The Time Before Fear

These are the symptoms: waking up on the hour, every hour, all night; a dull headache that follows a bout of sobbing; swollen eyelids and burning eyes; loss of appetite; inability to focus; neglect of self; longing for life as is was two weeks ago. Two weeks ago, no one had accused my son of anything. His accuser "loved" him.

The cruel ugliness of it all troubled me, holding me hostage and extorting my time and attention away from who and what mattered most. When I saw the thing in truth, I stared the monstrosity in the face, shivering with a sense that evil waited to attack my son's wellness, to steal  any hope of a  future with goodness and happiness. I was tempted to succumb to the demands to pay off the accuser. "It is in your best interest," she said.

Yesterday, my colleagues noted the weary shifting of my feet as I tried to carry on with my life. They walked by my classroom several times to make sure that I was at least able to auto-pilot my way through the business of work. But the threat never left my thoughts, looming above me and consuming the air.

I dashed home from work leaving tasks undone. I had to get there. Home was where I remembered the time before fear. I could cook dinner, iron shirts, read my books, and make silly jokes like any other day. Yet home also became my strategic headquarters, where friends and family, appalled and heartsick for me, checked in to listen to me rant about the tragedy of it all. And home is where the doctor was called, the teachers informed, and the lawyer consulted.

The only solace I found was in my faith.  I found freedom in raw honesty when voicing my complaint and fears to God. Late last night, my mothering heart reached back for better times, and I knew God was present as I remembered the moment my son was born and the promise of each milestone since that day. I relived his accomplishments and mentally caressed his medals and certificates.

Scriptures leaped into my thoughts. Grasping each one, I spoke the words aloud, which calmed me. The memories shifted to conversations with my son.  Smiles, laughter, even serious expressions gave me a fresh appreciation for every second of time we have spent together. None of the accolades mattered now. All of the big events I have enjoyed over the years became secondary.  I didn't care about success; I was praying  for his very life. I'm not alone.  Did not Rachel, even from heaven, weep for her Joseph? How did Mary bear the Roman cross?

I fell asleep semi-peacefully, determined to square off again when I awoke. God help me, that's what mothers do.

Mama's place. Washington County, AL

Beyond the Lecture

Bits of Advice Given to Students

1. Read at least as much as you eat; write at least as much as you read.

2. You must grapple with new information in order to understand it and learn it.

    Often, that means the same thing as hard work. 

3. When preparing for a test, close your book/notebook. If you cannot explain the

    concepts in your own words, you do not know it yet. 

4. You will become what you think about, so disagree with negative self-talk. You are

    capable. 

5. Connect new content material to your world. For example, biology became much

    more important to me after my children were born.

6.  Do not settle for “good enough” in any area of your life, including academics.

7. Never choose to be ignorant.  Ask questions.

8. If grades were given away, your degree would be worthless.  Trust me on this, you

    don’t really want that.

9. Unforgiveness will rot your drive by creating emotional blind spots.  Forgive

    others, and while you are at it, forgive yourself.

10.  Forsake cruelty, especially in its most acceptable forms.

11/11/11: Popular Questions Students Ask Me

I teach adult learners ranging in age from 18 to  late 60s.. The following questions almost always come up on the first day of the quarter during introductions. I have included my answers to entertain you.

1.  Are you married with kids?
A. Yes. I've been married for  25 years to the same man; we have two kids, a daughter and a son. I adore all of them.

2. Are you qualified to teach us?
A. Yes. At the bachelor's level, I majored in Music and English. I earned a Master's degree in English Education. I have been teaching variously-aged humans longer than some of you have been alive. Granted, some of you began high school the year I was born.

3. How many books do you own?
A. The last count was around 3,000. No, I'm not making that up. Ask my kids. I also own a kindle, and I am growing that library as well.

4. Are you published?
A. No. I have spent most of my time building my career in education and raising my kids. I do, however, write almost every day. I blog, too.

5. Is this English class hard?
A. No. Stone is hard. Brick is hard. English is simply unlearned. Since you are capable of learning new skills, with time and effort, you can master English. You will improve your skills during this quarter.

6. Did you vote for President Obama?
A. No comment. I don't reveal my political views to students because I don't want to isolate one who may disagree. The same goes for my religion.

7. Would you send your children to this school?
A. Yes. In fact, my daughter is a graduate.

8. How old are you?
A. Somewhere after wild and crazy, but before rocking in a chair.

9. Do you give extra credit?
A. Never. If you give your best effort and complete all the assignments, you should have plenty of grades to endure a bad day, so to speak.

10. Do you read every assignment? Including the journals?
A. Yes. If I require you to write it, you can count on me reading it: each essay, each paragraph, each sentence, each word, each syllable gets its day on stage.

11. Were you always a straight A student?
A. No. I made As in music classes. I was an average student in grade school.  I made a C in English Comp I, and I failed College Algebra 3 times before finally passing it.  I didn't make straight As until I returned to college as an adult learner. I did it, and so can you.

Book Talk: Finding the Real Jesus

    It would be great if believers could just boldly ask, "Will the real Jesus please step forward?"  With so many Christian groups and organizations presenting Jesus differently, how can anyone know who is telling the truth?

