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Six Degrees of Sadness
Six Degrees of Separation
They say there are six degrees of separation.
“Everyone is on average approximately six steps away, by way of introduction, from any other person on Earth,..” ~ Wikipedia
I believe this to be true. One way or another, we’re all connected; especially when it comes to what happened on 9/11. Looking back, I’m certain that so many of us, knew somebody or knows somebody who knew somebody.
I knew somebody.
So many years later I still can’t talk about that day without becoming overwhelmed with emotion. I know I’m not alone.
Writing about it is almost as difficult.
I tried to think of something else to write about this week but the memories of that day are at the forefront of my mind and heart right now. I wouldn’t attempt to try to write about the profound loss of our sons and daughters, fathers and husbands, mothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, colleagues and friends.
I couldn’t.
All week long there’s been articles, photos, video, reports and documentaries reliving those events. I didn’t watch them.
I still can’t.
The point of contact between the planes and all three buildings is indelibly embedded in my mind.
I don’t want to see it again — ever.
There were however, a few poignant moments when I was alone that day that will linger in my mind’s eye forever; moments that caused me to pause and take notice; moments that changed my life.
I was at home with my two children; my daughter who was 6-months and my son who was 2 ½ years-old. I had the TV on, although I don’t remember what I was watching. It was interrupted by “live coverage” of the first Tower, just after it was hit by the first plane.
It seemed unlikely, odd. I couldn’t fathom the possibility of it. I was trying to make sense of what I was hearing when something surreal and horrific happened.
I watched the second plane hit the second Tower.
I remember being very confused and thinking…
“What are they doing? How are they showing something that just happened a few minutes ago?
How could somebody get this video?”
And as quickly as the thoughts passed through my mind, it hit me.
This couldn’t be video tape from the first plane because I could still see the black smoke coming from first Tower. This was live coverage. This plane was hitting the second Tower. It was a second plane crashing into the second tower and it was happening, right now!
My eyes could see the events unfolding but my mind couldn’t comprehend their reality. I could hear the reporter in the background saying with disbelief, that this was happening right now but I didn’t understand.
There were so many surreal moments that day.
Later, as I sat on our porch smoking a cigarette trying to process what I had just seen on television, I had the realization that my life, our lives as we knew them would never be the same. An overwhelming feeling of sadness slowly began to overtake the initial feelings of horror and fear that I had. Understanding of what I saw, found its way to my brain. Now, when I recall that slow, creeping feeling of sadness, I think about how Ron Weasley described the presence of the Dementors on the Hogwarts Train;
“I felt weird, like I’d never be cheerful again”.
That’s what it was like for me. I couldn’t imagine being cheerful again.
While I sobbed uncontrollably for what happened, for what I saw and for what I felt, the deafening sound of silence surrounded itself around me. The quiet in the skies was unsettling. The more I noticed it, the louder it became. You don’t notice or really pay attention to the activity in the skies until it ceases. It gave me a sense of isolation which created a fear in me, I’ve never experienced before. I will never forget that haunting, echoing sound of nothing when no plane was allowed to fly in our otherwise free, blue skies.
On the porch that day, while my babies napped peacefully, I smoked a cigarette and mourned for the feeling of security I didn’t realize I had until I lost it, a feeling I knew my children would never know.
For weeks afterward, the winds carried the smell of death up the Hudson River. It was a smoldering, horrific stench that sat, heavy in the air. Unlike anything I’ve ever smelled before, or since, it was a foul and constant reminder of the devastation and loss our nation suffered.
Everyone I know, knows somebody or knows somebody who knows somebody.
There are six degrees of separation, they say. Six people between you and I, as strangers before an introduction. The world we live in is a small one. One way or another, we’re all connected.
I knew Somebody.
We all knew somebody.
Photo Credit #1: Six Degrees of Separation
Photo Credit #2: World Trade Center
Photo Credit #3: Connected
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To Take the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge Or Not!
©2014 KarenSzczukaTeich & TakingTheWorldOnWithASmile.com
All this hype about the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge, is it a good thing or not?
Well, if nothing else, it’s spreading ALS awareness across the country faster than the speed of light and, if nothing else, THAT’S A GOOD THING! But thankfully, that’s not the only thing it’s doing. Americans are a giving people. They always have been a giving people and as of today, Americans participating in the Ice Bucket Challenge phenomenon have inspired unprecedented “giving” to the ALS cause. ALS: Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis or more commonly known as Lou Gehrig’s Disease is an attack of the nerve cells in the brain and spinal cord that control voluntary muscle movement. Most people diagnosed with ALS usually die within three to five years from the onset of symptoms.
©2014 KarenSzczukaTeich & TakingTheWorldOnWithASmile.com
So, what exactly is the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge? The challenge is this: people make a video of themselves dumping a bucket of ice water over their heads, post it on social media and then challenge three or four friends to do the same within 24-hours or donate $100 to ALS. Here’s the rub: MOST PEOPLE DO BOTH! Or at least they donate some amount. Both of my teenagers took the challenge AND donated $25 each to the ALS Association. Think about that. Think about all these awesome teenagers who are just waiting to be “challenged” on social media by friends and, who might donate about $25 each, to boot!
Give them the opportunity to do good and they will. Add the likes of Jimmy Fallon, LeBron James, Bill Gates, Taylor Swift, NFL players from the NY Giants and over 300,000 NEW DONORS to the ice bucket mix, you end up with millions of dollars, well over $15 million dollars in fact, being donated to the ALS Association as a result of the Ice Bucket Challenge in less than two months! That’s about 14 million dollars more than was raised during the same time period last year.
That, is a good thing!
As a parent, this is the kind of social media craze I WANT my kids to take part in.
©2014 KarenSzczukaTeich & TakingTheWorldOnWithASmile.com
In effect, the concept is brilliant. Thanks to 29-year old Pete Frates and his friend Pat Quinn, both of whom have ALS and both of whom are largely responsible for turning the trend viral and into what is now, a mega fund-raiser for this disease.
That’s a good thing.
So go ahead, take the challenge! In fact, I nominate YOU! I double, triple DARE you!
Just want to donate? You can donate on the ALS Association website: HERE
Completely unrelated to the “Challenge” but related in a serendipitous way to this post, I mentioned Lou Gehrig’s Disease in my last post Full Circle. Goodness is perpetuated again.
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George
In the new storefront a man stood in front of the huge glass window watching people, including us, walk by his establishment. My eyes met his as we passed and then I couldn’t help but notice the two, large, empty chairs that sat in front of mirrors behind him. There was a quiet look of discontent on his face. I felt bad for him. This poor man I thought, wondering how he could have chosen this location.
