Tuesdays

The first time my father lost his mind, it was a Tuesday.

I stood in line at the concession stand of a junior high football game, staring blankly at the smiling booster club moms and dads, while on the phone, my own father spit curses and lies about my mother and, later, about me.

The first time I did not recognize my father's voice, it was a Tuesday. 

The first time I ever had a panic attack, it was a Tuesday.

The first time I ever considered my own death, it was a Tuesday.

The first time I ever prayed for my own father's death, it was a Tuesday.

I have a real and palpable anger about Tuesdays.

***

Looking back, almost a decade later, I know now that wasn't really my father on the phone. It was a plague of chronic disease, financial despair, and unregulated medication.

It was a man whose brain was betraying him, blurring the lines between reality and fantasy; a wrecking ball of delusions and conspiracy and rage.

It was a mind, once full of joy and song lyrics and the names of every person he ever met, now tormented by even the simplest of tasks.

It was a distortion; a funhouse mirror reflection of the man I had cherished my entire life.

It was a jailer of logic and a thief of memories.

It was a havoc I would not wish on my own worst enemy.

***

There were many other horrors that would happen in the years between that phone call and my father's death. Some happened on Tuesdays, I'm sure, but when there are so many sadnesses and fears, the calendar fills up quickly, and other days have to suffice. 

But when my father died, he died on a Tuesday, just as I had prayed those hundreds of Tuesdays before.

I think about that prayer often. I've spent a great deal of time and money, on therapists and vacations and cheap bottles of wine, trying to come to grips with that prayer. How a daughter can pray such a thing for her hero. How I could pray for an end to the madness however God might see fit. Maybe He would take him to spare all of us; maybe He would take me, at least, to spare me. Either way, I prayed.

My guilt is that I prayed that prayer out of anger and selfishness. My shame is that it wasn't the only time I prayed it. I war with that shame often still.

Over time, my anger and frustration transferred from my dad to his disease, Parkinson's and its terrible little sidekick, Dementia. And although I eventually forgave my father the grievances he had caused, I still found myself praying often for the end. An end to this cruelty. An end to the indignities he endured. An end to his confusion and tears and pain. 

So, in the exquisite and beautiful circles of life, his life ended on a Tuesday, but my pain did not.

I have a real distrust of Tuesdays.

***

There have been several deaths this half year that have affected me more than I expected. Perhaps it's just the feeling of loss in general. Perhaps it's the ways they are connected back to my father -- the music he loved, or the storytelling he so encouraged, or the afflictions that tormented both him and my family. I was told that I would often see my father's death in the deaths of others, especially in those whose endings feel so familiar.

Last night, I read that Pat Summitt, one of my idols in education and sports and being a badass woman, was dying. This news hit me profoundly, and I found myself praying, yet again, for a quick end. 

There is something to be said for all of our old stories about knights and warriors and the dignity of a clean death. That's something especially foreign to those suffering from dementia -- a clean, quick death. It's a nice idea -- romantic, even -- but death, no matter how swift, is never clean, and I felt all of my old guilt rising again as I prayed. 

I thought of her and my father, two people who never met but still shared a space in my life. Two people who share the bad luck of a bad disease. Two people known for kindness and teasing and hard work and their bright blue eyes. Farm kids who came from nothing. One grew into a legend, having everything and more; one was everything and more -- a legend --  to me.

***

What I pray for, I've come to learn, is not just a prayer for him but a prayer for me. An end to my own confusion and tears and pain. I think it must be what so many people experience when they watch a loved one slip away, heartbreakingly slowly, over time.

It's hard to reconcile the selfless act of letting go with the selfish want of being free, and pain is a parasite feasting off such conflict.

A few weeks ago, I read a passage from a book, A Monster Calls, a children's book that (like so many books for children) is really meant to teach us all. It stuck with me and comforted me, and I've gone back to its earmarked page many times. So in addition to my prayer, I read it over and over, first in a whisper, feeling silly and useless, alone in my bed; then out loud and steady in hopes that somehow God would bring it to others.

The article had said that her family had stopped accepting visitors and that she might only have days left to live. But I knew, without question, what day my heartache loves best. 

So it was that I woke up this morning, a Tuesday, to say goodbye yet again.

I have a real loneliness and an ache for healing on Tuesdays.

Little Girl Lost

It's Father's Day.

I tried to write this morning, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. The weeks since I last saw my dad have been tense and sad. He was not in good shape, physically or mentally, and it's been difficult. It's funny since I've written about my dad and his illness several times here. (And here and here and here. Or here.). Far more often than I ever thought I would; I am a private person who shields herself with a loud and feisty public personality. In this way, yet again, I am my father's daughter.

But to untwist him from my life, to remove him from this space, would be damn near impossible. For the last seven years, his path has become my own. We wander hand-in-hand, lost in a world where we don't recognize ourselves. I have found myself there again today, but this time, I am alone.

My entire childhood, I feared the death of my dad. I thought it would be the undoing of me -- that I would wake up one morning, and he would suddenly be gone. Often, I would lie in bed, wondering how I would get along as if his absence would hobble me as if I had woken up to have my leg amputated or my eyesight lost. How does a little girl imagine life without her hero?

And then I would hear him coming down the hall, and I would wiggle my toes and open my eyes, knowing that the world was still on its axis.

I never stopped to think that there are things worse than death. Because there are. My dad is my hero still, but he has not been allowed a hero's death. Heroes die in battle. They die strong. They die with their wife's kiss and their children's names on their lips. They don't die inch-by-inch.

I woke up this morning with my dad on my heart. I pulled up old posts and pulled out old pictures. I thought a lot about when I was a little girl. I thought about his hands, so calloused and worn. And how he was old pearl-snap shirts and trucker hats before they were cool. And how he smelled -- like Lava soap, freshly-mown grass, WD-40, and Certs breath mints.

I waited until I knew that lunch would be over and the dining room quiet before I called my mom's phone. He doesn't hear well, and his booming voice is often barely a whisper. I knew she'd be there, visiting him at the nursing home because even if he didn't know it was Father's Day, she would.

When she put him on the phone, he didn't have much to say. Even in his prime, the telephone was difficult for my dad who so loved to see someone's face as he told them a story or reeled off his latest joke. Our conversation was stilted and one-sided as I asked him questions he didn't know how to answer.

When my mom got back on the phone, she confirmed what I had begun to suspect several months ago. My father didn't recognize my voice. She's also noticed that he's stopped referring to me by my name and instead calls me "Sister", the nickname my family used for me until I was 10.

I once wondered how a little girl loses her hero, but I never once thought to wonder how the hero forgets his little girl. Now I wonder how long I will live in his mind at all.

I've always thought that the cruelest thing that has happened to my father is not that he is dying but that he is dying in a trap. His body broken, his mind intact. But even that is no longer true, and I am devastated.

I remember when I was six, my dad tried to teach me to take a fish off the hook. I kept recoiling at it, claiming I couldn't do it, putting on my best scared little girl act. It flopped and fought against my hands, its gills fluttering and flailing for oxygen, and I asked why I couldn't just wait until it died to remove the hook. Surely it couldn't take much longer. "Because it's in pain" was his reply. I can still remember the crease in his eyebrows, the frown on his face, 32 years later.

I've always thought about that moment, seeing my father as the fish in that desperate fight for independence and dignity. But it's only in hanging up the phone and hearing my own ragged gasps that I begin to understand what it feels to be on the end of that line.

Logic vs. Not Logic

I scared the ever-loving hell out of a poor AT&T guy today. He was only about 20 or so, and I'm sure he's had no training for the likes of me.

I went in today to talk about rearranging my plan. I've had both of my parents on my cell phone plan for the last 4 years, and I know there has to be a better, more cost-efficient way to handle our needs. I've known that the quickest way to chop about 30 bucks is to cancel my dad's phone, and I've known it for a long time. I just haven't been able to do it. Every month, I pay the bill, and I promise that I'll make that change. Yet I don't. It's a promise I never keep. Sure, it's only $30, a drop in the great Cosmic hat, but it could definitely go to use elsewhere. This is logic.

