Teachers!

I love teachers.  I have experienced them in a variety of areas in my life, as a family member, a student, a colleague, and finally as a parent.

When I’ve stopped and thought about it, I have realized that my family is lousy with teachers!  My dad was a speech and debate teacher in high school for 37 years.  My sister is a special education teacher.  My aunt taught 2^nd grade for…ever?  My cousins have been teachers, administrators and professors.  My mother in law teaches ESL for adults.  My father in law has also taught classes, as has my sister in law.  That’s a lot of teacher folk!  When you grow up with it, it doesn’t seem that extraordinary, it’s just normal.  I began to get a sense of how much my dad was adored when we couldn’t leave the house without bumping into a former or a current student.  He taught in San Marino, and we lived in Altadena, so we weren’t in the same town.  Despite this, errands and outings were nearly always met with choruses of “Mr. Stuart!”, “Stuuuuu!!!” I remember going to school with him a few times when I was in high school myself.  I knew my dad was funny in our home life, but I had no idea he was such a funny teacher. I didn’t witness this, but lore has told that he chucked a chalkboard eraser at a student who had fallen asleep. He also insisted that a particular student remove the safety pins in his lip before coming into the classroom, but returned them at the end of the period.  I loved watching him interact with his students!  He kidded around with them and laughed at their jokes, but he also kept them in line.  They loved him and had fun with him, but they also respected him.  Now that I have the perspective I do, I understand how tough of a line must have been to toe. The fact that students who graduated before I was even born took the time to attend his memorial service last year spoke volumes.  With my other family members, I’ve seen so many positive traits, including hard working, dedicated, intuitive, creative, and caring.  What a gift it’s been to have these teachers as members of my family! I had a fabulous foundation in that arena.

As a student, quite a few teachers stand out.  I attended public school in Pasadena for my entire K-12 career. There is an amazing group in my mind that deserve standing ovations for everything they did for me.  Dear Mrs. Hayes, my 3^rd grade teacher, was my very first favorite. She was creative, outgoing, and kind.  She passed several years back, and I was genuinely saddened.  Mrs. Patterson in 6^th grade whipped my behind in shape, figuratively.  In addition to being exciting and interesting, she also had incredible radar when it came to social issues.  6^th grade was a tough year for me, and somewhat of a turning point.  My skin began to break out, and I experienced the joy of the mean creatures that are 11 and 12 year old girls.  I was picked on and ridiculed, big time.  I actually, almost got into a physical fight that year.  Of course, having no idea how to handle these difficulties, I chose to pick on others so I would feel better.  I’m not proud of this, and the kids I did pick on ended up being amazing people.  I’ve actually apologized to them ad naseum.  At the time, Mrs. Patterson saw what was going on, and stepped in.  She called my mom in to talk, and my attendance was mandatory.  I remember this vividly; she said to my mom, “I just can’t picture Jane kicking someone’s butt.” This was true for two reasons, the first being that I can’t fight and would have been pummeled to death.  The second reason was that a mean girl, a fighter, wasn’t anywhere close to who I really was. I think I can say that I experienced a mean girl “season”, but I thankfully outgrew it. Mrs. Patterson saw it, and made me regain my senses. I continued to be picked on that year, but I stopped being a perpetrator.  To this day, I have never been in a physical fight in my life. I can’t say that I’ve never been mean since then, but I have taught my own children that mean kids aren’t allowed to live in our house.  This may sound harsh, but Mrs. Patterson’s lesson stuck with me.  No mean people allowed, I won’t tolerate it.

High school began, and again, several teachers were responsible for keeping me in line. The most special and my very favorite teacher of all time was my 9^th grade English teacher, Ms. Aljean Ivory. My best friend and I were placed into her Advanced Placement class, but once we discovered how much work it would entail, we were desperate to escape.  We acquired the necessary forms and took them to have her sign us out, and she refused!  We were shocked and incensed. How could she refuse our request, we had the right to not take an AP course if we didn’t want to!  She would not budge.  We both doubted we’d get very far pursuing this with our parents, so we begrudgingly gave in and attended.  I remember one day during which she was teaching Shakespeare, I believe it was Hamlet.  She acted out a death scene, and my friend and I both thought she had turned into a lunatic, yelling and collapsing to the floor. Who knew what an impact this woman would end up making on my life? She wouldn’t allow us to settle for mediocrity in ourselves, she pushed us.  She saw our potential and didn’t care if we hated her.  Ms. Ivory taught me how to write. How do you put a price on that, or measure the value?  We learned the joy of literature, even the dreaded Shakespeare, and learned how to express ourselves through writing and poetry.  In the years that followed, she was the advisor to the Peer Counselors Club, and my best friend and I both participated. She was a wonderful trainer, but we never actually counseled anyone.  Just last week, my best friend asked me why we never received our Peer Counseling sweatshirts we ordered, it’s gotten to be a joke that has spanned over 20 years. Despite the lack of actual clients, I learned a great deal being in that club, and I believe she had an enormous influence on what I decided to do with my life.  Years later, by pure coincidence, she and her son were able to attend my wedding.  That meant the world to me, and I’m not sure I even had the chance to thank her.   High school held other gems as well, including Mr. Barnes, Mrs. Toh, and Mr. Moore, all English and Social Studies teachers.  I learned so much from all of them.  They taught me the ability to think of things critically, to understand issues from the opposing viewpoints, and the power of the written word.  They opened up the world for me, and I am forever grateful.

