended with a classic quote from my husband that made me (and the kids) chuckle. "I tell you I love you everyday. What do I need Valentines Day for?" What made me laugh even harder was when following dismissal, I walked into the office and found my teammate at the front desk waiting to speak to someone. On the counter in front of her, there were two good size bouquets of flowers (no idea why). I smiled and asked her, "You here to pick up your flowers?" We both laughed rather hard, and I told her about my Valentines Day writing from earlier. We exchanged memories, or what we could muster up in the way of memories, about the last time either of our husbands brought us flowers. Thankfully, what enabled us to laugh so freely, was that we both knew the other had very happy and solid marriages, despite the lack of flowers.

The second laugh came from some slap-happy adults meeting for a Boy Scout parent committee meeting tonight. There were several comments made in joking fashion about how much better the events would be with alcohol. I quipped about the need for a bar at the summer camp, someone else suggested a parents' auxiliary fund that would allow us to have gambling and drinking functions as fundraisers, and others made similar nonsensical comments. Put a bunch of working people around a conference table at 7pm after a long workday, and that's what you'll get. OBVIOUSLY, the comments were all made in jest. Alcohol and games of chance are strictly prohibited at all scout functions.

Thursday, October 17, 2013

Today's laugh comes in care of childish banter amongst teacher-friends after school... a charades game of sorts. As we often do while we unwind after dismissal, a few of us gathered in one of our classrooms and recapped the highlights of our day. Though I've been trying extra hard to stay positive this year and block out the stressors I can't control, sometimes the sarcasm bug bites and releasing it with colleagues you can trust is a must. That's what I did with two of my teammates today. We couldn't help but purge the "You know what really bugs me?" thoughts we knew we were all feeling, and I acted mine out! I'm going to leave it at that because our sharing is safe. It might be a rationalization, but it doesn't feel like trash talk because we share it in a closed room to get it off our chests as a common experience, and then we let it go. I would never want one of our colleagues to misinterpret or have their feelings hurt. If you are a teacher, and you never vent with your team or a colleague you trust, you're likely a miserable teacher. Otherwise, you could be a liar. My teammates and I are very lucky. We may not always agree, but we trust each other, respect each other, and laugh together!

Friday, October 18, 2013

Though I know I laughed today, I can't quite recall any significant stimuli. There was probably more of the banter with my colleagues, giggles with my students, but no overwhelming guffaw. I finished work, packed a bag, and drove to Orlando to see my father who had surgery on Monday. Nothing to laugh about up here, but thankfully he is on the mend.

Saturday, October 19, 2013

Today's laugh needs little explanation. It comes courtesy of my good friend and fellow writer, Helen, who posted this as her Facebook status today!

Enough said.

Up In Smoke

What if all the advice about taking the highroad is wrong? Hold your head high, walk tall. Keep your chin up. When one door closes, another one opens. If it's meant to be, it will be. Rise above it all; you're better than that. Don't burn any bridges. 

What if, even though I have been told all my life I never should, I wanted to burn a bridge? I'm talking really set it ablaze. Douse it with kerosene and flick a match over my shoulder just like in the movies, and watch it turn into a river of liquid flame. Or pepper it with explosives from one end to the other, flip the switch on my remote control and watch it light up like the Fourth of July, pa-pow!  

What if everything in my head, words of wisdom from my parents, mentors, and quotations books, said take a deep breath and move on, but my heart and my gutt said blow the mother fucker up? Let the proverbial bridge burn down and disintegrate to ashes!

Sometimes I feel tired of being responsible and diplomatic and professional and level-headed. Sometimes I just want to react with emotion, from my gutt instead of calmly stepping back and keeping myself in check. If I see one more of those stupid Stay Calm and... e-posters on Facebook, I think I'm going to scream! I want to speak my mind without fear of repercussions. I want to not care how it will affect me in the future.

We're told that we hold the keys to our own futures, that we control our own destinies. I think I believe this notion too- to a certain extent that is. But is it possible that road blocks, dangerous bridges or crossings can prevent us from reaching our goals. Can it be they are set up by others to sabotage us? Yes, I know usually we need to take physical and or emotional risks to achieve success. After all, we are also told throughout our lives that anything worth having is worth working for. But when does it  become foolish to keep trying to cross what might be a booby-trapped bridge or a road with hidden mines beneath the surface? Is it ever appropriate to blow the bridge to kingdom come and start building a new one?  

