Where the Wild Things Are

I spent some time in the ER this weekend. I went over to meet a friend so her partner could go home: he had to work early in the morning, and the ER was hopping, so there was a good chance it would be an extended visit. For the record, my friend is ok-- some follow up needed, but so far, so good. Luckily, her experience was not the memorable part of the story.

If you've been in an ER, you know that they do everything they can to protect privacy, but the curtained off patricians aren't sound proof. You learn a lot about the people around you-- even though you never see them, so you have no idea who they are. HIPPA in full effect.

Our first neighbor to the left was elderly and had fallen. He was there with his children/grandchildren, near as I could tell, and chances are he was dealing with some early onset dementia. Sadly, once you've lived through that plot line it gets easy to spot. To our right was a man detoxing from alcohol. From context, it seems he'd been brought in by ambulance and was ready to go home so he could get his buzz going again. 

When the doc went in to talk to Grandpa next door about his fall, the guy on the right hit the nausea faze of sobriety.  I could not have scripted this if I was a Hollywood producer: when Doc asked "Any nausea" on our left, the vomiting started to our right. I swear I am going to land in Hell, because at that moment, I broke. The movie was rolling, and I could see the jump cuts as well as the bloopers. The nurses got Rightie some Zofran and gave him some more time to settle in before reassessing his discharge timeline.

As I was losing my composure, Grandpa was discharged, and replaced by who I can only assume was a veteran who lost at least a leg and his bladder function. He had come in because he was out of flushing solution and had a blockage in his tubing. From his comfort explaining his circumstances, this wasn't the first time, and it likely won't be his last. He knew what he needed, and was patient enough while everything else was going on.

The nurses came back to check on R as the Vet got a phone call and began telling his story to his friend, including how crowded the ER was and how he knew he needed the visit when he felt his pants get wet while running errands. Simultaneously, other nurses were trying to get the attention of the man to our right; he was not responding to his name anymore, nor anything else. Next thing we know, nurses are descending on him, using a crash cart, starting compressions, and hollering for the help they-- and he-- needed. To our left, the phone call continued without a pause. Again... there I am in my hand basket watching this scene unfold. I'm sure the Vet has seen far worse in his life-- I mean, he's lost a leg and his bladder-- so someone crashing after a bender is likely not high on his personal Richter scale. His nurses came back, did the flush, changed his equipment, and sent him on his way. 

Rightie didn't come back before we were discharged, and we left before the next set of patients landed.

All weekend I've been plagued by random questions. Did R survive the seizure? Did he get discharged home-- and what did he do when he got there? Did Grandpa make back home without incident? And how come our Vet didn't have enough supplies to take care of his obvious need? And how did these doctors and nurses do processing all they would go onto see for the remainder of their shift? We never know the full story of anyone we encounter. All of these mini-dramas are intense for those living through them, but insignificant to anyone not involved.

Except I haven't stopped thinking about these 3 men, and their families, none of whom I have ever met. These ripples cross each other, changing wavelengths and direction after impact. I hope Grandpa has access to dementia supports and that all of our Vets have the supplies they need... and that R made it home, and his emergency contact came to check on him bringing heartfelt concern alongside a meal. And that it was still hot.

A Wrinkle in Time

As often happens when I am in the thick of things, it's been hard to write. Part of it is that I am respecting the privacy of others involved, and part of it is I struggle to identify words that match the experience. Somehow, "I helped stop a suicide" doesn't sound right, even though that is what happened. I worry that it sounds self-important, and that somehow I did something magical. But when I try to explain that further, I sound even weirder: "All I did was listen to The Universe." Like... ok, lady. Get over yourself.

I'm not overly religious anymore, but I do believe in Something. I guess what I mean is I'm not tied to calling Him God anymore; any religious name would do, but also it's bigger than that... like, well, The Universe. There is Something out there that sees the through-line, knows the story from before I was born and where it will go long after I've exited stage left. It's comforting to me, that Entity: I'm not responsible for the whole puzzle, just my pieces.  And when She (yes, I know I give God the male identity and the Universe the female-- these things don't make sense and I'm ok with that) tells me to do something, I trust her. Because she's the Universe.

When I was younger, I wanted psychic powers. My Dad tells of having a dream that his grandmother called for him in the middle of the night-- and when he went to her side, she was having a heart attack. I wanted to be able to do that for people I loved, but since it "skips a generation", I figured I was out of luck. It seemed pretty incredible, though, to know someone needed help without them needing to use words to ask.

This summer, I had some experiences that can only be described as Universe Magic. The most profound was when I told my friend that "the bridge is a portal" ...which turned out to be a very specific phrase she wrote in her suicide note to me, which I had not (consciously) known she had written that afternoon. I swear on everything good and holy, that phrase came to me in a flash. And it was enough to shock her back into her body, and agree to contract for survival. It was the second time that summer I had recognized her suicidality and helped her step away from the edge; sadly, it was not the last time I would play conduit for her. I am one, again, now.

Today is a day that has historical hurt for her. I am learning that these days are woven into her being; that even when she doesn't remember what the day is, her body does. And these days are hard--harder than anyone should have to cope with--and there are many such days. We visited her in the treatment program on one of these days, again unknowingly. It took her 3 days to recover from that memory: I hope this one is easier, but I fear it isn't.

I called her, as I've been doing, on the rough days as well as the good ones. "But how do I get over this?" she pleaded. "I don't have words to explain it, I replied.

...And then I remembered Meg and IT.

I loved A Wrinkle in Time by Madeline L'Engle. Read it, and A Wind in the Door and A Swiftly Tilting Planet over and over. Something about these books called to me. I connected with Meg as the "dumb oldest sister" in a family of brilliance: her skills as an empath and intrapersonal communicator weren't valued, but were so essential to the family's survival. My guess is it took fictional Meg many years to learn to see her value, her own brilliance... because it took me until my 30s.  

That is how to fight back. Resist the rhythm the voice in her head provides about how useless she is and how she deserves this pain with Love. 'Rachel says I am worthy of love, of happiness, of lightness'. 'I am in a place that keeps me physically safe while I learn new patterns'. 'I can do this'.