Doesn’t he know?
We had an appointment two doors down from the empty store where there was a bustle of activity. It was busy here and even though we had called in advance, there were three people ahead of us, waiting patiently, for his time. He glanced up stopping what he was doing, only for a moment as we entered and offered a substitute, as he usually does.
As usual, we thanked him and respectfully declined.
It will be a while, he said.
It’s Okay. We’ll wait.
You can’t be in a rush when you come to see this man. You don’t want to be in a rush.
Finally, he beckoned us over. I took my place, off to the side. Shortly after, the discussions began. I listened intently, chiming in occasionally as they spoke of worldly things like the flu epidemic and how dangerous it can be for sick people to be in the hospital. Margaret Thatcher’s passing was brought up and he talked about her great personal achievements and the contributions she made to the advancement of women and our political world.
Then his thoughts turned to North Korea.
What do you think of this guy, Kim Jong Un? Do you think he’s being influenced by the men that used to rule with his father? How do you think the US will respond if he fires a nuclear missile?
He was genuinely interested in my son’s response and in the 30-minutes that the job took, there was a lively exchange of meaningful topics. Solutions to some of the world’s biggest problems were flirted. It’s always interesting to hear his views but fascinating to watch this man’s skill, as all the while, he continues laboring, never missing a beat, meticulously working his craft like the artist that he is, coming back several times to the same spot until it looks or feels just right. He’s consistent and a constant. He’s reliable; a friend and the only person we’ve ever trusted with this task. And despite the seriousness of his work and the broadness of the topics he covers, it always begins with the same question, prompting the same response.
April 2013
What number will it be today, Noah?…
…is the question.
Number two….
…is the answer.
April 2013
At least it has been, for the last 14 years.
Noah’s first haircut with George ~ December 1999
Photo Credit #1 Google Images
Photo Credit #2 -#3 Karen Szczuka Teich & Takingtheworldonwithasmile.com
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Phil Said So
Have you heard? Spring is coming.
Phil said so.
I love mankind. We’re obsessed with advancing. We’ve figured out how to send folks to the moon. We can see our friends and family in other states and countries while we speak to them through our computers. We can send instant messages across the world by email and clean our floors with a small round mechanical orb without ever getting our fingers dirty. Yet, when it comes to identifying the natural progression of one season to the next (on the East Coast anyway) we regress to ancient German folklore and the belief that groundhogs have the ability to prognosticate the upcoming weather. That’s right, instead of using the latest in weather-related technology, we gather en mass and in celebration, since 1886 in fact, to rely on the prediction of an over-grown, over-weight, hairy rodent who’s been pulled out of his hole every February 2nd at Gobbler’s Knob in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania for the last 127 years. Did I mention this animal doesn’t hiss, purr, bark, snort, speak or text? Indeed, whether we hang on to our woolies or break out our shorts all depends on what he, Punxsutawney Phil does. It’s six more weeks of winter if he sees his shadow, Spring if he doesn’t! And, it’s all done rather cryptically, in the blink of an eye, in front of 20,000 live spectators and a few million television viewers.
Mysterious looking men, members of the Inner Circle, wearing black top hats and long coats gather before a swelling crowd. It’s said that Phil talks to the president of the Inner Circle through Groundhogese. A Leader in the Circle then translates to the crowd. I watched it unfold myself, the whole 4-minutes of it. One minute no groundhog. The next, he was being pulled out of Gobbler’s Knob. A minute later an old scroll was unfurled, the Leader began to read and voila:
“There is no shadow to see. An early spring for you and me!”
Winter is over.
It’s true. He said so. Phil, the groundhog. In Punxsutawney. I didn’t hear him say it but they said he did. Even though the thermometer read 19° while he was not seeing his shadow and the forecast for tonight is snow, Spring is coming.
Phil said so. 🙂
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Confessions of a Catholic School Survivor
Bless the beasts and the children
For in this world they have no voice
They have no choice
Bless the beasts and the children
For the world can never be
The world they see
She was tucking the light-yellow and blue plastic container of Vaseline Intensive Care back into a drawer of her desk and we had barely returned to the hardwood chair that uncomfortably attached itself to our desks, when over the PA system came the voice of doom. The announcement demanded that all the girls who’d been to the third floor bathroom in the last ten-minutes come to the school’s auditorium, immediately!
The pock-marked, red-faced teacher who’d just finished slathering cream all over her angry face and whose first words to me after reading my name on the roster for the first time in her 7th grade math class were, “Oh, no! Not another one. You’d better not be like your sister!” eyed us suspiciously. Without a word she nodded toward the classroom door and myself and the girl I’d just been excused with immediately rose.
I will never understand why teachers who don’t like children teach. They seem to enjoy being mean or hurtful. It’s sadistic and kids can always tell who they are.
This girl and I were quite different and while I wouldn’t say we were the best of friends, we were, friendly. Confusion and fear ran through my 12-year-old body as we came upon the two fifth-graders whose entry into the girl’s room only minutes ago, prompted us to quickly discard the evidence. My heart was racing and my brain was in overdrive. Did they say something? They couldn’t have. They wouldn’t be called here with us if they did. Besides, like two little kittens cornered by a pit bull, they were clearly shaking with fear. It was all I could do to keep my fear from being as transparent as theirs.
The auditorium was dark and empty of people although we stood at the back of what seemed like endless rows of gray, metal folding chairs that stopped right in front of the big black piano that rested itself off to the side of the stage. In the distance came the echoing of footsteps clapping steadily over the hard, cold, stone floors. The door swung open and she walked in. With an ever present “gotcha” attitude and a permanently stern look on her face, she glanced us over in one terse swoop as we stood nervously in a row, all wearing the same white collared blouses beneath regulation sweaters and plaid skirts that varied in length, above and below the knee.
I think you know why you are here, she said, confidently. Can anyone tell me what was going on in the third floor bathroom? Does anyone have anything to say?
No one spoke.
Okay, maybe this will help, she said and she pulled from her pocket as only a vice principal in charge of being the heavy can, a white tissue, neatly folded into a rectangle. Do you know what this is? She asked.
Of course we didn’t know! How could we know? We were scared, witless to her antics and worried about our fates for crying-out-loud! We stood there gaping at her treasure as she slowly and quite dramatically unfolded the tissue. In her Perry Mason moment she revealed the evidence we had discarded only minutes ago.
Full props for her unexpected display of shock and awe. Her quick reaction and immediate response brought the perpetrators directly to her lair.
