Mamacita says:  I’m guessing that many most bloggers will be posting tributes this weekend, and telling the blogosphere ‘where we were’ when the planes hit the World Trade Center. Here is mine. This is actually the second third fourth fifth sixth seventh time I’ve posted this on 9/11, so if it seems familiar, you’re not crazy. Well, not on this issue, anyway.

==

The morning began like any other; we stood for the Pledge of Allegiance, and sat back down to watch Channel One News, which had been taped at 3:00 that morning in the school library, thanks to the timer. But Channel One News didn’t come on.

Instead, the secretary’s voice, over the intercom, told the teachers to “please check your email immediately.” We did. And we found out what had happened.

I scrolled down the monitor and read the end of the message. The superintendent had ordered all teachers to be absolutely mum all day about the tragedy. We were not to answer any questions from students, and we were especially not to offer any information to them.

The day went by in a blur. Many parents drove to the school, took their kids out, and brought them home. Between classes, frightened groups of students gathered in front of their lockers and whispered, gossiped, and cried, and begged us for information. By that time, the superintendent’s order had been seconded by the principals, and we were unable to give these terrified kids any information. In the computer labs, the MSN screens told the 8th graders the truth, but they, too, were instructed NOT to talk about it to the other students. Right, like THAT happened. The story was being repeated by 8th graders, and it was being told bloody-killing-deathtrap-you’re next-video-game-style.

At noon, many of the students were picked up by parents and taken home or out for lunch. Those few who returned had a big tale to tell. The problem was, the tale was being told by children, and few if any of the facts were straight. The tale was being told scary-style, and the atmosphere in the building got more and more strained. We are only a few miles away from an immensely large Navy base, where ammunition and bombs are made, and we’ve always known it was a prime target, which means, of course, that we are, too. Many of my children’s parents worked there. The base was locked down and those parents did not come home that night.

Reasonable questions were answered with silence, or the statement: “You’ll find out when you get home.”

This, added to all the rumors and gossip spread by children, turned my little sixth graders into terrified toddlers.

As teachers, we were furious and disgusted with the superintendent’s edict. We wanted to call all the students into the gym and calmly tell them the truth in words and ways that would be age-appropriate. We wanted to hug them and assure them that it was far away and they were safe. We asked for permission to do this, and it was denied. Our orders were ‘silence.’ We hadn’t been allowed to hug them for years, of course, but there are times and places when hugs ARE appropriate. No matter, the superintendent stood firm: no information whatsoever.

The day went by, more slowly than ever a day before. The students grew more and more pale and frightened. We asked again, and again he stood firm that no information whatsoever was to be given out.

By the end of the day, the children were as brittle as Jolly Rancher Watermelon Sticks.

A few minutes before the bell rang to send them home, a little girl raised her hand and in a trembling voice that I will never forget, asked me a question. “Please, is it true that our parents are dead and our houses are burned down?”

That was it. I gathered my students close and in a calm voice explained to them exactly what had happened. I told them their parents were alive and safe, and that they all still had homes to go to.

The relief was incredible. I could feel it cascading all through the room.

I was, of course, written up for insubordination the next day, but I didn’t care. My phone had rung off the hook that night with parents thanking me for being honest with their children. That was far more important than a piece of paper that said I’d defied a stupid inappropriate order meted out by a man who belonged in the office of a used car lot, not in a position of power over children’s lives.

The next day at school, in my room, we listened to some of the music that had been ‘specially made about the tragedy. I still have those cd’s and I’ve shared them with many people over the past few years.  It is true that kids cried again, but it was good to cry. It was an appropriate time to cry. We didn’t do spelling or grammar that day. There are times when the “business as usual” mindset simply is not appropriate.

I wish administrators would realize that kids are a lot tougher than we might think. Kids are also a lot more sensitive that we might realize. It’s an odd combination, and we as educators must try our best to bring the two ends of the emotional spectrum together and help these kids learn to deal with horrible happenings and still manage to get through the day as well as possible.

