Tag Archives: Personal Essay

Childhood Memories

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            When I was beginning fourth grade, my family moved from Dayton, Ohio, to a rural part of the state: Beavercreek.

            I wasn’t sad to move because the only girls on the street humiliated me over and over, all because I was fat and poor. They’d invite me over, then insisted on playing Wheelbarrow. It’s an embarrassing game, in which one player walks on hands while the other two players lift the feet up high, creating a human wheelbarrow. It’s not like the intent was to gather things, but rather to split the legs apart, showing the crotch.

            I was always the wheelbarrow, even after complaining, whining, really, that it was someone else’s turn. Whenever I crossed the street to play, I made sure my bottom wasn’t damp or stained or smelly. It wasn’t until this had gone on for several weeks that it finally dawned on me that those two girls weren’t looking for a friend, but someone to ridicule.

            When my parents announced that we were moving, I was excited to get away from those awful girls. My hope was that I’d make new friends. It also meant starting over in a new school, which I looked forward to.

            In my current class, I was the dumbest kid. From the time I enrolled in the Catholic Elementary, I was well behind in first grade. I fell further behind in second. Before the principal would let me return for third grade, I had to have my eyes examined.

            No surprise: I couldn’t see long distance, which meant I’d never read even a single word the teacher had written on the board. And close-up I dealt with a severe astigmatism that made the rows of letters buckle and slant. Once I had glasses, things became somewhat easier, but I was so far behind that there was little hope of catching up.

            The new house meant a new school.

            The girls in that class, at a different Catholic school, were just as mean as in my previous school. Not one befriended me. Not one invited me for birthday parties. I was pretty lonely, and spent playground time either walking the perimeter of the blacktopped area, or assigning myself to lunchtime tutoring. I preferred the tutoring as that nun was kind and helpful.

            Just as things were looking up for me, my brother and I got permission to explore the woods behind our house.

            We spent countless hours deep in the forest, imagining that we were explorers. We’d climb trees, well, my brother would climb pretty high whereas I’d get one foot off the ground.

            By this time I’d taught myself to read, and since my brother, who was one year older, needed the library to research, I got to go along and check out books.

            I refused the picture books as they were for babies. I wanted to read about what I then called Indians, to learn where they lived, what they ate, how they dressed, anything and everything.

It was that interest that introduced me to the idea of a treehouse.

I decided to build one in a spindly tree at the end of our yard.

My brother and I had spotted lots of downed wood on the forest, but we never carted any of it home. I wasn’t allowed in there by myself, so I raided my dad’s supply of boards and nails he kept in the garage.

The nails went into the pockets of my shorts, along with the hammer. I balanced the boards on my right shoulder, held in place with both hands.

I spread the boards out in front of the tree, arranged from smallest to longest.

With one hand on the tree, I lifted my right leg as high as it could comfortably go. That was where the first step would go. Using a nail, I scratched a mark in the bark.

I placed the first board on top of the mark and held it in place with my hip. I had put the nail in my mouth, so now I rested it toward the center of the board. I took the hammer out of my pocket, and while leaning against the tree, pressing the board against its bark, I struck the nail.

It seemed to pierce the board. I hit it again and again, the nail moving a tiny bit each time.

And then it bent over. I was angry, but convinced myself that it had actually gone in far enough. I added a second nail, not too far from the first.

The step was a bit wobbly, but in my little girl’s mind, it would do.

I added a second board, just above the first. It too, had bent nails.

Then with a huge stretch, I added a third, equally wobbly, but I shrugged it off.

The time had come to begin the climb. Holding a longer board in one hand, nails and the hammer in my pocket, I reached up to the second board, raised my right foot, and pulled.

I got it up on the first step, quite pleased with myself.

I pulled hard enough to get my left foot off the ground, but just as I was suspended in air, the first board broke. I fell.

And as I feel, the sharp edge of a bent nail sliced down my left arm, leaving a bright red streak. Blood seeped through, at first random spots of red. Quickly it turned into a small stream.

I knew my parents would be angry, so I couldn’t let either of them see what had happened. I wrapped my arm in my shirt and ran for the house.

My mother had a rule that my brother and I had to stay in one place all morning long, changing locations only when it was time for lunch.

My brother had gone to the garage where he loved tinkering with a transistor radio that he had built, so I didn’t have to worry about him.

My mom had eagle eyes and the hearing of a bat. And when angry, as ferocious as a lion.

She terrified me.

That meant I had to get inside without letting her know. I opened the screen door slowly carefully to keep it from squeaking. Once inside, I crept down the hall, avoiding the known noisy spots.

Somehow I made it to the bathroom without disturbing my mom. I knew how to care for an injury, so I got down the mercurochrome and the box of bandages. I cleaned the cut with soap, covered it with the mercurochrome and then a slew of bandages.

I snuck down the hall and back outside. Using the hammer, I removed all the nails, stacked up the boards and carried everything back to the garage, all the while worrying not about a potential infection, but how hard of a spanking I would receive.

Fortunately my brother was out riding his bike, so he didn’t see me sneak in. It also meant he couldn’t tattle on me, either.

Somehow, I got away with it.

The cut didn’t get infected, no one said anything about why I wore long-sleeved blouses in the summer, and my dad never counted boards.