Don Henley, of the Eagles is quoted all over the internet as having said, "Sometimes you get the best light from a burning bridge." (I sure hope he wasn't referring to a bridge to and from the Eagles because that would not support the direction I'm headed in here). I wonder if you need the old foundation to start building new bridges or pathways in life. I wonder if I can really wipe an old one away completely and start clean, letting the light from the burning bridge show me the way. So far I haven't ever been brave enough, or is it stupid enough to try. I have been afraid my future relationships or successes will be predicated on those from the past, that I need my history to pave the way to my future. 

Everywhere you go they want to know from where you came. New mortgage, what's your payment history? New lease, who did you rent from before? New car, what kind of payments are you making now? College, what did you do in high school? New job, what did you do in college or at your last job? On the other end of these questions, are people expected to answer them about  you- the right way. So it begs the question. If we burn bridges, do we go up in smoke with them?

We're Getting Married, Remember?

Lately, I've been inspired to write by prompts and quotes popping up in my Facebook newsfeed. It forces me to think specifically, rather than agonize over a brainstorming session, or ponderance of What should I write today? Today, when I got home from work, this is what popped up in my newsfeed from Writers Write:

After the Stephen King- inspired post about my worst fears, writing about this sort of brings down the mood of my blog lately, but when inspiration calls the writer must listen. At one time I was almost as fearful of the episode that follows as I was with a reoccurance of the Holocaust. WIth age and security this is no longer a fear, but it did wake me into actual tears and heartache about 20 years ago. To be truthful, as most writers do, I embellished for the sake of interest.

We're Getting Married, Remember?

"Please say it's not true," I pleaded with him. 

"I'm sorry." He looked at me pathetically, probably hoping I'd run away crying. But I didn't. I was stunned. A shock to my system. A love song cliche. An arrow through my heart. We had worked so hard to fight the odds, and come out ahead. We loved each other through so much, I wondered how this could be happening. 

"I didn't mean for it to happen." More cliches, one after the other. "I wasn't looking for anyone else, it just happened. You can't control what your heart feels." Was he serious? I wanted to throw up. Dare I say it, I wanted to die. I always thought I had the upper hand, that if he cheated on me or left me, that I would be angry and spiteful. But that wasn't the case. I felt like a wounded and desperate child.

Not concerned with how it would appear or my strong independent persona, I asked him what I could do to get him to stay. It was an out-of-body experience. I never expected to beg a man to love me. My mother wouldn't have it, and I wouldn't dream of it. Or would I? I fought back the tears, choking on my words, "I love you. I know that you love me too." As if I wasn't in enough pain already, the creases in his forehead deepened, and the corners of his thick dark eyebrows lowered. 

"Ill always care deeply about you, but I'm just not in love with you anymore." I fell to the floor in bellowing sobs, my heart pumped so powerfully I could feel my pulse in my ears. My inner being personified heartache and I lost my breath with the emotional blow to my gutt. I felt like I was drowning, falling without breath to the bottom of the dark ocean floor..

I woke with swollen eyes, and pain in my chest. I was coughing and crying as though the dream had seemlessly become reality, and everything was blurry. I wasn't sure what was real and what wasn't. I looked all around me and realized I had spent the night in my friend's apartment, a frequent retreat from my own because I really didn't like my roommate. I still didn't know what happened. I tried my best to swallow the tears and stop crying. I had to know if the conversation was real. I had to know if he was really leaving me. I picked up the phone and called him. He answered and I didn't say anything. "Hello?" he questioned the silence. 

"Hi," I responded tentatively, fearful of what would come next. "You still sleeping?" I asked.

"Not anymore." I sighed and began crying uncontrollably. I tried to explain why, but my words were disjointed and incoherent between the blubbering. "What in the world happened? What's wrong? Where are you?" he asked.

"I'm at Tracie's, we hung out after class and I slept here last night. I had this awful nightmare...wait."

"Wait for what? Are you ok? I'm sorry I missed your call last night. I worked late and then crashed."

"It was awful, I explained. It felt so real. Tell me you love me."

"Of course I love you. We're getting maried, remember?"        

