Tag Archives: Personal Essay

Resolutions

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            I was quite small when I learned that I was supposed to go the New Year with a set of resolutions guaranteed to make improvements, physically and mentally. The idea intrigued me. Just think, by choosing the right goals and sticking to them, in one year I would be a better person!

            Most likely my early resolutions were designed to keep me out of trouble. Things like keeping my mouth shut and staying out of trouble. While I was not what you would consider a bad kid, I had a tendency, only at home, to speak up in defense of myself when falsely accused of something most likely done by one of my siblings.    

I didn’t understand that resolutions should be achievable, so I chose goals so high, so difficult, that there was no way I could accomplish them.

            I remember a rocky period in my life when I had recently turned fourteen. At that time, I shared a room with my younger sister, the slob. She’d never make her bed or pick up her dirty clothes. Her half of the room was a complete mess while I was expected to keep my side neat as a pin, as my mother said.

I ignored the mess as much as I could, until the piles got to big and I made the mistake of yelling at my sister.

She wasn’t the one who got in trouble. When she tattled, my mother stormed into the bedroom and informed me it was my responsibility to keep the entire room clean. I spouted off some complaint about the unfairness of the demand and so my mother took away my radio. That I had bought with my one money.

New Year’s was approaching, and since I was still angry, I promised myself I’d sit in my room and keep quiet. I truly believed that I’d be able to keep this resolution as it meant I’d be out of sight, out of mind.

            Of course, it didn’t work. Instead of calming me down, my insides churned with suppressed rage. I reminded myself, over and over when I’d be accused of doing whatever, to keep my mouth shut, but the unjustness caused me to explode and then my punishment would be increased.

            As I grew older and supposedly wiser, I chose resolutions that should have been doable. For example, losing weight. I was tired of being the fattest girl on campus. I was motivated and so watched not just what I ate, but how much. I walked as much as possible, even on cold and rainy days. But when not a single pound fell off, I gave up, considering myself a failure yet again.

            In time I learned that I was incapable of sticking to resolutions and so gave up. In one of my teaching-preparation classes, I learned about self-fulling prophecies. If I told myself I would fail, then I would. What I never embraced was that if I believed I’d succeed, then I would.

            To this day I do not choose resolutions, even though there are many that would be good for me. Instead of dooming myself to repeated failure, I avoid the tradition altogether.

            Resolutions are just not for me.

Confessions of an Eight-Year-Old Criminal

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            This is an embarrassing, yet true story.

            When you’re a kid, a poor kid, it’s painful to walk through stores and see all the wonders on display, things you’d dearly love to have, but know that you can’t.

At young ages, you have little concept about money, what it takes to get it and how quickly it’s spent. You might have heard your parents arguing about the costs of things, or about bills, or about how they’re going to pay the rent.

It isn’t until you’re much older that you discover exactly how much money is needed to house and feed yourself, let alone buy thrills like a piece of costume jewelry of a new pair of jeans.

What you do understand is that there are things you can’t have.

            Even now, all these years later, I still recall how wide my eyes felt whenever I saw a stuffed animal I’d love to cuddle or a pretty dress with lace and ribbons that would have been perfect for church.

I remember being a little sneak. As soon as I knew my parents weren’t watching, I’d sneak in a touch. Sometimes that little bit would be satisfying enough until the next time.

When I started school, I realized there was a difference between my clothes and those of my peers: between my battered lunch box and the shiny ones my peers carried. Even between what was inside those boxes opened my eyes to the possibilities out there in the world.

It would never have crossed my mind to take something that wasn’t mine. In no way would I have reached into someone’s lunch box and helped myself to the chocolate chip cookies inside. Or taken my neighbor’s brand-new pencil.

I’d learned in catechism that stealing was a sin, as was jealousy and envy.

I never took toys from my siblings or raided my mother’s purse, in fact, I’d never even contemplated it. I understood that such behavior was unacceptable and if I did do those things, I’d be severely punished.

            There were times when I wanted something so badly that the yearning was all-consuming: it dominated my thinking, making concentrating on anything else nearly impossible.

            My mother’s favorite store, when we still lived in Ohio, was what she called the five-and-dime. It was an all-purpose store that sold everything from deodorant to fabrics to toys to books. It’s shelves were always stocked full, from top to bottom, with colorful doodads and whirligigs, wonderful to behold.

            My sister’s birthday was approaching. My mom wanted to decorate her cake in some special way. Off we went to the store, and quickly arrived in the cake decorating aisle. My eyes were drawn to the paper umbrellas. They were at my eye-level, arranged neatly in a bin. All were opened, showing off their beautiful pastel colors and wooden stick bodies.

They called to me, telling me to pick them up. To take at least one home. More than once my fingers reached out, but then I’d draw them back. I did this over and over, hoping my mother would see my desire and tell me to choose the one I wanted the most.

I grew bold, picked one out, held it up to my mother and asked her to buy it for me. I hoped for a “Why, yes, my darling daughter,” but half-expected a glower. What I should have seen coming was a sharp slap, a slap so hard that it sent my hand flying backwards.

            Normally that would have been enough to chase away that desire, but it only served to increase it to a fever pitch. I could not turn away even when I tried. I couldn’t fight off the feeling that the umbrella wanted me to take it home. All I wanted was one, just one, of any color.

            It was taking my mother a long time to select the things she needed, which meant I stood in front of that display for a long, long time.

When my mom denied my request, I told myself that the store owner would want me to have it. In fact, that if the owner knew how badly I wanted it and knew that there was no money to buy a little girl something so pretty, so tiny, the owner would walk over and tell me to choose my favorite to take home.

            I’d convinced myself that I deserved a treat, that it was meant to be mine. And so when my mother turned and walked away, I stuffed the pink umbrella in the pocket of my shorts, hoping that its tiny sticks didn’t break.