My dad has been in a nursing home for the past two years. We haven't given him a phone for lots of reasons, most of which I'm sure seem heartless to anyone who isn't in our situation but hopefully save everyone the smallest of heartaches and heart attacks. I lied and told him it had been stolen after a hospitalization. It was hard because I'm not one to lie to my dad very often. It was terrible because he's always been able to see through them when I do.

I confessed to a friend last weekend that I'd been paying the bill even after he went into the nursing home. This is not logic. She wasn't shocked, but it's been in my mind since then, wriggling worm-like, begging the question of why.

I don't know why. There is not a sane or logical or remotely understandable reason to keep it. If this were happening to anyone else, my dad would've already scolded me into cutting that cost months ago, telling me to "toughen up" and "let it go". But it is happening to my dad, and as I've learned, outlooks and opinions change drastically when he's at the center of them.

My dad has Parkinson's, and that will never change because there is no cure. And he is getting worse, causing me just this week to postpone a visit because he wasn't well enough. Even his medication treatments bring little relief to his continual muscle freezes and immobility, and when adjustments are made, we risk his mental stability and the emotional stability of my entire family. The last 5 years of his treatment, trading sanity for independent movement, have been a damn work of art in how to rob Peter to pay Paul. A mural, painted entirely with false hope, disregarded opinions, and monkey shit.

My dad has changed so much -- physically, mentally, emotionally -- that he feels less and less like the man I grew up with every day. He's still in there, so sly and sharp some moments that it's scary, but there are others that disconnect me in a way I once thought unimaginable. That's hard to say, especially to someone who doesn't have a parent at all. But my whole life, I thought the worst thing that could ever happen would be for him to die. It is only after years of watching him slowly disintegrate, of watching all of us fall apart, do I concede that perhaps there are far worse things than death. Maybe that's naive or selfish or cliche -- it certainly feels that way -- but I know that I wouldn't wish it on my very worst enemy. I don't hate anyone that much.

Keeping that phone line has been a habit, a secret that I've pushed down in order to make it feel as if he's not gone. Because he isn't gone. But it also doesn't bring him back. I talked my dad into a cell phone to make myself feel better when he was out working alone, when his moments of physical fallibility were frequent enough to give me worry but infrequent enough to make him stop. Now, he cannot dial the numbers himself or even often make his voice loud enough to be heard over it. I gave him that phone so that he would have a way to reach all of us, and now we are all so desperate to avoid a phone call because in my family no one ever calls with good news. Never before has $30 made such little sense to me. All my life, I have done what my dad advised, and here I was, yet again, needing my dad -- my not-sick dad -- to just tell me what to do.

Nothing in the world makes me feel less like a grown-up than to actually have to be THE grown-up. I feel like a 5 year-old, playing in my mother's make-up and jewelry.

And these are the thoughts that snaked around my brain while I waited at the AT&T store. While I waited on their psychotically bright orange couch, questioning why I couldn't do such a seemingly simple thing. And for me, waiting is the hardest part. Waiting gives me time to think and feel and fear and doubt. I'm not good at waiting. In fact, I'm almost as terrible at it as I am at lying.

So, when that poor, unsuspecting 20-something asked me how he could help, I didn't know how to explain that I was here to get rid of my dad's last tie to his own independence and dignity. I burst into tears and barely managed an apology, leaving him blank-faced and staring after me as I scuttled out the door, desperate to save my meltdown for the car, away from the orange couch and befuddled looks.

And to top it all off, they still got my 30 bucks this month. Somewhere, in a parallel universe, my old dad just shakes his head.

Safe. Stable. Stale.

I've never been a daring person.

I don't jump off the high dive; I ease in, one toe at a time.  I drive the speed limit.  I stay off-stage when we go to karaoke.  I've never done drugs or paid too much for shoes or got in the car without a map.  I've never gone all in.  I've never put a blue streak in my hair or gotten a tattoo.

I am dependable and careful and responsible.  I do the right thing even when it's not what I want to do.  I say what others want to hear, measuring my words on a Richter scale, calculating risk and damage.  I don't rock the boat; I hand out the life jackets.  I hide behind what if's and should have's and unused wishes.

I wonder if I've lived my life avoiding regrets only to wind up with a soul full of them.

Safe. Stable. Stale.

From the Sideline to the Bleachers

For 13 years, the first of August signaled a return for me.

I would transition from my summer job in camping, and within 2 days (or less), I was back in coaches' meetings or going to volleyball try-outs at the high school or working registration.  At the end of last year, with my school facing such significant changes and challenges, I decided to stop coaching.

There were so many reasons to stop.  I need to be available to my classroom students for tutoring before and after school.  My department needed more of my attention.  All of them needed better and more thoughtful lesson planning from me.  I was married to my job for 13 years, often spending more time at school (60-70 hour weeks) than I spent at home. I might be more focused.  It would be healthier.  I could be happier.

For a few weeks now, friends and colleagues have asked me if I'm glad about my decision.  I had to tell them that I honestly didn't know yet.  All last week, I'd wake up at 6:00 AM, feeling like I was missing something, wondering where I was supposed to be next.  But I didn't have to be anywhere, and it was weird.  Admittedly, it was nice to miss some of those meetings.  It was very nice not to have to paint the gym or build schedules.  But it didn't really feel... real.

Today, I went to schedule card pick-up for our 8th graders.  I was so excited to see my athletes and students from last year.  Even some of our high school kids came back to visit and help.  They caught me up on all the latest gossip; I talked them up to the 8th grade teacher sitting with me at the welcome table.  My assistant coach from last year stopped by to ask how it felt to be on "the other side" of registration.  We talked quietly for a few minutes about how I was feeling -- that I wouldn't miss the paperwork or the late nights or the laundry but I would miss my kids desperately.

At that, one of them said, "What do you mean -- you'll miss us?"

That's when I had to tell them that I wouldn't be their coach this year.  I'd told a few of their mothers at a school board meeting, but I think it wasn't truly true until they heard it from me.  There was some concern, some protest, but because they're good girls and they understand my intentions, they didn't kick up much of a fuss.  Plus, they know I've left them in good hands.  They made me promise to still come to their games which, of course, I will.

"I'll be there," I said.  "You know I'll be there.  It's just that, this time, I'll be yelling FOR you instead of AT you.  That'll be nice, right?"

And without missing a beat, another of them said, "Oh, yeah.  That's definitely better."

It hurt my feelings for a quick second, but in knowing her as well as I do, I knew that she didn't mean that I was a hateful and terrible coach whose only pleasure in life came from suicide lines and screaming.  She just meant that she's glad I wasn't leaving them for good; she's happy that I'd still be there, backing them up and cheering them on.

I'm unsure what this year will bring.  I'm unsure how I will adjust to my new role as just being "Ms. Naz" and not necessarily "Coach Naz".  I'm unsure if I'll be healthier or happier or a better teacher.  But I'm sure that my choice was for the right reasons, and that has to count for something.  That has to be what I remind myself on that first game day when I find myself off the sideline and in the bleachers.

So, today, I think I have the first part of my answer to everyone's question.  I won't miss the meetings or the pre-dawn workouts or cut days.  But I'll miss watching their improvements day-to-day.  I'll miss them cracking me up when all I can see are the mistakes and absurdities of teenage lives.  I'll miss their locker room singing and outrageously huge hair bows. I'll miss sitting on the bench with them; I'll miss our huddles.  I'll miss teaching them something new.  I won't miss the long hours and the hard work, but I will miss our time together and the rewards it brings.

More than anything, though, I'll just miss them.

I love you, my Lady Mustangs.  Make me proud.

¿Cómo se dice 'jerkface' en Español?