For the last 14 years, I’ve worked as a public school psychologist and I work with teachers every day.  With every year that passes, I’m struck more and more with how difficult their jobs are.  People tell me they can’t imagine doing my job, and it is tough.  However, I would go stark raving mad as a classroom teacher.  I don’t know how they do it. I’ve written about this before, but the general public really doesn’t understand how difficult of a job it actually is.  Are all of them wonderful?  Of course not, but neither are all doctors, lawyers, investors, and dare I say, school psychologists.  There are some bad apples is every profession, but the majority of the teachers I’ve worked with are exceptional. Classroom teachers have to deal with mediocre pay, zero respect most of the time, changing standards, horrific behavioral issues, insane parents (yes, I said it), and the challenge of teaching to the gifted children in their class while simultaneously teaching the average and learning disabled kids.  They are buried in paperwork. They have to attend endless, boring meetings (yes, again, I said it.) These are the people to whom we have entrusted our children’s education! What could possibly be more important than this?  Yet they’re ridiculed and sometimes vilified, having members of the media accuse them of having a “part time job.”  Off by 2:30 and summers off, that must be a cakewalk!  This mindset makes my blood boil, and my little 41 year old self who has never been in a physical fight feels as though I could actually take on some of these deluded people.  I could take them….I know I could.

Over the years, I’ve had the pleasure of being able to call many of these people my friends.  The stories these people have are simply incredible.  These amazing folks deal with the day-to-day stresses of the job, while having to endure some heart-wrenching personal issues at the same time.  I suppose this is true of all adults, but the teachers I work with have managed to do it with incredible dignity and grace.  The same people were there for me when I was dealing with personal loss, and difficult situations.  They took the time to listen to ME, which still surprises and pleases me.  Some of these people have called and texted me at night and weekends regarding students we were working with together.  This was something I encouraged, but I didn’t expect it to happen.  People have their own families and obligations. However, the dedication these folks have to the kids they work with is astounding to me. They don’t only care about teaching academics to these youngsters, they care about them as children, as if they were their own.  Additionally, some of the teachers I work with have been gifted with the most hysterical, twisted, clever, perfectly timed humor you could ever imagine.  These people have made me laugh until tears were streaming down my face. You people know who you are.  Thank you!! You make my job that much more tolerable.

Finally, over the past decade, I’ve had the pleasure of experiencing teachers as a parent. Like most parents, I expect my children to be attentive, polite, courteous, smart, hard working, sensitive, caring, enthusiastic, friendly, obedient, creative, extraordinary little beings with perfect handwriting. Yeah, God didn’t make children that way.  Regardless, it’s a curse we all seem to have as parents to varying degrees.  As the parent of a 1^st and 5^th grader, I’ve been amazed every year with my children’s teachers.  My daughter is a unique little person, and I have been blown away with her teacher’s abilities to tap directly into her spirit. The attention they’ve given her are priceless, and something she will remember forever.  When she accidentally chucked her retainer into the garbage during lunchtime, her 2^nd grade teacher went back with her to the cafeteria, found the can she threw it in, and set it aside before letting me know.  How many teachers would keep a bag of lunch garbage in their classroom?  I had the honor of going through the garbage, of course, and the retainer was rescued.  You, sir, saved me hundreds of dollars! Both of my children were lucky enough to have the same Kindergarten teacher, the one who told us our daughter would be reading by the end of the school year. We politely smiled, and thought to ourselves, “Yeah, right.  There’s no way.”  Miraculously, this prediction ended up being true, for both of our children. These teachers have cracked down on my daughter when she’s needed it (increasingly more often), and reassured me there’s no need to fret about my son’s difficulty articulating the “r” sound. They have high expectations and don’t mess around, and my children rise to the occasion because they’re encouraged to do so.  They appreciate and foster my daughter’s creativity and my son’s mellow nature. When there has been a concern, they have let me know immediately and we’ve dealt with it.  I feel as though we’re a team, and together we will ensure our children work to their full potential.  This is an invaluable thing.

