“Suffer me that I may speak; and after that I have spoken, mock on"

I believe in working to increase sensitivity and understanding for the diversity we have in our country and in our world. I work very hard to do my best to be open minded and celebrate the various ways we, as human beings, find our way in and through life. Life is not easy for anyone. But it seems again that I am having to work much too hard to feel supported in return when it comes to my own chosen path, more specifically, my own strong belief in God and my devoted love for my own religious affiliation, the Roman Catholic Church. Quite frankly, we Christians (Non Catholics and Catholics alike) are too often being made fun of for who we are and what we believe. My disappointment and frustration in others brings tears to my eyes. They are tears of sadness and tears of anger, truth be told. Why must Catholics or Christians be such a common punching bag for others?

You have to understand. I’ve grown up hearing that others turned away from the church due to harsh treatment from nuns in the 50s or 60s or strict parents who made them miss out on Sunday skiing trips with friends to attend Mass. I listen patiently as others tell me of all the wrongdoings of leaders in the church. I hate such stories but I try to be understanding of such. I have been a bit of an anomaly to some, in that I have not strayed from the Catholic church in my 43 years. I remain humble but I regularly reflect on my life as a Catholic Christian woman and as is true to my personality (not necessarily my Catholic background), I scrutinize every facet of my life and work to “do better”. I know I am a “work in progress” and I try hard to be patient with myself, but I will probably never change and continue to be this way for the rest of my life. Some would be quick to call my way of living as oppression from that stereotypical “Catholic guilt”. But I don’t know. That’s just me. That’s how I am “built”.

I am tired, however, of hearing and reading of others who don’t extend to Catholics or Christians that same level of sensitivity, understanding, and open mindedness. I do not make fun of non church-goers, agnostics, or atheists, but more and more, I am feeling the effects of those who look at my belief in God or my weekly attendance at Mass as simple minded, foolish, and/or laughable. I realize that faith is a gift and that not everyone has received that gift and that I must be patient, but how do I continue to practice my faith while darting in and out of the way of those forcefully thrown daggers that continue to threaten all that I love and care about? Why is the way I live my life as a Christian Catholic woman so hard in 2011? And what hope can I have that my own children, as they grow to become adults and make their own decisions around faith, church, and being Catholic, will fight as hard as I have against the crowd to remain believers and devoted church goers, when their peers and the world at large scoff at them for being so traditional and old-fashioned, “naive” or “blind”? This troubles me greatly. Where are those fighters for the faith voicing opposition against the noise of the crowd?

This morning at Mass, Father Paul did not speak on this subject at Mass but he did make the point that our going to church gives us that help we need to live our lives with spiritual humanity and guidance. Just as we call a plumber for help with pipes in our house or an electrician for expertise in connecting power, our going to church gives us compassionate and educated guidance in making sense of our lives and our connection to God. I remember hearing from people that they don’t need that guidance in the form of a weekly homily given by a priest on Sunday morning. Well, okay. But I know one thing, I do need direction, help, and support.

No creation of Man is perfect, including the church of any religious affiliation. There’s always room for critique and questions of the Catholic church or any other house of worship. I accept this wholeheartedly. But I have to wonder what is truly at the bottom of the hearts of those who spend so much time mocking the faith and devotion of church goers, or those who enter church life. After all, every joke that is made in life, has at its heart, a sprinkling of insecurity. Does it not? How I wish I could somehow use both my gift of faith and my other talents to make more of a difference in increasing others’ acceptance of those who have faith and perhaps even encourage some to renew their own attendance at a weekly Mass at the church of their own choosing.

“Suffer me that I may speak; and after that I have spoken, mock on.” Job 21:3

The Underdogs

Saturday, September 3, 2011

It was to be expected. My daughter’s volleyball team, having only begun two years ago as a club, was playing its first game as a Varsity sport. With only a dozen or so on their team, they squared off against a team three times their size, in numbers and in what also was quickly apparent, HEIGHT.

Driving into the parking lot of the class A school where our class B team would play, we took in the appearance of the beautiful school, its sparkling exterior and interior. Our high school, in comparison and now undergoing remodeling, appears to have been hit by a bomb. Its sad and depressing appearance does little to enhance school pride by any meaning of the words. Still, we as parents stood with pride as our Varsity girls were announced and ran onto the court. We saw the size of the opposing team’s starters and just had to laugh. Clearly we were outmatched.

But what we did not have in height or even experience, we made up for in heart. I watched my daughter smile at the younger players on her team and I heard her yell to them, “Good job!” I remembered her telling me how she was taking it upon herself to boost the team’s good sportsmanship and positivity and I saw the younger girls on the team as well as her fellow juniors and seniors responding. As they lost one game after another in the two sets they played, my girl and her teammates never lost sight in supporting one another. I felt very proud.

