I met Ben Vereen one early morning outside the Lincoln airport. Well, we didn't really meet. I just happened to see him crossing the parking lot and hollered "You're Ben Vereen!" as though he was struggling to remember that fact.
What is it about the famous and the dead that brings out our desire to pronounce our tenuous connections to them? Sure, among a very select population of people, I knew that my Ben Vereen moment would impress, but I don't think it's bragging rights we're seeking so much as it is a reminder that, in this vast collection of human souls, somehow, you and I have breathed the same air. And I was paying attention.
Lest we dismiss these intersections--however brief--one needs only scan Trinity McDonald's Facebook page to realize how important it is to acknowledge our moments together. When I heard the heartbreaking news of Trinity's death, I was one of hundreds who scoured my memories of her, locating glimpses of middle-school volleyball games, played out in a dimly-lit gym, my folding chair not far from her mother's. I have been deeply moved by the tributes that others have posted on her page, love notes whispered to a silenced friend.
Because of those tributes--those connections--I am able grieve for real people, from the daughter who could not find a way to face the weight of her sadness to the parents, siblings and friends who wonder how it is they will get out of bed today. Like well-written characters or moving lyrics, our tenuous and not-so-tenuous connections with others open us up, and we find ourselves formed and changed by these people whose paths have crossed with ours.
No, it is not bragging rights that compel us to point out our connection to the famous and the dead. Rather, it is life itself--the spark--that primal desire to right our own ships sailing upon rough waters that keeps us reaching out for common threads.
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
Sunday, October 27, 2013
Talkin' 'Bout our Generations
I can always count on Richard (not his real name) to keep the conversation interesting. One of the more intriguing student assistants I've had in the past few years, this young man--often clad in a three-piece suit--has added much to my days. Richard actively pursues knowledge, cutting-edge fashion, excellent haircuts and the soft spot in other people. A complex, somewhat cynical young man, indeed.
As much as I enjoy my interactions with him, though, those conversations occasionally remind me that--despite his seemingly adult approach to all things human--he is still young and not-yet settled in his development.
Take our Friday conversation, for instance, which focused on my wish that journalistic institutions would move away from allowing anonymous comments in their online forums, and Richard's fervent belief that nicknames--at least in these digital instances--are as important as a legal identity is irrelevant.
The conversation raised my blood pressure--and volume--at certain points.
As flawed as I thought his point to be, I also realized that it was rooted in and supported by the daily and repeated experiences that Richard has as a 17-year-old American teenager. He has, after all, grown up in an environment with 24/7 access to media outlets, venues easily accessible by tools now owned by virtually everyone except, say, the occasional 51-year-old high-school teacher too cheap to put down the Benjamins for the latest technology.
It's no wonder that the digital universe is rife with 140-character quips about everything from Nelly's newest video to a classmate's unfortunate choice of Homecoming attire.
But, still, can't a middle-aged person lament the loss of those filters and limited audiences that kept such drivel in check? Is it unreasonable for me to wish that people were held accountable for their opinions and that those opinions had certain hoops through which they jumped before being expressed on a larger scale?
I believe that Richard and I have enough respect for each other that the sometimes contentious conversation we had Friday ultimately created more of a bridge than a wall between us. At least, that's what I'm hoping.
Certainly, for me, it was a reminder of the strange, new world today's teenagers know, a world in which they can be anyone, say anything, and access heaps of once-hidden information--an exhilarating and frightening reality, all at once.
And this stodgy, out-of-touch teacher hopes that Richard now considers the awesome power and responsibility--the incredible First-Amendment flexing of one's intellectual muscles--that come with owning one's words and still sharing them, despite everything.
This is, I suppose, the kind of thing that comes with the messiness of intergenerational conversations. And, still, I look forward to seeing Richard Monday, curious about what he'll bring to the intellectual table.
As much as I enjoy my interactions with him, though, those conversations occasionally remind me that--despite his seemingly adult approach to all things human--he is still young and not-yet settled in his development.
Take our Friday conversation, for instance, which focused on my wish that journalistic institutions would move away from allowing anonymous comments in their online forums, and Richard's fervent belief that nicknames--at least in these digital instances--are as important as a legal identity is irrelevant.
The conversation raised my blood pressure--and volume--at certain points.
As flawed as I thought his point to be, I also realized that it was rooted in and supported by the daily and repeated experiences that Richard has as a 17-year-old American teenager. He has, after all, grown up in an environment with 24/7 access to media outlets, venues easily accessible by tools now owned by virtually everyone except, say, the occasional 51-year-old high-school teacher too cheap to put down the Benjamins for the latest technology.
It's no wonder that the digital universe is rife with 140-character quips about everything from Nelly's newest video to a classmate's unfortunate choice of Homecoming attire.