We had immediately discarded the evidence. Actually, my friend threw it out the window in a panic when we heard the bathroom door opening and the two fifth graders came in. Now, here it was before us, stained with the glaring, red markings that obviously pointed to at least one of us. I wasn’t allowed to wear make-up to school and the fifth graders were too young, but there she stood, my friendly schoolmate, smiling her deep, red, shiny smile, as we viewed the incredible, half-smoked cigarette butt that held the imprint of my friend’s lipstick-laden, lips.
Unbelievable! How was this possible? What are the chances of throwing a half-smoked cigarette butt out of a third floor bathroom window only to have it land on the concrete ledge of the vice principal’s open window, while she was sitting in her office?
A gazillion to one, maybe?
Evidently pleased with herself, she carefully re-folded her prize and in another dramatic moment, told us she was going to leave us alone for a few minutes and let us talk it over.
Slaughter to the altar.
I can’t speak to Catholic School these days but the one I went to thirty-years ago reveled in discipline and there was without doubt, a constant, underlying movement to instill the fear to behave in otherwise good kids. As a child functioning under those conditions, you tend to find yourself in a perpetual state of “survival-mode” knowing that anything you do or say could be deemed bad. When it’s evident that the truth will not set you free but possibly get you expelled or left with a permanent mark on your record or worse, a tarnished reputation, you make another choice.
For right or for wrong and without a single word being uttered between us, in her two-minute absence, collectively, we made a decision on how this was going to go. When she returned, it was apparent that she fully expected the culprit(s) to have cracked and step forward or be offered up by the others so that she could swoop down and usher the fallen-soul to the next level of punishment.
Instead however, we presented her with a force she was clearly unprepared for.
There was no crying or finger-pointing. On the contrary, she was met with silence.
Well? She said, impatiently
Nothing.
We said nothing. We were silent, the four of us and the vice principal who sometimes wore two different shoes to school and whose forehead was now growing red with frustration, didn’t know what to do. Clearly the evidence pointed to at least one of us but there were in fact four of us in that bathroom and no one was giving the other up.
After several minutes of agonizing silence, she reluctantly dismissed us and never a word was spoken about it again, by anyone.
I’m not saying you shouldn’t step up and take responsibility for your actions but I don’t regret the decision we made that day not to speak up. We were all pretty good kids who were often treated in a not-so-good way by some of the adults in our lives.This was after all, the same school that called my parents in to convey their concern for my then six-year old brother after he drew a black Jesus Christ. Aside from the fact that because of the climate we know Jesus lived in there’s no doubt he was a brown-skinned man, when asked by my parents why he drew Jesus black, he said it was the only crayon he could find.
Bless the beasts and the children
Give them shelter from the storm
Keep them safe
Keep them warm
~ Richard Carpenter & John Bettis
Photo Credits #1-4 Google Images
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All About Football
This week, it’s all about football. As it should be.
Super Bowl Sunday after all, boasts more than 100-million viewers. And that’s not including those who will for the first time, be able to get the game streamed-live through their computers or on their androids through Verizon’s NFL Mobile app this year. Many viewers will tune in simply to catch the commercials that are selling for upwards of $3.5 million dollars for a 30-second spot. Others will gather in front of their screens or phones, to watch Madonna during half-time, in hopes of witnessing something spectacular. Super Bowl Sunday has something for everyone.
Like baseball and apple-pie, football is a staple of Americana.
My 13-year-old son played on his first football team this past fall and admittedly, I entered the season with a fair amount of trepidation and skepticism. I had my doubts to say the least and even cried foul! on parental interference after witnessing arguments amongst parents and overhearing less-than-encouraging remarks spewed from a dad’s lips to his son’s ears from the stands during a scrimmage. And of course, there were those few pre-game injuries that left “worry” all over me. But it wasn’t about me. It was about letting go and supporting my boy’s passion. Thankfully, the drama was quickly squelched when his three coaches gathered parents and players together and put forth a team “code-of-conduct” that had the distinct air of –if you don’t like it, you can leave– attached to it. This, for the most part, put the ka-bash on future parental outbursts. These men meant business and would stand for nothing less than 100% from everyone. Parents included.
I’m okay with accountability.
As a parent you try to teach your child to take responsibility, be fair, honest and work hard to achieve their goals. For the first two weeks of practice, my boy came home bruised and swollen, dirty and tired. He endured grueling 3-hour practices everyday during the month of August and three days a week from September until the end of November. He was expected to maintain a passing grade average and had to submit school reports to his coaches for review. The integrity of his coaches gave me a new-found appreciation for the game, overall. Along with game-play-strategies, life lessons were taught and there was an in-your-face demand on each player, to show up ready to give it their all, every time.
I am also okay with placing high expectations on kids who are capable.
Knights @ Marist College against White Plains. My boy is center #22.
The emphasis was on the team and while they absolutely protected their quarterback, they also hailed the guys that ran, blocked and threw for him. Maybe this isn’t news to you all but it sure was for me. The best part is that while I had my suspicions that I was liking what this sport was doing for my son’s overall character, the real evidence surfaced in December, when the football league gave him an award for maintaining a 92% or above, average during the season and later that month at his parent/teacher conference. Students participate in their conferences at his school and after his adviser acknowledged his ability to keep-up his schoolwork while playing soccer for the school and the town, as well as Pop Warner football, simultaneously, he asked my son what he felt football did for him this season. I was pretty blown away, not to mention proud when he came out with something that closely resembled this:
When I started to play football I wanted to be the one to get the touchdown but I realized that even if my part in a play is small, if I don’t do my best to execute it, it could effect the whole team and whether or not we win. If we all do our part, we all will benefit from it because we’re a team.
Coming from the boy who proclaimed he would be playing for the NFL long before he every wore his first pair of shoulder pads, I was impressed that the importance of being a team-player was one of the values he came away with. He got it.
He’s since changed his mind and no longer wants to be an NFL player but he will always be a superstar to me.
This year I’ll watch the game with a slightly different eye, one that sees beyond the price of a 30-second commercial spot or the half-time glitz and glamor. I will actually watch the game and the players and hope to see some of the determination and heart that I saw these young boys display week after week last fall, to where their efforts propelled them into the NFC Pop Warner Conference Championship. This year, I’ll look for strategy behind the play and know that it wasn’t achieved without hard work and pain, camaraderie and trust. There’s more to it, I’ve learned, than just running a ball from one end of the field to the other.
Whether you’re a Patriots or a Giants fan, sit back and relax!
Enjoy the game and may the best team win! Whomever that may be…..