As we jumped in the car after the game, I asked my daughter if she wished she could go to a school like the one we’d visited this morning. I was almost serious in suggesting that, if she wanted to, we could look into selling our home and moving to a different school district where the facilities speak school pride and the town’s money provides more opportunities. Emma was quick to answer me, “I’d consider it, Mom, if it were not for my friends. I don’t want to leave my friends”.

Some might think this kind of comment from a 16 year old has everything to do with insecurity in making new friends in a new school district and community. But I know that my girl would be just fine with such a challenge. What some might not realize is the fact that Emma will always fight for the underdog. She will not be easily intimidated nor will she lose focus or direction when the opposition looms large. My girl, my family, has much to do to repair what needs mending in our sad looking school. It’s time we remember our strength and purpose in fighting for the underdog.

Teaching Legs

For Friday, September 2, 2011

Each September when we return to teaching, my husband and I say we have not yet gotten our “teaching legs” back. We come home at the end of the school day, exhausted mentally and physically. We fall asleep quickly at night and as Labor Day weekend approaches, we find it tough to go anywhere, wanting to crash on the couch as if we’ve been running marathons for days straight.

Teachers often speak of having feelings of anxiety or excitement that keeps them from getting a good night’s sleep the night before school begins. I rarely have those sleeping problems but I do know that I have a heightened awareness in wanting to make an honest connection with each class that enters my classroom for the first time. Knowing this “first impression” I am making can hurt or help my rapport with each class, I try to relax and just be myself but I find myself “on stage” and wondering whether or not the audience is enjoying the show. Am I smiling enough? Am I smiling too much? Am I making eye contact with each student? Are my jokes stupid or funny? Am I trying to hard? Not trying hard enough? Did I scare them? Did I come off as a softy? It’s silly, I know, and in the following days and weeks, we’ll all get to know one another in authentic ways, but the phrase, “You never get another chance to make a first impression” always hits home with me, and I sometimes worry that I might lose someone and never get him or her back if I’m not careful. You’d think I was new to this. But no, I’ve been doing this for 21 years now.

Tonight I got home and felt that “Friday Night Coma” coming on. I fought the urge for a short time and cleaned the kitchen, did some laundry, and made spaghetti for supper. But before it was even 8 o’clock, I was saying goodnight to everyone and heading upstairs to bed. The first week of school had done it again! I’d hit the wall. Thankfully, I’d have three full days at home to recover before returning for week two.

The Gift of 15 Minutes

I am going to throw you right into what will be a regular practice in this course. I am honoring my belief that if I want to nurture you as writers, I must give you the gift of time. So beginning today, you will be given 15 minutes at the beginning of each class period to write freely. I promise not to make you read what you write. I promise not to force you to share what you write with me or anyone else. You have total control. You may enjoy this. You may not. But I believe you’ll come to appreciate this daily routine as the semester continues. I will write alongside you. I will sometimes be tempted also to do something else, but I will work each day to honor this time to write. I ask you to do the same.

These words were my first words to my semester class of Creative Writing just now. Without their laptop computers which get issued to them next week, they all found paper or a notebook and began writing with pencils and pens. One girl, after 5 minutes, closed her notebook. I didn’t press her to continue. I saw some people stop, read over what they had written, and erase or cross out something. I saw some heads resting on hands. I saw some people whose eyes were a mere six inches from their paper while others sat up straight. Glancing at people’s papers from afar I saw some had taken my suggestion of writing in list form. Most people, however wrote sentences.

Nearing the 10 minute mark, a bus started its engine outside my window. No one stirred. The young girl who had closed her notebook went into her backpack and grabbed another notebook. I was curious and waited to see if she would indeed begin writing again, she didn’t. She chose to sketch. That had been another suggestion of mine for students to do during this time. I smiled.

I began wondering if I should tell them today that I am a writer myself. I don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea. I don’t want anyone to think I am full of myself, “Oh look at me and what I write”, nor do I want anyone to feel at all intimidated. But I think it’s important that they see that I love to write. I think it’s necessary for them to know it is a passion of mine, just as theater and music are. I want them to know that I don’t only write because I like to, I write because I need to. And if they aren’t like that, that is perfectly cool, but this class is going to be one which encourages them to give my passion a chance.

With just three minutes to go, one of my students stopped writing. He sat back in his seat sideways and without speaking a sound mouthed a word or two to the girl in the next row. It was a very brief exchange then she went back to write. After no more than 30 seconds, he picked up his pen and started to write again.

With one minute to go I spoke quietly, “Okay, in the next minute if you can find a place to stop...” Pencils and pens began hitting the desks. A few people appeared to write more fervently, more quickly, as though time like this would never come again. I can relate. But it will come again. Same place, same time. Next class. On Tuesday.

Twenty Years

Yesterday I returned to work for the first Teacher Workshop day of the new school year. As part of the morning’s traditional schedule, teachers who have worked for 5, 10, 15, 20, 25, 30, or more years were recognized. I was called to the front of the gymnasium to receive a little token. I have been a full time English teacher in the district for 20 years.