Ignoring an issue will not help. Morbidly focusing on an issue will not help. Our children are not stupid, and to treat them as such is not something that builds trust. Our children deserve answers to their questions.

How can we expect our children to learn to find a happy medium if we don’t show them ourselves, when opportunities arise?

September 11, 2001 – September 11, 2011. God bless us, every one.

Little Boy Blue

The little toy dog is covered with dust,
But sturdy and staunch he stands,
And the little toy soldier is red with rust,
And his musket molds in his hands.
Time was when the the little toy dog was new,
And the soldier was passing fair,
And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue
Kissed them and put them there.

“Now, don’t you go till I come,” he said,
“And don’t you make any noise!”
So toddling off to his trundle bed
He dreamed of his pretty toys.
And as he was dreaming, an angel song
Awakened our Little Boy Blue.
Oh, the years are many, the years are long,
But the little toy friends are true.

Aye, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,
Each in the same old place,
Awaiting the touch of a little hand,
And the smile of a little face.
And they wonder, as waiting these long years through,
In the dust of that little chair,
What has become of our Little Boy Blue
Since he kissed them and put them there.

====

Mamacita says:  This one still makes me cry.

I remember when I first understood that this poem was about a little boy whose heartbroken toys were faithfully waiting for him to come back, not understanding that the child was dead.  I think perhaps this poem is the main reason why the Toy Story films make me apprehensive.

This poem is also why angels scared me for many years. I was so afraid that an angel would try to wake me, too.

Again, we could talk about rhyme scheme and symbolism and nicknames and references and first person narratives and quotations and the tragic fact that an awful lot of toddlers died for no apparent reason back in Victorian times.

But I think this poem is best appreciated for its very personal, very sweet, very sad, and very vivid description of a deserted toyroom full of rusting, dusty, once-beloved toys that are waiting for a little boy who will never enter that room again.

Richard Cory

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him;
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
“Good morning,” and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich – yes, richer than a king,
And admirably schooled in every grace;
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
and went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.

====

Mamacita says:  Oh, such rhyme scheme perfection – such pristine and perfect ABAB, CDCD, etc.

Pay attention to that part if you wish; I appreciate a good rhyme scheme myself, but the technical part isn’t the only part of a poem.

Poor Richard Cory.  Filthy rich, expensive yet tasteful clothing, lovely manners, handsome, slim. . . . .  Anybody would be happy with all that.  He didn’t even have to work.  He could do anything he wanted, any time he wanted.  Compared to everybody else in town, Richard Cory had it made, and was the happiest man there.

Um, no.

Money isn’t everything, even if one has some, and Richard Cory, while he obviously had everything money could buy, apparently wanted something his money couldn’t buy, and that something money couldn’t buy was so much more important than wealth or looks or clothing or manners or education that Richard Cory, not having it, felt that life, even with everything else, wasn’t worth living so he stopped.

I first encountered this poem in junior high and it blew me away.  I’m not back yet, in fact.  It affected me greatly, and I’m still reeling from the effect.

Simon and Garfunkle liked this poem, too.  They liked it enough to turn it into a song, in fact.

Mamacita says:  If you have seen the movie “Four Weddings and a Funeral,” you are already familiar with W.H. Auden.  His haunting and heartbreaking “Funeral Blues” was recited by John Hannah in this film, and it was unforgettable.

Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks; cut off the telephone;
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin; let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbbling on the sky the message, “He Is Dead.”
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East, my West,
My working week and my Sunday rest.
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever. I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one.
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

===

Oh, sure, ABAB, CDCD, etc, but honestly.  If that’s all you carry away from this poem, you’re deficient somehow, and I suspect the deficiency is in the heart, which, scientifically speaking, is actually in the brain.  Draw whatever conclusions you wish.

When I try to say this poem aloud, I break down.  I break down, not only because of the heartbreak, but because of the way Auden chose his words and word combinations carefully so we could  link the heartbreak to our own experiences and feel them as strongly as if they were happening again, fresh.

The first person pronouns in this poem make it as personal as if this broken human were standing before us all, baring his broken heart to the world.  Which is, of course, exactly what he is doing.