For many years I wore a scar on my right arm. In time it faded away, but the memory of what I had tried to do never left me.

Existing with Long Covid

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            Back in October 2023 I flew to Arizona to visit my long-time friend. We had a wonderful time, visiting a zoo, aquarium, bookstores and driving all over the Phoenix area. We were never caught in a crowd, even at restaurants.

            On the flight down I wore my mask the entire time. I intended to do the same on my flight back home, but my asthma was acting up, and I had no choice but to take it off.

            Three days later I tested positive for Covid. My doctor put me on meds that left a nasty taste in my mouth, but did help me get better faster.

            Unfortunately, the symptoms never went away. Brain Fog took away my ability to write and made it challenging for me to process the written word. I got agitated in crowds, so much so that I couldn’t think, make rational choices, and often found myself leaving lunch dates early.

            I spent hours on the couch, lacking the strength to hold a book. Every morning, I went to the gym, but seemed to get weaker and weaker as the days went by. Before long Covid blindsided me, I could lift ten pounds with one arm, twenty-five with two.

            Things got so bad that lifting a light-weight ball wore me out.

            My doctor referred me to a Physical Therapist who knew less about long Covid than I did. I told him about PEMS, Physical Exercise Malaise Syndrome, a condition that leaves a person weaker after exercise than they were before. I only saw him twice because he had nothing to offer.

            I was given an exploratory medication to take every night. It made a difference after a few days, then as weeks went by, I seemed to improve more and more.

            I was able to write again, but only in short segments. At first I’d work until my head felt like it was going to explode, give up, and go rest on the couch.

            Now I write for a bit, go do something else, write some more, do something else, and so on. I’ve been able to finish a short story!

            I used the same strategy with reading. I read for a bit, change activities, read some more. I can now read for about fifteen minutes at a time.

            I discovered that I could often get an audible copy of books I was reading. I’d listen to then in the car, at the gym, and at home when the TV wasn’t on. Switching between text and voice helped me get back my understanding of words.

            Some days I am able to do quite a bit at the gym. I begin working with weights. Pre-long Covid, I’d do three sets of ten. The PT said to reduce how many repetitions in a set (his one good piece of advice). So I’d lift five times, rest, five more, for two sets.

            Now most days I can complete two sets of eight. And I’ve gone from playing with balloons to five-pound weights.

            What I’ve learned is that I have to read my body. Some days I am still couch-bound. My joints hurt, my arms and legs too heavy to lift. On those days, all I can do is curl up and play games on my iPad.

            When walking with my friend or my husband, some days I can only make it to the bridge. Other days I can cover the entire loop.

            The same with swimming. I used to swim 32 laps, or half a mile. Once long Covid hit, I could only do four laps, not worth the bother. As time passed, I worked up to twelve laps: on good days. Last week I was exhausted after six.

            It feels as if I’m improving slowly, a little bit day by day. It’s two steps forward, one step back. Or maybe one step forward, one step back.

            My advice to anyone suffering with long Covid is to not give up. Don’t sink into the couch and stop living. Visit understanding friends who will work with you, going places when you have the energy, hanging out together when you don’t.

            Don’t quit trying. Instead do something you enjoy for a few minutes, come back to it after a bit of a rest.

            Ask for support. Call on family and friends to help with chores. That way the build-up of dust won’t bring you down. Maybe they can cook something for you, or drop food off, so you’re not stuck eating whatever junk food happens to be lying around.

            Get out of your house every day. If the weather is bad, walk inside a shopping center. When it’s good, walk your neighborhood, if it’s flat, or try out others for a change. Begin going around the block, then slowly going a tad further.

            Don’t give up when you have a bad day.

            Shrug it off, then the next morning get up with renewed determination.

            You can exist with long Covid. It’s not easy, but it’s possible.

Being a Teacher

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            When I was placed in Kindergarten, I didn’t much care for my teachers. They seldom helped me, instead giving me very simple tasks such as coloring shapes with the correct crayon, cutting on dotted lines or tracing letters and numbers. Granted, those were the skills I most needed, but it was humiliating when I saw what my classmates were doing: learning to read and do math.

            What I did like about school was that it was a safe environment. No adult ever spanked me, shook me, threatened me with anything more serious than losing playground time. For the most part, until high school, most teachers acted as if I wasn’t in the room. I could sit in my desk all day without the teacher ever looking over my shoulder.

            When asked what I wanted to be, clear up into high school, my response was always, teacher. Teachers were sort of like heroes to me. They gave off an air of authority without, for the most part, threatening violence. There was an occasional crack of a ruler on my desk when I wasn’t paying attention, and I think only once, being sent to stand in the corner.

            Only one high school teacher seemed to care about me, Mr. K, my math teacher. He was kind, patient, and saw my innate mathematical skills. In other classes I feared going to the chalk board, but in Mr. K’s classes, it seemed like an honor. Why? He normally only asked me up there after several of my classmates had tried to solve an equation and failed.

            When I applied to college, I did so as a potential math major. Not to teach, however, but to be a statistician.  I liked working with numbers, but not with people. It seemed like an ideal job for me.

            All that changed during my junior year when the Department Chair called me to his office. He asked what I was doing there, and accused me of only choosing a major in math so I could find a husband. He insisted that I change my major.

