flawed but authentic

A typical day for me begins by plugging in my unnamed laptop, grabbing my portable two-way radio from its charger, and listening to voicemail. It’s nothing for me to have 5 or 6 to listen to and take notes on before I begin making calls. It’s the busyness of the job and I’m stopped several times a day for students who come to see me about a myriad of issues. Changing classes, telling me what courses they want to take next year, finding out about driver’s education and my favorite: being forced to take summer school classes.

They don’t want to take summer school, but if they’ve failed something in a semester they must take it over for credit. My list of students has gotten longer as the year goes on, but it’s Freshman Syndrome. They don’t pay attention to what they are doing right now that will affect them later on. I hear, from my colleagues, that this subsides by junior year. Something to look forward to I suppose.

Sometimes discipline becomes my job and students can sometimes behave quite differently when I’m wearing that hat. Where they don’t normally roll their eyes and cuss under their breath, they have been known to resort to that when I have to suspend them or write them up for alternative schooling. When I confronted two girls about bullying another girl in their PE class they assured me they hadn’t done anything. That they were being nice to her and telling her that her hair was nice and she misunderstood them. While I wasn’t so sure, I told them I expected better behavior and was wearing my “counseling” hat after lecturing them.

Later, I found out they lied to me and I realized my Pollyanna-like naivete bit me in the ass. Some of the other administrators teased me about it, but I do like to trust them and give them a chance. This was a perfect instance of being entirely misled. Stupid me. Everyone isn’t always nice, I know this. But my previous dealings with these two girls had been positive and I gave them the benefit of the doubt.

They were caught, much to their dismay, by cell phone recording and when I watched it I was immediately sickened. My stomach lurched and the reality of Mean Girl Syndrome made its way into the moment.

When I suspended them for their actions I got eye rolls, lots of DANGs!, and an instance where I had to call security to detain one of them. She was pissed. And she did all she could to let me know it. Pollyanna turned into a warden and a guard and a police officer and all she saw of me was Authority Figure. Big, badass AUTHORITY.

I thought, “God! Why do you have to be so stupid? Why couldn’t you just own up to it and take the consequence?”

Back to work, I busied myself with the tediousness of the job. Meetings, typing things up, visiting classrooms, handling other student situations. My office has a big window and when I’m at the computer I can see, peripherally, the people who enter the office. Normally, I like to look up to see if there is a student, teacher, or parent that needs to see me so that I may welcome them into my office. On Friday, it seemed as if every problem in the world hit our school and it made for a whirlwind day. Looking up to see who was there wasn’t an option. My eyes focused on the computer screen and I refused to give notice to things going on around me.

When a body entered my room I didn’t look up. I even finished typing my sentence and could sense that they were sitting in one of the three chairs I have so I assumed they really needed to see me and were waiting patiently for me to finish.

I stopped my busy doings and turned around to see one of the two girls who bullied. And lied. Pollyanna would not make a comeback today, I thought. Hardass it is! Cast Iron Bitch From Hell steeled herself in my bones and I sat up straighter in my chair to posture myself. Do I look imposing enough? I wondered.

The art of dealing with this was not to be the first to speak. I remained silent.

“I came here to apologize, Mrs. Mocha. I’m so sorry for lying to you. You trusted me and I messed up.”

Pollyanna returned. She slouched. She sucked in her breath. The hot tears of a forgiving woman returned. Thank God. I hate maintaining that level of ugliness. Back to work.

In a 12-step program I practice, we tell newcomers if they stick around a while, they’ll eventually hear their own story. Some seriously doubt it. They are the ones who think they can’t be helped as others have, because, you see, they aren’t like others. We call that being terminally unique, and I suffered from it when I was a newcomer. The main symptoms are martyrdom, loss of perspective, and  a wildly distorted perception of your own part in the grand scheme of things. It’s also been aptly called “the belief that you are the piece of shit the world revolves around.”

For people thus afflicted, hearing someone else give voice to the very thoughts they have been thinking, the very feelings they have been feeling, is the miracle cure. Someone else’s truth can set you free.

