'Culturally Responsive Native American Approach' in Honors English.... Honestly, funnier than it sounds.

It’s not every day (or even every week) you can get your High School aged child to tell you about their day at school.

Today was an exception – and its comedy gold.

My daughter has a student teacher in her Honors English class this term. The student teacher is not a young person—she’s in fact the age when many others would retire, so perhaps this is a second career for her or she’s always hoped to teach and now after all these years she’s getting her teaching license.

She looks like… well, a bit like an aging Flower Child. I don’t know if other people know this term – but I’ve referred to folks like this as a bit “granola”. It’s not a negative connotation per se; I’d probably really like her as a person.

I won’t name names or give any incriminating details – but I am including the handout that gives, verbatim, the things the student teacher said and it’s essentially her lesson plan as well. It appears to be her own material and was presented today on the only occasion thus far that the supervising (regular Honors English) teacher was not in the room for the full class period.

First, a disclaimer: I don't think there is anything humorous about the Jim Crow laws, segregation, our history of white privilege and abuse of African Americans. Nor is the pervasive racism that continues to this day in any way acceptable or humorous.

It’s the WAY the teacher approached this lesson that is so funny I cannot pass up sharing this story. Of course, it was better when our daughter explained it out-loud, but in lieu of a recording my writing will have to suffice.

The class was given a short article on Jim Crow laws. Nothing new to my kiddo as she’s studied AP History and has read extensively, and with much better content, on this topic.

The teacher placed a rock on the floor of the classroom and then insisted the kids sit on the school linoleum floor in a circle around the rock. My daughter was wearing a skirt, but fortunately she also had shorts on under the skirt. Not sure how this worked out for any other girls not wearing the standard issue yoga pants to school, but I digress.

Once they were all seated in a circle she proceeded to ask them to close their eyes and breathe 10 counts in and out and then place their hands on their chest and abdomen and focus on their breath so they could have a REAL, spiritual, deep conversation.

After some time of deep focused slow breathing they were directed to open their eyes. The teacher held a stick. It was the “talking stick”. They were only to speak when passed the stick. (I’ve heard of this and have no problem with this—I get it, it’s a tool so no one interrupts while another student is expressing their thoughts.)

The statement the teacher wrote (and said out loud verbatim) was that the stone and the stick represent a shared nature of all those in the circle. Huh? Ooohhkay…

Each student was then instructed to share how the article mentally, physically, emotionally and spiritually made them feel.

Yes. You read that right. She wanted them to provide (and she said it this way) how their SOUL responded to the article. It wasn’t in a religious context – it was just meant to tap into their spirituality.

Yep. This one missed her calling as a yoga teacher.

She started to be an example and said that this article made her physically nauseous and spiritually caused an earthquake in her soul.

If an article causes an earthquake in her soul, I wonder what losing her job and/or not receiving licensure as a teacher will do to it? 😜

Also, the highlight of this story is that my daughter’s best friend is in the same class so they could kvetch about it after the class ended.

I adore her best friend and it gives me the giggles that she (the best friend) accidentally broke part of the “Talking Stick” as it was being passed around. I can just see it in my head and it cracks me up (no pun intended) every time.

Silver Linings and No More "Someday"

The past several months – let’s say the last six months - have been so eventful that I find myself needing to step back and take it all in repeatedly.

Being in the present almost requires pinching myself to absorb the new reality as things shift so frequently. It takes self-protection, humbling myself, looking at things through other’s eyes and reminders of what is good and normal and what is not. Also, to realize that life goes on whether you want time to pass or not.

There are times this past year when my world stopped spinning briefly.

November 9^th. When Trump was elected. I wasn’t watching the results the evening before as I flew from Boston and then drove on the rainy New Jersey turnpike to some godforsaken industrial zone to find my hotel.

I woke to the news that Clinton had lost in a generic hotel room in New Jersey as I was ironing my work clothes for the day.

I remember thinking I couldn’t go on with my day. That I needed to be at home curled safely in bed with my family.

My world had fallen off its axis. I sobbed and wondered how I could get my shit together enough to meet with customers (warehouse management particularly) that may very well have voted for Trump and likely be unsympathetic to my red-rimmed eyes.

Somehow I pulled it together enough to fake it through the day. I cried randomly for the next two days. On airplanes. Driving. In the comfort of my own home. I proceeded to denial and stayed there for a nice long time.

I saw I wasn’t alone in my shock and disbelief. That helped a bit.

Then, when Trump rescinded the Title IX protections for transgender students, I went to war. I found out there are active hate groups. They quietly languished after the Supreme Court legalized same-sex marriage during the Obama administration but now they’ve mobilized again. They can’t repeal a Supreme Court ruling so they’re taking aim at anything ambiguously defined - especially transgender rights.

I’ve been a regular at school board meetings ever since. It’s ugly, and it’s necessary and I’ve stuck my neck out there with my voice and my pleading as sugar sweet as tea in Texas.

I’ve been asked to run for the school board. I’m not going to – I’m busy enough and there are fires to put out in more places than just the school district.

This has shaken my world – but broadened it, too. I’m a part of communities I didn’t know existed and have become a mentor and ally to a greater degree than before.

It’s not that the struggle and the hate groups didn’t exist before—it’s that I was less aware of them and the world looked like sunshine and rainbows until they began to feel empowered and began to really push their hateful agenda. They’re going after our kids, and I’ll fight them, their misinformation and hidden agendas and deep funding from radical right wing so-called Christian organizations.

But, Trump and the hate that has crept out of the dark shadows with his rise to power, is not what has shaken my world the most in 2017.

It was Sam’s death. 


He’s not my son – but he grew up in tandem with my son. The Millers are like family, even years after Shelli isn’t raising my babies.