     Perhaps the strongest deception occurs when folks accept as true only what feels good, a Jesus who  rescues them from sin, loves them unconditionally, and hangs out in case they need a parking space close to the market. This is a Jesus they can be comfortable with at any given happy moment, but who will fail them miserably when sorrow comes.

     This imaginary Jesus, in all his forms, is what Matthew Mikalatos addresses in his book Imaginary Jesus. Far from the true Lord, this creature is a product of  misinformed, sometimes desperate, imaginations created to satisfy spiritual conscience and inevitably, spiritual dilemmas. It's how we answer why to the questions with no humanly sensible answers.

    Using humor and pieces of personal testimony, Mr. Mikalatos caused me to laugh out loud and rush back from classes so I could find out what antics happened next. I love the way he depicted the real Jesus as a person who cares deeply for humanity, and as a knowable, reachable, omniscient Lord.  Having found this book after the incomprehensible death of one of my students, the book brought me comfort and renewed interest in Christian growth.

    I highly recommend Imaginary Jesus as a means of discussion about defining vs finding Jesus and the roles Christians mistakenly assign Him vs who He really is according to Scripture. Support this author, and help spread this important message.
   

Is this the test?

Enough said.

Goodbye, Samantha

Samantha waltzed into my class two years ago wide-eyed, enthusiastic, and prepared. "I heard you were hard," she said, "but I can do this."  As the quarter passed, she demonstrated devotion to performing well, and while she may not have been the best writer, she gave herself over to the tasks the course demanded. She was like that in all of her classes. She was organized, on top of assignments, and eager to "get it right."

When Samantha first started classes, her father dropped her off and then picked her up in the evening. She spent the time outside of class in the library or in the lobby studying or reading. She and I had great talks about books and reading habits.  Once, I caught her with a seedy romance. She just smiled and said, "It's just for fun." As her time at the college progressed, we talked more, and she told me about a daughter she had lost in a custody battle. She didn't tell me why, and I respectfully didn't ask, but I sensed a deep wound regarding her child. She aimed to regain custody one day.

When the weather was warm, Samantha rode her bike to class. In the summer, she arrived spent, sweaty from our Alabama humidity and heat, but always on time. She would go to the bathroom first, bathe herself with wet towels and the soap provided, and emerge ready to "learn something." Her kindness to classmates stood out, too. She was the type of student who could always be counted on to share notes, or to form an impromptu cram session to help someone who had gotten off work an hour before class started.

One day last summer, Samantha showed up for class in inappropriate attire, which shocked me because she had never done it before.  Her instructor, bound by college rules, sent her to student services to see if they had something she could wear that would allow her to sit in class. I saw her outside and asked her what happened. She confided that she had forgotten her two good pairs of pants at a relative's, who had refused to bring them to her. She didn't have a car, and it was too far for a walk or bike ride.

Samantha seemed at her happiest during the months before and after her wedding. Her new fella, the father of two children Samantha adored, followed her to college. Our talks shifted to classes he was taking, most especially English, a huge struggle for him. When she introduced him to me, I saw all the signposts of young love between the two. "We are so blessed to have found each other," she said. They slowly raised the money for a small ceremony and then set up house. Just a few months ago, she shared her wedding pictures with me and some fellow students and talked about how faith was "seeing them through."  Two students, two children, and one minimum-wage income made for hard living.

 I noticed the dark circles under Samantha's eyes a few weeks ago, and I asked if she had been  feeling okay. She told me she had recovered from a bad flu and that she just felt  tired. With no money for a private doctor, and the clinic always too busy, she would have to devote an entire day to see a doctor. We chatted about the upcoming graduation in January, and I left her there with her books and dreams. Her last words to me were "God hasn't failed me yet!"

Only 26 years old, Samantha suffered a fatal heart attack in her sleep this past weekend.  I couldn't attend her visitation, and tomorrow, during her funeral, I will be in class teaching composition. I am deeply saddened, yet I am also impressed by the faith Samantha  latched onto so firmly until the end of her life. What a courageous spirit.

Faith is being sure.

When sorrow cradles your doctrine,

When grief-shrouded standards fail

to bear your weight,

When life-long beliefs seem transparently

insufficient,

and you look for God anyway,

and find hope everywhere.

Your Words

Those Who Can

                                                               Yeah, this pretty much sums it up.

House of Horrors

Every year, local churches offer Halloween alternatives to traditional haunted houses, witches, and ghouls  focusing the themes toward Christian thought. The metro Mobile area is no different, contributing several community harvest festivals, trunk or treat activities, and age-specific parties. The region's Master's Commission sponsors an annual event featuring a "House of Horrors" attracting countless folks from almost every category of Christianity imaginable. I don't like haunted houses, and as a skeptic of alternative trends and fear-based "salvation," I had never attended. Yet, because some students asked me to check it out, my husband, Tim, and I braved the House of Horrors a few years ago.  