And all of a sudden, I understood why I read that series so many times. I would need to be fluent in Mrs. Whatsit, Mrs. Which, and Mrs. Who, and Aunt Beast and Charles Wallace and Father and IT. I needed to understand vicerally that Love is spoken in all languages, even ones that are not spoken here on Earth. That the Universe is real, no matter what you call it, and that Magic is all around you... even when you think it's not.

She is in the clutches of her memories, of all that has happened to her. She thinks she deserved it and still does: I am here to tell you she most certainly does not. She is kind and thoughtful, so generous with her love for others and so afraid to be loved herself. And she has been so deeply hurt that I understand why her younger self could only make sense of it by thinking she deserved this pain. I cry for her; I ache with her... and all I can do is love her, and hope she makes it through. 

Meg Murray got a storybook ending, and while I still associate so strongly with Meg, this is not a book written with the happy ending scripted out. I do hope, however, to find us in pig pile of love in my backyard, surrounded by cats and family and safety. Why else would the Universe have sent me to her after making sure I had this story woven into my soul? But this I know:

Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.

-Martin Luther King, JR

 I will continue to send love and light to her for as long as I am able. 

I'm not going home...

Guster and the Mountain Goats were playing in Western Mass. We have seen Guster pretty much since they left Tufts, and we've wanted to see the Mountain Goats; plus, it's summer, so who cares it was a 5 hour drive to get there?

... sometimes you're already there... 

We met up with my high school friend and her husband for dinner. They live in NW Mass, and we hadn't seen them in forever... but it was like we'd just seen them last month. That alone was worth the drive over.

The concert was at Mass MoCA, outdoors between buildings. We didn't get there in time to view the museum, but we will need to go back to do so. The stage is set up on tar, so it's not as comfortable as Thompson's Point or the Shelburne Museum, but it also feels more intimate because you're surrounded by buildings. 

The Mountain Goats were awesome, and Guster is one of my favorites to see live. On The Ocean wasn't in the cards this year, but this will do quite nicely. We had a really great time dancing around an singing and just generally being free. I highly recommend communal enjoyment as a coping strategy.

As a nod to our age, we got a hotel room. 15 years ago we'd have gone over and back but... that was 15 years ago. Besides, I wanted to swing into the King Arthur Bakery on our way up 91. I have some real Vermont loves: Long Trail Brewing, King Arthur, Cabot cheese, and Ben and Jerry's. Some trip I'm going to combine all 4 stops and just live my best 802 life. This wasn't the day for it though-- I actually think we need to start in Burlington and head south to make the timing right, but that's another post for another day.

... sometimes you can't go home...

We headed out from Bennington (fun fact: the 1950s hotel we stayed at had an old HoJo's orange roofed building used as storage) towards King Arthur. VT has quite a few roads closed these days; 91S was shut down for an exit yesterday, and we got detoured on 5E today. We got to the bakery at 11:45 AM-- not a recommended time on a Sunday, as everyone else was also there-- and decided adding 4 hours of driving to get to Cabot and Ben and Jerry's wasn't a wise move at this juncture. But, we could head to Danville and have lunch at the Red Barn Brewery. And, Dave thinks, we might be able to follow the Bayley Hazen Road...

... And I look at you, I'm there... 

We've been driving across VT since 2015 when we took Ben to visit Clarkson, and then to attend... Ben also raced up and down the state, and we made it to as many of those races as we could. Driving in VT feels safe. It often means we're going to see him... or it means we're remembering those past trips. We have our standard stop at the bridge (VT side, because NE > NY), favorite convenience stores, and favorite restaurants. We watched The Red Barn get built... and open in early 2020 (IYKYK). The beer is good, the food made from fresh local ingredients and spent grains, and the vibe quiet and honest.  As Dave said today, it's our spot.

But this tale is also about finding the Old Road. If you don't know, I am fascinated by old roads. I watch houses to see if they're facing the "right" way, and look for old road beds and misplaced electric poles. This old road has major history to it. The Bayley-Hazen is a Military Rd built during the Revolutionary War as part of the plans to get into/out of Canada. Dave found it after researching Hazen's Notch that the GPS wanted us to take on that first trip over and the locals had told us "Your GPS is lying to you. Turn around" which, begrudgingly we did, and went over that way when there wasn't any snow on the ground. We found a section off of Rt 15, and have kept looking since.

... when I look at you, I'm there...

Today, we found it. Dave accurately surmised that if we got off 91 in Barnet and headed for Peacham we might find it. Myrtle kept nudging us back towards 91, and we kept making her reroute us... until we landed on the North Bayley Hazen, a dirt road that wound through the back woods and rolling hills, eventually putting us on Rt 2 at the light in Danville. We swung into Marty's for a Long Trail pack and some Cabot cheese, got some lunch at The Red Barn...

...and headed home.

Are you there, Universe? It's me, Rachel.

 I don't exactly know why I stopped writing. I'm sure I could blame it on being busy, but it's more than that. Somehow, I forgot that part of how I cope with all that is going on in the world is through words: finding the right words for the perfectly crafted sentence. It is through this process of typing, deleting, revising that helps me figure out how I fit into the current puzzle. When I don't write, I don't consciously miss it, but it means I lose access to the deepest parts of me that are there to help.

I didn't grow up using a journal or a diary. I mean, I went through some phases, but nothing really stuck until blogs came about... and then when the internet changed and blogs were less common, well, I wrote less. There is a magic in the publishing for me--knowing someone might read what I write gives it more of a purpose, I guess. Because it's never been about me figuring it out (whatever 'it' we're talking about) but about me figuring it out and then sharing that with someone else. As a Capitol E extrovert, I am energized by sharing my inner thoughts with others. Keeping a journal feels helpful...but sharing one feels right.

My body has also let me know that I'm not as 'ok' as I think. Some of it is due to aging, certainly, but I have developed some specific pain over the last 3 months that tells me my self care game needs more. It took me awhile to notice that I am having multiple ocular migraines per day because I don't get headaches and I've had floaters since I had a blood vessel burst in my left eye when I was 10. It also turns out that people don't see light halos quite as often as I do (who knew)? The neck pain was more immediately recognizable for what it was; the TMJ issue, however, drove the point home. Ok. Got it. Could you please stop screaming at me now?