I turned on the t.v. on Monday night to watch the Home Run Derby.  I originally wanted to watch it on mute because Chris Berman, you know.  But I'm so glad I didn't.  What I witnessed was not only a pretty brilliant display by Yoenis Cespedes but a pretty brilliant interview in both English AND Spanish by the ESPN reporter.  The reporter was clear and efficient, asking the question first in Spanish, receiving the answer, and then providing the translation for both the question and answer in English for both the at-home viewers and those in the stadium.  If you didn't know, Cespedes is Cuban and has been in America only since 2011.  Consequently, he still struggles with English.  I've taken 4 years of Spanish, but if you forced me to stand in front of 40,000 people, with cameras broadcasting to millions of homes, AFTER I'd just belted 25 home runs and asked me Spanish-only questions, frankly, I'd probably crap my pants before I could even stammer out a simple greeting.  So to me, it was not only an impressive move by the reporter but also a kind gesture.

Apparently, parts of America didn't think so.  You can read a pretty great article by Gregg Doyel here.  He says what I feel probably a great deal better than I could.

What bothered me most about reading Doyel's article or seeing it on Deadspin was not just seeing America show its panties one more time (because America does some ugly shit a lot of the time) but that the majority of tweets and messages I saw were from young people.  In my mind, I kept looking for the skinhead or the toothless redneck or the 85 year old granddad who "just doesn't know any better".  But that's SO NOT WHO I SAW, and I guess the fact that I was looking for those types of people reveals my own stereotypes and prejudices to some extent.  Or just a misconception that somehow we are growing more tolerant with each passing generation.

Any time I hear someone grumbling about "English-only America" I hear the struggles of my students (and their parents).  When I read messages that proclaimed "You're in America, learn to speak English" I see these mothers and fathers, sitting in a parent conference, heads bowed in shame or indecision, trying to understand as their 12 year old straddles two worlds.  I see their fear in coming to school because they feel that they can't interact.  I see my students who struggle to remember nonsensical English grammar rules while still maintaining fluency in their own home language, whatever it may be.

So, needless to say, I was infuriated by these tough guy tweets and all of their bravado and ignorance.  I am so tired of talking to kids about bullying, day in and day out at school, only to see that they really aren't the worst offenders.

Some of these people, whether they're spewing hate about Yoenis or someone else, will say that they're just kidding -- that they're just trolling for a fight or a retweet.  Others will proudly stand behind their freedom to say whatever the hell they want.  Others might just be finding their courage from a keyboard and relative anonymity.  Whatever the reason, I personally think it's pretty laughable for some 25 year old loudmouth  to wave the First Amendment as permission to tell another human being to "speak English or go back to jibber-jabber land".

Actually, the only laughable part, to me, is that almost every one of those English-only demands, in fact, contains multiple and glaring grammatical mistakes.  And you're speaking IN YOUR OWN NATIVE LANGUAGE, YOU JERKS!

Note:  This is where you should hear me giving a huge, defeated sigh.

So just as I was about to give up on America there on an unassuming Monday night, this video rolled across my Twitter timeline.  By the way, I adore my Twitter timeline.  I've said it before, and I'll say it again and again.  If Twitter is really an echo chamber, I'm glad that I found a group speaking what I like to hear.  It's about a 9 minute video, but I promise you, it's worth your time.  (I should also note that it came across my Facebook feed as well -- thanks Taylor Fratina for posting.  I like what she says too!)



I really do believe we are growing more tolerant generation by generation, but like with any other struggle, there are bumps along the way.  And sometimes those bumps are getting all the press because they're the loudest and most insane (to me at least).  But I've got a lot of hope in the crop of kids coming up.  Don't let me down, kids.

For the record, I never noticed that they were a mixed-race couple.  I want to think that it has to do with my ability to look past such outdated prejudices but it might have just as much to do with my lack of paying attention.  Also, I'd like to know when the girl in the aqua tank top will be old enough to run for President. She's totally got my vote.

Letting Go

I'm a camp girl.  It's true.  I am.

I am many other things: a teacher, a coach, a daughter, a sister, a friend.

But mostly, I'm just a camp girl.

If you had told me that this is who I would grow up to one day be when I spent my first night at camp 27 years ago, I'd have called you a liar.

I spent four summers as a child at camp.  I had my first "real" job in life as a camp counselor in 1995.  And I've done almost everything in camping for the 17 summers since at both that camp and another.  Until this one.  For the first time in a very, very long time, I didn't spend my first day of summer break playing get-to-know-you games or singing silly songs.

How and why I'm not at any of my 3 camps anymore aren't all that important to this story (and it's a story I've been trying to write for weeks now).  It involves all the regular players in any interesting drama: anger and heartache, power struggles and finger pointing, change and loss.  But the how and why have hurt me and hurt my friends, one after another, for almost a quarter of a century now, and I'm trying to find a way to say goodbye to all that hurt.  I've run out of room for the hurt.

I've been trying to remember all the wonder and magic and memories while letting go of all my bitterness, but it's terribly hard.  They seem to walk hand-in-hand, this love and rage.  And so, each day, I wake up, wishing that I were sitting down in the already-sweltering Texas heat to some biscuits and gravy or a sweet potato muffin or even a corn dog disguised as a pancake pup. 

I took a trip out to my 2nd camp several weeks ago.  I've been trying to write this post since then, and I couldn't find my words.  I think I've been searching for them since the day I last took off my red counselor tie.  Although it's not where I started my camping career, and it's not where I ended it, I have always felt that it was the place I became me.  It's the source of my silliness, my leadership, and my strength.  It gave me my confidence (even though it still fails me at time) and the best friends I could ever know (who never fail me ever). 

There are moments, even now -- 18 summers later -- when I can feel myself standing at the edge of the bridge for the very first time, taking a deep breath, and walking across to change my life.

Sometimes, I don't think of it at all.  And then on other days, I am drowning in nostalgia

• the feel of the wooden benches in Main Lodge
• the sound of the bell at mealtimes
• Flag Medley
• the thrill of finding a friendship rock
• the tepid water of July creek walking
• the rush of the waterfall at Shannah's Lagoon
• the smell of cedar
• the sound of cicadas
• the shake of the swinging bridge
• the blare of the WWII speakers at the slab
• the pop of a bow and the thwack of a bulls-eye
• the pop of Miss Maddie's wooden spoon as you reached for a roll (an obviously unnecessary roll)
• the smell of Miss Linda's homemade cinnamon rolls
• the cool breeze through the chapel
• the singing, the laughter, the tears
• Diet Cokes and picnic tables
• the sweating at Council Fire
• the sweating at lunchtime songs
• the sweating at rest time
• the sweating that began as soon as you got out of the shower
• My God, the sweating.  Always.  The sweating.
• the way Lower Pool completely shredded your toes
• sprinting past RuLoHo at midnight
• Screened in cabins
• Screech Owl
• The Big White Truck
• The lock on the CC
• The sandals in the safe (they're probably still there.  Nobody could open that damn safe.)
• dancing on desktops in the office
• late night programming
• 2 AM all-camp planning
• Montana's cheese fries
• trail rosters
• circle-up
• the Blackmon-Mooring van
• the Live Oak grove
• the Redwood 'Hood
• the Horizmen
• fireworks on the Brazos
• secret campfires at the point
• secret smokes behind the maintenance barn
• Pig-Out Day
• the glare from the road
• the shade of the trails
• dance parties
• kitchen raids
• ice cream on the back porch
• and on and on and on...

So when the invitation came to return for the day, we went.  None of us were sure we wanted to.  The wounds and scars on a few of us are still fresh and tender.  Of course, I was afraid, as always, that Sad and Bitter might hitch a ride too.  But there's safety in numbers, solace in friends, and salvation in letting go. 

And there were new eyes with which to see it, this great and mysterious thing known as Camp.  See, in the 18 years since I made those incredible friends, they've produced more (although smaller) incredible friends.  So we journeyed to our past with little pieces of our future.

It was pretty amazing.

The feeling I got seeing the boys run and play and hike the trails was as close as I've ever gotten to truly remembering what it was like to be new at camp.  Their excitement was infectious, and although we went (begrudgingly) to welcome change, we wound up still celebrating all that we once knew and treasured.

Elliott making his way across the swinging bridge for the first time.
I love the casual hand in the pocket.  No big deal.

A little video of the first crossing of the wiggly bridge. 

Squeals of fear were soon replaced with "I like it now!"