 We parked the car and joined the long line awaiting entry, Numerous signs were posted that cautioned: Do Not Enter if You are Pregnant, Do Not Enter if You Have a Heart Condition, and my personal favorite, Live Snakes.  Grabbing Tim's arm, I followed him into the darkness of the House, pulling scriptures from my memory to encourage myself. Be strong and courageous from the Psalms and I will never leave you nor forsake you."  Besides," I assured myself, "I took my blood pressure medication earlier. This shouldn't be a problem!" Before entering the House proper, the hosts took a picture of us standing in front of a plastic ghoul. I couldn't help but muse, "This is a before we scared you straight snapshot.

The narrow halls of the House, almost pitch black, felt uncomfortably hot. The warm October air and the blended body heat of the workers and guests added to this affect.  As we progressed, we met a variety of characters, inhabitants of hell, depicting typical demons--harsh, cruel, wild-eyed, demanding, and scary. To avoid contact, I tucked my head downward and ignored them, while maintaining my vice-like grip on Tim's arm. Graciously, the characters left me alone as we walked, crawled, and shuffled through the corridors. I disliked this part of the trek, not because I didn't get the point, but because Jesus wasn't evident--which I suppose was the point.

 My heart became engaged at the scene of a teenager's suicide. The young man playing this role effectively portrayed the depth of pain that accompanies suicidal despair. We walked through the story beginning at its end: A teenager has killed himself after enduring years of abuse from his father. His mother has chosen escape. His girlfriend cares, but isn't committed to him enough to stay faithful, and his best friend collapses in a drunken stupor. The sad irony, we discovered, is that the young man misses a message from his absent mother that may have changed his mind--that may have given him just enough support to alter his choice. Impressively, the organizers of the House chose not to pass judgment, announcing that "only God knows where souls go."

 After the suicide scene, the focus shifted to human souls condemned to hell, not by God's will but their own. These depictions were not of classical "bad people" who terrify the masses; rather, they were of men and women who followed the golden rule book of good living most of the time, but who lacked a meaningful spirituality and, as a result, any solid desire to be godly-minded.. For Christians, living well begins with a relationship with Jesus Christ. I experienced an epiphany in this section of the house, reminded that how one lives, specifically how one treats others,  is a choice. Mistreatment can be regretted, repented, justified, excused, even forgiven, but it can never be taken back.  Damage need not be permanent, but scars remain.

 I had avoided the scary faces by looking down, but the  human depictions made me uncomfortable.  In a  sense, hell could be any place love isn't, and the heartbreak of such a place is unfathomable. As I walked, voices suddenly arrested my attention, chains rattled, arms reached toward me. A young woman pleaded, "Look at me! Help me! I was a good person! I gave to the poor! I don't deserve this! Look at me!" But I didn't look. I didn't want to see. 

 I turned my head and kept walking. Like the mother portrayed earlier, I wanted escape. I didn't want to witness this portrayal of pure complacency. I pushed my husband forward, the young woman's unsettling echo forcing my thoughts to war with my heart. I thought about how long it had been since I truly stepped outside of myself into service of others, or spoke beyond a standard greeting on my way to somewhere or someone "more" important. No matter what one's faith, it is too easy to attend a programmed service for all the wrong reasons, only engaging in our tradition.  It's too easy to look away and keep living without thought for others who may benefit from a simple, caring gesture. 

 At the end of the House of Horrors, we were guided into a large room where the air conditioning worked better. Enjoying the cool air, I anticipated the ending "sermon" and the comfort of my Camry. Suddenly, a door opened behind me, and three young men entered: two cast as Roman guards, and one as Jesus. I don't remember ever being this close to a depiction of the crucifixion before. I could have touched the cross and the actors. They were speaking, but I could only concentrate on the voice calling out, "Look at me! Look at me!"  I watched the cross until we were asked to move forward, hesitating as long as possible.

I didn't agree with all of the theology, but the experience caused me to see chunks of personal selfishness and to realize how insidious it can be. It grows slowly, rotting  in  the spirit until one day, nothing else but negativity and its first cousins are remembered and voiced. Heavy weights of distrust, hyper-skepticism, and self-indulgence  motivate and epitomize such a person, who consistently barrages him or herself and others with a hopeless, fear-fed outlook.That life trap is indeed horrific.

The Fight For K - 12

At an IRA Conference years ago, I participated in a workshop in which the audience was asked to reflect on a favorite teacher. I chose my high school band director, Jose, who I believed actually had faith in his students, including me. I was an average student, but he expected my best anyway. After each person in the workshop had shared a story, the facilitator asked us to reflect on our worst teacher. For me, that was another band director, Joe, who had laughed at me when I told him I wanted to major in music in college. Both of these teachers taught the same subject, in the same school system. The point of the workshop was to demonstrate how much influence a teacher can have. Case in point,  I am in my mid-forties, and I remember Jose's humorous instruction, and the pain I felt from Joe's laughter.  It would be a grave error to label all teachers great because of Jose, or all teachers bad because of Joe. Likewise, it would be idiotic to say that the school system for which both worked was wonderful or terrible. Yet, this is the expectation of me in the current education debates. This places me in a quandary because I'm just not good at the "you are either for me or against me" mentality.