It took a friend writing to remind me that this modality is helpful for me to process things and get them out of my body so I don't hold onto the stress anymore. And so, dear Universe, here I am, writing again. I don't know if you're still listening (Bueller? Anyone?) but I hope you are. I don't like living in pain, and I don't like feeling lost. So, back to the blog we go.

Wish you were here.

 There's something about nordic races. If you don't know what I'm talking about, you owe it to yourself to go.

When Ben fell in love with the activity in 5th grade, it was fun to ski around the backyard with him, watching him figure it out. When 3 other parents pushed admin to create a MS team (and Dave to coach them all), he was thrilled. His first race was a 1K loop in blustering winds that knocked an alpine ski lift of the rails and his little patootie back down the hill.... and he couldn't wait to race again. In for a penny.

The thing about nordic is you get to know the competitors. All of them, across the league. We transitioned from middle school races to high school. We watched them cut minutes off their times. We watched them grow up. 

USCSA races followed, requiring us to travel across NNE to continue snowbanking. There was the girl from Cornell, who asked me to hold her glasses when they kept fogging up. The boy from West Point who had never been on skis and gutted out 4 laps. Ben's teammates, who were continually surprised by us showing up as often as we did. And we showed up as often as we could, because we love to watch. We went to NH on Saturday to watch Clarkson race, knowing the coach and 2 skiers. Bonus--Army was there, too.

Last year, we got to watch him coach/wax for Estonia at the World University Games, and then again at NCAA Nationals. Since then, we've watched (remotely, of course) 4 of his kids ski in World Cup races. We may have only spent about 8 hours with each of these kids, but being there for their success is just as gratifying as it was watching our MVC skiers make gains.

Being a mom has changed my life, but being a nordic mom has enhanced it in ways I never envisioned (although having the Winter Olympics on during labor should have been a clue). That we came to love this sport as parents has infused it with all the memories of all the past events. The Maranacook course reminds me of when Cate gave it a try in 6th grade. Telsar Relays bring back memories of the Dirigo and Telstar teams in a line cheering Ben's friend Isaac as he came out of the woods. Titcomb is where we celebrated many of Ben's birthdays... and on one very cold day Cate confirmed this wasn't the sport for her. I can't think of a trip to Presque Isle without remembering the blizzards they skied in at States. Twice.

Today was MVC Day 2 and I got permission to leave school early to be there. All of Dave's skiers had personal best times on Day 1. This team is not in contention for winning in the traditional sense, nor was anyone looking at a top 10 finish. But when our last girl had not come across the line after all the boys had finished (girls race first this year) I was concerned. A senior and I found some of the boys, who confirmed she was upright, just side-stepping down the hills. I went back to the bridge to see her finish... and when she came down the hill, 2 of her teammates were behind her, coaching her towards the end. 

The announcer called out her determination and embodiment of the sport as she crossed the line. I don't think there was anyone left watching but us, but we might as well been with Chad Salmela screaming as Jessie crossed the line for the Gold medal. 

Because she did win, and so did this team.

And if we're being honest... so have I.

Guest Blogger

I'm a Guest blogger on Make Teaching Joyful. Check it out over on her site.

Rock n Roll Lifestyle?

 Last night, we went to a show. This is not unusual for us--our relationship is based on music and seeing bands live. This show was a relatively impulsive one: when dates were first announced, I thought we'd be in Alaska in July. Turns out, we weren't but the show was already sold out. Dave found some tix being sold by purchasers who couldn't attend (this is the only part of Ticketmaster I like-- no scalping, just a way to get reimbursed when life gets in the way) and off we headed to Thompson's Point in the hazy afternoon heat (an actual upgrade from the scheduled night's downpours and flooding that caused a rare reschedule.) I digress: we went to a show last night, having only decided to go about 4 days ago. For this planner, that's pretty darned impulsive.

Dave loves CAKE (the band, not the dessert-- he's more of an ice cream guy). He knows all the deep cuts. I like them-- they're quirky and unique, but sometimes a bit too extra for me. I know the hits, and some of the B sides. Either way, there we were, grovin' along and following their request to not take pics or videos of the show. (I like to use band photos as my ticket stub in these modern, digital times, but our selfie will have to do. It's their show and they get to choose.)

                                                  

As the sun set (and it was an incredible sunset because of the wildfire smoke headed our way) and it got darker, it became more obvious that the couple near us had used something stronger than alcohol or pot. As Dude collapsed to the ground, almost sliding down Dudette's torso, I was no longer just at at a show. About 10 minutes prior, another woman had offered us a Starburst: no Gen Xer in her right mind would take candy from a stranger, and at a concert no less? Thanks, but I'm good. She rushes over to the Dude and gets him to eat one and have her water; Dave hears something about K. And then, without intending to do so, Mom mode kicks in.

It's this inability to let Dude deal with the consequences of his actions to the detriment of my experience that ensured I'd grow up to be a helper of some sort. I kept my eye on him, watching for any movement, while also trying to (unsuccessfully) scope out a paramedic. He would move every so often, Dudette would circle back around (Dave heard her say something about being annoyed), and then, CAKE played the opening notes: "Reluctantly crouched on the starting line." Dude hears this, and as we get to "He's fighting and biting and riding on his horse" we watch him impersonating said horse--crawling on all fours through the standing water to get to the dance pit. Mom is no longer needed.

There have been a few events this year that highlight my Lawful Good personality. I don't like breaking the rules-- even when I know it is the objectively right thing to do, or at the very least not wrong. As a student, I used to find ways to avoid the whole class lectures, knowing it wasn't because of me but also knowing if I didn't disassociate a bit (ok, I didn't know that word, but I did know I needed to 'leave' the classroom to stay safe) I'd start crying. I have vague memories of being called to the principal's office in first grade because I had told my mom I didn't want to order school lunch because we'd been told if you didn't eat everything you'd be in trouble, and I didn't like canned veggies. So... yea. This streak runs deep.