If you know where to go for the good stuff, if you hearken to authenticity, blogs can be like that sometimes. Like sitting at a table, hearing story after story. You might react, you might judge, you might get bored. And then, there it is, your story. Or a page from it, at least.

This happened to me last night, reading  Cafe Mama. I’ve gotten to know its author, Sarah, just a little. Enough to guess that we don’t have much surface stuff in common. But when I read this passage, from December, I wished I could run down the street to Portland and give her a big hug:

The only people to whom I am expressly not writing this blog are certain of my in-laws. Why? Because they use my words, often out of context, to dig up dirt on me, and by association, my husband. No one cares about this dirt except other members of the family. So it swirls around like water in a clogged sink, angry and poisonous, sticky and yet bound by its own porcelain borders, sometimes splashing out into my life in the messiest of ways.

(December 13, Losing Grace) 

Some of that same brackish water has backed up into my own life this past year, and I am surprised to admit that it has given me pause. I suppose I have been spoiled by an overwhelmingly supportive community of readers and a string of lucky breaks. It would be naive to expect it all to be a lovefest. But as the writing goes further, and reaches more of the people I want it to reach, there are other, less welcome people, who latch on.

They are so much like each other, their emails to me could all be written by the same person. The details—the specific grievances—change, but they are all in the same key. Each has penned a drama with themselves in the starring role. Each is utterly convinced that what I’ve written is all about them. It would be funny, if they weren’t so obviously sick and unhappy.

I thought I’d moved through each incident with as much grace and detachment as I could muster. They seem to come nested in each new level of success or exposure for my writing, and I’ve shaken them off as tests of my commitment to it. But my hands have not been as loose at the keyboard recently, in spite of my mother’s emailed encouragement to never let anything keep me from writing my truths.

Sarah’s words would have had no fire in them for me if I wasn’t feeling a little chill. The truth is, as big a girl as I am, it’s unnerving to realize that not everyone who is reading means well, or is well.

“…you need love and compassion and grace,” wrote Sarah to the poisonous people she wasn’t writing for. “You need what I do not have today.”

Neither do I have what my ill-wishers need. Though they look hour after enraged and lonely hour, they won’t ever find anything in me or my words that will fill whatever it is they are missing from their lives. 

I do wish them love, compassion and grace. I hope they find it somewhere. And mostly, I wish them a seat at a table where, if they stick around long enough, they’ll get to hear someone tell their story, and realize their own truth.

Mrs. G. was teaching a class a while back, and she and the kids (4th and 5th graders) were discussing The Captain’s Dog by Roland Smith. This is a wonderful book about the Lewis and Clark expedition told from the perspective of Captain Lewis’ dog Seamen. The conversation had just turned to the wretchedness of eating a black tailed prairie dog when a new boy walked into the classroom. He had a yellow slip in his hand indicating he was a new student to the school. He was a cute little guy with shiny black hair and John Lennon glasses. He looked a little fearful and was white-knuckling the strap of his backpack. Mrs. G. went up to him and welcomed him to the class. She asked the boy his name and he didn’t respond…and didn’t respond…and didn’t respond.

It was just starting to get awkward when one of the boys in the class, busting with excitement, shot up like a rocket and bellowed I MET HIM THIS MORNING. HIS NAME IS HOWARD AND HE DOESN’T TALK MUCH. HE’S ONE OF MY BEST FRIENDS! This morning? Best friends? It turns out Howard really doesn’t talk. Ever. He has a disconnect between his brain and his mouth. But Mrs. G. saw Howard breathe a sigh of relief and slide into the chair next to his new best friend. And after this stunning moment of grace, the discussion resumed.

My sister Laura and I were wandering around the streets of Chicago in summer - hot, sweaty and red-faced. We sought refuge in the cafe in the basement of the State building downtown, the one that looks like a giant silver beehive.

An obviously mentally ill woman came up and began talking to Laura. She was friendly, but speaking so rapidly and so close to my sister’s face that I could tell Laura was a bit taken aback.