For those of you out there reading this who don’t encounter teachers as often as I do, take a moment to ponder this.  Who was your favorite teacher and why? Do you know how to contact them?  If you can, please consider doing so and telling them your thoughts.  I guarantee it will make their day.  I’m in the process of trying to track down some of mine, all of whom have retired.  For those of you with children still in school, please tell their teachers how much you appreciate them when you feel it.  Teachers rarely get thanked for their hard work, and oftentimes it’s the best part of their job. I feel very lucky.  I’m related to incredible teachers, have had wonderful teachers, my children have had and continue to have top notch teachers, and I get the joy of working with these professionals every day.  They are the unsung heroes in our society.  Give ‘em some love!!  I love them something terrible.

Too Short for Stupid

I’ve experienced a lot of death lately. These deaths are not counting my own father, fathers of close friends, two of my uncles, one of my husband’s, and my husband’s grandmother. Since April, there have been four deaths, varying in how close to home they hit. However, they all had one thing in common, unfortunately. They were all untimely, and they all had tragic circumstances. I’ve attended two memorial services in 30 days for people who were my age, and “heart-wrenching” is putting it mildly.

It is hard to put this into words, because there are so many cliches associated with what I want to convey. “Life is short”, “Count your blessings”, “At least you have your health”, etc., are among them. However, I’ve chosen to express how I feel with “Too Short for Stupid” instead. I’ve learned a lot over the last months and weeks, and I’ve made a decision. Life is too precious of a gift to waste worrying about stupid crap. It’s time to let it go. It’s as though I’m just waking up from a very long sleep. As always, music seems to play a part and finds a way to weasel its way into my life lessons.


I’m not going to freak out about work anymore. It can be stressful, sure, and it probably always will be. However, somehow all the work always gets done, and for the most part, my reviews are positive. I am no longer going to obsess about fractured relationships and will resist the urge to “fix” it, as I have for most of my 41 years. I can love people deeply from a distance if their energy isn’t healthy for me right now. I’m letting go of bitter feelings about wrongs, perceived or accurate, from my childhood. People make mistakes all the time, and I am certainly not immune. The 1970’s Beatles were often played in my childhood home, but some lyrics I didn’t really pay attention to until lately. “When I find myself in times of trouble, mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom, let it be. And in my hour of darkness she is standing right in front of me, speaking words of wisdom, let it be.” Ohhhhhhhh!!!!!! I’ve never been skilled at letting it be, but I’m now going to put it into practice as much as I can muster.


I’m finished worrying about money, because we’re going to be fine. Unexpected expenses and bumps in the road will always occur, but somehow it always works out. I am done nitpicking every tiny detail of my appearance that isn’t “perfect”. My Jell-O-like abdomen housed my beautiful children and brought them into our lives. My skin still breaks out from time to time, who cares?? If I ceased coloring my hair, it would be frighteningly white, something I don’t intend to unveil for many moons, but it really doesn’t matter. I am no longer going to feel guilty about not having a spotless home or having piles of laundry everywhere, or being a less than perfect mother. If I’d been counting, I’m probably somewhere in the vicinity of Parental Mistake #328. Does anyone know a perfect mother? If so, it’s an illusion, or they’re completely full of it. I’ve spent a tremendous amount of time feeling pressure from all sides of my life, from my family of origin, the family I created, friends, and from work. However, where did the true origin of the pressure lie? I did this to myself, and it’s time to put it permanently to rest. It may result in new elements of my personality and behavior that many may not look upon favorably.  That's okay too.


We’re swimming in blessings that I’ve been too distraught to recognize over the past couple of years, but I see them now. I appreciate things as simple as the fact that I don’t go to bed in pain every night and that I’m healthy overall. I’m in possession of my senses, at least most of the time. I adore my husband, I truly do. He is my best friend, and we’ve been enjoying each other’s company lately more than we have in years. He and I have now attended more weddings that have already ended in divorce than ones in which the couple are still together. We’re coming up on 16 years of being together, 16 years! He can still make me laugh instantly and hard, after all this time. Our children are happy and healthy, we have plenty of food, and we live in a safe neighborhood…all these things are not to be taken for granted. There are seasons, I understand that, and there will be trouble in days to come because that’s how life is. Pain and loss are inevitable, and it’s essential to feel these emotions. I’ve witnessed first hand what can happen when people don’t fully accept what they've lost and deal with their emotions. You can’t run and hide from sorrow, you can’t over-analyze things and forego emotion for logic, and these actions are unhealthy in my opinion. My mother said to me once that “You can’t experience true joy if you don’t experience pain.” Man, was she ever right on the money!