What good are stars if the one we love is no longer there to see them with us?  Without our beloved, the moon is nothing but a snare and lure for madmen.  Who cares about the sea or the forest if our lives are bereft of all that made them worth living?  Stop the music.  Muzzle the dogs.  And why would we need to know the time of day if we’re all alone and can conceive of nothing else but solitude for the rest of our lives?

And why isn’t t everyone and everything else  grieving, too?  How dare the policemen go about their business?  How dare a plane cross the sky?  How dare a bird fly and chirp; how dare music play on, as if the world had not spun amuck beneath them?

“I thought that love would last forever.  I was wrong.”

That’s the line that pierces my very soul, as sharply as a spear.

Did I mention that I love this poem?  Do I have to mention it?  Can’t you tell?  Because if you can’t tell if I love a poem or not, I’m not doing something right.

The fact is, hearts break like this daily.  Hourly.  Every second of every day, someone’s heart is broken.  And in spite of the fact that nothing on this earth will ever be the same again for these people, this earth just keeps on spinning as though nothing had happened at all.

Because, of course, nothing has.  Except for the one with the broken heart.

Bread and Music

Music I heard with you was more than music,
And bread I broke with you was more than bread.
Now that I am without you, all is desolate;
All that was once so beautiful is dead.

Your hands once touched this table and this silver,
And I have seen your fingers hold this glass.
These things do not remember you, beloved,
And yet your touch upon them will not pass.

For it was in my heart you moved among them,
And blessed them with your hands and with your eyes;
And in my heart they will remember always;
They knew you once, oh beautiful and wise.

==

Mamacita says:  Once again, we have love, and grief, and memories.

Not just the memory of someone we loved, and love still, but the memories of that loved one’s touch on inanimate objects.

Have you ever noticed, and wondered about, the unique and lovely patina on old silverware? It’s not a special silver. That patina is made by being touched by human skin.

Your grandmother’s silverware looks like that because it’s been touched over and over again by the skin of people you loved.

New silver is just shiny. Old silver glows. Silver isn’t really beautiful until a lot of skin rubs up against it.

And even after people who touched and used these things daily are gone, the effects of their touch live on, and we add to it with our own skin.

When someone we love has gone, we look at “things” in new ways. We see, not a dish or spoon, but a dish or spoon being touched and used by the hands of our beloveds. We picture in our minds our loved one holding that book, using that comb, sitting in that chair, and these memories make those mundane things far more beautiful than they ever were when new and untouched.

Perhaps this is the difference between an antique and an old chair.

Mamacita says:  All my life I have loathed the expression, “Act your age.” Even as a child I wondered how a person could ‘act’ an age; the best I could ever do was to ‘be’ an age. “Act” always connoted phoniness to me.

I totally agree with the little girl in this joke. How can a child know how a certain age is supposed to act, when the child has never BEEN that age before? We need to be guided into each age, not tossed.

Remember in the movie “Hook” when Robin Williams turns on his young son in anger and tells him to stop acting like a kid? And the child’s response was, ‘But Dad, I AM a kid!”

Often in schools, teachers mark students down for being “immature.” This is indeed a deficiency after a certain point, say, sixth grade or so. But to mark down a small child for being ‘immature?’ If a child is not allowed to be immature when he’s seven years old, just when IS he allowed to be immature? Aren’t all small children immature? Doesn’t that go with the territory? Why do we expect small children to behave maturely, yet smile when grown men and women behave like small children? Why is one cute and endearing, and the other annoying? And which did you find annoying, may I ask?

BEING one’s age is something we should all strive to do. ACTING it won’t fool anybody.

And with the BEING comes the responsibility. Proper behavior should not be limited to certain ages; after only a few years, children know what’s proper and what’s not, unless they’ve been living in a vacuum, or unless they’ve been allowed to run the household. And none of us know anyone who lets THAT happen, right?

