A Few Things I Will Never Understand
Mamacita says: When I was teaching in the public schools, the same things happened almost every day:
I rejoiced when my students did well.
I cried when my students faced insurmountable odds.
I laughed when my students were happy.
I was proud when my students worked hard.
I was angry when the decisions of adults made my students’ lives harder.
I was furious when my students were sent to school in rags and shards of shoes, while their parents had winter coats and, miraculously, money for cigarettes.
I was glad when CPS removed my students from dangerous homes, negligent/abusive/selfish parents, and filth.
And I was beside myself with disbelief and grief when my students were put right smack back into those same homes because a lying SOB abusive crack-addicted drunk who had baby-tantrums and took care of his/her own personal needs before feeding/clothing/loving the children in the house with anger management problems* and “addictive personality syndromes” promised** he/she’d do better next time.
Because, you know, people like that just do the same thing over and over again, and when “the next time” comes, they just screw up again. And who is the real victim? Who pays the price for our social and judicial systems’ inability to see through these people’s lies and whines and excuses and promises that mean nothing?
The children.
Shame on a society that puts the “rights” of an adult before the welfare and well-being of a child.
There should be no second chances for these people. One false move with a child, and that child should be removed from that “home” and put in a real home, with people who will feed, clothe, love, and care for those children before buying ANYTHING for themselves.
Few things made me madder than the sight of a well-dressed parent who sent a child to school in rags. And invariably, such people reeked of smoke and cheap beer.
And once a child is removed from trash parents and then put right back in the home again, do you really thing this child will dare “tell” what’s really going on at home again? Because if you think he/she will, you’re sadly mistaken. There is no safety for a child who knows that if he ‘tells,’ he’ll just eventually be put right back in the house with the perpetrator, and the perpetrator will be angrier than ever at being outed. The child won’t ‘tell’ again. Fear and threats are good silencers, and some of the worst people are the best at faking “rehabilitation.”
Take the children away. No second chances. Lock the parents up. Let them dry out ‘cold turkey,’ and I really don’t care if they sweat and scream. They didn’t care when their children did.
I do not believe that a home should be completely ‘child-centered,’ but a house wherein children are rendered second-class citizens, unfed, wearing dirty, tattered clothing, beaten, neglected, exposed to second-hand smoke and drunken/high parents on a regular basis, not taken to the dentist, sent to school with no lunch and no hope of any, who will then return, after school, to an empty house or a house with vicious selfish adults who will then take out any frustrations or “urges” on the child, isn’t a home. It’s not a house, either. It’s nothing but a repository for scum, and a child should not have to live like that.
Adults have choices in such things. Children do not.
Remove the children. Do not require them to EVER go back.
* euphemism for “things adults do when they are really nothing but big selfish arses. Also, adults with “anger management issues” are one of the ugliest sights in the universe. Grow up.
**the promises of such people mean nothing; they are lies, like everything else they say
Only the Stupid Fear Questions
Mamacita says: Warning: I’m in a bad mood. I’m sick and tired of a handful of people taking all the joy out of the majority of our children’s school experience. I maintain that if a family is that insecure and unable to defend their own beliefs against a good honest question, or withstand any questions about or exposure to the beliefs of others, maybe they’d best take a good long look at those beliefs, because folks, something is wrong with them.
Read at your own risk. And if you want to fight, bring it on.
==
Dear People-Whose-Own-Personal-Beliefs-Far-Outweigh-Anyone-Else’s:
There is a big difference between “celebrating” something and “having fun with” or simply “experiencing” it. Or maybe. . . LEARNING about something? Perish the thought.
Buy a dictionary, you pompous twits. If your belief system will allow one in your home. . . . there ARE some controversial words in dictionaries, you know. And I’m sure you DO know.
You can always mark them out with a black sharpie. And I’m sure you DO know how to do that. You’ve had plenty of practice with book censorship. You probably don’t have a thesaurus in your home because – oh NOOOOOO – that would teach your children that there are other ways to express themselves, other words to choose among, other ways to say things. Can’t have it. I mean to say, we just can’t HAVE that.
There is much, much more that I’d really like to say, but my own personal beliefs which far outweigh anyone else’s do not allow me to waste my time trying to deal with the likes of you.
I’m too busy feeling sorry for your children, who have to deal with you on a daily basis, in your humorless, cheerless, sterilized-of-all-fun, devoid-of-all-experiences-which-your-pastor’s-pizza delivery boy’s-grandmother’s-neighbor disapproves of, always-winter-and-never-Christmas, house. Also known as the Valentine-free zone. The “all-experiences outside of our frame of immediate knowledge” -free zone. The shamrock-free zone. The sparkler-free zone. The childhood’s fantasy-free zone. The charm-free zone. The turkey-free zone. The diversity-free zone. The other-people-free zone. The tradition-free zone. If you’ve ever thought or said something to the effect of “I don’t know the reason, but it’s just how we do things here” or “We’ve always done it this way” or “The pastor said so” or “It’s always been a rule here,” then I’m talking about you, Gormless.
I was going to work “twilight zone” in there somewhere but frankly, such households are not classy enough to be associated with that reference.
Oh, and I take back the “turkey-free” zone comment. I bet you know why, too.
What a poor life for a little child, in a house cleansed of fantasy, play-acting, dress-up, dreams, fairies, anticipation, and traditions.