            I was so happy that it was hard not to skip through the store. But as time passed, the reality of what I’d done set in. My hands trembled, my eyes filled with tears and my heart beat thumpity-thump.

I reached into my pocket just to check that it was still there. I “willed” my mother to return to the cake decorating aisle so I could put it back, but she went straight to the cash register.

            The store owner looked at me and smiled. My eyes flew to the floor as heat blossomed on my cheeks. Even when he offered me a lollipop, I couldn’t look at him because I thought he’d be able to see the guilt in my eyes.

My mother chitchatted a bit while her purchases were rung up. They were put in a small brown bag, and then we went to the car.

            I’d seen enough television shows to expect alarm bells and police coming to arrest me. While none of that happened, a part of me wanted it to.

            Instead, I sat in the back seat of the car, waiting for the words of disapproval, but they didn’t come. Nothing was said when we got home and I didn’t even have to help unpack the bag.

It wasn’t until hours later, when my mom walked into my room and saw my playing with the umbrella, that anything was said.

            She didn’t spank me, but she did take the umbrella away with an angry look on her face.

            When my dad came home from work, my mom confronted him at the door, holding up the umbrella. She told him I was a thief. She was right, but it stung to hear the accusation.

He immediately removed his belt and repeatedly struck me on my backside. Over and over he hit me until I was sure that it must have turned bright red.

It hurt to sit down for many days.

            It was a long drive, so we normally only went when necessary. Therefor I was surprised when the very next day my mom drove into town, parked in front of the store, and escorted me to the counter. She stood there as I confessed, arms crossed over her chest and an indignant look on her face.

            The owner didn’t want the umbrella back, which made me happy and grateful. My mother, however, was not pleased. She begged the owner to take the umbrella, which was now a bit wrinkled, or, if he refused, to call the police.

The man smiled at me, shook his head, then asked us to leave. My mother pushed me out of the store, lecturing about how I had embarrassed her and that I was lucky that the owner was not going to press charges.

            You’d think that I’d learned an important lesson and that my life of crime had ended.

Not so.

When school resumed in September my mother signed me up for a Brownie Girl Scout troop that was meeting after school. This worked out for her as my brother was playing football for the first time.

I’d be busy doing Brownie things while my mother watched my brother’s practices.

I never understood why I was a Brownie for I’d never asked to be one. Only the popular girls belonged, all wearing the brown uniforms to school on meeting days.

Not a one of them ever spoke to me except to make fun of my old-fashioned faded blue jumper.

Years later I figured out why: they probably hoped I’d develop morals or that, since I was socially awkward, that I’d learn to belong.

            Things went fairly well the first few meetings. I’d do whatever the adults told me to, but always alone. When it was necessary to partner-up, an adult would have to be mine. If I needed help with a project, the mothers were too busy, as the other girls needed them more.

Week after week, I followed the Brownies to the meeting room, them in fancy uniforms, me in my school jumper. It was obvious I didn’t belong.

 I’d begged to quit, but my mother refused, saying it would be good for me.

I don’t recall why a leader brought out a huge bag of brightly colored rubber bands. Even now, I have no idea what kind of project would involve decorating with different colors of bands. What I did know was that I wanted them. Not just the two we were supposed to use, but the entire bag.

            I was transfixed by the myriad of colors inside that bag, each one calling my name. Over and over I heard the bands, begging me to take them home.

            I still remembered the umbrella incident, not so much the embarrassment of facing the store owner, but the pain of the beating. I moved a chair or two away, far enough that I couldn’t reach out and touch them.

Distance didn’t lesson the call. In fact, the opposite happened. There was an aching hollow in my chest, a hole that could only be filled by that bag of bands. All I could think about was what it would feel like to own them.

            My project wasn’t finished when it was time to clean up. The leader said I could take two bands home with me in case one of mine broke. I lingered around the table while the other girls put away the various things we’d used during the meeting.

Knowing that they were busy, that no one was looking at me, I reached for the bag, hoping someone would see me and stop me from doing what I knew I was going to do.

Because it didn’t happen, I saw it as a sign. A miracle. Those rubber bands were supposed to go be mine. I picked up the bag and walked toward the tub where all supplies were kept. But, the closer I got, the harder my heart beat until I was struggling to breathe.

            At the last minute, instead of dropping them into the container, I turned around and went to my school bag. I slid the package in with my homework, zipped it closed, then stood by the door waiting to leave.

            I knew I had done wrong and so I expected to be caught, by either my leader or by my mother. Neither happened and so I got the rubber bands all the way home and into my bedroom without notice.

            Time passed and the bag was never found, never discussed. Every time the phone rang, I expected it to be a leader, telling my mother what I had done.

The phone rang several times, but all I heard was me being uninvited, that I could never return to the Brownies.

Was it worth it? Well, yes and no. While I never derived any pleasure from the rubber bands, which had been my hope, I no longer had to share space with girls who despised me.

            Eventually I stuffed the bag in the huge garbage can outside.

            There were times when I wanted something as passionately as before, but the threat of being caught and disciplined was too much.

            Whenever something called my name, I forced myself to walk away.

I might not have been the best student academically, I wasn’t as intelligent as either of my siblings, but in this case, I learned my lesson so well that I never stole again.

Stripping Away the Old

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Some women keep their maiden name when they marry. The reasons are varied, but deeply personal. Meanwhile, some hyphenate the combination of last names, which is another way to hang onto the maiden name.

Me, no. I hated my name because it identified me as a member of a dysfunctional family. A family in which I was ridiculed, harassed, tormented and belittled. As long as that name was mine, I couldn’t shed myself of that identity.

If I’d lived somewhere far away from my family, I might have felt differently, but when I returned home after college, everywhere I went someone knew my dad. And he was not a nice person.