My Worst Fear: We Must Not Forget

Today is Stephen King's birthday, and the Writer's Almanac posted a quote by him that stuck with me. I'm not sure why. I haven't read much of his work, but clearly he is an accomplished author. He said he just writes about what scares him. His mom told him when he was little that if he said his worst fears outloud that they would never come true. He said that's been at the root of his career. I've been collecting some bits and pieces for small episode posts. Some of them more serious than others, but most non-ficiton. Today, I decided to follow the inspiration of King and write about a fear I have. It's nothing I've ever listed on things I'm afraid of, but it certainly sits up there as one of the biggest. While the fear is real, the episode is clearly fictional. I'm not sure if I'm going to leave it or finish it. I'd be interested to hear some feedback.

 

I couldn't tell if I was awaking from a dream, or if the sounds around me were real. The awful cries of babies being torn from their mothers, of the men shouting the names of their wives and girlfriends as though it was the last time they would look into each other's faces. The steady clapping beat of marching combat boots, and the single-word sticcato commands shouted harshly in a foreign language. My vision was still foggy with sleep sand and my thoughts were straddled between my dreams and reality. If this dream was to reveal itself as such, it would prove to be a terrifying nightmare. If it was reality, well then what do you call a terrfying nightmare when it really happens? 

As I sat up and my head cleared, I sighed in an instant of relief that it couldn't be happening. I had heard the cliches about learning from history, and certainly the world would not, could not, be doomed to repeat such an atrocitiy. I exhaled, deflating any hope that it was all a dream because I noticed my roommates were gone, and I could hear chaos around me. People scurrying up and down the hallways, whispers, shouts, slamming doors. Outside I heard again, the sounds that awoke me just moments before. 

"Rebecca!" There was pounding at my door, and the corner of my Led Zepplin poster fell off its tiicky tac and rolled over Robert Plant's face. Five booming fist pumps knocked my favorite picture frame off the shelf and followed another plea, "Rebecca, are you in there? Get up, we have to go!" I ran to the door, still not sure what was happening and opened it feverishly. Out of breath, sweating, and screaming, Adam was on the other side looking desperately unsure he would find me. But he did. 

"What's going on?" I asked fearing the answer. 

"Thank God you're still here." No explanation, no conversation, we didn't need any, we never did. My brother just took my hand and we began running, as if our lives depended on it. In the hallways of the dorms, people were frantic. No time to stop and text, everyone was on cell phones or shouting out the names of people they were looking for. In between the electrical room and the study lounge, there was a narrow hallway that led to the back door with a window. We stopped and stood cautiously to see what was going on outside. I was paralyzed by fear when I peered out the window. It was a historical film, it had to be. No way humanity could allow this to happen again. It just couldn't be.

The beautiful green lawn at the center of campus, usually filled on Saturday mornings with friendly football games, readers under shady tress, and young lovers enjoying the warmth of the sun, was seized by soldiers in brown uniforms sinched tightly at the waist with shiny black gunbelts and pant legs tucked into equally shiny black boots. Some of them held small pistols in their hands, others had large automatic combat weapons. But all of them had the same red band around their arms. Recognizable to anyone, the red bands hosted the swastika, symbol of hatred, evil, and cruelty. The commands that had awoken me earlier were the soldiers barking at the ring of prisoners circled around the perimeter of the campus, marching under the duress of armed soldiers' threats.

There they were, like the millions of Jews, Gypsys, Handicapped, and others who were wiped out in the Holocaust. Some of them my friends, all of them my brethren. Our worst fears were coming true right here. In the 21st century. In America. Hundreds of Jewish college students rounded up and stripped clean. Virtually nondiscript and comfortably enrobed in their matching army uniforms, the Nazi's tore off the prisoners clothes, leaving them barefoot, naked, exposed. Each imperfection, each feature of insecurity, on parade for all to see. Each uneven breast, each beer belly, each dimple of cellulite, each flat buttocks or stretch mark, all momentary preoccupations to be replaced by a stripping of much more than clothes. Strong, smart, powerful young people begging for their lives and the lives of their loved ones, knowing what would come in the months ahead. Crying, screaming, begging, they were beaten and threatened and dragged. Three of the young men stepped to the center of the circle synchronously, as though to silently and intuitively make a suicide pact. They were successful.

The shots of the guns firing snapped me into consiousness. I felt as though I had been watching for hours, but it had only been a minute or two. Quite possibly the most horrififc two minutes of my life. Adam grabbed my hand and told me to look at him. With his other hand he endearingly touched my cheek and then he held my chin. "Stay with me, and whatever you do, don't stop running."

"Where are we going to go?" I asked. "There's nowhere to hide. It looks like they're everywhere."

"I don't know. But we can't stay here." He was right.