            Since I was on a full scholarship that only covered four years, I didn’t have time to switch to a new major. Unless I chose one based on the number of completed credits I already had. That’s how I got a degree in Russian Languages and Literature. I didn’t see myself as a college professor or writing the new Russian novel. The only possibility that came to mind was working as a translator.

            When that fell through, and I had to find a job, quickly, I applied for anything that didn’t require impressive typing skills. I finally got hired by the IRS and made a nice career out of it, even though I hated every minute of every work day.

            When our first child was born, I knew nothing about little kids. I found a Parent-Child Education class being offered by the local Recreation Department. I learned music, art, dance, singing and activities of all kinds. It was fun, but intimidating when my turn to lead the class came on the rotation.

            I decided to apply to the community college to earn an AA degree in Childhood Education. I complete the program, got a job in the Rec. Dept. teaching Tot Time. There were ups and downs. Ups happened when the kids did what I asked and seemed to be having fun while they learned. Downs were when a snaked invaded my classroom or when a kid soiled themselves or threw up on themselves or on the equipment.

            The job became boring after just a few years.

            I then decided to earn an Elementary Teaching Credential. My sister-in-law paid my tuition, at the college where she worked. Some of the classes were fun, such as teaching PE or designing bulletin boards. Some were incredibly boring, such as the pedagogy of learning, phonics and writing lesson plans.

            After graduation I got hired at a Catholic Elementary where I taught for four years. This was my dream job, something I’d wanted since I graduated with my BA in Russian.

            The first three years were amazing. The fourth, the principal decided she wanted to push out all the older teachers, so she made my life miserable. I left.

            The next several years were ones of fruitless search. I discovered that all the PE teachers in my district were aging. I began work on a PE credential, but got bogged down when it was mandatory to referee a college-level soccer game.

            I kept getting sub jobs in Special Education classes as there was a chronic shortage of qualified teachers. I knew nothing about Spec Ed, but there was a need and I felt I could fill it.

            Back to college I went and after completing only six credits, I was hired.

            I experienced some difficult kids, but obnoxious parents. My Director of Special Education supported me, listened to me, stood by me. There was no established curriculum, so I had to devise my own, a combination of 4th and 5th grade subject-matter.

            I went to conferences, workshops and all types of sessions, learned something at each.

            At the end of those four years, I wanted something more.

            Back when I entered university to get my first credential, I weighed the differences between elementary and secondary curriculums. I felt as if I had no strengths in any of the subject taught at the high school level, but I could be the teacher of this and that. That’s why I chose elementary.

            A position opened up at the high school. My elementary school was getting a new principal, someone who had no idea what I had been doing and didn’t care as long as I kept my students out of her office. It was time to go.

            Little did I know that teaching high school Special Education students was the career I should have been pursuing.

            For 23 years I taught ninth and tenth grade English and an occasional Social Studies class.

            I loved those teenagers, offered them respect, treated them with dignity and challenged them to push themselves academically. Some did improve their reading and writing skills quite a bit over the two years they sat in my classes. Most improved somewhat, and very few made no progress whatsoever.

            In a rather roundabout way, I pursued my dream job. I did become a teacher. I did love what I was doing. I did enjoy going to work.

            Many of my high school students had unrealistic dreams, such as becoming a famous actor when they were too shy to speak in class. Or playing professional football when they didn’t get much field time during games. I even had one who wanted to be an airplane pilot when he had no control of his legs.

            We all need dreams. Dreams are what motivate us to move forward. Realistic dreams can become true, leading us to fulfilling lives.

            I learned to pursue, to never give up even when faced with challenges, to be open to change and to accept opportunities that had never popped into my brain!

Walking in Water

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            About ten years ago, rains pounded almost the entire state in what was called a major storm cycle.

            Winds blew down entire trees, blocking roads and bringing down power lines. Branches landed on top of cars, breaking windows, and on roofs, punching huge holes that demolished buildings. Mushy leaves formed a slippery mush and tiny sticks littered the ground.

            It was a great time to stay indoors, but for someone like me, that’s a virtual impossibility. Come rain or shine I go to the gym, usually five days a week, taking time off to hike with a friend or walk the neighborhood with my husband, weather permitting.

            November turned cold and dark skies gave off an eerie gloom.

            We hadn’t seen our youngest son in a long, long time, so when he invited us to drive up to Eureka to visit, we eagerly agreed to go.

            A few days prior to leaving, I headed off to the gym. Our driveway has a slight slant to it, nothing worrisome. But because I knew how slippery it could be, I carefully chose where to plant my feet.

            I did pretty good. Had almost made it to the trunk of my car, when down I went. My right ankle popped, but because I couldn’t sit out there in the rain, I got up and limped back inside. I truly thought it was a slight sprain, so I elevated and iced.

            As the evening progressed, the pain didn’t lesson and it began swelling.

            After dinner, I decided it was time to go to the ER, convinced nothing was broken. Foolishly I walked into the hospital when my husband could have parked under the portico, found a wheelchair, parked the truck, then pushed me inside. But no, I chose to walk across the parking lot, which was quite a distance to the doors.

            As soon as I told the clerk what had happened, she told someone to bring me a wheelchair. The ER, for some reason, wasn’t busy, so within about ten minutes I was rolled inside.