Poor, poor little children.
I suppose poor parents, too, but THEY’VE got a choice, while their children do not.
Not till they are old enough to move out, and start a nicer, smarter, far more interesting household of their own.
(Not judgmental much, am I. . . . .)
Yeah, well, bite me.
Very sincerely indeed,
Me
P.S.
When I try to remember my own elementary school years, the clearest memories are of red and pink construction paper valentine hearts, hand-tracing turkeys, a tree covered with little pieces of glitter-covered artwork (some of them MINE), shamrocks hanging from the ceiling, drawing names for a fifty-cent gift exchange, learning about Hannukah (which my family did not celebrate, but which I was fascinated to learn about; it was my first glimpse into other people’s culture, and MY parents were smart enough to appreciate that.) and sitting out in the hallway day after day tutoring kids who probably STILL can’t spell ‘cat.’
Some of those memories are better than others. Guess which.
Honestly, I think some people never grow out of the obsession to always get their own way in everything. Too bad so many of them have children.
P.P.S. It takes brains to have imagination, and it takes guts to branch out. That pretty much sums it up.
P.P.P.S. If you’re the sorry type who has never read Harry Potter but condemns and forbids it anyway because somebody else heard it was evil, I shall assume there is no Disney in your home, either. Otherwise, you’d be a hypocrite on top of everything else.
Army of Women: Dealing with Life's Lumps
Mamacita asks: What does an Army of Women look like?
It looks like you.
And why should you be interested?
Because it could have been you. Maybe it was you.
Women remove their bras for many reasons. You know them, so I won’t list them. But I will add this one: so we can check for lumps.
I would, of course, be participating in the Army of Women’s “Blog For Your Breasts” project in any case, since I am a human being, a woman, and an owner of breasts, but I have a particular interest in this project because I love my sister and I loved my mother-in-law.
Several years ago, my sister discovered a lump. She immediately contacted her doctor, who saw her right away, but even so, by the time her doctor saw the lump, it had grown bigger. He put her in the hospital, and the lump, along with pretty much everything touching or near the lump, was removed.
My sister underwent chemo. Our mother drove a hundred miles every few days to take her. My sister has very few memories of those trips; chemo takes it out of you in more ways than one. Her hair fell out, and even though she works for a big insurance company, that company refused to pay for a wig so she could continue to work. She finally did get one, however, and knowing my sister, I’m betting the company finally agreed to foot the bill. Harsh as the chemo was, it did the trick, and my sister has been cancer-free for several years now. She makes jokes about being lop-sided, but with the exception of her chest, everything about her, physically and mentally, including her hair, which grew back super-curly, is intact, for which all who love her, and that definitely includes me, are grateful. Every time I see her, I think about that time, those weeks in which we weren’t sure we were going to be allowed to keep her around, and I am so grateful she beat the odds that tried so hard to beat her down.
To be truthful, when it comes to this sister and any kind of odds, I’d bet on my sister every time. She’s tough and she’s good and she’s ALIVE. Love you, Teresa. Always have; always will.
My mother-in-law discovered her lump many years ago, but she didn’t tell anybody. By the time she showed it to her sister, it was huge. By the time she showed it to me, it was even huge-er – and black.
We had to bully her into going to the doctor; she was convinced that if she continue to ignore it and pray, it would go away without any effort on her part. I guess she forgot that God helps those who help themselves, because she put all the onus on God and flatly refused to do any of the work herself for years. Meanwhile, the lump put out roots and waxed strong.
Finally, she let us take her to the doctor, who, naturally, was horrified, both at the state of the lump AND at the state of her stubbornness. She underwent surgery; the lump was removed, as were as many of its clinging roots as possible. However, those of us who garden know what roots can do; they can live for a long time when the bulk of the growth is long gone; those roots can fester, evolve, and grow. Those roots can put out rootlets far from the original root. Think “strawberries.”
It was only when someone at work knocked her down and broke her hip that we discovered the extent of the malignant spread. The growth had grown, and poured itself forth throughout her entire body. Still, she upheld her claim that she would be healed without any help from humanity. I admired her faith, but I can’t admire her refusal to work along with her faith. (I believe that attitudes like this often dissuade others from “believing,” in fact. Sigh.)
Again, we bullied her into undergoing radiation treatments. From the very start, she was convinced that these treatments would not help her; I wonder still if that attitude was a self-fulfilling prophecy.
In the fall of 2008, she was still getting around, driving, eating, and working three days a week as a newspaper reporter. She retired in December of 2008. In February of 2009, she was gone.
Many people, including me, firmly believe that if she’d had that lump taken care of back in the mid-nineties when she first found it, she’d still be alive today. I suppose part of it was a generational and upbringing thing; she didn’t want to expose her breasts to a male doctor, and breasts are a private part that aren’t supposed to be exposed at all. She was brought up VERY strictly, with many rules and regulations that were ridiculous. It’s a bloody wonder she was able to rise above many of them at all. Sigh. She was much loved, and will always be missed. She was a wonderful mother-in-law, and was always very good to me.
Both of these women were brave, courageous, and bold, just like Hugh O’Brien’s Wyatt Earp: “Long live (their) fame, and long live (their) glory, and long may (their) story be told.”
However, if “it” should happen to you, please follow my sister’s example, not my mother-in-law’s.
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