Month: October 2018

           “Every child comes with the message that God is not yet discouraged of man.”—Rabindranath Tagore

           “We’ve had bad luck with our kids—they’ve all grown up.”—Christopher Morley

           “The world is going to hell in a handbasket,” was an expression from my childhood that I often overheard grown-ups use that I never quite understood at the time.  Of course, now, as an adult, I certainly understand those sometimes-still-stated words. In fact, I’ve even been known to think it a time or two! Then, I go to work, see the kids, and rethink that phrase.

Some of the SJCS students who belong to my EW! (Elevate Writing) Club.

A few of the SCJS students who belong to my Yoga Club, including Annie Smith, Julie Blatt, Nicolas Mozafari, Izzy Styer, and Lily Casto.

           I have been blessed with an amazing career—education.  I became a certified (now licensed) teacher, unbelievably, at the age of 21; naively thinking I would set the world on-fire!  Now, thirty-one years later, I realize, it is the opposite. It is the kids, as well as my own daughter, that have continued to ignite and inspire my own inner fire.  They give me hope that, well, maybe, just maybe, society, as a whole, is not doomed to a fiery abyss.

           While I have had the privilege of working in several wonderful schools, my current place of employment is St. Joseph Catholic School.  One of the unique qualities of this school is that our students’ ages range from 6-weeks (daycare) to preschool age, as well as from Kindergarten to grade 8.  While I spend most of my time with students in grades sixth through eighth, I do have occasional opportunities to indirectly encounter and interact with younger students, such walking through the halls, attending our weekly mass (church-service), and during school-wide events such as assemblies, the upcoming pumpkin drop, and so forth.   Additionally, there are school-families, one of, if not my favorite, cross-grade activity.

           Arranged differently each school year by our administrators, a school family is one or two students per grade from each K-8 grade level paired with a teacher or instructional aide.  Then, throughout the school year, special activities are specifically planned to be completed as a school family. When these activities occur, middle school students are asked to gather the younger students, K-5, and lead them as a group to their assigned staff member.  Then, the staff member helps facilitate the activity.

           Benefits of school family activities are numerous, including fostering positive and appropriate communication, increasing empathy and understanding, encouraging team-building and problem solving, as well as an opportunity for leadership and role-modeling for the older students to name a few.   As a teacher, school families allow me to see students as kids—the whole child, not just the student-side.  Furthermore, it puts me in touch with wonder—the unbridled joy and enthusiasm with which children view the world!

           Recently, staff and students at SJCS took a break out of our regular daily schedule for our first school family event.  I individually talked to each member of the middle school students in my family—Caleb, Hope, and Carson–regarding my expectations for them.  As I talked to Caleb, Hope and Carson individually, I tried to be both cheerleader and guide. All three students responded with nods of agreement, yet I still wondered if they would step up and own the full leadership potential I saw within each one.  It would only take minutes to discover my answer.

           The two kindergarten students tentatively entered my classroom holding Hope’s hand.  First and second grade students burst through the doorway vibrating with liveliness, two of the *four kids, holding onto Carson’s hands. Lastly, walking politely and energetically came the third, fourth and fifth grade students with Caleb in the center, smile spreading widely across his face.  As I assembled the group around a table set up with supplies to paint pumpkins, I could not help but feel a sense of pride for the middle school students as they assumed their role as caregivers and leaders.

“Curly” Carly spent the most time painting her pumpkin. Even after the others were finished, she was still creating.

Sophie Lo, Lola Walker, and Kailey Robinette draw and chat easily together.

           Natural conversation ensued as the painting began.  It never ceases to amaze the ease with which younger kids can engage one another with little to no apparent bias, judgment, or preconceived notions.  Further, I love the way in which the little guys can fully embrace their task with a can-do attitude. By middle school, most students have lost part, and sadly sometimes all, of that openness.  Thus, it is good for the middle school students to observe and once more be around that genuine spirit of all-is-possible.

Oakley Mullins, 3rd grade, teaches Carson Patrick, 8th grade, how to draw a peacock.

Oakley Mullins and his finished peacock.

           Once painting was completed, I allowed students the freedom to draw, talk, and even read to one another, although one student read simply chose to read to himself.  The conversations grew more animated. I walked about the room hopping in and out of the chatter, taking pictures, and overall soaking up the sweetness of the moment.  Then, my ears perked up.

           “How long did it take you to get to middle school?”   

           It was a second grader, his face intently and earnestly gazing at Hope, a seventh grader.  I couldn’t help but smile and inwardly chuckle; and from the look of Hope’s face as well as the twinkle of her blue eyes, so was Hope as she tried to explain the math to him.  His question stuck with me though.

Caleb Maru, Neil Kumar, Hope Spangler, Emma “Bree” Smith, Mythili Gurram, and Jack Quehl draw and chat together about how long it takes to get to 6th and 7th grade.

Simon Marchal decided to immerse himself in a previously read favorite book he found in my classroom.

           How long did it take to get to year 31 of my teaching career?  How long did it take for my own child to grow up and move on to college? How long did it take for my husband, John, and me to arrive at nearly 30-years of marriage?   How long, how long, how long . . ..

     The older I get, the more precious time and life become, and yet still, I move through each day more likely than not, forgetting that life is short.  Like that slice of Grandmother Helen’s decadent brownie I can never recreate as much as I try, or Mamaw Musick’s beloved sugar-laden, thick-crusted apple pie that John swears was the best, life must be savored because it too will soon be gone as quickly as a fork being placed across an empty dessert with only a few crumbs of memory left.  

           Isn’t it ironic that some of the most important life lessons are presented in the form of child’s question?