Hayrides up to middle camp.

A little chase outside the new lodge to avoid breaking

something inside the new lodge.

Elliott and Marcus. Destined to be camp buddies.

There's still water in Fall Creek.  It's obviously not July yet.

The new equestrian center.

The new lodge.  

The new office.

Marcus making friends.

Tyler, just dealin' with it.

Kathy, LJ, Elliott, and Courtney.  And a little photobomb by yours truly.

Sweet giggles.

This is the old bell.  It is a fixture in the life of camp.

These are my old friends. They are a fixture in the life of me.

18 years in the blink of an eye.

The new "old" bell.  But still old friends.  They're the best kind, you know.

On the way out, we saw a group of new camp counselors, readying themselves for the beginning of their summer.  They were stationed all along the path out, past the bell, through Main Lodge, and across the swinging bridge.  To each, I wished out loud a happy and safe summer, but inside, I harbored a jealousy so heavy and thick that I struggled to draw my last breaths of that sweet cedar air.

As I turned around for one last look across the creek, across the bridge, across my past, I wondered how it is that I could have given so much only to be just a blip in an 80 year history.  I wondered if in another 18 years, my time there would matter at all.  I wondered how a few hundred acres of sandstone and cedar trees could steal so much of my heart.  I wondered when the memories would come alone, without the hurt.

But as I sit here and write, sweating on my couch with the windows open so I can hear the cicadas buzz,  I remind myself that while camp got the best of me for 17 summers, I also got the best of it for the rest of my life.

And I find myself at the edge, looking at my past as well as my future, taking a deep breath and letting go.

Amazing Things Will Happen.

Normally, the last day of school is a pretty joyous day. 

The students are usually all:

 

And the teachers are all:

 

And, admittedly, some of the teachers may do that dance, too.  That's what happens on a "normal" last day.  But today wasn't that day.  This week just wasn't that kind of week.

 

In case you don't live in North Arlington or read newspapers or listen to just general gossip or speculation, you might not know what's been happening in my school.  To make a long story short, we haven't met the standards set in place -- AYP (Adequate Yearly Progress) -- according to NCLB (No Child Left Behind).  All those letters are federal standards, measured in accordance with state testing standards. 



Now, you can feel how you want to feel and say what you want to say about standardized testing or how we measure student progress here in the good ol' U.S. of A.  That's your business.  And you may or may not realize that A) every state's measurement standards differ.  Or 2) that once you're in trouble with the Feds, you're in it... and you have to prove you're worthy by making AYP two years in a row.  So finally) a school could actually be seen as a top-perfoming school in the eyes of the state and still continue to be seen as a failing school in the eyes of the federal government (See: Nichols 2010).

But, as I said, you can feel however you want to feel.  Mostly, I just feel confused by it all.

AYP also advances in stages.  When a school first misses the mark, they are in Stage I. On a side note, it has never escaped my attention that the AYP lingo is the same lingo we use for classifying cancer. Stage 1 is sort of shocking, but fairly isolated and easily treatable.  But Stage IV... man, watch the eff out for Stage IV.  Ain't nobody got time for that.  Stage IV is devastation.

There is no Stage V in the cancer world, but there is in AYP.  And that, my friends, is where we've found ourselves. 

This year has been especially difficult.  We, as a faculty, have been living and working and teaching in a metaphorical pressure cooker.  There are, I'm sure, many people who have decided that somehow we've gotten what we've deserved.  They will say that we didn't work hard enough or that we didn't use the right materials.  Or that we should have tried this.  Or that we should have tried that.  Or that we must not really care.  Or that we're a waste of time or money.  Or that we should be ashamed.  Or that we don't deserve a voice in our own fate.

Don't laugh.  Don't doubt.  Those are actual quotes I've heard -- some whispered behind hands, eyebrows raised.  Others voiced openly and publicly.  Mostly by people who have never worked in a struggling school.

It's been hard to wear the Scarlet "N".  But we've done it, and we tried to keep our heads held high.  In many ways, I've done it my entire career.  I've been on the end of the sympathetic head tilt many a time when I've told other district employees where I teach.  They react as if I told them I had a dreaded disease.  Like cancer, I suppose.

So this week, the decisions of some led to the leaving of many.  Today, it was very hard to celebrate the end of the school year.  It was hard to remember the success of our students, and we've actually had many -- just not those that are measurable with a scantron and a #2 pencil.  And it was very difficult to say goodbye.  I'm not very good at goodbye.

See, the greatest thing about being a Mustang is that you are always a Mustang.  I have heard, time and time again, that there is something truly special and unique about our building.  Teachers leave and go to other campuses or districts, and they always report that they might like their school, but it just doesn't feel like home.  The Nichols faculty is a family.  We may not always get along or agree, but we love each other.  We support one another.  Teaching in a struggling school feels like going to battle, and our faculty has been in the trenches together for a really long time.

While I will remain at NJH next year, seeing so many of my friends leave today was tough.  Some were leaving by their own choice while others were not, but it doesn't matter how they left.  They left.  And we will all have a tremendous amount to rebuild -- within our school and within ourselves -- no matter where we all land in August.

I wore one of my favorite shirts today.  It's the last shirt I have from the grief camp I used to volunteer for.  (It didn't escape my attention that there are, strangely enough, five stages of grief). The camp's motto is, "We cannot choose the way we are hurt, but we can choose the way we are healed."  We have been hurt.  We will continue to hurt. 

But we can choose to heal.  And, God, I pray that healing touches all our hearts soon.  I don't know how or when it will begin to happen, but my suspicion is that it will start with the smile of a student in August.  Or a hug from a colleague.  Or a parent choosing to believe in each of us.  I doubt that it will start with a test score. 

Just as I was about to go to bed tonight, I saw a video that made me think of my school family.  It's the farewell speech from Conan O'Brien when he left The Tonight Show under much scrutiny and a highly publicized controversy.  The first time I watched it, I just watched it.  But the second time I watched it, I heard it.  And it went straight to my broken heart and placed a tiny band-aid.  It may not hold for long, but it held long enough to make me believe that amazing things will happen.

Amazing things will happen, friends.  Not just at Nichols but wherever we all land.  Amazing things will happen because of who we are and what we've learned from one another.  Amazing things will happen because we struggled mightily and never gave up.  And there is beauty, real beauty, in standing tall in a fight that no one else thinks you can win -- in standing up when all you want to do, when all anyone expects you to do, is stay down.

They will happen.  I believe it.  I believe it in my heart, broken as it may be right now.  I have to. And I  hope you believe it in yours as well.

So, good night, my Mustang friends.  But not goodbye.

Ramblings on Demonstrative Adjectives and the State of Our Society

Anyone who knows me well knows that I really love my school.  I do, sincerely.  I started there 13 years ago, on a wing and a prayer because a kind-hearted crazy woman who hired me when she didn't really have a job for me yet. 

I don't just work there; I feel called there.  You know... Called.  Capital "C".

The atmosphere, the culture, the population size is all so radically different from everything with which I grew up that, on a daily basis, I learn something brand new about the world.

Mind you, my love for my school doesn't mean I overlook our flaws.  We have a ton of problems; some are within our control and some are not.  It doesn't mean that I don't get tired and fed up and want to quit on a weekly basis.  Because I do.  Sometimes it's a weekly/daily/hourly basis.

But in the last two weeks, my co-workers and I have been visited by three different former knuckleheads.  Wait.  Not "former", more like "reformed".  Because they changed.  They grew.  Something, somewhere, opened their eyes to a life they didn't want to live anymore.  Then they felt confident enough to come up to our school, to their coaches, to their teachers and say the words that every junior high teacher lives for:

"Miss (or Sir)... you were right."

All three kids acknowledged who they once were and who they are now.  They acknowledged what they did and then explained what they do now.  One has a 3.8 and is applying to nursing school.  One is a working mom.  One is mentoring kids at another junior high.  All of them were smiling.  None of them did this alone.  The working mom told a co-worker and me that "Life is hard, but it's good".