“Do I scare you?” the woman demanded, sensing Laura’s discomfort.

“Um,” said Laura. I could see that she was frantically thinking of something polite to say. “No, no, it’s just that I’m a little discombobulated because it is so hot outside.”

“Well, that’s God for ya,” the woman said, and walked away.

“Well, that’s God for ya” became an instant classic in our vocabulary of sisterhood. Whenever anything was beyond our ken, that phrase capped the conversation. We used it for good things and bad, beautiful and ugly.

It always made us laugh and reminded us that, in this crazy world, the answer to so many questions is just “That’s God for ya.”

Everyone needs a haven - a place of refuge in times of trouble, emotional or physical difficulty. I learned early on what my source of refuge was…whose wing to find shelter beneath.

As a child I had a very active imagination. My parents learned early on to protect me from things that negatively stimulated my imagination, like scary books or television shows and movies. If not, without fail, they’d wake to screams deep in the night.

During third grade I experienced nightmares nearly every single night for a few months. As I look back at it now I believe it was likely tied to anxiety and a specific teacher. We went through much the same thing with our oldest daughter, Emelie, her 1st grade year. Night terrors, bed wetting and a severe change in personality ended up being the result of a method of discipline (shaming) a particular teacher was using in her classroom at school. We pulled her out and all our lives became more peaceful almost overnight.

My third grade teacher despised me; nothing I could do was good enough. I remember wondering if she enjoyed torturing me. Third grade, for some reason, wasn’t a challenge. I’d finish my work and grow bored; I became a bother to those around me. Other teachers gave me extra worksheets, allowed me to help them staple packets, grade papers or run errands for them, but this teacher wanted me to sit still and be quiet.

The year dragged on and every day after school I’d have to deliver a report to my parents of my behavior for the day. A single, black stamp - smiley face or frowny face sealed my fate for the evening.

I hated that teacher. I hated that year.

I also hated the nightmares that began that year. I dreamed of a man with a machete that was coming to cut me up piece by piece. I would pull the covers tight over my head and tuck them all about me, so as not to let anything in. A tiny little “breathe” hole was the only thing I allowed and I would wait - as still as I could be - and listen. I tried to fall asleep before my parents went to bed, but if I didn’t…I’d lay awake listening - hearing sounds I mistook for him.

Sometimes the fear became too unbearable and I would scream out for my parents; a blood curdling scream that had them running (at first) or walking (as the months wore on) to check on me. They were tired - at their wits end.

I was terrified to go to sleep.

And then, one Sunday at church our Children’s minister offered a challenge. Whoever could memorize the 23rd Psalm and say it from memory into the microphone at Children’s church, would get a 2 lb. bag of peanut M&Ms.

Chocolate has always been a major motivator for me, so you can bet I got busy memorizing that scripture.

As luck would have it, my 3rd Grade teacher had a Bible on her bookshelf. It took a bit, but I finally found the nerve to ask if I could use it, and to my surprise, she agreed. I would finish my work, retrieve the Bible, and write the 23rd Psalm over and over.

Day by day, line by line, I memorized the 23rd Psalm.

A couple of Sundays later, I stepped up to the microphone at Children’s Church and recited the entire passage. And yes, I took those M&Ms home.

I didn’t realize then how that passage would impact my nights and my days, but as God’s Word does, it touched me to my core.

Surprisingly to me, it came to mind as I staved off nightmares and I begin to call for my parents less and less as I drew refuge in the words,

“Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil. Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.”

In class, I would write the passage over and over on paper, practicing my handwriting and trying desperately not to get into trouble.

“He leadeth me beside the still waters, He restoreth my soul.”

And later in life, when I first set out on my own and spent nights alone in an apartment, I would pray the Psalm until a peace came over me and I could rest.

“Thou annointest my head with oil. Thy cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

Refuge.
Mine is rooted in my faith.
Do you have a refuge?