How I taught alt ed for all those years even I don't really understand. I think it was an opposites attract situation: I knew there was a freedom in not caring about the rules, but that to survive in society you need to find a way to make peace with many of them. I could use a bit less rule following in my life--and to be honest, Sunshines did help me learn to let some things go--but I'm far from Neutral. 

I like being Lawful Good. I like knowing the outcome of the choices I make. I like knowing there's little chance I'll be falling down drunk on the way out of a concert--or miss the show because I've sailed off on a separate trip. I've made my peace with how boring the made for TV movie of my life will be--which is ok, because it probably won't even get picked up for production. And as much as it kicked me out of my experience, I'm glad we're both global citizens and make sure others are if not safe, at least not dying.

It'd been 4 years and 2 weeks...

 ... since you took my travel away. April, 2019, was my parents 50th anniversary and all 4 of their children went to their party. It was the first time the 6 of us had been together since 2011 when we were helping my parents clean the ME house so they could move to AZ full time. The 4 of us siblings hadn't all been together since somebody's wedding, and we were up in the barn looking through old boxes. We were each considering what we should keep when one of my sisters announced "whose retainer is this?" and my brother's face showed what we were all thinking. Good times, indeed.

We made plans, as you do, to get the whole family together. It was early April, so Dave was at work and the kids were in school; same for my sister's family. If I'd known, I'd have dragged us all out, but do you ever really know what's coming? 

The day after school got out, Dave and I flew to Alaska. Now, you need to know that this trip was a bucket list item for me. I have always wanted to go, and I had an Alaskan Cruise in mind as what we did with our bestfriends after all our kids graduated college. Life has a way of taking your plans and switching them up... and this big switcharoo was Ben getting hired at UAF as the assistant nordic ski coach. So, instead of cruising the coastline after our collective kids were settled, our first post-pandemic travel was going to see our kid in his adopted state. Like, wow.

My insta/FB has all the photos from the trip, which was incredible. What I couldn't get beyond, though, was the *act* of traveling. Security, airports, boarding. Seeing new places with people who know me better than most others. Seeing where our oldest has planted his flag, and being with him as he explores this place he now calls home. 

I am blessed to live the kind of life that affords such luxury. Seeing new places, exploring the environment and culture of place, with people who mean the most to me... yea. I missed it, more than I ever acknowledged during the Dark Times. Taking this epic trip with my husband and our oldest (our youngest was quite clear that she would sit this one out--and having experienced her motion sickness firsthand, I don't blame her) made it even more magical. 

If you are so lucky to be able to do so, travel. You'll learn so much about the world, sure, but you will experience things that you could never imagine possible.

It had been 4 years and 2 weeks, and now I can't wait to get back out there.

India Rubber Ball

My friend was younger than I am now when she died. Which is an impossible statement, but a true one nonetheless.

I was 32 when she died nearly twenty years ago, a wife and a mother of 2 young kids. She was married with 2 kids, one my age and one about decade younger. I knew their loss was unimaginable, beyond compare; the loss of her knowledge, experience, and perspective shifted all of our lives in directions that altered time and space. We grew, aware of the now empty space, as best we could. 

What I didn't know then, however, was how young she was, in a not old sort of way. I know I'm no longer the young one around, but I still have much that I want to do, to see, to become. And it strikes me, again, what a tragic loss of someone who still had so much life to live.

We live to dance another day, indeed.

America I love you...

 ... but you're freakin' me out. I don't love this video, but the song is spot on.

I can't believe we have US governors who are actively engaging in behavior that, in some circles, is considered human trafficking. People who were not born in America and escaped to Florida were told, by officials, that there was housing and work for them at the other side of this plane flight. That sounds like force, fraud and coercion to me. Good golly, Miss Molly, indeed.

It's been a rough time to be a person who naturally questions authority. It's also been rough to know you've tried to help a generation of kids learn to fact check statements, analyze for motivations, and to add their voices to the cries of a nation. I suspect the 2020s will be taught to future generations (if we get ahold of our climate impact and continue to survive as a species, but I digress) in the same way we talk about the Roaring 20s now-- sex, drugs, rock and roll, and corruption.

The Dobbs case was shocking, but only in that it confirmed what we've known for awhile: American women are not treated with the same autonomy as men. I felt the same way learning George Floyd's murder and resulting trial of his murder as I did watching Rodney King become a token of the riots in Las Angeles. It's not news that racism is thriving in America, but watching the fallout makes me wonder how other intelligent, thoughtful (white) people can't see it. And don't get me started how any citizen who truly loves this country and values what it stands for can continue to align themselves with the Republican party, which is now overtly working to only allow rich, educated, white men at the table.

Some days are hard to accept. Some days I do want to leave and not look back. Most days, though, I know I have to stand up and fight for what I know to be true. We can't be "the great melting pot" if we don't allow others to join us in our pool. People who identify as BIPOC experience more disadvantages to reaching 'the pursuit of happiness' than people who are white. Women are entitled to control over their minds and bodies. 

America, it's time to look in the mirror. What we're saying doesn't line up with what we're doing. 

reference:

https://www.usatoday.com/story/news/nation/2022/09/17/desantis-migrants-marthas-vineyard-cape-cod/10410896002/

College Ready only works if you're actually ready

Unless you've lived under a rock, you're aware of Biden's push to reduce all existing student loans for borrowers making less that $150K per year by $10,000-- $20,000 for Pell Grant recipients. Many of my friends disagree with this policy, and I understand their reasoning. As someone who has worked in a public high school during the "College Ready" push, please allow me to express why this plan is what is right for America today.

Anyone who thinks things are the same today as they were when they graduated must have graduated this spring. College costs have skyrocketed in the last 30 years-- in fact, the tuition rate for my son's college has increased $12,000 since he entered in 2016. For perspective, my bill for 1988-1990 was $12000 TOTAL. Yea, we need to do something to change the narrative around student loans in America.