            X-rays showed a fracture close to the ankle. The doctors discussed whether or not I needed surgery, to insert a metal rod into my leg.

            While all this was happening, I lay on a gurney in a hall, on my stomach, with my leg bent, keeping my ankle elevated.

            The swelling was so severe that a cast could not be put on. Instead they wrapped my leg, from my knee down to around my foot, in a thick pad of cotton. I was given crutches, which I’ve never been able to use, and sent home.

            The following week I was to return for x-rays and a cast.

            And I was instructed to stay home.

            No way. Not when a child we seldom get to see invites us. I was going to Arcata, and that was that.

            It rained the entire six-hour trip. When we stopped for lunch and for the restroom, I hobbled as best I could, trying to keep the “cast” from getting wet.

            By the time we parked in front of our son’s house, the gutter was a quick-moving stream.

            My husband’s mom had a wheelchair she wasn’t using, which we borrowed. It worked quite well getting me up the driveway to the porch, but that leg was sticking out, getting wet.

            Prior to our arrival, not knowing about my broken leg, our son had made reservations at a restaurant in old town Eureka. It was an Arts Alive Friday night, a festive evening in which studios were open for exploration.

            There was no parking in front of the building and you weren’t allowed to stop, even to unload passengers. We found an open spot in a lot across the street.

            It was a bumpy ride, the pavement filled with cracks now resembling tiny pools. The vibration was intense and I clung to the handles, hoping not to be thrown out. Down one gutter, which was a stream. Down the alley, which ended in a creek. A dash across the street to what looked like a drive, but when my front wheels hit the edge, I almost toppled out.

            By the time we arrived inside, I was soaked and so was my cast.

            It poured and poured while we ate.

            When the bill had been paid, we stepped outside to a deluge. There was no way I’d be able to go in and out of studios, so the decision was made to go home.

            Our son ran across the street, which was now a river, got the car and parked illegally in front of the restaurant. I switched from chair to crutches to get into the car, but because I can’t swing my legs forward, I had to step down.

            The same when we got to the house.

            The damage had been done. The cast was drenched, but there was nothing I could do until we returned home two days later.

            The ordeal, as that was what it was, resembled walking on water. Or maybe sinking into the muck.

Freedom to Choose

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            When I was a kid, back in the mid-1950’s, my “path” was frequently laid out for me: wife, mother and caretaker of my parents once they turned elderly.

            I never saw myself that way.

            Home was not a happy place, so why would I want to be a homemaker? My parents were cruel taskmasters, so why would I want to be a parent? I was forced to babysit my younger sister who was a self-centered narcissist, so why would I want to have kids?

            My place of refuge was school, and even that wasn’t such a wonderful place. As a shy kid with low self-esteem, my academic goal was to be invisible. I trembled as I worked on every assignment, as my parents offered strict punishment for any grade below an A.

            My teachers weren’t always kind or patient. Most of them ignored me, allowing me to languish in my seat and so not receive the education I deserved. Some of them actively humiliated me, calling me stupid in front of my classmates, putting me in the corner with a dunce cap. Some sneered or snickered when they called my name, most likely because they knew I was too fearful to respond.

            As I grew older, I became more aware of the path my parents expected me to follow. My life experiences solidified that their desires weren’t mine. I wasn’t sure exactly what I wanted or how I would get there, but I had to get away from that toxic environment.

            In eighth grade we were led into the church to hear speakers talk about the religious life. Priests, monks and nuns addressed our classes, explaining what that life meant to them. Monastic life appealed to me.

            Prayer came naturally, and although I’ve never been able to meditate, closing my eyes and reciting the prayers every kid learns, gave me a sorely needed sense of peace. Since I loved quiet, living in near silence seemed like a joy. I was a hard worker, so the thought of cleaning or gardening or even, heaven forbid cooking, felt like solace in a terrifying world.

            When it came time to sign up, I eagerly completed the forms. All I needed was a parental signature.

            Imagine my trepidation when I handed the papers to my mom.

            She tore the papers up into tiny pieces. She insisted I’d never be fulfilled in that life, that a woman’s job was to marry and have kids.

            When I declared that I didn’t want either, she walked away.

            My ability to choose my own path was taken away. I cried about it for days.

            As high school came to an end, I knew I wanted to go to college. I was comfortable in academic settings. I felt safe at school, even though I was often bullied by girls in the locker room or when teachers taunted me in front of the class.

            But at school, no one struck me, hit me with a belt, grabbed my arms and shook me until I saw stars or slapped me so hard my neck hurt for weeks.

            Because my brother was allowed to go to college, my parents allowed me to apply.

            After much research and consideration, I had limited my college choices to Ohio State and San Francisco State University, where I’d study math. I was also interested in the University of Redlands and the University of Southern California, both which offered degrees in Math and Russian.

            My brother thought he was brilliant. Why not? My mom told him over and over how smart he was, as opposed to telling me that I was a failure. He was an arrogant bully, much like my dad.

            He applied to the California Institute of Technology to study engineering.

            We drove from our home in San Bruno down to southern California supposedly so both my brother and I could look at colleges. Our first stop was CIT. We walked around the campus on our own, not part of a tour. It was a hot, windy day. The lawns were green, the buildings impressive.