I like that. Life is hard, but it's good.  That's wisdom and realism and God all in six words.

.....

I overheard someone, in passing a few months ago, say something about "these kids" in reference to the students at my school.  It wasn't a nice reference, and I won't go into the entire conversation for two reasons: A) It's not worth my time.  And 2) the only words that truly irked me were "these kids".  I didn't know, right away, why they irked me so much, but, after much thought, I figured it out.

The disdain drips out of them. 

It's incredible how much of your truest self can be revealed in just one tiny little demonstrative adjective such as "these". 

I started listening to how others talked about the people surrounding them -- friends, kids, students, politicians, sports teams -- and it was so interesting to see the differences in attitudes.  People who wanted to distance themselves from the problem (whether it be a political disagreement, a lost game, or a misbehaving student) used the demonstrative.  "That guy", "this team", "those kids"...

But others chose to use a possessive pronoun -- "our President", "our boys", "my students".  The people, even in disagreement, still identified themselves as part of that group simply through the use of a possessive pronoun.  And, in thinking about the personalities of all the speakers, I realized that those using the possessive not only identified themselves as part of the group (or the problem, as it may be) but were actively looking for solutions to remedy their disagreement.  The "demonstrators" were much more likely to be people who not only distance themselves from the problem but also rarely perceive their own actions as a possible source of the problem.

I wonder... Can you be a part of the solution without knowing that you've been part of the problem?

......

Thinking back to the days when the three reformed knuckleheads graced our classrooms and hallways, I know that there were many times when I referred to them as "those kids" or "that girl" or "this knucklehead".  I know it because I'm human, and many times my flawed humanity is glaringly unattractive.  I'm not proud of it, but I am real with it.

Yet at some point, some time, we must have taken some ownership in their worlds as evidenced by their return.  Because as Henry Ward Beecher said, "What the heart has once owned and had, it shall never lose". 

Whether we own their hearts or they own ours, is the only question we have left to answer.

Going Home

So, this weekend, I took a trip up North to the beautiful Texas Panhandle to see my parents.  This is a pretty significant trip as it's the first time I've been home since my dad was moved to a nursing home.  It was something I'd been dreading, not because I don't love my parents, but rather because I love them so immensely that to see them in pain brings about actual physical pain for me.  To make a long story short, it was a worthwhile trip that I'm now ashamed to admit I had dreaded.  And -- I love my parents.  No matter what has happened in the last 4 years, I don't know that I'd ever wish for a different two people to have raised me.  It's good to remember that all the best parts of me were inherited from them, and all those parts are important.  I don't think any of us do that enough.

If you're in for the longer, and more random, version of the story, here it is -- transcribed via nursing home observations, tweets, and ramblings recorded on my trusty iPhone recorder.

2/18/12
10:30 AM:  Just leaving the MetroMess.  Where the crap are all of these people headed this morning?  Get out of my way.  I have painful emotional scarring to attend to!

10:35 AM:  Listening to the Edge (102.1 -- not the guitarist from U2).  Heard "Landslide" by the Smashing Pumpkins.  Almost had to pull over to sob like a baby.

10:38 AM:  Next on the Edge: Rage Against the Machine.  Almost had to pull over to beat the crap out of a random stranger.  I shouldn't be allowed to listen to Rage.

10:42 AM: New song by Florence and the Machine.  Rolling down the window to scream the lyrics into the driving rain.  Because her songs make me sing loudly, damnit!

10 seconds later: I am an idiot.  The driving rain doesn't give a flip about my righteously indignant shouting of lyrics.  The driving rain has only one goal -- to drown dumbasses like me.  Darwin's theory at work, people.

3:15 PM:  Surprise my dad in the dining room of the nursing home.  Huge tears for 12 seconds and then immediate introductions to every person wheeling by his table.  My parents are those furiously proud kind of  parents.

3:17 PM: Whispered gossip and low down about every other person in the dining room, including how he and my mom got ousted from a table by a 102 year old woman (named Granny) on my mom's first visit.  Apparently, no matter how old you get, the hierarchy of the cafeteria remains.  Good thing my dad has his own table now.  I made sure I quickly learned how to make that woman's coffee.  I am well-versed in the art of kissing ass.

4:05 PM: Received my first (but not last) beat down at dominoes by my dad.  I was then quickly beaten by my mom in the second game.  In 35 years, I'm fairly certain my parents have never "let" me win at anything.  My competitive streak is definitely genetic.

8:00 PM:  Came home with mom.  Realization that my dad is not at home fully sets in.  My dad is the type of person who fills a room even when he's not trying.  His empty chair is difficult to look at.  The only safe place to cry is the bathroom, but I knock over my make-up bag into the sink causing my mom to shout, "What in the hell are you doing in there?"

8:01 PM:  I am thankful, for the millionth time, for my mom and her ability to bring me back to normal.

My mom, by the way, has found jigsaw puzzles as a means to occupy her mind during the evenings, and she chooses the most incredibly difficult ones.  You know, the ones with millions of flowers and greenery and no discernible differences within pieces.  I am amazed at her ability to focus on something I find completely insane.  I feel the same way about her addiction to golf and her handheld Scrabble game.  When she claims to have no patience, I remind her of these things.

10:30 PM:  I am sleeping under the same bedspread I used when I was in the 5th grade.  That makes it a quarter of a century old.  It's a verifiable polyester heirloom.

2/19/12
I go to my dad's room at the nursing home to get him when we arrive.  His room is too small for visiting, and his roommate is a hardcore napping machine so we spend most of our time in the dining room where I endure my public beatings at dominoes.  On his bedside table is a vase full of moldy stems from the flowers I sent him 2 weeks ago.  He refuses to throw them away.  Note to self: either send a plant or fake flowers next time.  My dad is far too sentimental for things with a 3 day shelf-life.  This, too, is a genetically inherited trait I have.  In his bottom drawer is a stash of Little Debbie Nutty Bars and Tums.  This makes me smile.  Some things never change.

Additionally, everyone calls my dad "Pappy".  This is a nickname an orderly gave him during a hospital stay several years ago.  I didn't realize how much he liked it, and I wish I could tell that orderly that he truly did have an impact on my dad.  I can't even remember that man's name, and this thought makes me incredibly ashamed.  Throughout my visit, I notice how when the nurses and aides pass by my dad, they lay a hand on his shoulder even if they don't speak to him.  I am grateful to these people I've only just met.  I don't know how they do what they do, but I pray they continue to do so.  A few days ago, my dad was voted as the Valentine King.  He got a crown and a teddy bear and a chorus of "All Hail the King".  The nurses told my mom that when they announced his name, he turned his baseball cap sideways, gave a big goofy face, and wheeled himself up to the front.  Like I said, my dad fills up a room wherever he goes.  I smile at this too.

I spent most of the afternoon trying to eek out a couple of wins at dominoes, and I did manage a few.  Progress is slow but sweet.  They also had church in the dining room.  I realize that I don't know that I've ever been to a church service with both of my parents (unless you count funerals or weddings).  It was weird to see them singing from the hymnal.  Weird but comforting.  My mom's singing reminded me of when I was little and she would sing along with the car radio.  She always knew every word and blended perfectly with whatever singer came on that old Thunderbird radio.  I still maintain that she has a beautiful voice although she will vehemently deny it.  This is not a genetic trait I inherited unfortunately.  The singing, not the vehement denial. 

10:00 PM:  Watching the local news with my mom at home.  This is another comfort.  No matter what you're doing, at 10:00 PM, you watch the news.  I so rarely watch the local news here.  I'm not sure why.  Maybe it's because the DFW doesn't lead with stories that inspire Tweets such as this:

At the Amarillo Civic Center today, you could get a tattoo, a handgun, and an antique teapot. Texas, in a nutshell. #WTFAmarillo?


For real, the lead story was about the 3 different events all being held at the Civic Center that day: the Live Ink tour (apparently tattoo artists tour the nation and you can get inked or pick up tattoo tips or get a blue mohawk), the GUN SHOW (handguns, switchblades, brass knuckles, anyone?), and an ANTIQUE show (pick up a delicate china pattern to go with your AK-47).  So, you see, my randomness is not a genetic trait. Purely environmental.  Nature vs. Nurture, live and in action.