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What We’re Made Of
The memory of the ice-skating shop I referenced in last week’s post and the brilliant recall of its name, The Skate Exchange, which was revealed to me in a conversation I had this week, stirred-up some childhood memories that will no doubt come in handy.
Tell me a story, mom.
Every night when I lay with her for a few minutes at bedtime, my ten-year old daughter still asks me to tell her a story. She’s not looking for Little Red Riding Hood or Goldilocks, she wants to hear about my childhood, like how we used to jump fences when we were running from Dobermans in the gravel yard and whose kiss was the best when I played Spin-The-Bottle in the 7th grade. It’s fascinating to her and very different to how and where she’s being raised. Nestled neatly in the suburbs, an hour-and-a-half outside of the big city, there are no sidewalks for her to walk to school on, no empty lots to take a shortcut through, no bicycle to ride to a friend’s house. She doesn’t hangout on the street corner where the local deli is or come home when the sun goes down. She gets driven everywhere.
Beacon Hall ~ The building I grew up in.
She has no idea what it’s like to live in a five-story apartment building, in the summer, on the 4th floor, with no elevator. I’m not sure she even knows what a dumb-waiter is or can imagine how we used it to send garbage from our apartment to the basement or pulley-up groceries and kids occasionally. Nor can she fathom the advantages of apartment-living, how great it can be for trick-or-treating and getting a game of kick-ball together, on the fly, with the gaggle of kids that resided within. Her entire class of 3rd, 4th and 5th graders combined don’t make a whole team. Woods with trails where deer live is her backyard. In-door pools and lakes are where she swims. She’s never seen a beach laden with tar that could only be found on the rooftop of an apartment building.
Tar Beach. It’s where we carried heavy, wet loads of wash to, two-flights-up because we had no dryer and because that’s where our and all the other tenants’ clotheslines were. It’s where you could go to escape from your crowded apartment and find solace for a while, maybe even meet up with a neighbor and chat a bit.
In the summer, the sweltering heat would leave a steamy haze over the roof’s flooring, partially melting the sticky-gooey-black glue in the uneven lines where the tar was laid extra thick to patch up cracks or small holes. If you were foolish enough to go up there barefoot, which we so often were, you’d quickly scorch the bottoms of your feet, leaving them blackened and raw, after a desperate attempt to find a shady spot somewhere across the rooftop to rest and cool your toes on. Sometimes we’d bring a towel and a bottle of Johnson’s baby-oil up with our load, choosing to fry for the hour it took for the clothes to dry. It was a fast but painful way of getting a “tan”, as we always ended up red instead of brown at that hour’s end. Those were the worst of burns.
Tar Beach was where we brought our lawn chairs to watch the fire works on the 4th of July. It was the temporary home to Secret Servicemen and government snipers when President Nixon’s motorcade drove down Main Street, right passed our building in 1972.
President Nixon's Visit to New Rochelle in 1972
And it was from our Tar Beach that a woman in her early 40s purposely plunged to her death, landing in the same asphalt parking lot behind our building where we played our kick-ball games. Her name was Virginia Coombs and her mom was the Bubble Gum Lady who lived on the 2nd floor. All you had to do was knock on her door and when she opened it, she’d hand you a piece of Bazooka bubble gum from the drawer of a little wooden table she had against the wall near her apartment door. No words needed to be exchanged, expect “thank-you,” of course. She knew why we were knocking.
I didn’t know the Bubble Gum Lady had a daughter who’d been married.
I was eight or nine-years old when that happened. A few hours after her death, two men came and shoveled her remains into the bed of a red pick-up truck. I know this because I watched them do it from my bedroom window. I had to figure out how to process what I saw, myself because no one ever explained to me what happened to Virginia Coombs that day.
I chose to pray for her.
I still do, which is why I remember her name.
Tar Beach. It was from there that if no one was home when we got home from school, my siblings and I would climb down the wrought-iron fire-escape to a 4th floor, bedroom window in order to get into our apartment when we forgot our key. I remember doing this and being petrified while doing it too. I’m afraid of heights. It’s only a miracle that none of us fell and perished, ourselves.
Maybe there really is something to the old saying, “If it doesn’t kill you, it will make you stronger.”
I think it’s the experiences of our childhood and how we process them that help define what we’re made of; the good, the not so good, the scary, the sad, the joyful. All these things contribute to who we are as adults. Our childhood helps build our character. It’s there, where we learn to use humor to protect ourselves, where we learn about compassion and empathy and most of all, love. Sometimes the purest kind of love can stem from that spin-the-bottle-kiss that you remember so fondly. The kind that lasts a lifetime.
My daughter will never have the same kinds of experiences I had. She’s not meant to.
She has her own.
But she loves to hear about mine and through them, some of them anyway, I hope she’ll get a glimpse of what helped me, make me, who I am.
Photo Credit #1 Beacon Hall
Photo Credit #2 Clothes Line
Photo Credit #3 Nixon in New Rochelle 1972
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9 Is An Awkward Number
I was elated when I signed the binder in August to unit #9 in the development I now live in. Aside from the surreal-ness of the event itself, I’d never negotiated the price of a home with a Realtor before and frankly, all things considered, I was quite happy with what we were able to agree upon.
There was just one, okay maybe two snags….
I was trying not to think about it but my 10-year-old conscience couldn’t let it rest.
I love it mom. I really do but I don’t really like the number nine. It’s awkward, nine. You know?
I know.
And there was the matter of the huge, electrical box that was smack-in-the-middle of the hallway downstairs. I guess I overlooked it in my excitement but it looked terrible.
The model didn’t have that.
“You can put a picture over it,” the Realtor said with a tooth-sparkling smile and a twinkle in his eye.
Yes, I was elated that night and I couldn’t sleep.
No matter how much I tried to ignore it, that damned electrical box kept popping into my head and let’s face it, 9 is an awkward number. Well, it’s not my favorite anyway. It just didn’t feel right for us.
It was the model that grabbed us when we first saw it on one of our many apartment hunting, house-dwelling-seeking adventures last summer. No one was around but the door was open when we stopped by, so we let ourselves in to explore and it truly was, love at first sight. It also seemed like a pipe-dream, an impossibility. But somehow, it came about. It was the model that we loved. It was the model that we wanted. So the next morning I called the Realtor and told him I changed my mind. I would not be taking number 9 but I would take the model with a few changes. Done. Number 9 was not meant to be. Number 7 was and number 7 happens to be my favorite number.