            Redlands wasn’t too far away. I had begged to visit, so after spending two hours at CIT, my dad reluctantly drove to Redlands. I expected the same treatment: that we’d walk about the campus.

            I should have known better. I had never been considered an equal to my brother even though my grades were sometimes better than his.

            All we did was get off the freeway, travel down the long palm-tree lined road that led to the administrative building, then turn around and leave. I cried, begged, pleaded, but my dad refused to stop.

            My freedom to choose was taken away from me.

            The only college my parents would allow me to attend was the same college where my brother was going to go: USC.

            I spent three years there, living on campus. I chose my classes, ate when and what I wanted, and slowly made friends. I loved that life, dreaded the end of each school year when I was forced to return home and resume my life as a household slave.

            By this time, I had dated a bit, even found a young man that I seriously thought about marrying. Until he told friends that he liked me because I never had any opinions. That relationship ended within days of that comment.

            I knew enough that if I married, it would be on my terms, to someone who respected me as an equal. Who saw potential in me to do great things. Who didn’t put me in the motherhood box.

            I wanted the freedom to choose when and if I had kids. What I did with my life, in terms of career, continued education, hobbies and activities.

            My husband has given me all that.

            In today’s political world, women’s rights are being chipped away, piece by piece. All the things we fought for, reproductive freedom, the ability to vote, hold valued careers, be treated as equals in the workplace, are disappearing.

            Recently a professional football player gave the commencement speech at a Catholic university. He praised motherhood and being a wife. That’s his view of what a woman should aspire for.

            Didn’t he know that there would be highly educated women sitting there? Women who might have played college athletics, but who dreamt of something more than kicking a football?

            The college did send out a statement that his views didn’t represent the college’s philosophy, but the damage was done.

            The player’s view of women, that of the happy housewife with an apron around her waist and kids tugging at the strings, is what many want, the life as portrayed in old black-and-white TV shows where the little woman cleaned house in a dress and pearls.

            If today’s young women want what I did and continue to do, then they need the freedom to choose. If she wants to be wife and mother, then she can. If she wants to be President, then she can do that as well.

            The freedom to choose is a wondrous thing. Please don’t take away that right.

Unexpected Reunion

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            There’s something sweet about running into friends you haven’t seen in twenty years. A magnetic pull draws your eyes on each other, there’s the tilting of heads and wondering, is that…? And then you think about it some more, glancing at her face, looking for a tidbit of recognition.

            What’s incredible is the joy you feel when you remember Judy, how kindly she treated you, how she welcomed you into her group of friends.

            Going way back in time, I was hired to teach a Special Day Class at an elementary in Newark, California. This would be my first job as a special education instructor, with just six credits behind me. I’d been teaching for over a decade by then, but always with “regular” education students.

            I knew how to deliver instruction to them, but had only research and whatever I’d gleaned from the two college-level courses I’d taken.

            My students were fourth and fifth graders. All needy, all with severe learning disabilities that impacted academic work. But out on the playground, they were “normal” kids wanting to have “normal” friends.

            Think back to your school years. Nine and ten years olds can be mean. They target the weak and different. They exclude anyone who might impact their own social status. They won’t eat lunch with them, include them in playground games, and don’t like it when “those” kids enter their classroom for shared lessons.

            I could deal with that. I taught my students about bullies, taught them how to ask to join, taught them how to act in public.

            I integrated them into “regular” classrooms whenever possible, something every special education student has a right to do.

            What I didn’t expect was to be ostracized by my peers, those teaching the same age students that sat in my classroom.

            A very definite clique existed. There was a group of about five teachers who sat in the same seats during lunch and meetings. They spoke only to group members. They shared curriculum ideas only with group members.

            When gatherings evidence for a state-mandated review, they highlighted the achievements of their students, and even though I submitted my students’ work, none of it showed up in the finished binder.

            They planned fieldtrips for all fourth graders, but didn’t include mine. Same with the fifth graders. At the end of the school year their classes organized a picnic at the local park. As in every other way, my students weren’t included. In fact, if I hadn’t overheard them talking, I wouldn’t have known about it.

            I didn’t feel welcome.

            The lower grades were clustered on the east side of the campus. I could look out my classroom window and see them coming and going. I could hear the joyous sounds of the children and wish that my students could experience that same joy.

            Since I was an outcast during lunch and meetings, I often found myself seated near the lower-grade teachers. They were warm and welcoming. When I needed help, unlike the clique, they were there for me.

            They welcomed my students into their classes and treated them as equals.

            They became my friends.

            When our principal announced his retirement, at the same time, my Director of Special Education offered me a position at the high school, something I’d wanted for years.  I declined, not wanting to leave those lower-grade friends.

            A few weeks later, the new principal was introduced. She was a member of the clique, the one who refused to include my students’ work in the binder, the one who only looked at me with disdain, the one who didn’t want my students integrated with hers.

            I contacted the Director and accepted the transfer. But I told no one.

            I didn’t want a fake goodbye party or cards or a cake. I didn’t want to be treated to a lunch. Why should I? Only one of the upper grade teachers ever “saw” me or my students.

            So when the year ended, the last meetings had been held, when most teachers had cleaned up and gone home, I packed my things on a weekend, and left. Period.