My dad had a viscous temper and never forgot or forgave a perceived wrong. He’d been let go from a variety of jobs once typesetting jobs disappeared. He claimed each time that it wasn’t his fault, that so-and-so had done….something that he got blamed for.

You can believe it the first time, but not the second or third.

My family was big into bowling. We’d travel down the peninsula bowling in every alley, collecting Green Stamps, which was huge in the early 1970s.

If my dad’s score was high, he’d brag to everyone and anyone. When it was low, he’d complain loudly, blaming the slickness of the lanes, the “grease” that accumulated on his ball, the pin setting machine, anything but his own lack of skill that day.

In other words, my dad’s reputation got the entire family banned.

Being a Haack, carrying that easily remembered last name, caused me no amount of regret. Whenever I had to identify myself, I’d garner evil looks, threats to behave, or face an ouster from the facility.

Needless to say, I hated my name.

I was fairly naïve when still in my early twenties, so I knew nothing about the legal way to change names. I’d dreamt about it, but I didn’t know how to do it. I also feared my family’s wrath if I did so.

So when I fell in love, I knew that I’d take on my husband’s last name. Connelly is a million times better than Haack.

I wish I had also changed my first name.

Teresa was a dolt, a stupid kid who didn’t know anything when she started school. Teresa was a shy, easily humiliated kid who carried her family’s torments on her shoulders. Teresa was an unlikable, obese little girl who hid in her desk, even up to and throughout high school.

My friends called me Terry, but there were few of them. I wasn’t allowed to go to other kids’ houses and no one could come to mine. I never invited anyone over, and for good reason.

First, I knew my mother wouldn’t approve. Second, my family was an embarrassment. Temper explosions happened regularly, with no rhyme or reason. If I did have a friend over, there was an excellent possibility that she’d witness a scene that would soon be all over the school.

I discovered that I could be both Teresa and Terry. Teresa was my formal identity: used for signing checks and legal documents. It was how I was known at work, which, in my mind, gave me a sense of authority when I knocked on doors collecting delinquent federal taxes.

Terry was my real identity. Terry went backpacking. Terry went skiing, camping, on car rides with her one friend. Terry attended concerts and dressed in the casual clothes she loved.

Marriage gave me permission to carve out a new identity. I could be Terry Connelly, an interesting wife and mother, a person who returned to college to pursue her teaching credential, a dream she’d held for years.

Terry Connelly was the treasurer for the Parent’s Club at her kids’ school, a mistake as she hated finances, but she kept accurate books. She was an officer in the Womens’ Guild, eventually being elected President.

She was a preschool teacher, then taught elementary. She returned to college to get a degree in Physical Education, then switched to Special Education.

Teresa could never have done that. Once she was in a program, she stayed for fear of failure.

It’s amazing the difference a name makes.

Where one holds you down, the other can set you free.

Shedding a hated name was the most wonderful thing I’d ever done.

“Brain Fog” While Writing

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Those who has suffered COVID-19 often experience what scientists refer to as “Brain fog”. It’s not a medical condition, but rather a set of symptoms that, according to WebMd, affect your ability to think, cause a sense of confusion and make it difficult to focus or put thoughts into words.

Harvard Health describes it as a feeling of being sluggish, fuzzy or generally not sharp.

            Brain Fog covers a wide range of symptoms, including poor concentration, feeling confused, thinking more slowly than usual, being forgetful, and suffering mental fatigue. According to the NHS, it can feel similar to sleep deprivation or even stress, but is not the same as dementia.

            I recently contracted COVID after a trip to Arizona to spend time with a good friend.

            I’d had difficulty breathing when I boarded the plane to fly home, so was unable to keep my mask on. I understood the risk I was taking, but I was fully vaccinated, with all but the most recent booster in my arm.

            Four days later I joined friends for a wonderful lunch. I felt perfectly fine or I wouldn’t have gone. I enjoyed lunch, eating every bite of my Napa Cabbage salad. It tasted as delicious as usual.

            After lunch, we strolled through beautiful Benecia, enjoying our time together.

            On the drive home, within about twenty minutes of saying goodbye, congestion began. By the time I got home an hour later, it hurt to breathe, my head was completed stuffed and I wasn’t thinking clearly.

            I’d had COVID once before, so I knew the symptoms. I gave myself the test: it came back positive.

            I alerted my friends, emailed my doctor, then collapsed on the couch under a nice, warm blanket.

            I lived there for several days.

            I am not a patient person. I don’t like to sit still for too long unless I am deep in the writing process. I go to the gym nearly every day, working out for close to an hour each time. Once a week I hike up and down steep hills with a friend and on Fridays I walk the neighborhood with my husband.

            Late mornings and early afternoons I write. Every day.

            That’s my routine.

            But when COVID hits, my only thought is to bundle up. For a while. Then I have to get up and check out the symptoms, to see if there’s been improvement.

            This bout of the virus was particularly devastating. I experience a ton of symptoms, from the expected fatigue, slight fever, loss of taste and smell. But the meds they gave me to fight the virus caused a bad taste in my mouth that lasted for the length of the treatment.

            There was sleeplessness and an intense physical fatigue that still plagues me. I’m good for about thirty minutes of slow walking, and that’s it.

            I love working jigsaw puzzles, but found I couldn’t concentrate on putting together pieces.

            I had photos from a recent cruise to upload: I accidentally deleted four that there’s no way to borrow from the Internet.

            Most devastating was my ability to write.

I’ve been in the process of editing a novel that an agent requested. I’d made it to the halfway mark and was feeling quite positive about the changes I’d made.

COVID hit, and I could barely read the words through my blurred vision. My eyes burned and stung like a bad allergic reaction, causing pain whenever I tried to read.