Native A
mericans believe that upon birth an animal’s spirit enters into that person and becomes their spirit or totem animal. This is the animal that is with you and guides you for life, both in the physical and spiritual world. Both of my children and myself in fact, were taught the process of finding our totems from a Naturalist who taught many kids at their school. He also taught them how to track people and animals in the woods, build a shelter from twigs, branches and leaves and camouflage themselves for protection. Not bad things to know, considering we live in the woodsier part of our state.
The duty of your spirit animal is to keep you strong and wise as well as to help you excel in matters of attributes given to that animal.
My daughter’s spirit animal is the Doe.
A Deer is an animal of love, tenderness and swiftness. The deer is a messenger of serenity, can see between shadows and hear what isn’t being said. They are a power animal, a symbol of gentleness, unconditional love, kindness and innocence. The deer teaches us to use the power of gentleness to touch the hearts and minds of wounded beings who are in our lives.
This doesn’t surprise me.
Two years ago I took my daughter into one of those “dark” shops in a small town, Upstate USA, where they sell black velor capes and you can buy mixtures of healing powders and herbs. A place where you can purchase all kinds of crystals and where they burn incense. We went for our first hennas and when the woman took Hannah’s hand to make the drawing, she seemed a bit startled and paused. She looked at Hannah and asked her if her hand always tingled like that. Hannah seemed surprised the woman noticed and answered “yes”.
The woman looked at me, smiled and said, “She has healing hands.”
Also, not surprising.
So what do I make of this? Well, maybe it’s a coincidence that my favorite number is seven and that’s the number that sits on our front door now. Or maybe it’s a coincidence that my daughter’s spirit animal is a Doe and the street we now live on has Doe in its name. And maybe it’s even a coincidence that the first evening we were here together we saw an actual doe in our back yard from our living room window.
Maybe.
Or maybe what’s meant to be will be, there really is a master plan and even if we can’t find it, it finds us.
What do you think?
Photo Credit #1: Google Images Number 9
Photo Credit #2: Google Images Lucky Number 7
Photo Credit #3: Google Images Spirit Animal
Photo Credit #4: Google Images Healing Hands
*The Doe as a totem: Source ~ Ina Wolcott’s Shamanism
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Not Just Another Day Trip
There is work to be done at FIL, the largest Spanish language book fair in the world, held each year at the end of November in Guadalajara, Mexico. Fortunately, I don’t have to do any of that work and just get to tag along with my children and enjoy this beautiful, warm, rich with culture city, soaking up all it has to offer.
Guadalajara; birthplace to the Mariachi band, the beautiful, Poinsettia plant and a very dear friend.
The Guadalajara Zoo 2004
Our first trek to Guadalajara was when my daughter was two. My son had just turned five. The English-speaking Mexican gentleman who was sent to the airport to pick us up by the hotel we were staying at, was named Ernesto. A day or two after our arrival, we ventured out, taking a cab to and from city sights, by nameless drivers who spoke no English and left us feeling, well, less than comfortable to be honest.
Ernesto and my children at the Guadalajara Zoo 2004
We decided to call Ernesto back after that and ever since.
Over the years, nine in fact, we’ve come to know about Ernesto and his family through his easy-going manner, his protective nature toward my children, dinners we’ve insisted he join us at and long conversations during the 5-hour drive we take to Puerto Vallarta half-way through our trip. His information on history and historical sites is endless. He insists on teaching my children new Spanish words each time he sees them. He has a medical degree and has even prescribed medicine for my son and daughter when we needed it. He raced Hannah and I to a private hospital when Hannah fell off a monkey-bar two-years ago and fractured her wrist, comforting me with the knowledge that this is where he would take his children.
Last year, for the first time,we met Ernesto’s entire family.The idea of our children meeting and hoping they would make the important connection of just how unique this friendship is, despite the language barrier was heartwarming to say the least. It was the highlight of my trip, a real treat to put the names to the faces of those people we had heard so much of. I could tell it meant a lot to Ernesto too.
Ernesto with his children and mine. November 2010
We’ve been to many places with Ernesto, our guide and our friend; the zoo, the Children’s museum (Trompo Mágico), horse back riding in Ajijic, visiting Lake Chapala and the Guachimontones Pyramids to name a few.
Ernesto helping my son, sign-in at the Guachimontones Pyramids 2008.
One of the many mummies of Guanajuato.
This year Ernesto proposed a day trip.
Not just any day trip but a 3-hour drive to Guanajuato, a colonial mining town rich in silver and gold. This historical city is known for its architecture and naturally mummified bodies. The mummies were discovered between 1865 and 1958, when the law required relatives to pay a tax in order to keep the bodies in the cemetery. If the relatives could not pay this tax, they would lose the right to the burial-place, and the dead bodies were disinterred. Ernesto’s proposal, also included his family. Delighted, we accepted and last Sunday Ernesto rented a large white van and we all set out to explore the city of Guanajuato, together.
Most of the thoroughfares lie beneath the city’s narrow cobble-stone passage ways amidst an elaborate labyrinth of underground road tunnels. Thankfully, for us, Ernesto is an extremely skilled driver who knows exactly where he’s going!
Guanajuato is also the home to the Festival Internacional Cervantino, which invites artists and performers from all over the world as well as Mexico. Luckily for us, the annual Madonnari side-walk, chalk festival was fully under-way when we got there and we were able to see some awesome drawings…..
Modannari 2011 – The Afghan Mona Lisa –
No, this was not just another day trip and while my children may not remember everything they saw in Guanajuato last week, they will never forget that we went with Ernesto and his family.
Ernesto holding Raul. Hannah standing next to Augusto.
Dinner with Ernesto’s family & an amazing view of Guanajuato! December 2011
Priscilla – 5
Augusto
Raul
It was a special day that is now a treasured memory. You can’t put a value really on the feeling of safety or trust or friendship and while it’s true we are all diamonds in the rough in our own way, some of us sparkle just a little bit brighter than others….
Thank you, Ernesto!
Photo Credit #1-5: Karen Szczuka Teich & http://www.takingtheworldonwithasmile.com
Photo Credit #6: Mummies of Guanajuato
Photo Credit #7-14: Karen Szczuka Teich & http://www.takingtheworldonwithasmile.com
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Kids Really Do Say The Darndest Things!
This week I’m taking a cue from a blog I follow where the genius mom actually documents her kids’ quotes! Brilliant, cause kids really do say the darndest things!
If you follow my blog, you probably know I have two kids (that I love and adore) but I will only be quoting one today, my 10-year old daughter. Besides, if I were lucky enough to even overhear a conversation, let alone have one, with my 13-year old son, the entire quote would most likely consist of these three words:
Um, Yeah and Nah.
There.
I’m a good mom and have just documented my boy’s quotes for the past six months.