Two teachers from my high school days made quite a difference for me. One of them was my English teacher. She introduced me to Arthur Miller’s The Crucible and changed the way I felt about literature forever. For a while, I went around calling everyone Goody before their name because I thought that “Goody Proctor” was such a funny name. The other was our student government adviser who had us do amazing things as a group and let us move forth in whatever direction we chose. He even had us out to his house and we had bonfires and sweet, innocent moments where he encouraged us to find out just who we wanted to be and also how to daringly become just that.

As luck would have it, they were married to one another.

At a time when I thought life was over (I had a two year old daughter by this time, and going out was nonexistent) they provided me with lots of comfort. And hot cocoa with a plethora of marshmallows. They also allowed me to bring my young daughter with me when all the other students came to visit.

Small things like bonfires and cocoa and laughter fill my memory bank and it may seem silly, but I am forever grateful. They fortified my belief in myself and my contribution to the world (they were the best kind of hippies) but also invigorated my conviction that I wasn’t a Throw Away. As confidence builders, they were extraordinary.

Who in your past did that for you?

Sit down with marshmallow-laden hot cocoa and tell me all about it. I’ll start the fireplace.

Mrs. G. and her daughter were out shoe shopping running important errands months back. Mrs. G’s daughter was driving (she was due to get her license in a couple of weeks), and Mrs. G. was drilling her on all the safety tips she should know before she backed out of the driveway and headed off on her own for the first time. Things like: locking the door at all times, checking the backseat before she enters the car and screaming bloody murder and fighting like holy hell should some perv approach her unexpectedly in a parking lot. While Mrs. G. knows that her daughter is a cautious, quick-witted cookie and a safe and conscientious driver, she still lays in bed some nights fretting, trying to think of additional ways to keep her daughter safe. Things like: hot glue gunning airbags to the outside of the of the car or installing a maternal version of On Star, so that she can verbally check in to make sure her daughter is wearing her seat belt and obeying the speed limit and that the doors are locked and there is plenty of gas in the car. Mrs. G. can’t help it. She feels like her main job in this world is to keep her children safe.

So it struck a chord when out on their drive last week, Mrs. G’s daughter reminded her of the whistle. Years ago, when her kids were 12 and 8, Mrs. G., after much fretting and lecturing that involved traffic charts and crosswalk safety re-enactments, finally decided she would let her children walk together, holding hands, up two blocks and across a busy street to the QFC grocery store. The fact that they were willing to hold hands the entire way bears witness to how long they had been begging to make this trip alone, how desperate they were to get away from Mrs. G. purchase candy and pop on their own terms.

Mrs. G’s husband liked this idea even less than his wife, but he recognized his inclination to be overprotective and agreed to let the kids walk to the store…on one condition: they wear these gargantuan whistles around their necks.

Mrs. G’s daughter who, keep in mind, was twelve, wasn’t pleased at the idea of wearing a jumbo whistle around her neck, much less a jumbo whistle on a neon orange lanyard around her neck. It offended her sense of self-reliance and fashion. She fussed, she fumed, she cussed him behind his back mocked her dad, but she relented because, much like today, she wanted to roll with a little freedom. Mrs. G’s son didn’t care one way or the other. He was just in it for the Skittles.

“What was more frustrating than the size of the whistle,” said Mrs. G’s daughter as she drove, “was the fact that I knew it was pointless. I knew, even then, that if I blew this whistle, all that would happen is that someone in the neighborhood would hear it and think who is that idiot blowing that whistle, and when are they going to stop?”

All these years later, Mrs. G. sees her daughter’s point. The whistle really wasn’t a state-of-the-art security measure. But she also remembers her baby girl’s toothless grins and how her first steps on this earth were in the direction of her dad’s knees. Mrs. G. remembers rescuing small hands from drawers about to shut and kissing boo boos when she wasn’t there to break a fall. Mrs. G. understands that most parents will do anything, no matter how illogical, no matter how embarrassing, no matter, as in the case of Dad’s whistle, how futile, to keep their children safe. And, all in all, that’s not a bad way to parent-to do the best that you can. And then a little bit more.