The worst part was Brain Fog.

I could read a sentence, but not remember what I’d read. I could see what needed to be changed, but would make stupid typos that ruined the piece.

Incomplete sentences, missing letters, dialogue that made no sense.

I’d work on a few pages when I was strong enough to sit, then the next day have to edit those same pages. And then the next day repeat. And so on.

The fog is beginning to lift. After all, I am writing this, right? But does it make sense? Is my grammar okay? Did I use sentences and correct word endings?

I’ve made a conscious decision to leave this piece as it is, in the hopes that someone will read it and understand.

I know people who’ve made a choice not to get vaccinated. That’s fine as long as their circle of friends doesn’t mind.

As long as they confine themselves to a like minded circle of acquaintances that feel the same.

But…as soon as that person walks into my world, the world of an older woman who has chronic asthma, then that person’s decision impacts my health, my life.

And that’s not right.

Our decisions shouldn’t cause adverse harm to others.

Choosing to not vaccinate against a virus that’s killed over a million Americans affects me, children with lowered immune systems, those struggling against diseases such as cancer, and anyone over a certain age.

Brain Fog is very real.

For someone who loves words, having them stolen from you because of someone’s callous disregard to vaccination, seems almost criminal.

And then there’s the fact that my breathing infected air had on my friend!

There’s a circle of contacts that each of us has. Our closest friends and family are most impacted by viruses and diseases we contract.

As the layers of circles expand, there is less and less possibility of us infecting those in the outer rings.

But, that day I spent time in a tiny local bookstore. I spoke with the waitress. I used the restaurant’s utensils. I strolled through several cute stores, looking at merchandise. I bought two unique cookies at a tiny bakery. And before hitting the freeway, I used the restroom at McDonald’s where I then ordered a soda.

Although I felt fine, I was spreading germs like crazy.

I wonder how many I infected? Is the owner of the book store okay? What about the nice clerk at McDonald’s?

I can’t spend time worrying about them: all I can do is take care of me.

The Fog is slowly dissipating, but the effects, according to the sources I checked, might linger for several weeks. And if I get long-term COVID, they might persist for months or even years.

Please, for the sake of those you might not know, toss off your resistance to vaccination. Get the boosters. Don’t go out if you have a cough. Test yourself often. Be kind to yourself, but most importantly to those you might not know.

A Different Kind of Bravery

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By nature I am not a brave person. Put me in a room with unfamiliar people and I cannot speak. I don’t embrace change and am incredibly happy living my life.

Yet when I think back over the years, a number of events arise in which I had to fight against my nature and be brave.

As a young child I preferred my own company, so going to school was a frightening experience. As the years passed I did not get braver, but I did learn how to function within the system. And I did it on my own. No teacher, no school counselor helped me negotiate the ins and outs of school. Because I kept to myself, I did so without the benefit of friends.

So going off to college required a tremendous amount of bravery.  This was a new experience in a foreign environment. I was terrified. But as time passed I made a few friends.

Finding a job scared me. It meant entering unfamiliar places, approaching unfamiliar and often cold people, and facing repeated rejection. Once I did get hired, there was the problem of working in a new environment with strange people.

I would like to think that age has brought me confidence, but it hasn’t. What it has given me is the understanding of myself and the ability to move into new places despite the terror that such things create.

It also helps that I am blessed with a husband who encourages me to step outside my box and go out into the world. Because of him I travel, write, and sing. Because of him I get out of the house and join clubs, go to luncheons and meet up with friends.

Sometimes I wonder how different I might have been if there had been someone like him in my life from the first time I ever left the house as a child.

Because of my husband I am learning to be brave.

The Good Parent

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            All parents have dreams for their child.  Often these include living a happy life, being healthy, getting a good job, marrying well, and perhaps even having children of their won.  Many foster a love of learning: from books or from experience.   

            Back in the early 1940s, it was possible to support a family and live moderately without a high school diploma.  College was often seen as only for the rich and the leisurely.  I was raised to believe that my only function in life was to marry early and have lots of children.

There’s a basis for this way of thinking.

My mother completed eighth grade, after three attempts. With her limited education, she was able to find, and hold, several, very different jobs. The one she loved the most was as the head telephone operator for the federal offices in San Francisco.

She came up with suggestions to improve service as well as helping disabled workers find success. The story she loved to tell was about a legally blind operator.

At first, my mother was miffed that he’d been hired. Back then, calls were connected by colored lines being fit into colored slots. Obviously, he couldn’t see either.

On her free time at work and at home, my mother experimented with various simple-to-make devices until she came up with a workable idea. Because of her ingenuity, the man succeeded and she won a cherished financial award.

While her limited education excluded her from high-paying positions, her ingenuity got the approval of her boss.

            My father graduated from high school but was unable to find a job. He finally got hired to work in a bowling alley where he’d jump from lane to lane, setting up pins. It wasn’t satisfying, but he earned enough to move out of the family home.

When World War II started, he enlisted. He seldom got off the ship, so although he sailed all over the world, he had no idea what was out there.

He did learn to be a machinist, a valuable skill that he used in his first “real” job, assembling machinery for National Cash Register in Dayton, Ohio. He soon grew tired of the job, landing next in a company that printed newspapers. He was a good speller, which came in handy as he set type into place, from back to front.

He loved being a typesetter, but by the time we moved to California in 1964, more and more printing jobs were being done by giant computers. From there he tried all kinds of jobs, including being a nighttime security guard, driving rental cars from one location to another, delivering phone books, and doing odd jobs at construction sites.

While we were never rich, except for when we moved from Ohio to California, we had shelter, food, and clothes. My parents placed some value on education, demanding good grades and excellent behavior. Bu they never visited the various schools we attended or talked to the teachers.