On one side, friends are asking me to support the push for federal funding of charter and private schools. I won't do this. My heart just isn't into it. My personal experience has taught me better than to believe that they are heaven's answer to education. Most importantly, charter schools (not present in Alabama) do not have the same challenges as public schools, so to compare them statistically is a futile effort. Those "high quality" private schools are too often fueled by political or religious agendas that do not serve the general public, so in my estimation, not deserving of federal funds. Too many of them are operated by people just as tempted by ambition and competitive antics as the politicians and corporations endorsing them.  This was illustrated to me two weeks ago at a football game between my son's public school and a local private school. I shouldn't have been, but I was surprised to discover that the concessions were sponsored by a national brand restaurant. I should write a letter and ask for donations for my son's band trip to Chicago, just to see how graciously they decline.

I have also seen private Christian schools in my region  simultaneously invoke the name of Jesus and play on parental fears. Their self-interest prattle about protecting students from the evils of  humanistic teachers and heathen children is nauseating. Reality check: the evidence of this evil (drugs, immorality etc) is just as prevalent in private schools as in public. A 30 minute sermon during chapel each week and constant reminders of living the faith have not dissuaded infiltration. Second, too often, I have seen parents dismiss responsibility for spiritual education because they feel that placing their kids in a Christian school does the trick.  If I could, I would sit with them over coffee and beg them to think about what they are doing, instead of  blindly trusting a school as they hand over a tuition check.  I have heard the defense, "But it <private school> has a low truancy rate, no pregnant teenagers, no drug problem." Of course it doesn't. If a student gets into "trouble," he or she is expelled. Problem solved, right? That makes the claim stand true.

On the other side of the debate, friends, many of them teachers, are fighting for basic employee benefits and for a voice in the direction of their profession. I am appalled at how much public school  teachers have been demonized and at  how flippantly certain individuals dismiss their responsibilities.  Allow me to clear up some misconceptions. Teachers do not simply work from 7:30 in the morning until 3:00 in the afternoon. Outside of class time, they are required to grade papers, attend meetings, and stay current in their field among many other tasks. Also, teachers do not join the profession to earn large sums of money at tax payers' expense. My first teaching job at a private school  paid 12,000 annually. No joke.  Alabama public school teachers at the time with the same credentials and experience earned 28,000 annually.  Finally, the teachers who the politicians and pundits are accusing of incompetence and laziness are members of the communities in which they teach.  Look around your neighborhood, place of worship, or coffee shop and talk to them.  At present, they are being judged unfairly and defamed with faulty proof called standardized tests.  Please, spread the word!

With that said, not all public school policies make sense, and in part, explain the mistrust parents have of public schools and teachers and why they are so willing to look elsewhere. Mandated tests aside, parents struggle most with the in-house policies put in place in an effort to control student, and consequently, parent behavior.  Unfortunately, teachers have placed themselves in a camp pitted against parents who question these policies unfairly categorizing them as friends or foes.  I have confronted more than one teacher who assumed, or hoped, that I was ignorant of all things educational. In one instance, a Math teacher gave my daughter 150 extra credit problems to complete over Christmas break. She followed his written directions, finished the assignment, and handed the work in on time. On the first day back from the holiday, he announced that no one would be given credit for the work if he or she had written the answers on the back side of the worksheet. This directly opposed his written directions. In the conference that followed, he tried to intimidate my spouse into just letting it go.  My daughter and her classmates left that year frustrated and bitter with barely enough knowledge to make it to the next level.

 This same type of  arrogance spreads into any communication in which a teacher or administration is challenged. In a meeting I attended a few weeks ago, a teacher outlined a change in fund-raising procedure, reminding parents that he was the one with a degree. Afterwards, the principal stood, introduced himself, and pompously mandated that the parents "get on board or leave."  This same principal enforced a tardy policy that requires late students to sit in a waiting area rather than interrupt a class in session. If class starts at 7:40, and the student arrives late for any reason, he or she sits in the wait room learning nothing. Another policy adopted  by teachers and reinforced by this administrator includes hiding student property to "teach students responsibility." It may stay hidden for a day, a week, a month, or longer. My son lost the contents of a music binder last year, so I replaced the music, sheet covers, and folder. Four months later, it was "found" in the band director's podium. Because the podium typically remained locked, my son very likely would have never found it. I was not amused.

Absolutely, teachers should  have a voice in their profession, but parents should also have a voice in education policy affecting their children, and taxpayers should have a voice in education systems they fund. The parental response (homeschooling, charters, and private options) stems from a place of powerlessness that has been exploited by politics.  The truth is, teachers and parents must build a bridge and refuse to be enemies if they hope to provide the best in any form of education.  Public education served my family better than private education. In spite of the negative incidents, my children enjoyed many more teachers who cared deeply for their welfare and academic success. I also personally know teachers in the private sector who are just as committed.  So I am stuck in the middle of the debate, uncomfortable, and searching for clarity.

LaQuinta

                                        This photo was taken by Craig Lapeere in LaQuinta, California.

My Number One Musician

     Two years. That's how long my son, Tim, prepared for his first drum major audition.  Between honor classes, band rehearsals, and trombone lessons, he was unable to fit his conducting lessons in during the week, so we trekked  to them on Sunday evenings after church.