            Today my friend Judy told me that my friends had wondered what had happened to me, why I left without saying goodbye.

            She was sad when I told her. She said that none of them knew what had happened, how my students were ostracized and how rudely I’d been treated.

            What’s wonderful is that we reconnected immediately. Before today’s lunch ended, we’d exchange phone numbers and promise to get together.

            As I was driving home, my eyes filled with tears. I am looking forward to seeing them, catching up and being included in a social circle that I thought had long ago forgotten who I was.

            What’s weird is that I know her husband through a writers’ group, but I had never connected his last name with someone from my past.

            Reunions can be sweet, and this one certainly was.

The End

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            I love music. Have loved it since I was quite young. I seldom sang where someone could here me, primarily because my family told me I couldn’t sing.

            My bedroom was the only place I felt comfortable singing, always in a soft voice. Unfortunately, I shared the room with my younger sister. That meant that I could only sing when she wasn’t in the room. And because she knew how to annoy me, she’d pop in whenever she heard the door close.

            We had a backyard, though. I started going outside whenever the dog was there, to keep her company (she was like a therapy dog long before there were such things). That worked only as long as it wasn’t raining or foggy, and since the house was up on Skyline Boulevard in San Bruno, it was often in fog.

            I took to walking the dog, carrying a small radio. I’d sing as we strolled up and down hills. One day, lost in song, I didn’t see the loose dog charging mine. I picked up Lady Coco and cradled her to my chest as the evil monster leapt up, over and over, trying to kill her.

            Because I was miserable at home, I had to get out of the house every day, usually at least twice a day, to give myself to calm down, to let the tears dry up, to settle my stomach. Even though Coco had been close to being killed, I wanted, no needed, to walk her.

            I left the radio behind and carried a wooden baseball bat. My music wasn’t with me, so I couldn’t sing.

            I traded my sanity for safety. I never regretted the choice.

            I didn’t sing again for many years. Well, until I bought my first car and found radio stations I liked. As long as I was alone (I frequently was forced to drive my sister places), I could sing.

            I never took a music class in high school or college. I never joined the church choir. I never sang on camping trips. And when my husband gave me a guitar for Christmas one year, I never accompanied myself.

            My first real teaching job was at a Catholic Elementary school. Teachers attended many workshops and seminars, dealing with a wide range of topics. Most were sort of okay. Not earth-shattering.

            Then we all went to the Cathedral in Oakland for three full days of music, services and workshops. Well known writers attended, singing tracks on their albums. Oh, how I loved those sessions!

            Music came back, full blast. I began singing, at church, with my students, to music in my car and at home. (I was now married, to a wonderful man who encouraged me to try everything.)

            Our church formed a small choir to sing at our Mass. I sat near the pianist, singing along. A friend convinced me to join. I did, but sang in a whisper, terrified that I’d hit a gazillion bad notes.

            The numbers of participants varied widely. Sometimes there might be six, others just two. Then one Mass it was just me. The time had come for me to raise my voice and sing.

            I’m not sure how I summoned the courage, but I did. Not just for that one Mass, but for many to come. I was often a soloist, leading the congregation in the psalm (standing up front at the podium).

            I did okay.

            Then that choir director was replaced with a very, very young overconfident, full of himself director. He did an excellent job encouraging people to join. He taught us how to really “read” music, to follow the symbols for dynamics, to blend voices.

            All was going well until we held a session at a choir member’s house. I was scheduled to be the cantor at Sunday’s Mass. During a break, I approached the director to go over the psalm. He informed me that I couldn’t sing, that I had to get rid of the vibration in my voice.

            I felt me cheeks get hot, packed my bag and left.

            I didn’t return to the choir until that director was replaced with a smiling, pleasant, encouraging young man.

            He made me feel welcomed and valued. I returned to cantoring the psalm and was often the only choir member (during the pandemic when we held Mass in the school parking lot.)

            He left for a new job.

            The new director brought a soloist with an incredible voice. She only seemed to know about four songs, the words were never projected for the congregation to see, and he made no attempt to form a choir.

            He left suddenly a few months ago. The new director, another young man, this one a graduate in Music, started a choir. I joined shortly after.

            A week ago he asked me to cantor the psalm. Just the thought of singing up there, in front of the congregation made my head hurt. He encouraged me, met me privately to go over the psalm.

            Sunday came. I practice out in the garage, going over and over the psalm. I knew I wasn’t ready, I knew I wasn’t hitting the right notes, and I knew I was too scared to do it.

            When I arrived at church, I should have said something, I should have declined (there were two seasoned cantors there who could have taken over) but I didn’t.

            Two of my friends recorded my “performance”. I didn’t have to listen as I knew every off-key note I’d hit.

            The humiliation was so great, so painful, that I could barely walk out of church.

            The intent was to add me to the rotating list of cantors. When rehearsal comes up Friday, I will announce boldly, clearly, without hesitation that I will never, ever cantor again.

            I will sing with the choir, where I feel both comfortable and confidant, but my days of being a cantor have come to an abrupt end.

Camera Malfunction

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            We were recently on a long-waited for cruise up the western coast of Norway. The goal was to enjoy the spectacular Northern Lights. The trip, hopefully, would give us night after night of colorful viewings.