There is a lot of data that shows that college graduates make more money than those who don't earn a college degree. For the sake of this argument, I'm not going to touch the gender disparity shown here, which is it's own topic entirely. As someone who had Gear UP programming in her high school, I can ascertain that US public high schools have been pushing kids to go to college for at least the last 20 years-- even when they said they didn't want to go. We'd show them the data that said their life would be better if they went-- even showing the kids who weren't sure they would graduate from high school that they "should" go to college right away. Pre-pandemic, I watched kids agree to loans because they were told that's what they *should* be doing, even when their eyes betrayed some hesitation. You should go, we'd say. It'll be fine...

During the pandemic, I watched kids feel free to say no. I don't want to pay for remote classes. I don't want to go without knowing what's coming my way. I don't want to go. I watched kids regain their voice and choice about what was right for them. Hells to the yes!

Biden's plan is designed to eliminate the debt of the kids who went for a semester or a year, but never earned their degree. For the kids who have the debt because of our pressure, but without the degree to translate to the ability to pay it back. It cost me $40,000 to pay my 1/3 of my MSW; I was able to pay that off during the 0% interest phase of the pandemic because I have a job that pays me for having a Master's degree. I won't benefit from this new program, and frankly, I shouldn't. But, I have friends who graduated with me with $120,000 in debt. $10,000 won't eliminate theirs... but it will ease some of the burden. For students who have earned their bachelor's degree in the last 2 years and are carrying $80,000 in debt, this will help. For those who attended a semester or two of college and can't make ends meet with their minimum wage job-- this will right the wrong WE pushed on them. 

I know there are many who don't agree that we forced kids into a loan they didn't want. But...remember when you were 18 and a senior in high school. If your guidance counselor told you to go to college so you could make more money, and you could get help making that happen financially... would you have known to push back?

The pandemic has highlighted that college is not for every 18 year old high school graduate. It's also shown us that we need those "essential" workers for our economy to function. I see no problem helping those kids who were caught in the crossfire. $10k per loan is set to help those with the least amount of debt the most. And that helps our economy so we all benefit. That is win win for me.

History on repeat

 While I do not think of myself as a history teacher, I have taught history for the last 17 years.  During the 20-21 year, when the majority of my kids were remote, we took a springboard approach to class. We started with the 1918 pandemic, and then jumped around based on what questions the kids had about the causes or effects of said topic. This helped them care a *tiny* bit more because the links were obvious: for me, however, it helped calm my fears about the state of our country.

I never understood why everyone was so happy to get out during the Roaring Twenties-- I guess I just though the kids from the farms were happy to get to the city. After spending my 50th birthday and 25th wedding anniversary in lockdown, I viscerally understood. WW1 overlapped by a pandemic? Damn right I'm gonna party like it's 1920! But, it didn't take long for me to see that this party phase is a significant cause to the Great Depression and fascism... and here we are, today, in a country that is banning books to 'protect' children, hindering the rights of women to 'protect' unborn babies without ensuring that all babies are loved and cared for*, and blindly following a leader who has made it clear that he is trying only to 'protect' white men who have money. It doesn't take a student of history to see the pattern that is emerging. 

I feel a bit like Nemo, trying to convince the fish to SWIM DOWN and break the net. It's not a natural response for us, this fighting against the system. We're trained to follow the rules, listen to authority, and not make a scene. IMHO, the only way we're going to stop the anti-democracy-couched-as-pro-democracy movement is by saying No. We're done with hate, and elitism, and sacrificing the good of the many for the benefit of the few. 

This will take all of us to pull off. It won't be pretty, or necessarily fun. But history tells me it's really our only option.

Until then, I'll be hitting the bar with Frank. Feel free to join me.

*For the record, I am not pro abortion. But I am pro democracy, and pregnancy is not like anything else. I love the months I was pregnant, and am truly sad I wasn't able to do it again. But your body is truly no longer your own. For both first trimesters, I had to take medicine that made ME sick to protect the baby.  I vomited for months, no matter what I did (or didn't) eat. I couldn't have caffeine, or Advil, or too much fish, or, or, or... 

I was thrilled to be doing it, especially since we faced the possibility of not being able to conceive. I was 26, married, with a home and stable income, and more than ready to be a mom. I don't know what it's like to be 19 and desperately trying to get through college so I can get out of poverty. Or dating a violent person. Or pregnant with my rapist's child. Or being told if I conceive again I will die. Those decisions are not mine to make, nor are they that of the government. 

I would love to see access to birth control increase, more funding for social supports to help women keep their baby if they want, or give it to a family with fertility issues. I would love our culture to stop shaming women who get pregnant, or make it easier to become foster and adoptive parents, regardless of marital and housing status. But even then, pregnancy does not compare to any other thing, because there is nothing else a human being does that requires the complete sacrifice of her own body to support the growth of another. 

Who We Are

Last week, Dave and I watched Who We Are: A Chronicle of Racism in America on Netflix. I am strongly encouraging you to go watch it now, as in stop reading and go watch. I promise I'll be here when you're done, ready to debrief with you.

<waiting patiently>

Since you've all watched, I am free to talk about the specifics. Jeffery Robinson brilliantly lays out the case for the structural racism in our country. He uses direct quotes and specific examples, relating them to their place in history and our collective refusal to level this playing field. Let me be very clear: I'm using first person pronouns to refer to White America's attachment to the structures of racism against citizens who identify as part of BIPOC communities. I do not specifically mean people that I know, although part of the brilliance of this lecture is recognizing the part each of us who identify as caucasian (I struggle to call myself 'white', as that really isn't a race--I refuse to answer any demographics question if my only option is 'White'. Caucasian is a stretch, too, but it's the better alternative, for now anyway.) 

His examples are compelling, and in my humble opinion, irrefutable. Structural racism is not only real, but alive and well in 2022. I won't retell all of his evidence-- he does it so much better than I could (go watch if you ignored my earlier nudging)-- but suffice it to say I was left speechless. 

I can't remain speechless for any longer. I walk a line as a public employee, needing to remain apolitical personally, but to also speak up for those in my charge who come from marginalized communities. Which means, I can't fully do one or the other. Having watched this documentary, however, I can no longer comfortably choose my silence when it means those around me risk suffering. Maya Angelou and James 4:17 both remind us that when you know better you do better. Today, I know better, and I am promising to do better. For the last few years, I've made sure to include the BIPOC perspective in my history lessons, and made sure to apologize for the years I perpetuated the myth that the Civil War was NOT about racism. I am sorry it took me this long to correct that narrative, and many others I didn't even know about due to whitewashing.