Neither of them seemed to value education beyond high school, primarily because they had succeeded without any advanced courses.

My brother and I had different ideas. While they readily accepted that my brother, who they believed was a genius, should go to college, they saw no need for me to do so.

In their eyes, my brother would succeed and go on to a high-paying career. 

For me? I was supposed to marry young and begin reproducing immediately.  That wasn’t what I wanted, and so even when they died, I was a disappointment.

            I dreamed of being a teacher because school was the one place where I felt safe. Many of my teachers were mean, several using physical punishment to reprimand disobedient students. I was smacked with a ruler several times, sat in the corner on a stool, and the most terrifying, clicked at by the nuns. My sins? Lack of attention.

After I became a teacher, I realized that I would have been classified as ADD, Attention Deficit Disordered. While I could sit all day, my mind drifted off here and there, so I often missed lectures and descriptions of assignments. My grades weren’t as good as my brother’s even though the old IQ tests placed me higher than my brother, who was a genius.

After having kids of my own, I finally had the opportunity to earn a teaching credential. I taught a whopping thirty-four years. During that time, I met parents with limited education who ushed their kids to stay in school, wishing that their children wouldn’t have to struggle to survive.

There were parents whose only hope was that their kids find work so as to contribute to the family income. These kids often went to work in a family-owned business, earning minimum wage. In California, such low income meant that the kids were stuck at home.

            On the opposite end of the spectrum, I met many parents who set unrealistic goals for their academically disabled children, wanting them to earn a college degree when reading texts would be nearly impossible without tremendous support. Nothing short of a college preparatory program would do, so they chose challenging courses such as AP Biology or AP English. When the inevitable low grades came in, the parents chastised the teachers.

            Over time I began dividing parents into three distinct types: over-involved, under-involved, and just right. There were some who wavered between categories, putting on bursts of energy at strange, incomprehensible times, and then disappearing for months.

This category of parent drove teachers nuts, for you never knew which parent was on the other end of the line. 

            I began my career as a preschool teacher for children ages two to four. I loved the kids and found teaching them songs and academics fulfilling. What was difficult, however, was dealing with over-involved parents.

I understood that it was hard to leave your child at the door with a stranger. Even after class began, for the first few days of class, a small group of parents peered in the windows, to making sure that Johnny and Maria were safe.

Over time, I began to think of “involvement” as a line on the floor.  If you’re standing on the line, you’re in perfect position to guide your child through academia. On either side of the line, and things don’t always go smoothly. The over-involved parent would smother the child, while the under-involved left the child to drown.

            At the high school level, an over-involved parent might demand college-level course outlines for every class, yet couldn’t be bothered to utilize the online program that helped both parents and students keep track of upcoming assignments. Such parents felt it was the teacher’s problem when the son didn’t bring his trombone home, or when the daughter forgot to complete her Algebra homework.

            I worked with parents who demanded weekly meetings to track their child’s progress. It came off as a highly effective form of intimidation. They challenged every grade on every assignment, wanting to know precisely why Timothy didn’t have straight As.

Then there were parents of intelligent college-bound students who wanted their child labeled as having a specific learning disability. They believed that being identified as ADHD or OCD would get then preferential status on college admissions. They’d spend thousands of dollars dragging the child from specialist to specialist until they found one who applied the desired labels.

            For some parents, failure is not an option, even when the child has chosen that path. This type of parent will blame the teacher if the student sleeps through class, turns in no work, and fails tests. Or it’s the administration’s fault if the student cuts class and walks off campus to spend the day at the mall or the cinema. My favorite was casting blame on anyone who might have come in contact with their child, saying that dear Thomas was only holding his friend’s marijuana, knife, or cigarettes.

            Excuses, excuses, but never place the blame where it truly belongs.  If Bill can’t stay awake during the school day, move the computer, phone, and television out of his bedroom.  If Tess isn’t doing her homework, ask to see it every night.  If Phoung is leaving campus, hand him a lunch bag in the morning. If your child doesn’t feel safe walking to school, drive them or join a carpool. 

There are always solutions, but they require parents taking responsible action.

            Under-involved parents are a real puzzle, especially when the child has a learning disability that makes reading and writing challenging. Many of these parents are evasive, not showing up on Back-to-School Night or on Report Card night, and eve at the child’s annual Special Education meeting.  They never return calls or check grades.

            Where are these parents when their children need them?  My students often shared that their parents worked three jobs in order to pay the rent. There were a goodly number of parents who didn’t speak English and were uncomfortable dealing with school. And in this group, quite a few were illegal immigrants and who were terrified of being deported.

I had parents who were currently incarcerated, addicted to alcohol and drugs, or involved in illegal activities such as ferrying undocumented workers across the border. I spoke with a handful of mothers who struggled with agoraphobia, and fathers who returned home after the child went to bed, are who were asleep when the student left for school in the morning.

            At the high school level, it seemed that “just right’ parents were few and far between.  I understood how hard it is to not be too involved, yet concerned enough to pay attention to the child’s academics. It would especially difficult when your child struggles with decision-making, organization, impulsiveness. 

Do you let the child fail as a learning lesson, or step in?  I only intervened when my child believed that an injustice had occurred, or that the work was confusing, or on those rare times when the teacher was truly wrong.

Every child has to learn to walk independently, for the parent isn’t always going to be there. 

The best metaphor is potty training.  The child has to have accidents now and then in order to understand how unpleasant the results feel. The chaffing and burning teach the child to get to the commode in time. If the child never experiences discomfort, life lessons are not learned.

While I’ve been retired a number of years, I often wonder what things are like now. I’d like to believe that all parents maintain just enough involvement to ensure that their child does the best he/she can.

Solo Traveler

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            I hated traveling with my family. In fact, going anywhere with them was grounds for potential disaster on the emotional scale.