So. As parents and citizens of the universe, we owe it to our children and to each other and to ourselves to lighten up on some things AND tighten the screws on others, both at once, so our children will truly grow up, not just get bigger with the same poor impulse control and with the feeling that the galaxy revolves around them. And how do we do this? With whatever it takes, my friends. Some children evolve naturally into delightful mature adults, and others must be wrestled to the ground with every new concept.

Do not allow your child to walk out your door and become the neighborhood monster, the school bully, the local knock-up artist, and an incorrigible bum. At least, not without some serious battles and opposition on your part. (some things we just can’t control, not even with the best parental intentions, dedication, and arsenal known to mankind, sigh.) And if teachers, neighbors, friends, and total strangers try to tell you that your child’s behavior is in need of serious control, believe them. Don’t make excuses, because there ARE no excuses. Seek help and seek it till you get it. No matter what the problem might be, a person with no self control is a danger to the other people in this world, and that person must be stopped and forced to change, and if change is not possible, then that person must be corralled, lest innocent others be hurt if they get in the way of his baby tantrums ‘anger management problems’ and childish selfishness ‘poor impulse control problems.’ I’m sorry as I can be, but the safety and well-being of the majority should count for something, too.

So. Let your children BE their age. And make bloody sure they know what’s expected of them at that age, and give them time and opportunity to DO what’s expected of them, and make the expectations bigger and more complicated as their age increases. Make sure the consequences for NOT BEING their age are severe and memorable. Very memorable. Allowing a child to remain a child forever, with no responsibilities and with excuses for tantrums and selfishness and laziness and with no manners and no understanding of public behavior, is as much ‘abuse’ as is beating him with a stick. Maybe worse, because others will suffer because of this parental laziness as well.

As a teacher, I called CPS more times than I could ever count. But not as many times as I WISH I could have. Whiny spoiled lazy hormonal monsters with helpless babyish doting excuse-making parents are a bane to the existence of us all.

BEING one’s age often means behaving as a child behaves. BEING one’s age also means behaving as polite society requires all persons in public to behave. There are times and places for childish shouts and spontaneous delight, and there are times and places for silence and respect. People of all ages need to know which is which.

I feel ranty today.

And no, I am not referring to special needs people.

<——Not good, no.

==

Mamacita says:  Grammar.  I love grammar.  It’s such a fantastic segue to. . . well, pretty much anything.

A student once asked me if it was true that a person could go to hell for saying “shit.”  (Not as a noun; as a statement of emotion.)

(It’s an interjection, set off by a comma or an exclamation point, so he really wasn’t too much off topic, and apparently it was on his mind.)

He said that his preacher had told him that he was going to hell because he said ’shit.’ I was more than a little bit flabbergasted, for a variety of reasons.

One, I’m still not used to adult students who say ’shit’ a lot and I don’t have to give them detention or pretend to be shocked.

Two, someone in a position of authority in this kid’s life has scared the shit OUT of him, for saying shit. So much so that this quiet well-behaved kid (who apparently has a potty mouth in church) asked his college instructor if it were true.

I have no desire to enter into any kind of debate with this boy’s preacher. I already dislike the guy too much.  Neither is it my place to talk religious doctrine to my students.

But I do know a lot about shit. I had two babies, remember? And I taught in the public school system for a long, long time. I’m not really sure which of the two had the worst shit. I think probably the schools.  When it comes to shit, the non-organic kind is always worse; it sticks to your heart for a long, long time, whereas we can scrape the organic kind off the bottoms of our shoes.  Or walk it off; it depends on where you already are and where you’re going.  The organic kind can be removed; the non-organic kind can’t.

So I explained to him that some people believed that being profane was a sin, but even so, ’shit’ is not a profanity, it’s an obscenity, so going to hell isn’t part of the package. The commandments are about profanity, not obscenity.

He was really relieved. He’ll probably also continue to say shit in the preacher’s presence.  If my preacher was that stupid, I probably would, too.

I mean, honestly, a minister should know the difference between obscenity and profanity. They are not the same thing. Not a bit. Get a clue, preach. Then maybe he would refer to you as his “minister” instead of as a ‘preacher.’ There’s a big difference between THOSE two words, too.