My girl on the other hand, is a non-stop chatterbox. (I think it’s a gender thing.) Ever see the Volvo commercial where the Dad puts his 5-year old daughter in her car seat, closes the door, gets into the driver’s seat and takes her to school, all the while, she is non-stop chatter, going on and on about who knows what?
That’s my Hannah and at age ten, not only do I get the non-stop chatter about who knows what, I get the added bonus of her opinion!
Here are a few recent ones….
On The World’s Status
My daughter goes to a progressive school and we do not practice any formal religion. I of course went to Catholic school and was a practicing catholic until I went to college, receiving many of the sacraments up until that age, including confession of my sins.
Not too long ago, my girl came home from school and asked,
Mom, what’s a sin?
Me, in freak-out mode responded, “A sin? Why? Why do you want to know what a sin is?”
I heard it was bad. My teacher doesn’t teach us about sins or war or anything. She pretty much teaches us that the world is perfect but I know it’s not perfect.
You’re a super sleuth, Hannah and you’re right, the world is not perfect.
On Getting A New Car
At the onset of having to get new wheels, I admit, I had a brief moment of panic at the thought of having to bring the car I loved so dearly back to the dealership it was leased from, knowing, now, there would be no way I could afford to lease the same car again. Myself and my girl were driving around town when it hit me and without really thinking about it or looking for a response, I tugged at the steering wheel and said,
“Hannah, how am I going to keep this car?”
Not a full minute passed before my girls’ wheels started turning and she sprung into solution mode……
Here's my Billboard Baby scooter-ing throughout the neighborhood, drumming up sales for our yard-sale earlier this year.
Mom, I got it! From tomorrow to the end of the summer, I say, we go out in the middle of the median and sell like there’s no tomorrow!
Sell? Sell what, Hannah? Lemonade?
Lemonade AND ice-pops mom, lemonade AND ice-pops!
Turns out, I LOVE my new car but Thank you, Hannah!!
On Edward
A year and a half ago, I brought Edward home. My Edward is a creepy but important part of me being able to live life on life’s terms and while we sometimes bring him out to participate in various family activities, his primary function is to keep a watchful eye on my 22-year old punk neighbor.
Edward does an excellent job!
My Edward. Doing his job.
In a few weeks we will begin the process of moving from the only home my daughter has ever known.
Mom I think we have to leave Edward here.
Why?
At least until we get to meet our new neighbors.
Why, Hannah?
Well, if we put him in the window before we meet them, they’re going to think we’re freaks and they won’t bring us cookies or cupcakes (cause we’re the new neighbors) and I want the cookies and cupcakes.
Point well taken, Hannah. I want the cookies and cupcakes too but Edward comes with us.
Hannah & Edward, just hanging around.
Besides, we both know you love him just as much as I do!
Aside from the funny stuff, there are also great pearls of wisdom and insight, as well as profound statements that often come from this blessing of a child, leaving me stunned but mostly, extremely grateful for the gift of her life in mine.
Those I’ll save for another day.
Meanwhile, for more adept quotes from other skilled and clever kids, visit the Young American Wisdom blog — the inspiration for this post!
For happy thoughts from a happy kid, visit Hannah’s blog, I’m Thinking Happy!
If you have an endearing or humorous kid quote, feel free to leave it with me!
Photo Credit #1: Sin
Photo Credit #2: Super Sleuth
Photo Credit# 3-5: Karen Szczuka Teich & http://www.takingtheworldonwithasmile.com
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Vindication
WooHoo and YipPee! I’ve gone and leased myself a brand new car!
Since mid-summer I’ve been doing the leg work, going from dealer to dealer, counting and calculating, talking and test-driving. Finally, it’s a done deal. Well, almost, I haven’t been able to connect my Blue-tooth yet but that’s just a minor technicality compared to where I began.
As most things tend to go in my life, it wasn’t all smooth sailing. In fact, a few weeks ago, I had to remind myself, “not to quit. Rest if you must, but never give up.”
Life has a way of presenting its challenges at what usually seems to be the most inopportune time, for me anyway. When I least expect it, need or want it, I’m faced with a situation that challenges my ability to deal with it and overcome it.
I’ve come to accept that life has it’s own course and either you go with it or you don’t. You move forward and progress or you get stuck. As difficult as moving forward can be, for me, staying stuck is far more painful, not to mention, detrimental.
A little over two years ago, I realized I was stuck, complacent and tired – really tired. When I decided it was time to change, things started to happen. I started to change. I seized life and it seized me.
Once the course was set, there was no turning back.
So, here I am now, in the position of having to get myself a new car. No big deal you say? I beg to differ. It’s only been 23 years since the last time I set out to get myself a car and after having lingered in complacency where I sometimes just took things for granted for the last several years, it was a huge hurdle I needed to overcome. It was a big deal and intimidating at first but I knew I needed to do this and I knew I had to do it, on my own.
That’s how we know what we’re capable of, isn’t it? By trying, despite our fears and then ultimately making it through what to us, feels like the hard stuff.
Here’s the hitch. When I reached this particular dealership after having been to a half-dozen others over the previous few months, I knew this was going to be the last stop. With my two kids in tow, we headed inside. I also knew the drill. I’d done my homework. I’m a straight shooter and don’t like to waste time or haggle. I come clean with what I want and what I can pay, right at the get-go.
The receptionist called for a salesman, we waited a few minutes and the moment he appeared, I knew. I just knew by his demeanor that this wasn’t going to be the cake-walk it should have been. He was nonchalant, disinterested and indifferent at best. He was chewing something, looked the three of us over, nodded at me, swallowed and said, “Can I help you?”
His words were insincere. I felt like I had just interrupted his lunch.
Nonetheless, I told him the two models I was interested in. He paused and waved us outside. We followed. In the lot, he motioned his hand toward two cars parked side by side, smiled a most unconvincing, smile and waited for me to make the next move. He never invited me to test drive either car or to come back inside. He never asked me if I had any questions.
I thanked him and left.
Maybe it was the car I drove there in or the fact that I was a woman with two kids in tow. Perhaps, I’ll never really know. What I do know is that he didn’t take me seriously, at all. I felt disrespected by his treatment. Even my kids noticed:
What’s up with that guy Mom? Doesn’t he know you want to buy a car? my daughter asked. Well, I said, he just lost that sale.
Disheartened and disappointed by this chauvinist, the more I thought about it, the more annoyed I got. I wanted to test drive those models. I wanted one of those cars and the closest dealership of the same kind is 40-minutes away. I didn’t want to have to get my car so far away when there was a dealer less than 10-minutes from where I live. I shouldn’t have to and after a few weeks of brooding, it occurred to me.