2/20/12
Woke up to 55 mile an hour winds this morning.  It's been a while since my first question of the morning was "Is the roof still attached?"  In case you've never visited, the Panhandle is the land without trees or tall buildings, therefore, the winds of Mother Nature know no boundary.   If these winds happened in the metroplex, grocery store shelves would be picked clean in anticipation of the Apocalypse.  And Channel 8 would have named the windstorm some ridiculously awful name.  On a side note: I follow many people on Twitter who happen to live in the Raleigh-Durham area (go Duke!) where apparently they had a little snowstorm this weekend.  They too, believe in weather overreaction and liberally apply sarcasm where needed.  I saw many, many tweets about hiding your milk and bread from the looters.  They also hashtagged the storm as #SNOMG.  This never failed to make me laugh, and I found myself hoping for a snowstorm of our own so I could steal their hashtag.

On the way to see my dad (about a 35 minute drive), this was my view of the road at times.  The tiny speck up ahead is my mom's car.  This was one of the clearer moments, believe it or not.  I actually had a 30 minute detour on the way home because of a gigantic wreck on 287 which was I'm sure was due to the dirt storm and the severely decreased visibility.  Sometimes the ridiculousness of the Panhandle weather is terrifying.

After 3 days in a row of visiting, my dad was clearly tired.  Whipping me at dominoes takes a lot of you apparently.  But so does holding it together, so I was tired too.  I was afraid of the moment when I'd have to leave.  This is usually a time of many tears for all three of us, and I was terrified for the first tear to fall. because the first tear is just the precursor to the dam burst.  But that tear never fell from any of us.  I'm not sure why.  Resignation?  Acceptance?  Stubbornness?  All three?  I just don't know. 

I said my good-byes.  I hit the road for my now 4 and a half hour drive home.  I stopped for fuel and the customary Allsup's burrito.  I felt pretty good until it got dark.  There is no dark like the Texas dark, even on a fairly busy highway.  And it hit just as a patch of almost non-existent cell phone coverage begins (which means no calls to friends to fill up the lonely downtime).  I stopped one last time at the world's most disgusting bathroom -- which I was forced to go to because it was on the "right" side of the highway.  Even though I'm a grown-up, with my own car and everything, I still follow my family's travel rules -- start 30-45 minutes later than you planned and never, ever cross over a highway just for something as trivial as food or a bathroom where you probably won't catch a third world level case of dysentary.  While I was waiting in line to pay for my fried pie (stop judging me) and Diet Coke, I downloaded a podcast I'd seen on Twitter earlier in the day (from another sportswriting Duke guy), and I'm so glad I did.  It was not his usual basketball podcast which I always enjoy.  Instead it was basically him and a friend just talking about random and ludicrous articles they'd read.  I loved it because it was the Raleigh-Durham boy version of me and my friends on any given night -- various tangents of conversation, lots of laughing, and the obligatory poop reference (although they upped the ante with crocodile dung).  Shane's and Jim's voices and laughter in my ear gave me 42 minutes of peace from the tears that were waiting for the right lonely stretch of road to appear.  If you have a spare 42 minutes, here's the link:

http://tobaccoroadblues.com/2012/02/20/selfish-young-americans-episode-2/

Shane's also a pretty good follow for all things sports-related (@tobaccordblues on Twitter) and a wonderful writer for Grantland.  And thus my totally unsponsored plug for a total stranger.  You're welcome, America.

The tears stayed away right until I began seeing the lights for Fort Worth.  For some reason, that was it, the trigger.  Maybe it was the nearness of the end of the journey.  Maybe it was the fact that in just a relatively short time, I was suddenly a world away again.  Because they are two different worlds -- There and Here.  Then Green Day sang "Time of Your Life", and I was a mess. 

But sure enough, 102.1 wouldn't let me down, and they followed it with good ol' Florence.  And this time, there was no driving rain to drown me out.  And if you watch the video, ignore the "Eyes Wide Shut" masquerade theme.  At least it's not creepy clowns in the woods this time.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WbN0nX61rIs&feature=player_embedded&noredirect=1

"It's hard to dance with a devil on your back, so shake him off."

I Just Don't Know...

It's been a hard Christmas, y'all.  A hard one.  And it's not even Christmas yet.

That's how hard it's been.

I'm just in the weirdest place.  There is so much good around me, but I just can't seem to shake all the Bad.  And the Bad always just seems to swallow up the good.  Swallow.  Devour.  Annihilate.  Consume.

Even when I'm happy, the Bad just seems to linger nearby, waiting to pounce.

Yesterday, a terrible thing was happening during the end of the school day.  A terrible thing that I blew off before I realized just how terrible it truly was.  And it brought grief to my school, to my friends, to my former students.  A young life, taken far too soon for all the wrong reasons.  And the person who took it was smiling as he was led to the back of the police car.

I don't know why these things happen.
I don't know why the best we have to offer are so often taken too soon.
I don't know what is wrong with our world.

I just don't know.

The End of an Era

Yesterday, I said good-bye to an old friend. I'd avoided it for a while, pretending that the end wasn't near. But not wanting to let go, while human, is futile. All good things must come to an end.

The Boy Under the Stairs is no more.

That's right. I finally saw the last Harry Potter movie yesterday. I had hoped to wait long enough to find myself in an empty theater, sitting alone so that I could grieve in peace. Alas, 12:55 PM, 8 weeks after release, is still not enough time as I found myself weeping quietly with at least 80 other people.

I'm no idiot. I knew what I was getting myself into. I've read the entire series at least 3 times. I harbored no illusions that things would change.  It didn't matter.  From the opening scenes at Dobby's little hand-dug grave, I was a puddle.  Damn elves.  Sheesh.

I am usually the harshest critic of books becoming movies... as my friend Kit said (after seeing Charlotte's Web in the theater), "It can just never be as clear on a screen as it was, listening to your 3rd grade teacher read it aloud while you laid your head upon your school desk".  I have to admit, however, that while I found the first couple of movies to be somewhat simplistic and surface valued, as the actors matured, directors changed, and the darkness of the storyline intensified, the movies became sensational with the two covering Book 7 being, by far, my favorite.  My interest in the films' progressions mirrored my own fascination with the books and awe at Rowling's skill at weaving together story lines that grew up along with her readers.  Unlike some of the latest young adult literary crazes (that started strong and fell apart in the end), the reader can't feel the deadline on the author's shoulders or the cash cow nipping at her heels.

And that's how these last movies felt.  They just felt... right.  Appropriate.  Timely, even.  But "timely" and "appropriate" are poor excuses for Kleenexes in a darkened theater.

And in response to another blockbuster, young-adult, the end is nigh movie premiere coming to a theater near you soon, I give you one of my new favorite Stephen King quotes.

"Harry Potter is about confronting fears, finding inner strength and doing what is right in the face of adversity. Twilight is about how important it is to have a boyfriend."



— Stephen King

One is Silver and the Other Gold

I've waited for a few days to write this post.  (In truth, it will probably turn out to be a series of posts.  A lifetime love is hard to capture in one entry.) 

Remember, I needed a bit of time to get back on the "normal" side of the Nostalgia Line?  Well, tonight I spent one last evening with several of my wonderfully sweet and dedicated summer staff.  The twinge to float down Amnesia Lane was there, but it did not leave me in a tearful mess on the drive home.  No tears.  That's the green-light for thinking about the past without calling up all of my friends, blubbering the words, "Remember when...?  Waaahhhh..."  No tears = safe zone.

At the end of the summer, I couldn't help but start to think about the past and how my life in camping has come full-circle.  How 25 years ago, I was changed without even knowing it.  And I'd catch myself, looking at my counselors and campers, wondering where this journey would take them in a quarter of a century.