If we are going to move on from this horrible part of our history, we need to do what the Germans do: acknowledge it, learn from it, and change our behavior. I am committing to doing that, and advocating for those who need my voice to stand up for their rights, regardless of the political consequences that befall me.

It's not easy, knowing who we are, but so very important to becoming who we are all meant to be.

17 Sunshiny Years

 I visited with a Sunshine this week. I had not seen her in person for a few years, mostly due to the pandemic, but also because of distance. I was able to see her interact with her spouse and their child, showering the toddler with love while also adequately conveying her needs to her partner. I am so happy she has found her person with whom to get through this thing called life-- where she can be her full self without fear, and have a different adult life than she saw most adults around her have. She loves big, which I am blessed to receive, and has a self-awareness that I don't often see in someone as young. She has grown so much since graduation-- she stands taller, and holds eye contact. And my goodness, she is a good mom: letting her child explore but making sure they can do so safely. I had to work to hold back tears a few times: of all the tests and other benchmarks we use in schools, the most important one to me is that my sunnies raise kids who struggle less than they did. She (and her spouse, while not a sunshine, fell in love with one, and so is now also mine by the transitive property of belonging) is exceeding this standard.

The pretense for this reunion is I had asked her to paint me something, and I went to pick it up. She's a very talented creator, and I wanted something of hers to hang in my space, partly as inspiration for kids, and partly (mostly?) as a reminder that she is who she is, and that I get to say I knew her when. I didn't have a clear design in mind-- I think said something about sunshine or rainbows-- and she took that and made me the most beautiful honorific to my 17 years as an alt ed teacher. I don't even have words for how perfect it is; it's made by her, for me, about my transition from teaching to social working, and she captured all of that, in a way words (my medium) just can't.

I don't really know what I'm trying to say. I'm so proud of her, but when she also shared the continued struggle before her, I knew it will take her a significant amount of effort to get where she wants to be. There's a lesson for me in this long lasting relationship, but for the life of me, I can't identify it. I love the kids (and adults) that cross my path unconditionally, and am happy to say that love is often the beginning of something else. Somehow, though, there's something here I'm missing-- something for me, to help me learn and grow to be better at my new role. Maybe that's what it is-- that I am back to being new at my job, and while I have learned a lot, the only way out is through. My best teachers may actually be the hundreds of students I taught over the last 17 years.

She agreed to a hug when I left, which felt important. Again, I had to work to not cry. So many people think I give so much of myself, and can't understand how I do what I do: the real truth is I don't know how to do it any other way: I gain so much more back that it's impossible to not go all in. I have learned appreciation for how blessed my life has been, of course, but also that I have made deliberate choices to amplify the good things and jettison the bad.  That I continually choose kindness and empathy when presented with heartbreaking, easily judged situations-- heals my humanity more than it impacts anyone else. I've provided an example for one way to live and parent and love a generation of kids-- those in my classes and the many others in the building-- and visits like this show that it has impacted future generations. It's humbling to say the least, and exceeds my wildest dreams of what I thought possible when I accepted the alternative ed teaching job all those years ago.

Long way round, this was a reminder that listening and loving are the best things that can happen in a school setting. That without truly meeting kids where they're at, their ability to interact with standards is significantly hindered. And, that graduation isn't the end of those relationships, not if you don't want it to be. 

Combat baby, come back.

 It's been awhile since my last post...

Writing, in many ways, is my internal therapy session. It forces me to slow down, and put my thoughts out there in a way that can be understood by those of you who don't live inside my head. I stopped blogging about the time I started my MSW-- I didn't have time, for sure, and Blogger had changed and I didn't want to take the time to learn the new system. I stopped doing a lot of the creative things I enjoy, because I just didn't have the emotional bandwidth. I kept cooking, because I like to eat, and taking pictures... although I didn't do much with them at all. The self-reflective writing that was embedded into the program was the outlet I used from Fall 2016-Summer 2019.

I continued my hiatus then-- I started working per diem as a Crisis Worker and Outpatient Clinician, which again, filled my brain with lots to consider. And then... well, we all know that 'normal' changed on 3/15/20, and I was too freaked out by living and working through a pandemic, both as a teacher and a mental health worker to return to my favorite creative outlets.

This spring, though, my mojo came back. I've been scrapping like a fool, finishing 4 years of pictures in the last 4 months. I've been thinking about my book too-- I've thought about it a lot over the last 5 years-- and how to get beyond the title. And while I am not the same person I was pre-pandemic, I've settled back into myself enough to be able to find my truth through my words again. 

If you've gotten to this point, then something likely resonates with you-- that, or you really like me and reading my blog is an act of love. Please remember: I write for me, to help make sense of all that goes on internally, and have chosen to share it with the world because enough people have said they appreciate what I write. It is highly probable I will write some things that offend certain people I know and love-- but this personal therapy session doesn't work if I'm holding back. However, if my words are helpful to you in your own journey, please come along for the ride. I am a Capital E Extrovert, and love having you here, even through the magic of the interwebs. If you no longer enjoy this ride, you can exit at any time. But,  just like (I hope) your adults taught you, if you can't say anything nice, please don't say anything at all. I welcome differing perspectives-- they help me figure out what I really do mean-- but hatred and unkindness will not be tolerated.

Oh-- there will also be pop culture references, because that's also how my brain works. Combat Baby is a song by Metric, which tells the story of people hitting the 'easy living' part of life, but missing their punk past. Um... yea. While I was never a punk in terms of behavior or clothing style, I have always resonated with punk ethos. I guess this resurgence of the blog is me trying to figure out how that part of me fits with my simple life 52 year old mother of 2 twenty-somethings (or 4, if I count the other 2 I helped raise and consider my own) self who has been married (to the same man, thankfully) for longer than I have not.

If you're STILL here, I'm really glad to have you. Let's go figure out this thing called life together. 

red blooded, all American female

It's the 4th day of 2017, and the 2nd snow day of the school year. I've been pondering this post for a week. What are my resolutions this year? Truth be told, I don't know.