I didn’t have to.
Last week I returned to the same dealer. This time, I was completely alone. When the receptionist asked me had I been here before, I said “yes”. When she looked up my name she said, “Oh let me get the salesman who helped you last time.”
I could see him looking up and over toward me from behind his desk in the glass enclosure that is his office. I directed my attention toward the receptionist and said,
No thank you. I don’t want his help. He didn’t seem to take me seriously the last time I was here and I’m quite serious about getting a car.
Without missing a beat, the woman picked up her phone and called for another salesman.
I have a customer here in the showroom, can you come and help her?
Ten minutes later I was test-driving the car I wanted.
Two days later I signed the lease to my new car!
During the test drive, the new salesman, a seemingly normal, decent, nice guy, asked me what happened with the first guy and after telling him about my experience, I asked if the first guy was the manager?
No, he replied, but he has aspirations. And by the way, you’re not the first person to complain about his attitude.
Vindication. Thank you.
Life has it’s own course. Rest if you must but never give up.
For the last two years I’ve been facing challenge after challenge, moving forward with trepidation hoping that I have what it takes to make it through.
I don’t give up, I don’t quit and I find, that I do.
And I love my new car!
Photo Credit #1 Celebration
Photo Credit #2 New Car
Photo Credit #3 Light Bulb
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The Devil Made Him Do It!
Either that, or it was his funny bone!
©2007 NHT Noah Henry Teich (My son’s hand drawn picture that became an art-card for Christmas gifts and Thank-You cards. I think it’s probably a good thing he didn’t go to Catholic school.)
Some people are just naturally funny. They don’t have to try hard. The joke just kind of flows out of them, or their PowerPoint presentation.
I ask you, what’s life without a little humor?
Seriously. I know this 15-year old sophomore who happens to be a funny guy and who happens to go to a Catholic school. I went to Catholic school from Kindergarten to 12th grade. Anyone who has ever gone to Catholic school knows, funny and religion do-not-mix-well. Do one “funny” thing and you’re immediately slapped with the “class clown” label for as long as you go to that school. Being the class clown in Catholic school can mean countless hours of detention, clapping the erasers (cause they still have erasers) or worse; points taken off grades. It can mean being called out of class and calls made home, to parents; not to mention purposeful, public scoldings designed to put you in the position of becoming the “example” for any other student who might be thinking humor belongs in school. Thus, the funny guy becomes the fall guy.
In short, Catholic School is 99.9% serious business. Recently, my funny little sophomore friend, fell.
Here’s what happened:
The Religious Assignment
Make a PowerPoint presentation talking about the story of Our Lady of Guadalupe.
The Back Story
Saint Juan Diego
According to tradition, on December 9, 1531 Juan Diego, a young, simple indigenous peasant, had a vision of a young woman while he was on a hill in the Tepeyac desert, near Mexico City. The lady told him to build a church exactly on the spot where they were standing. He told the local bishop, who asked for some proof. He went back and had the vision again. He told the lady that the bishop wanted proof, and she said “Bring the roses behind you.” Turning to look, he found a rose bush growing behind him.He cut the roses, placed them in his poncho and returned to the bishop, saying he had brought proof. When he opened his poncho, instead of roses, there was an image of the young lady in the vision. (Manga Hero)
St. Juan Diego is proof that God uses those who are most humble to do His work. By all accounts, Juan Diego, was a humble and young man.
Serious stuff.
My young, sophomore friend, who also happens to be an honor student, put all of this serious information into his Power Point presentation, only when it came time to reveal Juan Diego’s likeness, my funny friend flashed this image to his class instead of the one above:
Saint Juan Diego – maybe
Come on, now THAT is funny!
Needless to say, this startling, daring, depiction of the young, blessed Saint Juan Diego in my friend’s Power Point presentation brought the class to well, pandemonium to put it mildly; uncontrollable laughter burst onto the scene, requiring the teacher to admonish the class several times before order was restored. And if you’ve ever gone to Catholic school, you know, order MUST be restored.
The Consequence
Being called out of the next class. The “call” home to the parents. 18 points taken off the final grade, giving this slacker an 82 out of 100% on the report and a mandatory apology letter to the teacher (at the teacher’s request, of course).
Inside information from the mom: apology letter number one, had to be scratched when the boy, after saying he was sorry to the teacher, said he only did it to try to keep the rest of the students from falling asleep in class. “Kudos”, I say for at least being truthful.
Was it worth the laugh? I asked him.
Yes. It was totally worth the laugh. I thought these Power Points could use some funny moments.
There you have it and again, there’s got to be something said for the honesty here, not to mention, you are witnessing a comedian in the making. I sent the boy $10 in the mail along with a note telling him not to be disrespectful but never to lose his sense of humor.
The world needs more levity if you will; more laughter.
The Result
Not only will every student in that religion class remember the story of Our Lady of Guadeloupe, always and forever, they will remember it, with a smile on their face.
The Disclaimer
While the views expressed by this student do in fact reflect those of this author, ABSOLUTELY NO DISRESPECT is meant toward the Catholic church, its teachers or teachings.
I’m Catholic. I went to Catholic school and I only WISH some kid had the moxie to do something–anything to cause the type of uproar and uncontrollable laughter in class that this boy did.
It would have made the whole experience so much more human,
with a little more humor.
Photo Credit #1 ©2007 
Noah Henry Teich
(All rights reserved. Not to be reproduced.)
Photo Credit #2 Saint Juan Diego
Photo Credit #3 Forwarded From The Nameless Catholic Boy
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Not-So-TechNo-Savvy
This week I went to curriculum night at my tween-age boy’s school. He’s in the 8th grade. After a brief introduction by the head master and head of the middle school, we were directed to our children’s “Advisory” class-rooms or to put it more plainly, their “home-rooms”. From there, we were to switch classes, like our kids do, only we’d be spending 10-minutes rather than 100, in each of five classes. As a nod to the general “age-group” of the parents in attendance and to emphasize the progression of technology over the years, the archaic sound of the internet connecting through the phone lines via modem was played over the PA system, signaling us to move on to the next class.
For your listening pleasure and for those who are too young to remember anything but silence when connecting to the “net”, I borrowed one of YouTube’s renditions of a 56K Modem making the internet connection, back in the day.
Easy enough, I thought. How difficult could this be?
While I appreciate the nostalgic effect that particular sound brings with it, it truly has to be one of the most annoying sounds on the planet.