     He practiced conducting everywhere--in the car (he wasn't driving), in church,  in class, in the grocery store. He concentrated so deeply on the music in his head or on his MP3 player, he often became oblivious to everything around him. No doubt, Tim was committed, and his conducting instructor told me he was more than prepared. He was good. By the time he auditioned, he was confident and ready. I just knew he would at least achieve the assistant position.

    He didn't. He wasn't chosen for any position. Not drum major, not assistant, not even section leader. It seemed as if he had gambled everything, and lost it all. As we read the announcement,  I watched him process the news, heart-sick for him. He didn't speak, and he turned his cell phone off for a while to avoid messages. "You are still  the same conductor you were yesterday and the day before, son,"  his father told him. "Nothing changes that, and we are still very proud of you."  Tim could only nod.

   More people  rallied to support him:  friends, cousins, former and current teachers, and grandparents. The musicians mattered the most, especially my sister, Linda, a band director.  She posted a message on Facebook that read, "You are still my # 1." This small comment seemed to snatch a bit of his personality out of the disappointment.  It took a few weeks and a few trips for coffee at Starbucks, but she eventually persuaded Tim to give himself some time, and then to get back to his goal.

     Tim "rested" for three months during which time I mourned his loss with him. I missed his practice-in-motion jaunts through Wal-Mart and the stares from strangers. They had become a part of our routine. Not once in that time did he practice salutes, listen to drum and bugle corps music, or raise his arms to conduct so much as a hymn. However, his attitude remained positive. For the rest of the year, he maintained his GPA, continued to tutor younger musicians at the middle school, and practiced his trombone. He embraced the role granted him with an integrity and grace I have seen in few others, myself included.

     When the time came for the 2011 - 2012  audition, I was more than nervous for him. The continuous conducting had resumed mid-year, but he had refused further lessons, choosing to consult his band directors and practice alone. After the audition, he told me he had performed well, and that he would accept "whatever the judges say."

      Of course I was thrilled when he was named drum major. He won with a significant lead musically, but more than that, he had reached a goal he could have easily abandoned. He didn't give up and grow bitter; he moved forward, developing a self-respect  that exceeds the fleeting reward of titles. Of all his accomplishments in music and elsewhere, perhaps this one will serve him best.

   

   

Prayer From a Witness

Just before impact--

She screamed for Your help, Jesus.

Then she and her unborn son crashed into

An unholy entanglement of human flesh and metal.

Her survivors are left with tears

And a sorrow that taunts their faith.

I won’t ask why it happened

Although  my heart aches, and aches, and aches.

Lord …what I do want to know is

--Even though it is none of my business--

How did You answer her plea?

Did You appear in the chaotic terror

Of her death and say, “Come!” ?

What did you say to her?

Getting Some Sun

     "You need to go outside and get some sun," Mama would say. But I didn't much care for the outside, preferring instead  the indoor protection from the hot Georgia summers and the mind-crazing gnats. Summer days at home always included books and daydreams. I read year round, but vacation from school provided me time to lavishly enter into the worlds authors created. One summer, reading a book set in England, I drank hot tea and read the dialogue with a feigned British accent. Another summer, my sister found me with tissue in hand, crying because Jo in Bleak House had "just" died.  I would read and pretend all day, and even  imagined my own stories, hiding my efforts from my family as if they were national secrets.

     Then and now, I most appreciate stories that are believable. That is, characters presented in such a way that they contend with my emotions and intellect, my humanity. My biggest summer reading disappointment was a romance series that I started and abandoned before my senior year of high school. I soon discovered that this particular author wrote formulaic romance novels that were sadly predictable. The stories began, progressed, and ended the same way: boy meets girl, awkwardness, scenery, sex scene, argument, another girl, make up, sex scene, happiness.  Boring! Even as a young woman, I had figured out that relationships are complicated and betrayal costs more than a  princely, apologetic embrace. 

      I learned then to look for authors who invite me into a world realistically, which all good stories will do no matter the genre.  I dismiss the  "happily ever after" stories because I know how living is messier than that. Even in good stories involving the supernatural, the fleshing out of the plot mandates qualities I recognize. Heroes are permanently scarred, poverty in spirit isn't easily overcome, ignorance destroys communities, and abuse shades a person's happiness for a lifetime. Jo dies, remember? 

      A 40-year-old student put this into perspective at the completion of a Contemporary Literature class I facilitated. Before the class, she was "addicted" to "cheap romance novels." I suspected a sitcom mentality and worried for a while, but at the end of the course she said, "I will never read a book the same way again. You showed me characters who were real."  That is the goal, y'all.  Excellent writers converse with their readers as if to say, "Come with me, and let's work on this together: I'll show you what happens and who is involved. You think about why and what if. " Readers so engaged will be tempted to pray characters through their conflicts. Missing the sunshine in favor of a quiet reading room will seem a frivolous requirement. Besides, nowadays, anyone can spray some sun on. 

Old Man's Tale

It began with a blue

wind last November.

Winter fussed, throwing sleet

that chilled joy and froze words

mid-throat.

Spring found us numb, frostbit;

barren as the fig tree

in Luke's gospel.

Book Talk: The Leaf Catcher

The Leaf Catcher is an epic poem written by Dax Michael Tucker available in hard copy and on Kindle. Mr. Tucker  is visible on Facebook and Twitter, and he also pens a blog I find insightful.