            Our first port in Norway was Narvik, a hillside town surrounded by snow-covered mountains. The skies were clear, the weather freezing.

            We’d signed up for a nighttime outing to a Sami village where we’d learn about the people and their culture. We didn’t know that a shaman would be the leader. He spoke quite a bit about the prejudices they’d endured. He sang the songs of the Sami and that thanks to a recent law, all Sami children now learn their language at school.

            It was quite warm in the luvva (some would call it a yurt), so when I had to use the port-a-potty, I zipped up my coat, put on my ski cap and gloves. When I was finished and stepped outside, many of my fellow travelers were gathered around the luvva, staring at the sky.

            They said we were looking at the Northern Lights, but all we saw was a grey streak over the luvva that we thought was either smoke or the Milky Way. There was also a shimmering spot of grey off to one side.

            I tried taking pictures with my “big” camera, but because it was so dark, I couldn’t see anything in the view finder. I pointed the camera up and took a couple of shots.

            Almost everyone was using cell phones, so I got mine out. For some reason, there was a grid and wavering line that blocked whatever was up in the sky. I tied to see through the grid, but couldn’t. I was in tears.

            On the bus ride home, the women in front of us were looking at their photos. Their cameras “saw” the Lights! They both had amazing photos filled with color.

            That streak of gray was actually a colorful display that seemed to be hovering over the luvva.

            The women helped me get rid of the grid, but I feared that all hope was lost.

            Around midnight, back on the ship, our phone rang alerting us to the Lights. I stepped out on your balcony and caught a tiny streak of gray, which later on turned out to be a vibrant green.

            The was the last call we received.

            Our ship headed north, the skies were once again clear. We figured there’d be more sightings, but our phone never rang. The next morning we overheard passengers talking about how spectacular the Lights had been.

            When we returned to our cabin, I tried calling Guest Services to find out why we hadn’t received the call. Our phone had no service!

            The phone did get fixed, but from then on we sailed under a thick layer of clouds.

            Because I thought my camera couldn’t “see’ anything, because of the grid on my cell phone, I’d lost my chance to capture the Northern Lights.

            What I learned was to take pictures anyway. To keep shooting in case something wonderful pops up before the lens.

            While I was frustrated with what I “saw” as the failure of my camera, turned out to be a valuable learning experience.

My Own Coming of Age Story

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Most kids travel from childhood into the teen years after their thirteenth birthday.

Not me.

At that age I was still firmly under my mother’s control. If she thought she saw a zit of blackhead, I was treated to pinching and squeezing.

If I needed a new blouse, she bought it. Same with pants, shorts, shoes. Because she was old-fashioned and ultra-conservative, I dressed like an old lady.

If she said I had to attend Mass, I did. Take Communion or go to confession? Yep.

She was a terrible cook, but I had to eat everything she prepared in the amounts she deemed necessary. No wonder I was overweight.

My parents controlled everything I did, said, and perhaps even my thoughts until I got accepted to the University of Southern California and so would live on campus.

Imagine my ecstasy when I unpacked my belongings in my half of a dorm room! It was small, but it was mine.

From that moment on, I chose what time to get up and go to bed. What to wear, where to go, and thank goodness, what I ate. Those three years were the happiest, and at times, saddest, of my life.

On good days, when I hadn’t struggled with my classwork, I floated across campus. In my hip huggers, cowgirl hat and barefoot. Unless it was raining or cold. I decided when and where to study, who to share meals with, who I dated.

The sad days were the ones before I discovered lonely people like me, when I broke up with a boyfriend, when a class was harder than I expected. And yes, when my mother demanded I come home for the weekend.

My coming-of-age journey began at age eighteen and ended when I married at age 24.

It took that long because even though I was at college, my mother still tried to control my life. She used guilt to get me to call home, to come home. She cried when I didn’t call, saying I didn’t love her anymore.

It was about that time that I realized that, no, I didn’t love my parents. Probably never had. At first I blamed myself, thinking there was something wrong with me. Doesn’t everyone love their parents?

Around my senior year, I accepted the fact that most, likely, my parents never loved me. I was the disappointing daughter, the middle child, holding a spot between the cherished older brother and the spoiled younger sister.

Once you truly understand your place, you are instantly set free.

I no longer had to answer every beck and call. I no longer had to carry the guilt my mother tried to place on my back.

I could do what I wanted, wear modern-styled clothes (if I could afford them), and date even a young man who didn’t look like me, but who like me for who I was.

I love reading Young Adult stories in which the protagonist struggles to come of age. Mostly they are nothing like who I was at that age, but yet there are common themes that I could identify with.

Independence. Identity. Place in the World.

Coming of age isn’t easy, but once you’re on the other side, life is a million times better.

Gratitude Comes in Small Packages

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            One September morning as my mom and I sat on our back porch steps, a group of children walked by, happily swinging colorful metal boxes. They laughed and giggled with huge smiles on their faces. I thought they were the luckiest kids on earth.

“Where are they going?” I asked.

“To school.” Mom lit a cigarette, threw the used match into the dirt.

“What’s school?”

She inhaled and then blew out the smoke. “You’ll find out in a few years.” I coughed as her smoke filled my throat and nose.