But, still, can't a middle-aged person lament the loss of those filters and limited audiences that kept such drivel in check? Is it unreasonable for me to wish that people were held accountable for their opinions and that those opinions had certain hoops through which they jumped before being expressed on a larger scale?
I believe that Richard and I have enough respect for each other that the sometimes contentious conversation we had Friday ultimately created more of a bridge than a wall between us. At least, that's what I'm hoping.
Certainly, for me, it was a reminder of the strange, new world today's teenagers know, a world in which they can be anyone, say anything, and access heaps of once-hidden information--an exhilarating and frightening reality, all at once.
And this stodgy, out-of-touch teacher hopes that Richard now considers the awesome power and responsibility--the incredible First-Amendment flexing of one's intellectual muscles--that come with owning one's words and still sharing them, despite everything.
This is, I suppose, the kind of thing that comes with the messiness of intergenerational conversations. And, still, I look forward to seeing Richard Monday, curious about what he'll bring to the intellectual table.
Saturday, October 26, 2013
Pupae, Not Pupils
Two weeks ago, in the East High parking lot, my friend Nancy stood in hunchbacked vigil over a magnificent caterpillar who was slowly making his way to greener pastures. Because I just can't help myself, I exited my car and joined her. Looking across the cracked pavement--broken up by weedy, dusty islands--I wondered where, exactly, those greener pastures were that he was seeking. Embedded deep inside the tread of a Firestone tire seemed to be his likeliest destination.
And so, we did the only thing two middle-aged softies could do. Nancy handed over her Tupperware container and I wrangled the fellow inside it, with the intention of bringing him to a lush Eden, where he would find respite, good eats and a sturdy stick on which he might have a chance to become something else.
That he curled up and died a few days later--despite the lush, green habitat that my daughter Allison created for him--does not diminish my belief that he wrapped up his short life on better terms than he'd found himself in when Nancy first discovered him.
In a weird way, this little story represents everything that people who work in schools experience on a regular basis. Day after day, droves of denim-clad pupae wend their way to our doors, some possessing greater potential than others. And, despite the odds and the exhaustion and the cynical, private knowledge that some will curl up in a corner long before reaching their full potential, we do our darnedest to create a fresh habitat in which they might have a chance to become something more.
What amazes me, 25 years after becoming a teacher, is that, for the most part, everyone still continues to show up each day. Even those kids with all the odds stacked up against them manage to get up and slog across the cracked earth each morning, knowing that something better--even if it's only the suggestion of something better--awaits them at 1000 S. 70th Street.
That caterpillar, complete with its scary horn and camouflage markings intended to make him both unappealing and invisible, already was beautiful to me. And it wasn't his potential that appealed to me, even though I knew that, if given a chance, he would explode into an even more awesome being--a white-lined sphinx moth.
Really, it was the fact that he showed up, despite all the odds. That's what made me love him.
And so, we did the only thing two middle-aged softies could do. Nancy handed over her Tupperware container and I wrangled the fellow inside it, with the intention of bringing him to a lush Eden, where he would find respite, good eats and a sturdy stick on which he might have a chance to become something else.
That he curled up and died a few days later--despite the lush, green habitat that my daughter Allison created for him--does not diminish my belief that he wrapped up his short life on better terms than he'd found himself in when Nancy first discovered him.
In a weird way, this little story represents everything that people who work in schools experience on a regular basis. Day after day, droves of denim-clad pupae wend their way to our doors, some possessing greater potential than others. And, despite the odds and the exhaustion and the cynical, private knowledge that some will curl up in a corner long before reaching their full potential, we do our darnedest to create a fresh habitat in which they might have a chance to become something more.
What amazes me, 25 years after becoming a teacher, is that, for the most part, everyone still continues to show up each day. Even those kids with all the odds stacked up against them manage to get up and slog across the cracked earth each morning, knowing that something better--even if it's only the suggestion of something better--awaits them at 1000 S. 70th Street.
That caterpillar, complete with its scary horn and camouflage markings intended to make him both unappealing and invisible, already was beautiful to me. And it wasn't his potential that appealed to me, even though I knew that, if given a chance, he would explode into an even more awesome being--a white-lined sphinx moth.
Really, it was the fact that he showed up, despite all the odds. That's what made me love him.
Monday, October 21, 2013
A Paultry Prayer for a Fine Friend
Dear God,
I'm a lousy pray-er. Not that you didn't know that already. But, really, I am. I mean, while other people turn to Benedryl or Ambian to get them to sleep at night, I have always turned to prayer. Give me thirty seconds of celestial thinking and--POW!--I'm out.
Then again, I'm also comfortable stopping, mid sentence, in a really good book if REM is knocking on my nocturnal door.