            My mom would criticize everything my dad did, and that I did or did not do. She protected my siblings from my dad’s wrath, but would set me up for punishment, deserved or not.

            My first solo trip was a backpacking outing organized by the community college I was attending. I was ill-prepared with the wrong equipment, clothes and fitness level, but I didn’t know all that until we began climbing a never-ending hill.

            I was scared because I didn’t know anyone, even the young woman whose tent I shared. I talked to no one, but then, no one spoke to me either. What I did enjoy was freedom from criticism, endless arguments, and constant put-downs.

            That excursion taught me that I could, indeed, function on my own.

            When I left for college, I traveled with my brother as my parents wouldn’t let me go alone.

            What they didn’t know, couldn’t have predicted, was that once on university grounds, I cut the cord to my brother and struck out on my own. Without fear of reprisal, I made a few friends. I dated a black man who I really liked, but at around the same time we both realized that neither of us could bring the other home.

            After him, a handsome Hispanic man asked me out. Jorge was smart, easygoing, and pleasant. I did bring him home for one of the breaks, but that didn’t go over well. We remained friends even though my parents had treated him poorly.

            As I grew older, I began doing more and more things independently. I joined an on-campus religious group just so I could go on the retreat into the mountains. I found the eye clinic on campus and volunteered to try out new contacts. I loved how I looked without the thick glasses frames my parents made me wear!

            During summers, I found on-campus jobs that provided housing and meals. The independence was intoxicating.

            I traveled to Yosemite and Marin County with a date, spent a weekend at his parent’s home and even flew to Minnesota during winter break to see him!

            When I ran out of resources and jobs, I had no choice but to move back into the family home, placing me under the microscope once again. I saved and saved until I could buy a car (the dealership made me get my dad’s signature! God, I hated that.). After car, I began investigating apartments.

            Once again, I saved until I had the necessary deposit. When I locked that door behind me, I was able to breathe. I could stay up as late as I wanted, get up when I wanted, eat what I wanted, swim in the pool or sit out on my tiny balcony, whenever I wanted.

            You don’t understand how intoxicating it is to be free unless you’ve never lived under a microscope.

            My husband and I have been traveling for several years now. Most of the people we meet are couples of some kind, married or not, makes no difference. But we’ve also met solo travelers.

            I admire them so much! I doubt that I would have gone on a cruise by myself. Or hiked around Europe on my own. Or driven cross-county just because I could. My parent’s constant belittling had convinced me that I lacked the intelligence, wherewithal and basic knowledge to keep myself safe.

            As a teacher, back when there was money, I often traveled to attend conferences and on one occasion, to recruit potential teachers. I flew or drove by myself, arranged my own hotel, ate by myself and in the evenings, watched what I wanted!

            Each trip strengthened my ability to travel solo.

            While I missed my husband and would have loved someone to share ideas with, being on my own was incredibly intoxicating.

            As we get older, more and more of us will be on our own. We’ll be solo travelers, negotiating our way through life. We’ll need to understand finances, balancing budgets, logical planning, and how to get the most for our bucks.

            The thing is, we can do it. We can travel alone. We can make decisions. We can talk to total strangers or be content inside our own heads.

            Many of us will need practice to get there. I built my confidence by taking small trips, perhaps just over to San Francisco for a conference. Or driving down to Monterey or up to Sacramento. I navigated unfamiliar highways, slept in hotels chosen by the conference, ate by myself when meals weren’t part of the package.

            I learned not to fear aloneness. I now embrace it, enjoy it, lavish in it, even though I know that my husband is waiting for me back home.

            The thing is, I might outlive him. If that happens, I will be traveling alone. I won’t like having him gone, but I know that I can and will be okay as a solo traveler.

The Crowd Around Me

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I transferred to USC at the end of my freshman year of college, completing a number of requisites at the local community college. I’d wanted to got to Ohio State where I’d live with my grandma. She needed help: I needed a place to stay. But my parents wouldn’t let me although I never understood why.

Even though we lived just south of San Francisco, they shook their heads when I asked to enroll at San Francisco State. At that time, freshmen had to live on campus. The university was in a safe neighborhood, but that didn’t matter. For some bizarre reason, my parents felt it was a hotbed of rape.

My brother and I had both applied to USC, both were accepted, and both got state scholarships that covered my entire tuition. Because he was going there, that was the only college my parents accepted.

At that time, back in 1970, the football team was a powerhouse, winning game after game, going to the Rose Bowl my first year there. Students got in free, or almost free. My brother’s friends invited me to tag along.

I was sued to Tommy Trojan riding in on his white horse, the song, the yell, the roar of the crowd, but everything was amplified in that stadium.

USC won, but I couldn’t tell you the score all these years later. I do recall my jubilation and the excited voices as we streamed out and headed toward the car.

My junior year the team, once again, made it to the Rose Bowl. This time I didn’t go with my brother’s friends, but with a young man I’d met in my dorm.

We didn’t have assigned seats that year, so we joined the crowd building outside the stadium.

Fencing had been installed, closing off all points of entry. As my friend and I walked from our car to where we’d wait, we were pulled by the flood of humanity. There was an electrical feel of excitement, almost as if someone had dropped live wires in our midst.

There was yelling, cheering, and pushing. And more pushing. At first, we didn’t mind as we were up against the fence, practically ensuring good seats.

We’d arrived hours before the game. Pasadena can get hot even in January, and it was that day. I stupidly hadn’t worn a hat, but I was still a teenager, likely to do stupid things.

It was also before people carried water bottles everywhere, so with the sun streaming and the suffocating crowds, I began feeling a bit off. There was nothing to be done except stand and wait.

The crowd got restless and began screaming to be let in. Police officers were deployed to where I was, on the opposite side of the fence. The protests grew louder, and profanities flew.