We also discussed the word “condemn,” its presence in the chapter today being perfection on a stick, and going right along with the student’s question, because to condemn someone is also a profanity. We’ve watered down the word, but its point of origin was pithy and terrible.

I wanted to tackle “awesome” and “awful,” but we ran out of time.  Next week, dear students.  Mark your calendars; it’ll be awesome.

When I finally got home tonight, I was too tired to do any cleaning; this devastated me as those of you who know me can attest.  The cats were sitting in my chair, as I discovered when I sat on them and they scratched me.  Well, who could blame them?  Talk about intruding on an already-claimed space.

It hurt. I might have said ’shit,’ too. I had no witnesses, so you’ll never know.

I’ve posted a lot in the past about my dying father: blind, both legs amputated above the knee, on kidney dialysis, eating via a stomach tube, etc. That was an accurate picture, but it wasn’t the only picture. It is also not the picture I have in my mind’s eye when I think of my father. At least, not usually.

My father – my REAL father – the father who was intact, before the diabetes devoured him, was tall, and strong, and hilarious. He was handsome – Hollywood handsome. He liked new experiences. He liked to travel. He sang. He cracked terrible jokes. He read voraciously.  He was smart – really, really smart. He would have liked to have gone to college, but it wasn’t possible.  Instead, he sent four kids through college, and continued to work day after day in a factory “so we would never have to.”  He tried hard, and he did the best he could with what he had.

Dad wasn’t perfect, not by a long shot. He and all of his brothers and their father before them were quick-tempered and easy to, as Mom used to say, “set off.” My Other Sister and I had a daddy who was playful and laughing. My two younger siblings had a daddy who was cranky and yelling. Dad’s illness began long before anybody realized it, including himself, and the personality changes were just brushed aside as part of the aging process or, possibly, his true colors. Nobody actually said “true colors, ” but we all thought it.

It wasn’t until both of dad’s legs had been amputated and he was blind and bedridden and too weak to feed himself or turn over, that we all realized that the diabetes had begun to affect his mind long before it took his body.

He stayed at home and Mom took care of him. I don’t think she went anywhere for three or four years, except her hasty runs to the grocery and drugstores while Dad was at dialysis.

As I said, he was a fantastic father to his older children. With the younger kids, his various illnesses had started to affect him, and things in the house were different. Some of it wasn’t his fault, and some of it was. In this way, he was no different from any of us. Whatever may have crossed his mind from time to time, he never entertained the thought of leaving his family. I’m sure he was tempted to, as who isn’t? In fact, we KNOW he was tempted, but he had made a promise and he kept it. In my parents’ home, promises meant something.

On Father’s Day, I will think of my father with love and a few head-shakings and a lot of forgiveness and smiling. And, a few things that I haven’t forgiven yet.

Happy Father’s Day, Daddy. I knew all along that mean yelling daddy wasn’t really you.

In the picture, you see my father before he was struck down. That is my brother’s motorcycle, but Dad liked to take it around town of a late afternoon.

So did I, in fact. Please don’t tell Mom.

(I add to this post a little bit every Father’s Day.  If some of it seems familiar, thank you for being a loyal reader!)

Way over in Connecticut, one of Fairfield University’s most beloved professors of all time has died.

Those of you who are into the political scene may remember John Orman as the man who challenged Senator Joseph Lieberman for the 2006 Democratic Senate nomination. Others may remember John as the author of numerous books about politics, music, poetry, pop culture. . . . his play Helen Keller Speaks was performed only last March.

Those who knew John personally knew much, much more.

We knew that John did stand-up comedy, and played basketball. He entered rap contests. We knew he had a penchant for Coca Cola. We knew that he was hilarious, and kind, and generous. We knew that he loved his wife and children above all else in his life. We knew that he was a loyal friend, a faithful husband, a loving father, an excellent teacher, an astute politician, a gifted writer, and a fantastic conversationalist, and much, much more.  John was interested in everything and everyone.  He always made me feel that whatever I said was important.  He made me feel that I was important.  He had this effect on everyone, young and old.