I know what I should do: eat less junk, drink less alcohol and more water. Cut out sugar, if we're being serious. Increase my weight bearing activity and my stretching alongside my regular walks. But I'm not sure I'm ready to commit to those things yet.

Truth be told, I'm a conspicuous consumer, self indulgent, red-blooded American, just like everyone else in my world. Well, almost everyone else; we have an exchange student living with us for the rest of this year, and her diet is highlighting to me just how heavy ours is. If I tell the truth, though, I like it. I like macaroni and cheese and green bean casserole and steak and potatoes and lasagna. I like sugar, chocolate, salt, and alcohol. I like to cook as well as eat. And I'm just not ready to change any of that.

Perhaps it's the poultry thing, and the upcoming elimination diet. After my EGD in Feb I'll be trying to figure out what it is that is keeping my EoE agitated. That will basically mean I eat veggies (minus peppers and tomatoes) and rice for 4 weeks and then reintroduce foods to see what my trigger is. It's going to be a rough thing to handle, and very annoying for my family.

Truly, though, I think I just want to remain a fat American for a little bit longer. The changes I'm contemplating to my diet are life changing, and can become challenging to work around in American society... or maybe it'll be the best thing I've ever done. For now, however, I'm not ready to make the change.

So I guess my resolution is to continue thinking about making these changes, and paying attention to when I am ready to act.

Birth of a Sunshine-- reposting to save

I was hired after the school year had started. I knew this was the job I wanted, but figured it would be a few more years before it opened. The teacher I replaced had been there for awhile, and his choice to move on left the alternative ed program a bit shell shocked. It took a few days for any of the kids to talk to me, and really the remainder of that year before they trusted me. It was a big change for them to go from a known football player looking male teacher to little old me; frankly, it was a big change for me to get back to teaching after 7 years as a professional mom, so fine by me if it took awhile for us all to get acclimated.

That next year found everyone more comfortable with each other, and somehow or another I started class with something like "Ok, Sunshines, time to get to work". It stuck. I started to refer to the sunnies at home to differentiate between my students and my children. This group of (mostly) rough and tumble disconnected high school boys liked being called Sunshines. They started to refer to themselves as such. Without setting out to do so, I created a cool kids club, complete with a name and an identity.

This blog is a way for me to reflect on my classroom practice, and maybe figure out how I created that club so that someone else can do the same thing in their own school.

Change of Time

The years go faster, these days, and putting feelings into words is oddly becoming more difficult. This song is running through my head as I try to write. The mood is as significant as the lyrics. Perhaps listening to it as you read will help distract you from the lack of poetry in this post.

It's the new year-- almost half way through the school year. It's the first time I can remember trying to slow down the clock and having the ball get stuck on it's way down, leaving us in limbo just a bit longer. My chest tightens as I type, so excited for our boy and so nervous about what comes next. He got his first college acceptance yesterday, which a significant scholarship attached. I'm sure there are more acceptances on the way, and probably more money, too. He's worked hard. He has gifts and has learned to use them wisely. He is also bigger than this place-- you can just tell he's going to do things that make the world better, and he's going to do it with integrity and kindness. I know he is ready to go-- I see it in him every day. But as his mom, who also sees the little boy in his ghostie sweatpants smiling up at me through Legos... I am not at all ready to not see him every day. I know it's life, and it's what I did to my parents 28 years ago, and it's so much better than him not going... but the selfish, mumma part of my heart cries every time I think about it.

And so I cried last night, after the ball did reach it's destination on time, and I'm crying again now writing this. I suspect I'll cry at tomorrow's ski race, and throughout the rest of this year, in fact. First of the lasts and all that... but they are all part of the rights of passage I make as his mother. His annoyance by my emotions are part of his rights of passage (although I never experienced that-- my mother becomes Spock when she hurts, so I never really knew if or how deeply it bothered her that her oldest was leaving.)

Change. It's going to be the theme of 2016. Life will look very different in a year, and then it really won't be long until it is just the two of us here, waiting for the kids to come home... but that is more than I can handle on this first day of 2016. 2018 is another heartache for another New Year's Day.

Plans for ths year-- resolutions, if you must-- stick to the theme. I need to get my health under control. More walking, fewer empty calories. I don't think I'm quite ready to completely quit sugar, but I think about it more and more often. My goal is to be thoughtful and deliberate again about those calories-- am I ingesting them because I want them or just because? I need to get back to regular walking. My lungs aren't happy, and I think the lack of exercise is a significant factor. I need to be able to keep up with these children of ours, who are going places and need me to be able to come to them.

It's time to apply for my MSW. Re-reading this blog, even the few posts I've written in recent years, is all the evidence I need. This is where I'm being called, and it's time to get the training and the credentials to do the work properly. It's going to be a lot of work, but is anything worth doing any other way? Starting a program in the fall could give me the distraction I need to help adjust to the changes here.

I also hope to be creative more this coming year. I haven't had the same energy to scrapbook or take pictures or write, which I know is due to all the emotional baggage I'm carrying, some for others and some for myself. It's time to accept what I can't change, and make the changes I can. And sometimes that means publishing a less than stellar post, just to get the ball falling...

Happy New Year. I hope it brings you the change you need.

that face

It was the same look on his face. The same look that she makes at me when I catch her off guard, and she knows I see the hurt and the self-loathing. A slight tilt to the head, and a huge grin-- but with the saddest eyes you've ever seen. A practiced look that disarms most people and allows you to regain control of the situation, if only because your smile told the other person you're fine. Except you're not. And I am not most people...

I knew things were falling apart again. He called me Monday night to tell me he'd given his girlfriend my number. "Just tell her how I get. Help her feel better." She called me first thing Tuesday morning, concerned he was drinking again. He was. His friends were concerned. None of us knew how to really help. GF started researching. We talked a couple times a day. I waited to go see him; if I went too early, he could feel threatened and I didn't want that situation (for either of us). Friday morning I got a text from his buddy: come get him. So I did. I didn't tell him I was coming, until I got to the shop and he was out with another friend. We gathered his things, squished all we could into my new car (with decidedly less storage space than the old mini) and headed North. She convinced him to go to medical detox-- she's worried about his health-- for which I was incredibly thankful; I don't have the medical knowledge to help him sober up safely, and I couldn't bring him to my house and have my kids and husband go through it as well. I got him registered (a long process, it turns out), only a little bit worried we were taking unnecessarily extreme measures. I knew I couldn't bring him home, and there was no where else he could go--M&D have moved West in their retirement, and both our sisters left New England when they went to college. His GF is in the Northwest (where he is headed this fall). Medical detox bought us time, and ensured his safety.