Around twelve-thirty, only thirty minutes began kickoff, a surge began behind me. Elbows pressed into my back as I was shoved against the fence.

I grabbed the metal wires, hoping to stay on my feet. My right cheek was smashed against the bars, forcing my head as far left as if could go.

My friend tried to shield me, but someone squeezed in between us. I could just make out the top of my friend’s head, but with my arms pressed against metal, I couldn’t reach out for his hand.

The crowd continued pushing, making it hard from me to breathe. I opened my mouth wide to try to take in air, but it didn’t help. I began feeling lightheaded and yelled my friend’s name, but he couldn’t hear.

A larger wave, a crush of people, surged, lifting me off my feet. I thought I was going to die, even though this was before we’d heard of people dying by stampede.

I let go when I felt the fence move. As it collapsed, the crowd forced me to step on the twisted metal.

As soon as I was on stadium grounds, the crowd roared past me. I found a bit of shelter close to the building. Tears poured down my face because I was frightened, I still couldn’t breathe, and I understood that I almost died.

My friend found me, thank goodness, and together we entered the stadium. The best seats were gone by now, but we didn’t care. From where we sat, we were able to see the game.

Most importantly, we realized what a terrifying experience that had been.

USC won.

Haircut Woes

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            When our kids were young, we didn’t have a lot of money. I was a stay-at-home mom until our youngest turned two. By that time, I was interested in teaching preschool. I enrolled in classes at the community college that would lead to that goal.

            I learned a lot about designing appropriate curriculum, classroom management and organization. I got hired by the local recreation department to teach two classes per day, five days a week. For a whopping $2.50 an hour.

            My husband worked for the federal government making a good salary, but with all the expenses of owning a house and raising three kids, we had to cut corners wherever we could.

            I’d buy powdered milk and mix it into a half-gallon of milk, just to expand it. I’d water down juices and buy pretend cheese slices and ice milk to give the kids a treat.

            When I needed a haircut, I’d go to the beauty school. The free cuts were upstairs, theoretically under the constant supervision of instructors. Well, that was a lie. More than once too much would be chopped off or things would be lopsided or the perm wouldn’t take. I’d look funny until the next cut.

            Then I’d have a new, weird look.

            I got tired of unevenly cut hair, short on one side, longer on the other, so I moved one level up where things improved. Somewhat.

            The supervision was more consistent, the cuts more uniform, the perms looser. I did have to pay a nominal fee, which I didn’t mind as at least my hair was getting taken care of.

            At my job, I decided that preschool should have an educational component. With my nominal salary, I bought resource materials, put lessons in place, and saw my students learning at an astonishing rate. Parents wrote letters to my boss (I didn’t tell them to do that!) and soon I got a raise to $2.75. Yippee!

            Because our kids were bigger, they ate more, needed more. Thrift store clothing was harder to find. School supplies had to be new. Uniforms as well. Shoes, well, most of the time they could be handed down.

            Generic food items appeared on shelves, in yellow labels so you’d know you were getting below-standard shapes and sizes of pears, noodles, juices.

            My kids were playing soccer, a sport I knew nothing about. I studied the rules of the game. Went to referee school, then started working at least four games per weekend. Each game paid ten dollars.

            There was a lot of construction in the area. I’d take my kids out to the sites. We’d walk about, looking for cans to recycle. Sometimes we’d find money. One time I saw a bill sticking out of the dirt, dug it out: twenty dollars! We stopped at the grocery store on the way home.

            Meanwhile I composed an instruction manual for Tot Time teachers, a complete resource that covered all aspects of curriculum, from song and dance, to arts and crafts, to physical activity.

            My boss was impressed. Had it copied and given to all Tot Time teachers, then gave me a raise. I now made over three dollars an hour!

            I decided that the time had come to move to the main floor of the beauty school, to the side where more skilled students trained. There was less supervision. Sometimes the students cut my hair sort of like I wanted, but most of the time they got creative. I’d never know what my hair would look like.

            I don’t like surprises. Not birthday parties, not drop-in visitors, and definitely not hairstyles.

            I’d dreamed of being a teacher since I began school. School was the only safe place for me. My teachers were generally kind, but usually they ignored me because I was behind academically. I thought, hoped, that someday I could provide a safe haven for kids like me.

            There was no money for me to go to a four-year college. I kept plugging along, taking classes at the community college, working at Tot Time, refereeing soccer games and searching construction sites for money.

            After years of watching students cut my hair, I had a general sense of what to do. My husband gave me a set of hair cutting tools for Christmas. I began cutting everyone’s hair, saving quite a bit of money.

            The boys were easy as they wanted very short hair. My husband didn’t care what his looked like, but I was shaky every time because he couldn’t look odd going to work. My daughter was different.

            She only wanted her bangs trimmed. I’d hold the scissors even, in one hand. With the other I’d press her hair to her forehead. I’d cut slowly and carefully, but every time, her bands would slope to one side. It was a such a disaster that she’d cry.

            I understood how she felt.

            In a way, my dad was right about a woman’s hair. People paid attention to how a woman looked. Men, not so much.

            When I entered high school, I was tired of my long hair. I wanted it cut to shoulder-length. He didn’t say I couldn’t, so my mom took me to a salon and had it done.

            My dad came home from work, took one look, then berated me for hours. Days. Calling me every foul name he could think of. My dictionary got a lot of use because I was unfamiliar with the words. All were hurtful and incorrect. That’s not what I was.

            The one positive was that I understood how important it is to have a popular style, a proper cut. It was one thing for me to get a free or cheap cut, but my kids deserved better.

            Fortunately, thanks to my sister-in-law, I was now working toward an elementary teaching credential and had been hired as an assistant in a Kindergarten. I made a whopping $5,000 a year!