John’s wife Irene is one of my dearest friends. We’ve loved each other over the miles for over thirty years. Our daughters were college roommates. I could go for years without seeing Irene, and then when we did, nothing had changed. Nothing ever will. Irene will always and forever be dearer to me than words could ever convey. I’m not all that good at saying such things, so I hope you read this, Irene dear.

This shabby excuse of “I’m not all that good at saying such things” is one that we all need to rid ourselves of, and not tomorrow, either. Now. Tomorrow might be too late for someone we love.

You can find John all over the internet. Here. Here. Here. Here. Here. Here.  Here.  Here. Here.  Here.  Here. Here.  Here. Here.  And, one of my favorites, here.

My memories of John are not political in any way.  I will remember John as a friend.

We’ve been friends since we were young.  That’s a long time, my dears.

Most of the pictures I’ve seen in the many, many memorials have been recent.  Therefore, let me share with you some of MY memories of John.  This is and will always be the way I remember him.

Summer of 1978 – we were packing up John and Irene’s trailer in Orleans, Indiana because he had finished his PhD and had gotten a new job at Fairfield University in Connecticut.

Same hot summer July day.  Our babies were just a few weeks old – the babies who were, a “few” years later, college roommates at Indiana University.  This picture has been on my Flickr account for years, and above it I wrote, “John Orman, one of the nicest people I’ve ever known.”  True, that. Always and forever, true.

Irene and me, in my front yard, a few weeks previous to the above pictures.  See how nicely mown the grass is?  I did that.  I was overdue and frantic to GET THAT BABY OUT.  It worked.  Just a few hours later, I had the baby.  A week after that, Irene had hers.

Our babies.  BEFORE they were college roommates.

This is how I remember John Orman.  I know he was a great professor, a strong and positive mentor to his students, a shining political star, a widely-read author, etc., but to me, John Orman was a friend.

A good, true, awesome friend.

I love you, Irene.  Call me.

1.  Why does every packaged food item contain so much sodium?  It’s ridiculous!  Even the supposedly “diet” or “healthy” stuff is loaded full of salt.  I’m serious; why IS that? It’s really difficult – and in most cases, it’s IMPOSSIBLE – to find salt-free processed food.  Did the salt industry make a deal with somebody?  What’s going on?

2.  I love fresh flowers, and any house is more like a home with fresh flowers.  Would someone please explain this fact to my cats, so they’ll stop tipping over the vases and using my flowers as salad?

3.  It was in the seventies yesterday, and it’s in the thirties today.  What’s going on?  Oh wait, I live in Indiana.  ‘Nuff said.

4.  I have a fantastic birthday present for my Tumorless Sister, but if she doesn’t get down here soon to lay claim to it, I’m going to play with it, myself.  (Happy Birthday, Tumorless.)

5.  Looking at all these old photographs strewn over my living room carpet, I am struck anew by the mind-blowing fact that people I’ve known only as older adults had a LIFE before that!  They used to be young and hot, and they had fun!  I know, I know, we all used to be young and hot and we all had fun, but, but, this is different.  It’s DIFFERENT!  How it’s different, I have no idea, but it’s different.  If I allow myself to think otherwise, I might blow some brain cells out my ears. Do my kids think this way about me?  Because, you know, there was once a time when I was young, and hot, and interesting. . . .  Honest.  There was!

6.  I’m still angry over all the salt in everything.

7.  My mother-in -law’s purse is in my dining room, right where she used to put it when she sat up to the table.  Every time I notice it, I instinctively look around for her.  I need to move it somewhere else, but I don’t feel that I have any business touching it.    Eventually, I know.

8.  I love scented candles.

9.  Everything hanging on my walls is crooked.  I think it’s because we like to crank the volume to eleven.  It’s either that, or the New Madrid Fault.

10.  The older I get, the more precious my family becomes, and the more I wish we could all get together frequently, instead of just at holidays and funerals.  I wish we weren’t all so busy.