I knew Sam’s heart. His kindness. His tenderness and goodness.

I knew he struggled and I felt like a kindred soul in that struggle. We’re all broken and I’m working hard and knew he was working hard, too.

He loved his son and fiancée so much – it’s like the same tether that has kept me from harm from time to time, too.

When Sam died, the world stopped, again. I could only watch Shelli and Jason’s raw pain and FEEL it. I imagine what the pain of losing your only son, your youngest child might be like and then know that it must be more excruciating than even my imagination can fathom.

Again, the world tiltled off its axis and it didn’t seem like time could move forward. But then, once again I had to rush to the airport with scant time to hug Shelli and her family and cry with them. At least I has home in time to attend his funeral…but even that was a haze of pain where I didn’t feel like I could be useful.

There were other moments that stopped time. A more trivial one was when I worked my ass off all of 2016 – harder than I’ve ever worked in my life – and was looked over for ANY recognition at the start of our fiscal year and sales kick off in Jan. 2017. 
I’d seen people recognized in multiple categories and for less effort the year before and had been told already by my boss that I was the top; the highest in our group and that I’d be taking my husband to President’s Club (which has been at a resort in Mexico).

The names went up on the screen for President's Club and I wasn’t there. We had small group meetings and no one said: “Good job, you’re number one this year.”

No one acknowledged the 80 hour weeks and the sacrifices I and my family made.

I would have worked hard no matter what; but to be overlooked entirely for any recognition burned. It hurt. I’d been promised something that didn’t happen. I got demoted in title, too. I’ve had to suck it up and continue to do my best work. Suck it up Buttercup.

It stings – it pisses me off from time to time, but aside from being another suck part of the past 6 months, it somehow feels trivial and petty by comparison to others’ pain.

But then I have to stand back and also acknowledge all the bright spots. The beautiful things that have happened that almost don’t feel fair. That I’m almost embarrassed to share because savoring this happiness during a dark time feels like not sharing my candy with the other kids.

My new car. My dream car. It was unexpected and yet…it’s a dream come true. I’m like a 16-year-old kid looking for any excuse to drive anywhere just to sit in my car.

My cello, and taking cello lessons at last. It’s been a wish for as long as I can remember. A promise I made to myself for “someday”.  “Someday” I’ll learn cello and write a book. “Someday” I’ll spend my days quilting. If I win the lottery then…

And this one I made come true. Not someday, but now. And my cello teacher is fascinating and wonderful and FAR better than I deserve or need (she’s a published author, retired principal cellist for the MSO, and a daughter of Holocaust survivors…I could talk to her for hours on end).

I’m running. I’m healthy and strong and able to do what I want to do.

I’m not injured or unable to run with my friends. When I run, I run with a smile and I think: “I run because other people can’t”.  It’s true. It’s a gift (even at my slow pace) to be able to use my body this way. To run with my friends. To do yoga and improve my balance and strength.

Trivial though this may be, I’m also pleased that I got my “turn kick” in swimming back after decades. I haven’t done this since I was a 5^th or 6^th grader—but I’m swimming while Lucy takes her lessons each Sunday and my flip kick to push off the wall is back after lots of practice. It’s a bit show-off-y, but damn it’s fun. It’s amazing to do something I haven’t been able to do for nearly 3 decades.

All this reminds me of when I was in Israel with Grandma Elaine in 1996.

I remember being in a car with the guide when she and I had ventured out on our own to walk through a very Orthodox neighborhood. I wanted to see the culture up front and it wasn’t part of the tour with the little old ladies, but the guide, who was younger, took me on this side-excursion and educated me on the Hassidic culture in the process.

On our way back to central Jerusalem stopped at a traffic light I saw a young man, maybe late teens, with his arms folded across his chest and no hands on the steering wheel or brakes of his bike just coast through the intersection (downhill) at high speed. He didn’t have the green light, he didn’t touch the handle bar. He just sped through on his bike and no one hit him and he kept going.

I gaped and pointed and the guide explained: “They live their life like they could die at any moment. You can’t give in to the fear. You could be blown up at a café, or shot while you’re drafted into the military for your mandatory service at age 18. If you live in constant fear, perhaps you become fearless.”

Maybe this, to a lesser degree, is what has happened to me in 2017.

I’ve fought back from the edge. From illness, injury and constant mental health struggles. But damn it, I’m not letting it hold me back from my bliss. I can't live in fear. The uncertainty and fear - eff 'em. 

I’m going to smile every moment I drive, savor the new car smell, hug my cello and play it (poorly for the moment) every day.

I’m going to work less and do yoga and run more. 
Screw work. There is no reward in killing yourself with too much work and they don’t pay me enough to go the extra miles I’m already going to do excellent work.

I’m going to ask for a god-damned raise. I deserve it.

I’m going to take vacation time and NOT ANSWER THE WORK CALLS this time.

I’m going to stop working earlier and make time to see friends even if it’s a 2pm on a Monday afternoon. I work more than my 40 hours; I don’t feel like I should apologize one bit for taking time for me.  

I’m going to not apologize, needlessly and reflexively like many women do, and tell people how I feel more.

I’m going to say “I love you” and “I appreciate you” and “I hurt for you” and I’m going to SHOW UP. I’m going to hug people and let them know I’m on their side.

If time has to march forward, then I’m going to squeeze every bit of joy, love and goodness out of life. I’m going to fight for what is right and protect those who need our protection.

I’m humbled by the good health, family and material perks that bring me happiness. I still hurt…but I am consciously focusing on living my life like that Israeli teen. (Though not as recklessly.)

I won’t live in fear. I won’t wallow in the pain and disappointment. If time presses on relentlessly then I will make time my “someday” and do what I need and want to do right now, in the present.