Two more happy kids walked by, carrying those strange boxes.

“Why are all those kids carrying metal boxes?”

“Their lunches.” She inhaled again, this time, thankfully, turning her head to the side before blowing out the smoke.

“Can I have one?”

“It’s too early for lunch.”

“No, I mean,” as I nodded in the direction the kids had gone. “Can I have a box, too?”

“Not until you go to school.” Using her scuffed tennis shoe Mom ground the cigarette into a mashed-up blob.

“Can I go to school now?” I asked.

“Not until you’re five.”

I counted on my fingers. “So in two more years.”

“Yes. Your brother will go to school next year, then you the year after that.” My mother lit a new cigarette. She inhaled and then once again, her smoke drifted my way.

“What do you do at school?”

“Learn things.” This time she leaned her head back before sending her smoke into the sky. With her cigarette dangling from her fingers, she stood, brushed off her skirt, turned and opened the door. “It’s time to go inside.”

I followed her into the kitchen. “Why can’t I have a lunchbox now? Why do I have to wait two years?”

“There’s no money and you don’t need one.” My mother bent over and removed two pans from the cabinet. She opened doors and drawers, taking something from each. Lastly, she dug around in the refrigerator, emerging with something in each hand.

“I want a lunchbox now.”

She flung a hand toward the front room. “Go away and quit bothering me.”

I went into the bedroom that I shared with my brother. I climbed up on my bed so I could see out the window. A few more smiling kids went by, each of them swinging a lunchbox. I placed my right hand on the window glass, as if I was reaching out, wishing I could walk with them. I watched for a while longer, but saw no more kids.

When my dad came home, before he could hang his coat over the back of a kitchen chair, I asked him for a lunchbox. I thought he’d understand since he carried one. His was old and dented, not new like the ones the kids had, but he had one.

“Can I have a lunchbox?”

He looked over at my mom who was doing something in the kitchen.  “Why does she want a lunchbox? Did you put that foolishness in her head?”

Mom shook her head, but didn’t turn around. “She saw kids carrying boxes like they do every morning and that’s all she can think about.” My mother scooped food into bowls and carried them the table. “Dinner’s ready.”

My brother was already seated in his chair.

I slid into mine and began swinging my legs. “I to be like those kids.”

“Let it go.” My mom glowered at me.

I knew that was the signal to shut up, but I didn’t want to shut up.

“Daddy, do I have to wait until I go to school? Can’t I have one now?”

“Shut up and eat,” he said.

I did the best that I could with tears in my eyes and dripping down my throat. It took me a long time to finish, long after Mom had washed the dishes and put them away.

I was still seated at the table when I heard Mom tell my brother than it was time for bed,

Knowing my dad was alone, I tiptoed into the front room. “Please, Daddy, can I have a lunchbox?”

“Go to bed,” he said without looking my way.

The next morning, I sat on the kitchen steps again, watching kids go by. “Mother, I’d take really good care of a lunchbox.”

“Shut up about it.” Her face looked angry, so I was quiet while my mother finished her cigarette and went inside.

I drew pictures of lunchboxes and kids and me, all walking together, smiles on our faces.

When my dad came home, I asked him again. He didn’t say no, but he didn’t say yes, either. I listened when he went into the kitchen where my mom was working on dinner. I tried to pick out words, but not even one came clear. We ate dinner and then my brother and I went to bed.

In the morning, I discovered a blue metal box sitting on the kitchen table. “What’s that?”

“Something your father brought home,” my mother said. There was a look on her face that I didn’t understand. She didn’t seem to be angry, but she wasn’t smiling, either.

My fingers carefully touched the sides of the box. It was bumpy in places and smooth in others. “Who’s this for?”

“Open it up.”

Inside I found a sandwich wrapped in paper and an apple. “Is this for Bill?”

“No. It’s yours.”

My eyes grew huge with surprise. And when my mom nodded, I picked it up by the handle. I walked all over the house swinging it just like those kids. “Does this mean I’m going to school?”

She shook her head.

“Did Bill get a lunchbox?”

“He doesn’t want one.”

“Oh.” I rocked back and forth, thinking. My brother didn’t get a box and he had to go to school first. “I get to keep it?”

“Yes. It’s for you.”

I carried my lunchbox into the front room and sat on the couch. I opened the lid. The sandwich and apple were still there. I picked each one up, turned them from side to side and then put them back inside. I closed the lid and flipped the latch. “When will it be lunchtime?”

 “Find something to keep you busy,” my mother called from the kitchen.

I went into my room and retrieved a coloring book and crayons from under my bed. Sat on the floor with my lunchbox at my side. I colored several pictures, taking time to stay in the lines like my mother wanted.

My mother called from the front room, “Lunch time.”

I put my things away and carried my lunchbox into the kitchen. I placed it on the table and sat in my chair. I opened the lid and took out my sandwich.

“Is this what kids do at school?”

“Yes. They sit at tables to eat.” My mother opened the door and stepped outside. She lit a cigarette, inhaled and blew smoke out into the air.

I took a bite of the sandwich. “Why do I have this if I can’t go to school?”

“Your father wanted you to have it.” She inhaled again. “Just be grateful.”

I was grateful.

That blue metal box was my most precious possession until it got lost during one of our many moves.