I wrote the following about The Leaf Catcher:

The poem draws the reader in with an age-old tale of good versus evil, but also of spirit over circumstance. The Leaf Catcher enjoys a humble but fulfilling life with his wife and children that is challenged by a prince seeking superficial pleasure. The prince's manipulation brings him to a more sadistic motive easily couched in fear-fed plausibility. The emotional upheaval this leads to in the Leaf Catcher and that of his family is beautifully rendered, especially at the moment of deepest despair.

The reader will see several themes played out as the poem progresses. Among them, the power of familial influence, freedom of the spirit in spite of circumstance and physical condition, and a mirrored epiphany of the magnitude of choice. Magic is presented as a means to right outward wounds, leaving inward physical damage intact almost as a remembrance of truths gained, like Jacob's limp in Hebrew text.

I highly recommend this story as a part of any collection. The poem can be read in one sitting, but go back over its nuggets of wisdom and ruminate over them. Five star bravo reading.


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Please Don't Judge Me

     During the first weeks of class, Lisa always arrived late and chose to sit in the back of the small classroom. The first assignment, a narrative essay, perplexed Lisa, who did not understand why I preferred a student's honest effort over a plagiarized article from the Internet.
     One afternoon after class, Lisa asked me if she could write about her tiny daughter, born prematurely a year earlier. I encouraged her and watched her smile broaden as she pulled pictures from her purse to illustrate how far her daughter’s health had progressed. She promised to map out a narrative and bring it to the next class.
     As Lisa came back class after class during the quarter, I learned more about her. Specifically, I came to understand that she didn't have a “traditional” job, yet her job consumed much of her time. When I finally asked her about her work, her eyes fell downward. “I’ll tell you," she said, "but please don't judge me.” After several promises that I wouldn't judge her and that she really didn't have to disclose anything she was uncomfortable with, she confessed that she was a professional dancer who had never taken everything off, just most. The confessions that followed, accompanied by deep sobs, came from a place within her best defined as agonizing desperation that suddenly flared as if sprayed with an accelerant.
     “I can't earn enough money to care for my daughter doing anything else,” she said. “I can't take her to a regular daycare cause nobody will take her on. I have to pay for a decent place for us to live, or the state will take her from me. She has to have more surgery before too long, and her daddy is worthless, so please don't judge me. I like coming to school, but truth is I can't dance much longer. My body doesn't look as good as it once did, especially since my baby. I have to find another way to earn money, and I don't want to do it on my back.”
     Stunned, I nervously hugged her, thanked her for trusting me, and then we worked on her narrative. I hope she left class assured that I respected her desire to care and provide for her daughter. On the way out of class, with her back to me, she said simply, “Thank you for not judging me.” I left class altered.
      Since meeting Lisa, I have met many more students with similar realities: broken lives caused by addictions, criminal behavior, unhealthy relationships, unruly children, deaths of loved ones, and most profoundly, severe poverty. In addition to these problems, many students are often handicapped by severe academic deficiencies. Some students who enroll are so angry and mistrusting of “school,” and “teachers,” that the first thing I must attain is a measure of their trust. I make it my goal to see them each day with Lisa’s plea in my heart-- "Please don't judge me." I have discovered that what they are really asking of me is to see them worthy enough to be educated—worthy enough to be a student no matter what preceded, or accompanies, this new status. Isn't that what any student wants?

Education Scandal Is Nothing New

With the scandal in Atlanta so recently in the news, I thought about some of the stories I have heard, similar to my own, about teachers who have suffered in the hands of the testing machine.  On this blog, I will occasionally share  stories of teachers who left school systems "poorly." Names of people and schools have been changed to protect anyone involved, directly or indirectly. Because the first story is so close to my own, I named the teacher Ms. Stokley.

Ms. Stokley

  

     Nothing in education surprises me anymore, most especially what happened in Atlanta. My last year of grade school teaching was at the prestigious St. Cassian School, which sits in the most affluent neighborhood in my city.  The school offers the very best of  benefits including catered lunches and a state-of-the-art computer lab. Most of the students were from wealthy and influential families.  When I arrived in 2002, another English teacher warned me, "You will think they are gems until you start breathing coal dust." She left me with that. I wish I had  gone with her. The 8th grade class not only out-witted me, they cost me my career. 

   Most kids in the 8^th grade English class were headstrong, and worse, arrogant. They could care less about present and past participles, favoring instead Spring Formal and the next St Cassian School social event. Homework seemed to be optional. If they bothered with it at all, it was taken from David, the only hopeful scholar in the group, and copied word for word. I kept warning them that the zeros for homework would count. Their incredulous glares spoke their opinion and intention, but I didn’t begin to realize what these kids were capable of until one of them, Sam, asked to see me after class one Monday. 

     “Ms. Stokley,” he said, “You don’t seem to understand how we learn.”

     “Don’t I?” I asked, wondering who he had heard this from.

     “No. You give all these stupid assignments, busy work, which you seem to lose or never grade, but we don’t know anything new.”

     “You are speaking for all of your classmates?” I asked.