After ten minutes in five classes and a brief description of options offered in the “Arts” quite frankly, I was dizzy. It wasn’t the obnoxious modem sound or the subject matter that threw me, it was the technology and how information is disseminated that left me feeling well, stressed. Truth be told, I was absolutely exhausted by the time I left. It was overwhelming to try to keep up with how information gets exchanged between student and teacher and parent and administration, without a single piece of paper being is used.
Gone are the pen and pencil requirements. I’m not even sure these kids know what loose-leaf is anymore. There are hardly any textbooks either. Every child has to have their own lap top –in class! Homework and class assignments are posted either on the school’s website, a white board or a smart-board. When completed, the student uploads their work to a Google-docs, except in science where they put it into a wiki page on a wiki space. Here the students interactively edit each other’s pages and the teacher leaves comments or wiki-texts for individual students.
No offense, but I’m just starting to get the hang of regular “text-ing”.
What is “wiki-text-ing” and is it really necessary? Am I going to have to learn this too?
In science my son is going to be “paired” with a student from another school who is working on the same experiment his class is; one involving Menthos and Diet Coke –think lots of fizz and a minor, okay maybe not so minor, explosion! The pair will video-chat their methods and findings.
Are you still with me?
Good because by the time I got to the third class, I was losing steam and clarity, rapidly!
It started with the white board, moved to the smartboard and in Spanish we were introduced to the (new) soundboard! This is not like something you would find in a radio station. It’s something the student uses at home. They speak their homework into their computer and through this new program and technology, the teacher “hears” how they’re speaking in Spanish on her computer and assesses their progress.
In order to better grasp these technologies and try to make sense of what I saw, I tried looking them up when I got home. Here’s what I found:
A Smart Board is a series of interactive whiteboards developed by Smart Technologies and includes the 600 series, the 800 series and the 400 series (only available in Europe, the Middle East, Africa, Asia Pacific, Latin America and Mexico). The first Smart Board interactive whiteboard was introduced in 1991. (Wikipedia)
Got it?
Me neither.
An “interactive whiteboard” is the electronic equivalent of the physical whiteboard and may be software in a user’s computer or a stand-alone unit. It allows users in remote locations to simultaneously view a running application or view someone’s drawings on screen. Whiteboards may or may not provide application sharing, in which two or more people are actually working in the same application at the same time. (PC Magazine)
I think they’re messing with me here.
Is a smart board a whiteboard or a whiteboard a smart-board or what??
A soundboard is a computer program, Web application, or device, traditionally created in Adobe Flash that catalogues and plays many short soundbites and audio clips. Soundboards are self-contained, requiring no outside media player. (Wikipedia)
I totally got lost on this one. Is it a program or a device? Does the kid have this board at home? Is this another required purchase?
And again, is this something I am going to have to learn how to use?
I’m confused.
Even though I don’t quite understand them, I am pretty blown away by the capabilities of these boards although, I can’t say I’m fully on board with what seems like an inundation of technology.
Truthfully, I miss the chalk board.
Photo Credit #1 Chalk Board
Video Credit #1 56K Modem
Photo Credit #2 Smart Board
Photo Credit #3 White Board
Photo Credit #4 Texting
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It’s Not That Easy Being Green
“It’s not that easy being green …but green’s the color of spring and green can be cool and friendly like and green can be big like an ocean or important like a mountain or tall like a tree.” ~ Kermit the Frog
So, it’s the first full week back to school and at the end of my work day on Friday, the Director and Fitness teacher ask me to take off my “office” hat so they can speak to me as a “parent”.
You know this can’t be good.
It’s about my 10-year old daughter of course and it seems there was an issue in her fitness class. There are 25 multi-aged children in this class on Mondays and Fridays and my little “lemon drop” happens to be the oldest. Many of the younger kids look up to her, literally. She is also the tallest kid in the school and would perhaps be, by any other standard expected to “set the example” maybe?
“Ahem.”
Okay. So, it seems my little “apple dumpling” is the only one, out of these 25 kids that said “no” and flat out refused to sign a goal oriented agreement that has the following requirements:
- Everyone feels safe and no one gets hurt.
- Everyone has an equal chance to enjoy each game.
- Everyone learns how to be a better team member.
- Everyone has fun.
Not unreasonable, in fact when queried, my little “butter-cup” said she had no problem with setting these goals as a group. She just didn’t understand why she had to sign her name to it.
Her argument:
“They know me, Mom.
I just don’t know why my ‘word’ isn’t good enough anymore.
If they don’t trust my word what difference does my signature make?
Either they trust me or they don’t.
Besides, it didn’t say ‘pacificly’ that it was for fitness only.
I am the biggest kid — in the entire school. What if I hurt another kid by accident?”
They know her, indeed. She was welcomed by this school well before she ever spent her first full day there as a student at the age of three. From the time she was about 9-months old, she would tag along on school trips to the farm, to pick apples, pumpkins and attend theater shows with her older brother’s class. When she finally got there, it was in this fine progressive, hands-on learning environment that she was truly encouraged to be herself, to think, to ask and to imagine. She was the child who wore a communion veil to class every day for the second half of second grade, even though she never made her communion. She’s the kid who never wears matching socks and when I tell her in the morning…
“You either brush your hair or wear a hat to school,”
…nine times out of ten, she chooses the hat.
This school nurtured her, told her in no uncertain terms that she had a voice and helped her to find it, so there was really no disrespect when she said “no.” Her response, in effect was a culmination of seven years of being taught the importance of being your own person.
That day, she was told that if she wasn’t going to sign the paper, she wouldn’t be able to participate in the fitness program. She would have to sit out, and she did. That’s the price isn’t it, of taking a stand or being different, not following the crowd, standing up for something you believe in, even if you’re the only who believes in it? There could be a consequence.
There could also be a compromise, which is why I love this school.
After a few discussions with her fitness teacher (who just happens to be a former student of this fine school) the two exchanged positions and she understood the need for all the kids in the class to know they were all on the same page. She agreed to verbally acknowledge the four points and she did not have to sign her name. A resolution born out of mutual respect.
Many of the younger kids look up to her. Literally. She is after all the tallest kid in the school and the oldest and would perhaps be, by any other standard expected to “set the example”…..
……and maybe, she did just that.
She is her own person and while it may not be that easy being who she is, she’s cool and friendly like, she’s big like an ocean, important like a mountain and tall like a tree.
You can visit her blog at I’m Thinking Happy! if you like.
The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
Photo credit #1: Kermit
Photo credit #2: ©Karen Szczuka Teich & http://www.Takingtheworldonwithasmile.com
Video Credit #1 YouTube
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Striving to live life on life's terms while taking the world on with a smile.
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