When I was 10, I spent my first summer at Camp Cibola, a Girl Scout camp only about 5 miles from my house.  I can clearly remember asking my parents if I could go, worried that they'd see the price and pass out.  But they didn't, and over the next 3 summers, my dad made deals to help with the mowing and maintenance of camp and my mom -- a cosmetology student at the local community college -- sold hundreds of boxes of cookies to help defray the cost of a week or two at camp.  Literally, one summer, I am fairly certain the CJC Bulldog and Lady Bulldog basketball teams paid my way in mountains of Thin Mints.  It slowed them on the court a bit, but their cookie addictions helped change and shape my life.

My camp was forced to close when I was 14 due to financial constraints, and my friends and I were sad.  I didn't realize at the time what it was that we were really losing.  To the naked eye, it's just a few acres with some cabins and a pool, but for me, I realize now, it was home. A beginning, a spark.  Smells, songs, tastes, sounds... little snippets of the past catch me in the strangest of times and will flash me back 268 miles and 25 years.  It's the only kind of time travel I believe in.

Here is Camp Cibola for me:

• The smell of the Arts and Crafts building -- old stone and clay and tempra paint.
• Archery with Ernie the Archery Dude.
• My achievement beads -- specifically the crimson beads for bullseyes at Archery
• the redwood deck outside the dining hall
• mail call -- to this day, I still have yet to receive a letter from my mom while at camp.
• the Canteen
• trying to figure out all of the counselor's "real" names.  I'm still disappointed that B.G.'s real name was "Lanetta".  And "Froggy" will always be "Froggy".  Never Tracy.
• sleeping in the covered wagons with the flaps raised.
• sleeping in the covered wagon at the end of camp after the canvases were taken down
• stealing plums from the Chief Crazy Horse's (the camp director's) trailer while we were supposed to be typing the camp newspaper.  It's funny now that she never stopped replacing them.
• the mimeograph machine in the A&C building, cranking out copies of said newspaper.
• red, yellow, green swim caps.  I'll never forget the day I earned my green cap and went off the diving board.  I learned how to both swim and dive at camp, skills I will always owe to Momma Duke's fierce determination to get me to "put your dang face in the water, Nazworth!"
• the cinnamon and nutmeg smell of sweet potato muffins from the kitchen and peanut butter and honey on my pancakes.
• Three Brownie Bites and a Prune-a-Day.  Le sigh.
• The Buffalo Song
• Sleep-overs and star-gazing in the valley meadow.  And the smell of freshly mown grass.
• The cross-tie "bridge" on the forest trail.
• Fruit-flavored snipe hunts armed only with my pillowcase and a broken flashlight.  I still don't know how the counselors got that snipe smell to permeate our adventures.  My only guess is sno-cone syrup.  Or Kool-Aid packets.  I was terrified and thrilled all at once. 
•  skits and songs at the ampitheatre.
• red sashes on the color guard at flag ceremony and complete silence at flag before singing Taps.
• Kelly, the lifeguard, making friendship bracelets at the pool every day.  She held them in place with a band-aid, and she had a weird tan line where the band-aid was every day.  Now, I realize that maybe it wasn't the best idea for her to be crafting while guarding, but back then, she was just plain cool.
• platform tents
• the god-awful smell of the latrines and the intense heat and humidity of the showerhouse.
• Ivory soap in panty hose hanging from the trough sink.
• one-match fires
• chicken pot pie and macaroni and cheese cooked over the campfire.
• Greens and whites, knee socks and hats.
• canoeing across Lake Greenbelt with the staff when I was a P.A.T.  Then into town for Blizzards and Chinese Fire Drills on Main Street.
• Christel, Sarah, Erin, and Cara -- my camp buddies.
• Being severely homesick the first night only to realize that being homesick was a drag.
• aluminum foil boats with candles lighting the pool.
• the first s'more of the summer
• the last song of the summer... "mmm-hmmm... I want to linger..."

About 12 years ago, I took another of my camp friends (from my 2nd camp), Courtney, to see my old camp.  Even though it'd been closed and the land sold, no one developed it.  We hopped the fence, and after being closed for a decade, it was like looking at a skeleton of someone I loved.  The structures were still there, but the beauty, the spirit, the essence... had died long before.  They now only existed in some film I never took the time to develop and the memories, so clear in my heart.  I thought for a moment that I would simply sit down and fall apart.  But I didn't.  I walked her all over that camp, risking snakes in the grass and a nice trespassing charge, just to paint a picture of the place I loved so dearly if only for a short time.  I knew that she was one of the only people who would understand this need to say good-bye.  In our 16 year friendship, I'd have to say that afternoon was one of my favorite moments; it was the melding of my old camp life and my new camp life. 

"Make new friends... but keep the old... One is silver and the other gold."

On the Dangers of Nostalgia

Nostalgia is always a tricky thing for me. It's a fine line between visiting the past through a couple of fond memories and wallowing on your couch, scrapbook in hand, wishing for days and moments and people who are long gone.

I came home tonight from this summer's camp staff banquet, feeling especially nostalgic. I thought about writing a post about my first camp counseling experience from so long ago, but I am fully aware of the line tonight. And with just enough vodka in the freezer to free up both my tears and my dialing finger, I'm going to pass. Vodka and scrapbooks are a recipe for a sniveling disaster.

So maybe tomorrow. But if you get a phonecall in the middle of the night, don't judge. It's just the scrapbook talking.

Whatcha Want?

All my life, I have struggled with going after what I want.  Because I am a people-pleaser by nature, my needs and wants typically take a backseat to everyone else's.  Add to that the fact that my drug of choice is the need to be needed, and you have yourself a woman who has a list of things that she wants to accomplish but hasn't taken the time to.  I'm constantly making excuses as to how or why I can't do the things that I want; I can talk myself out of practically anything.

Which, when I stop to give thought to this, totally depresses me and makes me feel like a failure at life.

Sigh.

I've been thinking lately about if I could do anything, what I would do.  Here's a list of just a few things that I want but have never had the time or money or guts to go for. 

1. Travel to a foreign country.  Or several foreign countries.
2. Swim in the ocean.  I know.  It's sad.
3. Own a convertible.  To complete #10.
4. Buy a house.  I'm a financial commitment-phobe.
5. See a Cubs game at Wrigley Field.  Ivy covered walls and decade long failures entice me.
6. Be a mom.  But not by myself.
7. Take a yoga class.  Even though the thought makes me quite nervous.
8. Be even within 15 pounds of my high school weight.  I wish I was as fat as I thought I was then.
9. See a Broadway play.  Of course, this requires a trip to New York first.
10. Drive across the country.  In a convertible.  With funny friends.
11. Place a bet in a Vegas casino.   And drink all their free drinks.  And then get married by Elvis.  On second thought, maybe I should re-think Vegas.
12. See a Final Four game in person.  And if Duke were in it, then that's just a bonus.
13. Go on a cruise.  They just look fun.
14. Visit the Smithsonian.  I don't know why.  I just really, really like museums.
15. Take a creative writing class.  I'm not sure why I've never done this.
16. Go white water rafting.  Creekwalking at camp just didn't cut it.
17. See the Grand Canyon (again).  I saw it when I was like 4.  I remember nothing.
18. Take a year off to just do volunteer work.  It hits the "being needed" addiction head on.

Not a great list.  Not even a complete list.  Maybe I'll add to it occasionally.  But there it is.  In writing.  Not to be ignored.

What about you?

Say What?!

What do you do when someone says something you find completely rude and offensive in front of you?

What if it's someone you like and typically respect?

What if they say it to a kid?

It happened to me tonight. I walked right into it, and I was so thoroughly stunned that it took me a few seconds to speak. I was all, "Say Wha?"

When I got my wits back about me, I did the only thing I knew to do. I shooed that person away like a bothersome pest and tried to keep the show rolling. But for that kid, the show was completely ruined.

I get that it was a somewhat stressful moment. Well, I guess it was stressful if you're into freaking out about minute details. But, come on.

Now I'm not sure what to do. Do I speak with them about it, or do I let my "shooing" speak for itself?

Disappointing, to say the very least.

Conflicted

Late last night, it was revealed that Osama bin Laden had been killed. Watching it on the television, I couldn't really wrap my head around the news.