     “Yeah, I am. I’m the only one not afraid.”

     “Afraid? Your classmates are afraid of me?”

      Laughing, he said, “No, not of you. Of consequences. Of  failing English 8 when you get angry, which happens all the time.”

     “I’m not angry all the time, Sam. The assignments you deem so stupid will help you review for the high school entrance exam. You are planning to go to St Albert’s next year, right?”

     Walking to the door, he said, “You don’t seem to get what I’m saying to you, Ms. Stokley.”

    I didn’t “get it.” He was a 14 year old, after all. Not until a month later, when I was called to the vice principal’s office, did I understand the warning. The VP, Mrs. Elliot, new to the post, was  degreed in early childhood education. Her poor understanding of teenagers led to what happened. 

     “Ms. Stokley, I have concerns that you hold biases against some of the students in the 8^th grade class.”

    “I disagree,” I said. “The 8^th grade class is a very intelligent group who spends their time avoiding assignments. I don’t dislike any of them, but I do expect them to complete assignments. Has there been a complaint?”

     “Yes. Sam came to see me. He said that he hasn’t been given back any of his homework assignments, and that you don’t seem to care if he passes or fails. Most troubling, he said that he is intimidated by you because you get angry all the time. He’s scared to ask for help when he doesn’t understand a grammar concept.”

    God help me, I chuckled. What an ingenious plan, I thought. “Forgive me, Mrs. Elliot. I believe Sam is very capable of any assignment I give him. His test score on the standardized test is one of the lowest in the class, so he needs to spend more time with English, but he is a very intelligent, capable student.”

     Well, I have to say, Ms. Stokley. Your laughter seems to prove his concerns. I am appalled by it. This is a serious matter. Do you have a problem with his race?”

     “Oh, please don’t misunderstand. I am not laughing at him. I am impressed by his maneuvering. He couldn’t persuade me to excuse him from the work, so he came to you to force my hand.”

     “He says he did the work.”

     “No, ma’am. He didn’t. He never does.”

     “Perhaps you have misplaced it.”

     “No ma’am. I haven’t. He never gave it to me.”

     “Everyone, including you, can make mistakes.”

     “But I haven’t in this case. He never gave it to me.”

     Mrs. Elliot lowered her head slightly. “Ms. Stokley, I think the error is yours, and I have written a citation for your employee file. Your behavior is prejudiced and unprofessional. This explains why 30% of our 8^th graders failed their entrance exam to St. Albert’s.

     I protested. “I have been teaching this group for three months, and you are holding me responsible for their entire education?”

     “Just what have you been teaching them? All of the students who failed the test were A students until they reached your class.”

     “I follow the curriculum guide to the letter. It’s true that I have to spend a little more time on some concepts.”

     “You couldn’t be. You produced failing grades.”

     Stunned, I left Mrs. Elliot’s office without signing my citation. She had effectively called me a liar. I kept teaching the 8^th grade class as best as I could, but it was the most miserable year in my career. The students refused to give any effort, and attempts to contact their parents failed. At the end of the year, I was summoned back to the office, this time with the principal, Mrs. Mitchell.

    “Well, Ms. Stokley, as you know we are in the middle of offering contracts for next year. I have decided not to offer you a contract based on your prejudiced views and inaccurate record keeping, both of which have irreparably damaged some in our student population. In short, you are being fired.”

    Quietly, she let that sink in and added, “You have the option of resigning. If you choose to resign, I will remove the citation from your record.  No other school needs to know about it.

     Fighting tears, I said, “You have accused me of something I am not guilty of, Mrs. Mitchell. An accusation like that will end my career. You know that I am under the alternative route to licensure. If I don’t teach in the same school system for another year, I lose more than just a job.”
     “That’s very unfortunate. Perhaps you can go to the public school system. Did you bring your laptop?”

     She couldn’t have heard me.  I will not teach at all, anywhere! I wanted to scream. Instead, I answered, “Yes, ma’am.

     “Good. I have a list of names who have reported you. You will change the 0s to 100s now. It will make the remaining of the year go smoothly.”

     Thinking she meant to fire me immediately if I didn’t comply, I changed the grades, reducing myself to a liar, which I learned didn’t matter in the eyes of the Church as long as the dishonesty fell to their favor.

     In October of the next academic year, I found a job at a career college teaching medical assistants how to write well enough to maintain their jobs. For a number of years, I tried to return to grade school. I even enlisted the aid of my senator, to no avail.

    The scandal in Atlanta doesn’t surprise me at all, but before anyone starts burning teachers at the stake, consider everyone involved. High stakes testing makes sinners of everyone.

Unlock Those Doors!

Originally written November 9, 2009

     A number of years ago, I came to the place in my spirituality where I decided to broaden my understanding of other churches and ventured beyond my familiar world of Methodism. On one such venture, I met a friend a few minutes early before an evening service at a nondenominational church. We sat down midway into the auditorium and were chatting about the national flags on display when the Pastor stood, letting the congregants know that it was time to begin. As soon as the pastor reached the podium, he motioned to the usher and said, "Okay, you can lock the doors now." Aaaaaaaaaack! Can you imagine the fear that invited to a traditional, naive I'm just visiting person?