There have been many times in the last twenty years when I have questioned what I am doing in this life. When my children were young I had doubts about being a working mom and fears that my children needed me at home to grow to be good people. It did not take long for me to have my worries dispelled. My children thrived. My decision to teach full time and to raise my three children with the help of some beautiful people (Janet, Alys, Bob, Denise, Darlene), may not be the right decision for everyone but I have no regrets. My babies (now aged 19, 16, 11) are indeed good people. I am a very proud Mom.

Over the past two decades, I also have second guessed my decision to enter the teaching profession. It has not been an easy career. But if I know anything at all, I know one thing: I am a damn good teacher. I don’t say this from a place of arrogance. I do not believe that every teacher should teach as I do. Rather, I simply recognize that I have made a positive impact of a large number of students in the past 20 years and doing that takes a lot of hard work, a natural set of skills, a patient and accepting personality, and great intuition. I realize I made mistakes along the way. There are bound to be former students who did not have a positive experience in my classroom. I wish I could say otherwise. And I do not know for how many more years I can do this job. I have never planned to be a teacher for the rest of my working life. I take this career one year at a time and I make absolutely no promises. But it was not a mistake for me to become a teacher and it was not a mistake for me to teach 20 years at the same high school. This I know for sure.

Confidence is a beautiful thing. It can take the shape of a sweet 16 year old student whose eyes meet the teacher’s with enthusiasm and an open heart. It can appear in a quick email sent by a college freshman to her former high school English teacher, or it can take the form of that 43 year old teacher who, despite knowing she still has a lot to learn, can still enter a classroom of teenagers with an authentic smile and an honest pledge to continue doing her very best to do right by each of them.

In a Bad Place

For Tuesday, August 30, 2011

Okay. I was in a bad place this morning. At 5:00am, I had not had a shower in three days due to Hurricane Irene having knocked out our power, and I began my day shivering as I poured cold water from a jug over my body while trying to clean off body soap. It was dark as I pulled a dress from my closet, and after balancing a flashlight on my bureau, I did my best to put on some eye makeup. I got the puppy outside, got my bags packed, left a note for my children, and after securing the puppy in her crate, I headed to school for my first Teacher Workshop day of the year.

When I reached the school, I wanted to cry. I was exhausted from two nights of disrupted sleep and anxiety. I didn’t know if it was the start of the school year or the loss of electrical power or other concerns I’ve been fretting about this summer that was causing me duress. All I knew was that I had this feeling of being utterly and completely out of control.

I tried to put everything out of my mind and after getting into my classroom, I pushed my furniture back into its proper places and unpacked school supplies. The mindless work was soothing. Sometimes just the physical act of moving boxes and clearing space does wonders for clearing one’s mind. A few colleagues stepped in to say hello and quickly asked me if I had power at home. They too had gone without power but only for a brief time. They quickly sympathized with me and offered me water, a place to shower, and whatever else I needed.

I continued to be in a daze for most of the day. But by the time the school day ended, I had had several coworkers offer me their homes for a hot shower. There were four big jugs of water for me set near my van in the parking lot. Two people made plans to loan me their generator the next day. I began remembering that despite what I’d felt at first, I was definitely NOT in a bad place. The family I have at school reminded me of what a good place I am in, whether or not I have water or electricity at home.

The Wonder of Women (and our Wardrobes)

For Monday, August 29, 2011

One of my favorite shows when I was little was Wonder Woman. Played by the beautiful Lynda Carter, I absolutely loved the television show. I even used to mimic how quickly Wonder Woman could change from her mousy drab work clothes into her dynamic red, white, and blue figure-hugging Super Hero suit! I used to entertain my friends and my big sister with my routine of removing my eye glasses, undoing my ponytail, and turning into Wonder Woman with one quick spinning act.

This morning at 10:00am it hit me. We’d nearly forgotten that Emma had a 10:40am dentist appointment at an office 40 minutes away. This was an appointment we’d already rescheduled twice. I was bound and determined she was getting there today. Never before have I so quickly seen a teenager dash upstairs to get out of her pajamas and into what was a most fashionable looking outfit! She emerged no more than three minutes later and the two of us jumped into the van and dashed to the dentist. We were just six minutes late. Emma relayed to me how her being a little late had been “No big deal” and then she proudly told me how the two women working on her teeth today had been quite interested in her stylish clothing and they’d talked about her outfit for most of her hour long appointment.

Although this is not something I care to repeat, I have to say that my daughter and I are pretty darn good at being able to throw ourselves together quickly when conditions warrant. Whether we’re off to serve justice or trying to make it to a dentist appointment, Emma and I can quickly twirl ourselves around a few times and don the perfect costume for the occasion. Men may not be able to understand the true value of this feat, but there is a certain level of pride we girls have in that we can manage to look Super Hero Fabulous when we don’t have time to waste.