What do you do when the boogeyman takes a bullet to the brain?

Do you breathe a sigh of relief? Do you give thanks to God? To the troops? Or do you quote Toby Keith lyrics on Facebook and dance in the streets?

It's been interesting to see the reactions around me. I've tried hard to keep my judgments to myself because, truthfully, I don't know how I feel about it myself.

Don't get me wrong. I will not shed a tear for this man's death. Nor do I wish that he'd been taken alive to rot in a cell. When I think of him, I feel a similar twinge that I get when I read about Hitler or watch an interview with an inmate on death row. I don't feel relieved. I don't feel happy. My fears do not vanish.

I feel sad.

Not for them. Not for their families. Not for their followers. Not even for their victims.

I feel sad for all of humanity. That these are the atrocities that one man brings to the dreams of other men, twisting them into nightmares. That extremist views, both religious and political, still find a home in the minds and hearts of citizens of all nations. That hate and vengeance are swallowed as willingly as a daily vitamin. And I don't know how I feel about this sadness. I wonder why it is that I cannot join in the chants -- I don't feel sympathy or kindness to this man. Maybe I should just try. But there's something about cheering the snuffing out of a life, no matter how vile, in the same fashion that I cheer for our Olympic athletes.

When I think back to 9/11, to all of that coverage, my first thought is of the images in New York City. But the second? A video of the children of Afghanistan cheering and dancing through the streets, celebrating their victory over what they'd been told is an "Evil Empire".

So I sat, alone, on my couch last night, watching the news and the reactions of the people in Times Square, dancing, chanting, celebrating.

If I turned off the sound and squinted my eyes just a bit, I would swear I'd seen it all before. And when I went to bed, all my dreams still turned to nightmares even though the boogeyman was dead.

Love, Served with a Side of Flour Tortilla

The blogging world is a crazy-weird world. It can lead you all over the planet, introduce you to a million different viewpoints, expose you to incredible music, photos, and writing that takes your breath away.

Then, sometimes, it takes you across town. And sometimes "across town" steals your breath too.

One of the first sites I followed regularly was a photo comic (clearly NOT a blog), called "Surviving the World". All the way from the Great Northeast (Massachusetts, Connecticut, I don't know... somewhere up there), a scientific genius, replete with lab coat, who can dance like Charlie Brown and throw down a bitchin' raptor impersonation stands in front of a chalkboard covered with an always funny, many times thought provoking "lesson" for his followers. I totally heart Dante Shepard. Dante has only ONE blog that he recommends, so naturally as a follower, I began to follow her.

I read for months. Literally -- MONTHS -- before I came across a picture that made me go, "uhhh... wait. I KNOW that place!" So after a little backlog reading, I realized that this bright and insightful writer is not a world away; we share the same city limits. Uh.... weird. Anyway, for almost a year, I've risen each morning, pulled up her site and asked myself, "What will Sarahthe say today?" Her daily posts are as much a part of my morning routine as hitting the snooze button or stumbling for the first Diet Coke of the day. My best friend and I refer to her as our "Sort Of" Friend, and we openly discuss or worry or laugh about her as though she sat across the margarita-soaked table.

Through her writing, I feel like I've come to know her and her family (as much as you can know someone over the internet without being a total creep-out). Her readers download her music (many times recommended from her husband), giggle at her Dad and brother's continuing battle of how many times they can be mentioned on her site, cheer her triumphs in nursing school, and marvel at the beauty of her photographs. And we learn from her pain so honestly spoken, share in it as much as we can from afar, and then try to offer what sense we can muster about it. Last night, I happened to catch her latest post, fresh off the presses (or however it's deemed in the land of the interwebs), and it broke my heart. You need to read it now. Otherwise, you won't understand the next part. And let's face it, you're this deep in. Click the damn link.

The fear that stood out to me most was the fear that being unable to explain their connection would cause her and her family to drop from the lives of her beautiful nephews and their wonderful mother. That because they weren't "legally" family, somehow that love would simply fade away. That idea stuck with me all day. Nagged at me.

What makes a family anyway?

I was 12 before I fully understood that an entire side of my family was not related to me in any way whatsoever. No blood. No marriage. Just a simple friendship with my mom and dad led all of these wonderful people into my life, and they raised me. Not as the daughter of a best friend, but as a granddaughter, a niece, a cousin. School vacations were sometimes spent almost entirely there, and summers... oh summers. I can remember begging on the phone to spend even one more day. Just one. Even though I might have already spent weeks.

My Grandma Daniel was my grandmother, as much or more as my God-given grandmothers. She opened her house to me and my brother every summer. She gave me quarters for the ice cream man. She popped my backside with a rolled-up newspaper when I misbehaved. She taught me to bake a cake and introduced me the Wild West with all of her "stories" each afternoon. I think I was the only grade-schooler who knew the programming schedule for Bonanza, The Virginian, and Gunsmoke. Oh... and cable t.v. A child from the sticks will never forget the first time she laid eyes on MTV.

My Aunt Patti taught me about Elvis and eyeliner and how to care for animals. Her daughter, my cousin Jodi, introduced us to street football and allowed the whiny 8 year old to be the "all time Center" (i.e. hike the ball, get out of the way) instead of forcing me to sit out. Her husband and his family welcomed me with homemade tortillas and tales of the Chupacabra (Oh, Tia Wanda could weave a scary story about el cucuy). And movie marathons. Scary movie marathons. With Jiffy Pop drenched in butter. As a result, there is not a horror flick, no matter how dumb or horrifying, that I will not watch.

The first baby I ever held was my cousin Melissa. I was seven. She was precious. I'm not sure why anyone trusted me to hold her on my own, but I'm glad they did. That moment created a lifetime love of the feel of a sleeping baby snuggled against my neck.

They hauled my crying, carsick butt to California when I was seven. I cannot remember why, and I remember very little other than being sick in the van as we traveled through the mountains. I don't remember them complaining about it though.

Summer after summer, if I wasn't headed to their house, they were making the drive to mine. They'd gather the tents and firewood and coolers and head our direction to spend the weekend at the lake where my family lived. We'd float and fish and burn some marshmallows. Stories around the fire, burgers cooked over the coals, sleeping under the stars. As much as the smell of a campfire and sunscreen and mosquito repellent takes me to summer camp, it reminds me first of this family. My family. The family that never cared who I was or how I came to be a part of their lives.

One of my biggest regrets in life is that in growing up, I grew away from them. My visits became infrequent and then non-existent. We moved on. They moved on. Lives continued, interrupted only by the occasional phonecall and the sad reunions at both my grandmothers' funerals. But there are times, moments, on almost a weekly basis that bring any or all of them back into my heart. And through the miracle of the Facebook, I've managed to reconnect with some of them. One of my biggest laughs has come from the discovery that my cousin Chris and I share an addiction to the show Dexter. A darkly comedic show featuring a serial killer as its hero. I guess the Scary Movie Marathon gene did indeed pass down. Jodi posted the other day about making homemade tortillas. I can still taste those tortillas twenty-five years later.

Now, my best friend has a son. He doesn't know me as Aunt Deana, but he knows me. He lights up when I walk in. He pesters his mother to call me on the phone. He reads me upside down books and bakes me imaginary pies. He loves me, and I love him. Not because I'm genetically pre-disposed. Not because someone in my family decided to marry someone in his. But rather because a long time ago, someone taught me what it is to love your best friend's child. Unconditionally. Wholly. Because the more people to love and support your child, the better.

So today, when I checked back on my fellow readers' advice to our "Sort Of" friend, Sarahthe, I wanted to explain that sometimes life is about more than how we're tied to each other but rather WHY we're tied to one another. And I looked down the comments to see that best friend of mine telling her what I wanted to say all day. That love wins.

Love always wins.

And my hope is that one morning, as I sip my Diet Coke and dread the alarm clock, I will pull up a picture of Tia Sarah with her beautiful nephews sharing a moment. Maybe a burnt marshmallow or a game of catch. Or maybe even a homemade flour tortilla.

Because let's face it. Homemade tortillas always win too.