     He was joking, naturally. My friend only stopped laughing when she saw my pale face and my search for the door as I calculated how long it would take me to run for the exit. My exact thought was, "Not before I get out of here, you don't." The pastor himself made eye contact with me (or because Jesus loves me it just seemed that way) and calmed my fears by assuring me that I wasn't part of a captive audience. By the end of the service, I laughed with my friend about the "locked doors," and before we left the state, I visited my new friends several more times.

     Reflection on that moment of stark fear taught me a lesson: I am capable of judging and dismissing anyone if I am afraid and ignorant. All of us are. It isn't something we should do, but we are each capable of it. In a second of fear and misperceived context, I judged the church and the pastor "wrong." My survivor instinct screamed, "Get out! Now! Door's in the back. Move!" Had I known this church better, felt safer and understood more, my reaction would have been a polite chuckle. I probably would have joined in the joke in my own church. Because comfort levels radically affect willingness to participate, I initially misjudged the incident and was fully prepared to bolt. Had I left, I would have missed a blessing.

     Now that I'm grown up, I don't make this mistake. I wish. I am better at not judging now than I was then, or even last year, and hopefully, yesterday. All of us can grow in compassion by analyzing our behavior and the motivation fueling behavior. Far too often, we allow fear of the unknown (what we are ignorant of) to rule out new experiences from which we would have greatly benefited. And beyond experience, we put barriers in front of places, people, and even God. Danger arrives with the persistence to remain behind the barriers. It isn't that we allow ourselves to get locked in, we stubbornly grab the keys and lock ourselves out. Tragic.

For My Nephew, Michael

Originally written November 6, 2009

The most striking factor about tragedy is the way in which it intrudes on our comfortable routines changing us forever. Countless writers commented on the normality of the 9/11 morning. People woke up, ate breakfast, dressed, and left for work just like every other day. This same type of shock slapped our nation yesterday as we learned that Major Nadal Malik Hassan killed 13 soldiers at Fort Hood as they prepared to deploy. Immediately, questions concerning Hassan's religious and political loyalty were raised in search of explanation.

But no explanation will satisfy the hearts of the victims' colleagues, families, and friends. The audacity of an American soldier striking his brothers and sisters-at arms, possibly endangering military dependents, on their home base wounds deeply and has resulted in demands for justice. As individuals and as a nation, we must avoid reacting poorly so that we are free to offer an appropriate response.

First, we can respond with support to our military. The website http://troopssupport.com/contains an index of organizations that accomplishes this feat. All of us can choose one or several with whom to link ourselves and begin! Because of my personal associations with military families, I have witnessed the positive affect these acts of kindness have on the morale of our troops. Also, pray for our military and their families. The very action of lifting them before God can help us discover new ways to help.

Second, we can respond with wisdom and sober minds, avoiding emotionally-charged traps like blanketed accusations. Nadal Malik Hassan murdered the 13 soldiers at Fort Hood. I am positive that how his vocal opposition to the wars in Iraq escaped more drastic intervention will be ironed out in the weeks to come. No evidence suggests that he acted on behalf of a Muslim community anywhere, so holding all Muslims responsible would be a serious error. All accountability rests with the criminal, not his religious affiliation. Saying that he did this deed because he was Muslim with the assertion that all Muslims do those things is just as wrong as saying he did this deed because he was in the Army and all Army soldiers do those things. 

I learned about Fort Hood yesterday between Reading and English classes. My first thoughts focused on my nephew, currently serving in Iraq. He is a young man with most of his life yet to live. He plans to get married and raise a family even as he risks his life daily for this country. His entire family loves him passionately and we would each be devastated should we lose him. For the families of the victims at Fort Hood, the hum of life has turned to static as the reality of this event settles into their souls and a new normal, life without someone dearly loved, begins. My heart is broken for them all--May God comfort each one.

Twittering Voices

     "I thought twitter was only for famous people," my niece announced when I told her I had created a twitter account.  It is for famous people, I explained,  but it is also for Jane shmuckalinas, like me. I have no claim to fame. I haven't published a novel or performed with a world-renowned orchestra. I'm not an actress, comedian, or reality star. I'm not likely to be "discovered" by anyone except my students as they begin ENG 101. Yet, I have a twitter account that I absolutely adore. Perhaps I am still in an awe-struck stage. After all, I "follow" an  impressive list of people ranging from authors who also have appearances in my kindle and on my book shelves to musicians paid to perform, conduct or write about classical music across America and Europe. I was almost late for one of my son's high school band performances because THE Paulo Coelho was sponsoring a LIVE Twitcam. I couldn't miss it. Besides, I made it before half-time!

     Twittering has connected my ears to voices immersed in old and new interests, primarily books and classical music. In addition to twitcams, this medium offers me inspirational quotes, quirky comments that cause me to laugh,  links to informative articles that I haven't been privy to on Facebook or the local news, and most treasured, conversation with an author of a genre with which I am only vaguely familiar, but enjoying immensely.  All these voices remind me how large this world is and how many people love the same things I do. Tonight, I read my tweets as I listened to Chopin. Nothing adds drama like "Rondo For Two Pianos in C."