            With the additional resources, I quit scouring construction sites, but I still working soccer games. We still scrimped wherever we could, eating a lot of chicken and hamburger. One area where I quit cutting costs was with hair.

            After too many disastrous cuts, I began taking all the kids to one of those low-cost salons. They were happier and my stress-level went down. Because I was working in a formal educational setting, I had to quit going to the beauty school. I needed consistency.

            My take-away is that your hair style is important. It has to satisfy you outwardly, which translates to inner happiness. A poor cut is upsetting in so many ways, but the most troubling is that it is with you until the next cut.

            I hate to admit it, but there was some truth to my dad’s opinion. How you look on the outside matters. It’s what people notice the first time they meet you, and if it’s a negative reaction, that’s how they continue to see you. For years.

            As a parent I did what I could to provide for my family. There was food on the table, they had clean clothes and shoes that fit. They attended good schools and participated in various activities. I took them to parks for play and exploration, worked with them on academics so they’d do better in school, and made sure they could swim.

            Having their hair cut by professionals was one of the best decisions I ever made. It made them feel good about themselves, which made me feel good about myself. In the end, everyone was happy.

            You can’t put a price on that.

No Regrets

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            When my mother slipped into the depths of dementia to never return to her former self, I didn’t cry. In fact, I struggled to control my glee, to hold it inside whenever I spoke to my siblings or was around my dad.

            Finally, after years and years of manipulation and emotional abuse, her voice was silent, her disapproving glare gone. Never again would I hear all the ways in which I had disappointed her, how I was not the daughter she wanted. How she never cried when I left for college or when I got my first apartment, never moving back into her house.

            I’d never be chastised for not cleaning my brother’s room, for not wiping down each leaf of every houseplant, for not standing by her side and learning how to cook. For not dressing in the girlie clothes she’d sewn for me. For looking and acting like a boy. For being uppity because I loved learning, reading books. Real books, not the household tips magazines she skimmed through and kept piled up next to her chair.

            She’d never be able to guilt me into calling, having her over for dinner, for taking her “shopping” which was really an excuse to pawn through discount racks while she lectured me about my faults.

            I didn’t cry at her funeral Mass. A friend, sitting near me, commented about that. I shrugged. How do you explain how wonderful it felt to have the black clouds not just lifted, but blown away? How do you tell someone how freeing it is to no longer have to listen to her tales of woe, of all the injustices done to her over the years, of course, by me. Not by my siblings.

            Never by them, for they were perfect and I was not.

            When the Mass ended, my sister yelled at me, accusing me, in front of the few who were in attendance of never loving our mother. I walked away.

            There was a time when I wanted to love my mother, when I yearned to feel her arms around me. A hug. A nice, warm hug to greet me in the morning and to put me to sleep at night.

            My sister knew that love. So did my brother.

            That’s why they cried.

            While my mother was disappearing, my father became a kinder man. He smiled more. Laughed more. Was easier to be around.

            One day as I was leaving after visiting my mother’s body, lying in a hospital bed in their front room, my dad opened his arms wide. I froze, not knowing whether it was some sort of trick.

            I couldn’t tell by his face what his intentions were. Was it a real invitation for a hug? Was it a trap? Since I became a teen and my body changed, he’d looked at me with what I later learned was lust.

            He’d touch me, inappropriately, when I got near. I’d learned to sidestep, to take roundabout ways, to hide in my room until he was somewhere, anywhere else.

            It creeped me out. And it only got worse after I married. By then he knew I had become a sexual being. His looks became more suggestive, his comments more lewd.

            So, when I didn’t want his hug, he asked why. I couldn’t say the words. My feet felt glued to the floor, my brain stopped functioning and my heart thumped so loudly I thought I was going to drop dead right there.

            Only when his arms dropped and a despondent look came on his face did I have room to scoot past and escape.

            I wish I could have told him why. But I’ve never been one to confront others. I was an emotionally and physically abused child. I’d worn the bruises of confrontation. Why would I want to do that to others?

            Not too many years after my mom died, my dad remarried. And then he had a stroke. I visited him in the hospital, out of duty, not of love. I never sat by his bedside. I never touched him. If he was awake, I’d talk to him from the other side of the hospital room. When I left, I’d simply walk out.

            This “new” dad was jovial. He laughed and smiled. He nodded a lot, as if he understood and agreed. His wife placed him in a home, then asked me to visit.

            Once a week I steeled myself and walk into the home, pretending that I really wanted to be there. I only went when I knew his wife would be there. My dad had his own room. Even though he couldn’t use his hands, I still feared his touch. Even though he couldn’t remember what he’d just eaten when the empty dishes sat in front of him, I still worried that he’d hurt me with words.

            His condition worsened. He had more strokes, leaving him more and more disabled. He still terrified me. I was in my fifties, but still impacted by how he’d treated me throughout my childhood and into my twenties.  

            At some point his wife called for a family meeting at the hospital. The Hospice contact was there. She explained that he was near death. Might go that day or in a few months.

            When the meeting ended, she told us to go to Dad’s room and say goodbye.

            I went into the room. I stood by his bed.

            My right hand rose. It neared his arm. It got close enough that I could feel the warmth of his skin.

            And then I started trembling.

            I walked away.

            And I’ve never regretted not telling either of my parents that I loved them, for that would have been a lie.

            I’ve never regretted not crying, for having them truly gone, was such a tremendous relief that there are no words to adequately describe.

            Both have been gone for many years, but what they did to me has never left me. I still carry it in my heart. Writing about it helps.

            So it is with no regrets that I put into words, once more, why I am the way I am. A person who refuses to regret the feelings that I hold even though I’ve tried to excise them from my heart.

            There’s nothing wrong with having no regrets.