Clearly, I have few skills in this department. Not that you needed any reminding.
But, the thing is, I've got some folks I'd really like to say a word or two about. People who, come tomorrow, will be walking into a brand new chapter of their lives, a chapter filled with surgery and blood and pain and healing and all kinds of things that I frankly can't really imagine.
How to say the right prayer, though? It often comes down to that.
It's not that I don't think you are capable of pulling a rabbit--or a cure or maybe even a miracle--from your hat. But I'm not sure I'm the one who should be asking you to do those things. Maybe it's my Midwestern roots, too humble, too non-confrontational to get pissy or bossy or demanding with you.
It's not the first time I've faced this spiritual quandry. What to ask for? What to ask for? I really struggled with that when my friend Tracey was winding up her life and I wondered what it was I could seek from you. That's when I settled on the kind of noncommittal word "healing," as though I could toss a warm, comforting blanket over all the needs and fears that Tracey and her family faced during those long days and nights.
Maybe, I told myself, "healing" could mean "acceptance" or "strength," or "laughter" or "peace." And so, that's what I asked of you during those hard days. For a little of what we all want--the strength, the laughter, the peace to get through our days, all wrapped up in a Godly sheen that made it seem like something bigger, something that could be "enough."
So, anyway. Back to my friend, Mary Kay. You already know that she is funny and smart and irreverent (but in a really good kind of way). You already know that she's just an all-around terrific and awesome person and that--because she is who she is--she even was kind enough to pass along those same qualities to her offspring and husband.
Yeah, she's got cancer and that pretty much sucks. But she's approaching it with the same attitude she has approached her ridiculously-involved family's schedules all these years--with humor and practicality.
Any chance you could send a few other things their way? Like strength and peace and heaping helpings of hope? And, while I'm at it, I'd appreciate it if you could give her surgical team a really good night's sleep, along with some awesome dreams and maybe even some bacon and eggs tomorrow morning, so that they are feeling "in the zone" when they show up for their first patient. Who is my very good friend, Mary Kay.
Whom I think you already know. Probably really, really well. Yeah, she's that kind of person.
I'm sending these thoughts your way and I haven't even had dinner yet. That's because, come 8:30, I am simply too weak and pathetic to form complete sentences to send your general direction. I hope you'll excuse the breach and do what you do best. You know, give folks the strength to put their feet to the floor tomorrow morning.
And for many, many mornings to follow.
Sincerely,
Jane Holt
Your C Student on Woods Avenue
I'm a lousy pray-er. Not that you didn't know that already. But, really, I am. I mean, while other people turn to Benedryl or Ambian to get them to sleep at night, I have always turned to prayer. Give me thirty seconds of celestial thinking and--POW!--I'm out.
Then again, I'm also comfortable stopping, mid sentence, in a really good book if REM is knocking on my nocturnal door.
Clearly, I have few skills in this department. Not that you needed any reminding.
But, the thing is, I've got some folks I'd really like to say a word or two about. People who, come tomorrow, will be walking into a brand new chapter of their lives, a chapter filled with surgery and blood and pain and healing and all kinds of things that I frankly can't really imagine.
How to say the right prayer, though? It often comes down to that.
It's not that I don't think you are capable of pulling a rabbit--or a cure or maybe even a miracle--from your hat. But I'm not sure I'm the one who should be asking you to do those things. Maybe it's my Midwestern roots, too humble, too non-confrontational to get pissy or bossy or demanding with you.
It's not the first time I've faced this spiritual quandry. What to ask for? What to ask for? I really struggled with that when my friend Tracey was winding up her life and I wondered what it was I could seek from you. That's when I settled on the kind of noncommittal word "healing," as though I could toss a warm, comforting blanket over all the needs and fears that Tracey and her family faced during those long days and nights.
Maybe, I told myself, "healing" could mean "acceptance" or "strength," or "laughter" or "peace." And so, that's what I asked of you during those hard days. For a little of what we all want--the strength, the laughter, the peace to get through our days, all wrapped up in a Godly sheen that made it seem like something bigger, something that could be "enough."
So, anyway. Back to my friend, Mary Kay. You already know that she is funny and smart and irreverent (but in a really good kind of way). You already know that she's just an all-around terrific and awesome person and that--because she is who she is--she even was kind enough to pass along those same qualities to her offspring and husband.
Yeah, she's got cancer and that pretty much sucks. But she's approaching it with the same attitude she has approached her ridiculously-involved family's schedules all these years--with humor and practicality.
Any chance you could send a few other things their way? Like strength and peace and heaping helpings of hope? And, while I'm at it, I'd appreciate it if you could give her surgical team a really good night's sleep, along with some awesome dreams and maybe even some bacon and eggs tomorrow morning, so that they are feeling "in the zone" when they show up for their first patient. Who is my very good friend, Mary Kay.