As I headed back home, it was that look he gave me that said it all. I've been on the front lines with her eating disorder for a year and a half now. It's as destructive as any addiction; there are strong parallels between her story and why she stopped ingesting and his inability to stop ingesting. I've also worked with many kids over the years struggling with one thing or another: I long ago stopped listening to what they say and what they are not saying. Body language tells me more than words, and silence speaks volumes. And that face-- that look, with forced smile and heartbroken eyes-- was when I knew gathering him up and getting him admitted was the only course of action available to me.

I'm not trained in any of this-- not yet, anyway. But I know I have to make decisions that I can live with no matter what the future brings. Neither of them have to like the choices I make, and frankly, they can tell me no at anytime, but they can't control what I do or don't do. Waiting to get him was the right thing, regardless of what his friends may or may not think. Bringing him to the hospital was the right thing, regardless of the guilt I feel not bringing him into my home. Giving her food is the right thing, regardless of whether or not she chooses to eat it.

I don't know what the future will bring: I am prepared for a wide range of outcomes, for both of them. I do know I will continue to love them, and support them to the best of my abilities in the choices they make. It's complicated to love someone who is addicted to something, but so incredibly important to do so: that face they make should be all the proof you need.

All my life's a circle...

Star date: post summer solstice

Which means we are solidly in summer vacation. Praise to all that is good and holy that we made it here. There was a point in the year I wasn't 100% sure we all would.

For many reasons, these were the times that tried men's souls-- and while I may be the sunshine patriot in one measure, I am far from a summer soldier. This was the year that put my teaching to the test, but also helped me shore up my philosophy on what the role of school is. Next year will be different, although likely as difficult emotionally... although now I have a better sense of what to expect, and can therefore prepare to mitigate some of it.

I quickly jettisoned the academic rigor of content standards-- which in this teacher bashing era of standards based education is a radical and risky maneuver. I didn't have much choice however; in addition to being the only teacher (and usually only adult) responsible for providing content instruction in 9 high school courses, I was also working with a group of students who were dealing with significant personal crises. Watching a person implode on themselves is a tragic experience; watching 3 students go through that in one year is devastating on the classroom dynamic. Their situations affected everyone in the room, and triggered other less significant  (but no less serious, because any crisis you are experiencing is real to you, even if it's not as bad as the one the guy next to you is having) reactions in the rest of us. My goal for the year quickly became getting us all out alive. Literally for every one of us to still be breathing air: believe me when I tell you, that was not a foregone conclusion.

Public schools were created in America to provide communities with a well informed populace: how could we expect people to participate in democracy if they weren't able to think? Today, public schools become the place where we try to correct for the potential missing pieces from home while still teaching kids how to think. We claim that all children are equal, and it doesn't matter if you go to an inner city school, a wealthy middle class suburb school, or a poor rural community school: we'll take all the kids, balance for what they're missing from home, and provide the same quality academic education to all kids, Maine to California. That so many Americans have accepted that notion as truth is evidence enough that we aren't being so successful teaching people how to think. The kindergartner who comes on the first day having been read to, played with crayons and practiced writing, and knows that numbers and the alphabet exist and mean something can tackle learning to read. Unfortunately, we have many kids who come to school not knowing how to hold a book, never mind what it is for (I wish I was exaggerating; I have worked at k-screenings. I am not.) The same is true for every level of education: the child who comes from a home with plenty of love, basic needs, and safety is ready to come to school at 7:55 and learn algebra or language conventions or differences in rocks, whereas the child who comes hungry or from a dangerous neighborhood or from neglect and abuse isn't-- at least, not until you deal with what is missing. And in order to deal with the hunger or emotional turmoil, you have to put algebra on hold. So that's what I did.

 Make no mistake about it: I firmly believe all kids can learn, and it doesn't matter who your parents are to achieve great heights. It does, however, require different supports for different kids. It made more sense when I thought about it from my own experience. I had a rose colored childhood without question. My parents are college educated. My dad had a good job and my mom could afford to stay home with us until we were in school. They owned their house, in a good neighborhood. We had ice skates and bikes and toys and food and friends and family. We built tree houses and played in the rain. We did after school activities and had the proper gear required for said activities. We got good grades and graduated at the top of our classes. But when I was struggling with infertility during my 5th year of teaching, I was useless. I couldn't focus, and frankly, had a hard time caring about the quality of my work. I was in crisis. I was the same person, but my personal issue was all consuming. I've watched the same be true of people who were going through a divorce, family illness, or death of a loved one. I don't know why it's so shocking to think that kids who are in some level of personal crisis struggle to meet academic standards, too. And if we're going to really help them become the best people they can be, we have to help them deal with whatever the issue is.

I am lucky to work in a building that believes in the importance of alternative education. I have the support of my colleagues and a principal who doesn't write me up for trying crazy things. But I also work in a building where more and more kids are on the verge of falling apart-- far more kids than I can work with in a day. Poverty is all encompassing-- our kids are poor because their parents and families are poor. There isn't enough work for everyone, and certainly not enough fair paying work. Because we're a rural community, we don't have public transportation so the lack of a reliable vehicle is devastating. As a school teacher, I make more than the median income-- by a significant amount. (You know you live in a poor area when teachers are the rich ones.) Our schools are not meeting the needs of all our kids, and we've been set up by society at large to fail.

Summer break is great for me, my family, my friends... but is often not great for our students in crisis. I'm not going to lie, without it, my job would be significantly harder, because by being on an extended break I can regroup and be better able to handle my job the remainder of the year. I hope most of my kids can do the same... and if not, I hope they just make it back to school in the fall.