          Author’s note to reader: This was not easy to write, and I realize by sharing a story so personal that I risk offending and/or losing readers.  Further, I do not write this to change minds, but rather to offer additional insight.  I am NOT promoting one political party or position.  Instead, I am sharing how one short-term experience with trauma forever impacted me.  I cannot begin to imagine what other victims of long-term abuse, violation, and/or suppression have experienced and been impacted.  My hope is that readers begin to see there truly are faces behind statistics, and that the other “you” is a real person.

           “Through the darkness of today’s conflicts, each and everyone of us can become a bright candle, a reminder that light will overcome darkness, and never the other way around.”—Pope Francis

           I don’t know about you, Dear Reader, but my mind, heart, and soul are a swirling with questions.  As I type this early Sunday morning, I am reflecting over events of my lifetime, events of recent years, and current headlines.   I am one who rarely speaks to topics of controversy, but my heart and soul are urging me, an ordinary person, to share my story in order illustrate why there is often a great divide.

           I am but one person, one voice, and one point of experience.  I am not naive enough to think my thoughts will impact the world in a big way.  However, as I sat this past week in Morgantown overlooking the Monongahela River, I observed a random leaf drift down onto the chocolate-milk-colored water.  As soon as the leaf alighted upon the river, it created a wave that reached the shore. That is my hope for these words—they will resonate and/or increase understanding/empathy within a person or two.  

           “Don’t say: ‘That person gets on my nerves.’ Think: ‘That person sanctifies me.’”—St. Josemaria Escriva

           As a child I often received spoken and unspoken rules from a male-dominated society.  Some of these messages included:

            “It’s not good for a woman to be too smart.  She won’t get a husband.”

           “Women should only be nurses, teachers, or secretaries; otherwise, they are taking work away from a man.”

           “Women who wear _______________ (short skirts, low-cut blouses, high heels, and so forth.) are asking for ‘it.’” (What “it” was, I never understood as a kid.)

                       “Women who go to a/n ______________  (bar, restaurant that serves alcohol, empty street, boy’s house, and so forth.) alone are asking for ‘it’.”  (Again, I did not know what “it” was, but I sensed “it” must be bad.)

           As a youngster, I questioned the validity of these messages.  In fact, I questioned most everything, including my own family rules. I am sure I drove my parents crazy because “why” seemed hard-wired into my child-brain.  My siblings have often told me they learned from me, mostly due to my frequent bouts of “punishments,” including getting my mouth washed out with soap on more than one occasion, the rewards of not talking back.  Still, I kept speaking out, questioning. Then, I learned the hard way, not everyone cares what you have to say.

           I was an older teen when it happened. How it exactly happened, I am unsure.  Just as I cannot tell you the dates or the exact words I said as a kid to get my mouth washed out with soap, I only remember the bitter taste of the soap, so too is this memory.

           The shag carpet of the staircase in my face, and pain exploding in my body.  I said, “stop”, but the carpet was in my face. The pain was like no other. The carpet fibers chafed my tear-stained cheeks as I continued to say, “No.” The pain continued to explode as my voice fell on deaf ears.  Shame filled my mind. Can. Never. Tell. Must. Not. Ever. Tell. It. Must. Be. My. Fault. Hurt, hurt, hurt.

           I do not remember how I got home. I only remember the bathroom, lying on the cool linoleum, overcome with pain and shame that would not go away, and continually sobbing. Must. Not. Tell.   

           I remember him.  He is clear as the taste of Dial soap, but I don’t recall the date or many pertinent details.  Most days, I don’t think of him or the event. Most days, I have moved beyond that event, and even forgiven him because he was (and is) a product of the times in which we were raised. However, I can now recognize how that event forever changed me, changed the way I perceived my voice, created fears and inner demons within me, and planted seeds of mistrust of others and myself that have taken decades to acknowledge and understand.

           “If you judge people, you have no time to love them.”—Mother Teresa

          These past two weeks though have brought much of it back: the nightmares; feelings of shame; the knot in my stomach; and the feeling of being powerless.  The talking heads of society that mock, ridicule, and/or hide behind positions of power often remind me of the same vitriolic attitudes I sensed so long ago–those attitudes and “rules” I once questioned as a kid.  I feel those same questions begin to rise once more as bile rises when one begins to get sick. And, yet, my faith and personal disposition at age 53, remind me that I must move beyond the hate, the judgment, and acridity of headlines.  Therefore, I choose to use my voice, my words, and my thoughts to promote change; and, I do this with the full love and support of my husband and daughter.

           “Feeling hopeful does not mean to be optimistically naïve and ignore the tragedy humanity is facing.  Hope is the virtue of a heart that doesn’t lock itself into darkness, that doesn’t dwell on the past, does not simply get by in the present, but is able to see a tomorrow.”—Pope Francis

           I say, not just to women, but also to all victims of oppression, cruelty, and repression: Rise up.  Let your voices be heard in government, churches, businesses, educational institutions, corporations, social media, news outlets, and all other forms of societal groups.  Tell your stories. Be quiet no more. Act upon your words and beliefs. Work to bring about change. Uplift and support others. Watch and protect one another. Do not dwell on past events; but rather, use them as a point of motivation.  

           Most of all, now, more than ever, embrace an attitude of hope, rather than defeat.  For it is by embracing hope that we are motivated to work towards a future of change—a tomorrow that, albeit, may never be perfect, but can be filled with progress—progress toward a path in which ALL voices can be heard/seen; positions/institutions of power and policies can be questioned; and the content of character matters more than media image, political party, bank account size, or special interest affiliation.   

           “For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope.”—Jeremiah 29:11