Whom I think you already know. Probably really, really well. Yeah, she's that kind of person.
I'm sending these thoughts your way and I haven't even had dinner yet. That's because, come 8:30, I am simply too weak and pathetic to form complete sentences to send your general direction. I hope you'll excuse the breach and do what you do best. You know, give folks the strength to put their feet to the floor tomorrow morning.
And for many, many mornings to follow.
Sincerely,
Jane Holt
Your C Student on Woods Avenue
Sunday, October 13, 2013
The Rues of the Game
For every action, there is a reaction.
For every shutdown--doors slammed closed simply to make a point--there is an unsuspecting everyman who pays a great price.
For every moment--planned and unplanned--there is memory, tinged with hope and regret.
For every move my daughter makes to place herself closer to the future, I hold my breath, catching a glimpse of friends and school ties, teams and teachers fuzzying around the edges of her recent past.
For every day I check off of the calendar, I hold tight not to rue a future much different than this very moment. A future with a son stretched and set across oceans--competent and able, but a son, nonetheless. Ruing a time without children and their polyblend leavings cluttering up the floors.
For every action--however bold and beautiful--re-action is more exhausting still. I do not care to live in response to this life, but rather as a partner with it. Hand in hand, albeit dragging my feet a bit, at times.
And so, let me nudge my children to the door today, knowing that the tomato-horn caterpillar, the naked cicada burrowing deep into the earth, the cardinal fledgling teetering on the feeder--that all of these things hold greater promise still, stories buried deep within them that need time and patience, warmth and freedom to break loose.
Let me not get in the way of this wildly spinning earth, its grey-blue systems humming in place, creatures acting and reacting in cosmic union, as the plan writes itself onto the winds.
For every shutdown--doors slammed closed simply to make a point--there is an unsuspecting everyman who pays a great price.
For every moment--planned and unplanned--there is memory, tinged with hope and regret.
For every move my daughter makes to place herself closer to the future, I hold my breath, catching a glimpse of friends and school ties, teams and teachers fuzzying around the edges of her recent past.
For every day I check off of the calendar, I hold tight not to rue a future much different than this very moment. A future with a son stretched and set across oceans--competent and able, but a son, nonetheless. Ruing a time without children and their polyblend leavings cluttering up the floors.
For every action--however bold and beautiful--re-action is more exhausting still. I do not care to live in response to this life, but rather as a partner with it. Hand in hand, albeit dragging my feet a bit, at times.
And so, let me nudge my children to the door today, knowing that the tomato-horn caterpillar, the naked cicada burrowing deep into the earth, the cardinal fledgling teetering on the feeder--that all of these things hold greater promise still, stories buried deep within them that need time and patience, warmth and freedom to break loose.
Let me not get in the way of this wildly spinning earth, its grey-blue systems humming in place, creatures acting and reacting in cosmic union, as the plan writes itself onto the winds.
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
A Mother's Vigil
Sarah Piccolo
It is 2:54
and I am awake,
a stranger standing vigil for you.
There is no comfort in tonight's blanket of stars
--too silent
and me, too small.
I am a mother, and that is enough,
knowing you are out there, untethered.
I whisper these words
in hopes that their long, lettery fingers
will alight upon you and let you know
that you are not alone.
Not even now,
when the inky black skies feel heavy with doom.
It is 2:54 and I am troubled by the tilt of this world,
subtle and off kilter.
Nudged awake by a frightened girl
who is huddled and haunted by
contents under pressure
I do not know how it is, Sarah Piccolo,
that--despite everything--
there is a sun making its way to us right now,
extending its warmth and its light
--great heaps of love and forgiveness--
even to us,
these broken souls under pressure.
A thousand mothers stand vigil for you tonight,
Sarah Piccolo,
wanting you to be there for the morning.
It is 2:54
and I am awake,
a stranger standing vigil for you.
There is no comfort in tonight's blanket of stars
--too silent
and me, too small.
I am a mother, and that is enough,
knowing you are out there, untethered.
I whisper these words
in hopes that their long, lettery fingers
will alight upon you and let you know
that you are not alone.
Not even now,
when the inky black skies feel heavy with doom.
It is 2:54 and I am troubled by the tilt of this world,
subtle and off kilter.
Nudged awake by a frightened girl
who is huddled and haunted by
contents under pressure
I do not know how it is, Sarah Piccolo,
that--despite everything--
there is a sun making its way to us right now,
extending its warmth and its light
--great heaps of love and forgiveness--
even to us,
these broken souls under pressure.
A thousand mothers stand vigil for you tonight,
Sarah Piccolo,
wanting you to be there for the morning.
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