There is joy and beauty everywhere. Today while swimming with my children, I looked at my son’ perfect little sharp shoulder blades as he set his face into an expression of total determination before he jumped into the pool, doing a “trick”.  He looks so much like my father, and that’s a true gift that I treasure every day.  My daughter is growing up before my eyes and what I feel is a combination of fear and awe.  Aside from the wonder of watching her change from a child to a young lady, I am constantly amazed by her vocabulary, her intuition, and her creativity.  How did I get these little beings?  This tiny little snapshot in time will be gone in the blink of an eye, and I will miss it when it’s gone. How stupid would it be to miss this because I was too busy, too sad, or too distracted to notice? Again, cue the song lyrics! “It gains the more it gives, and then it rises with the fall. So hand me that remote, can't you see that all that stuff's a sideshow? Such boundless pleasure, we've no time for later. Now you can't await your own arrival, you've twenty seconds to comply. So, let go, so let go. Jump in. Oh well, what you waiting for? It's alright, 'cause there's beauty in the breakdown.”-credit to Frou Frou, off the Garden State soundtrack. Today I didn’t ease gingerly into our pool, I jumped in.  This isn’t a huge deal, but it’s something I don’t ordinarily do.  It felt great.

Over the past couple of weeks, I had been going about a hundred miles an hour. By the time it slowed down, my head continued to spin. The memorial I attended resulted in the most intense spectrum of emotions than I’ve probably ever experienced in my life in such a short period of time. I felt encompassing, incredible sadness and pain from seeing someone I love hurt so much over this loss. I also felt joy and amazement at hearing stories about this beautiful soul who left our world way too soon. In addition to laughing at some of the funny stories, I felt intense gratitude, not only for my life, but for my amazing friendship that has existed now for almost 30 years. This friendship manages to remain the same, despite time and miles and lifestyles. I cried and I laughed and I listened. Near the end of the evening, I noticed my jaw was feeling weird. How odd.


Upon arriving home, I faced my last few days of work for the school year, combined with what felt like tons of kid activities. I went with my daughter and a gaggle of 4th graders to Coloma, the site where gold was originally discovered. It was a beautiful day, and I wasn’t prepared for how cool it was! There was so much history, real artifacts, and actual collections from the prospectors. I think I was much more interested than the group of kids I was in charge of! There was a very old cemetery up the road that we didn’t make it to, but I vow to return, it must be incredible. The kids had the opportunity to pan for gold. My daughter managed to acquire a couple of tiny pieces of fool’s gold, while her classmates found some actual gold. She didn’t leave empty handed, however. She managed to find eleven small garnets, which were my father’s birthstone. My dad had tons of tacky garnet rings that I remember vividly from my childhood. This was the Wednesday before Father’s Day, and while a lot of the other kids also found garnets, I choose to believe that my dad sent down these little gifts for us.

This made me so happy, and I just breathed in the beautiful day by the American River, totally satisfied. When we returned home that day, hot and tired, my daughter decided to give her entire haul to me, and I couldn’t stop smiling. The next several days consisted of trying to finish up at work, while running back and forth to the kid’s school for a variety of activities. My son had his end of Kindergarten celebration, and between the songs they sang and the poem his teacher read, along with the realization that I wouldn’t have another child in her class, I dissolved. I was a teary, proud, grinning mess.

The next day, I witnessed another Kindergarten celebration at one of the schools where I work, as a friend’s child was also graduating from Kindergarten. When they began to play “Over the Rainbow” by Israel Kaʻanoʻi Kamakawiwoʻole, I was done, and was smiling through tears again. From there, I went directly back to my own children’s school for an award’s assembly because my daughter made the honor roll again, and then back to work. On their last day of school, I was there nearly the whole day. On the Kindergarten playground, I laughed and took pictures as the kids slathered themselves with shaving cream whilst flipping about on a slip and slide, playing in inflatable pools, blowing bubbles, and eating Popsicles. All of the activities the kids participated in pretty much encapsulated the beauty and joy of childhood, at least to me. I volunteered for one of the activities, in which I was to place a water balloon on a chair and the kids were to run and SIT on them as hard as they could in order to pop it. I got drenched, and had an absolute blast. Their teacher read them one more story near the end of their day, which made me cry. Again. From there, my son and I went and met my daughter’s 4th grade class who were already celebrating the last day of school with a picnic in the park. It was a busy, exhausting, and HOT day, and I wouldn’t change a single moment of it.

Amongst the things I’ve learned is to laugh every single day, and it really isn’t hard. Jon Stewart alone usually makes that possible for me. However, others include my husband, my darling one year old great nephew who dances to anything, and watching my son at Taekwando yell “yes sir!!”  Due to his lack of articulation of the letter R, it sounds like, “Yes so!!” but he yells it with ferocious conviction. My children’s theological discussions are priceless. A few months back, my son told me he wanted to give up bothering his sister, and I said, “Oh, you mean for Lent?” He confirmed this to be the case, then immediately began teasing his sister. When I asked him about what he’d just shared with me, he said, “Mom, it doesn’t start until Wednesday.” The whole idea of Fat Tuesday and Mardi Gras will not be lost on this child. Another time we were all discussing what God looked like. I said I didn’t know, but my son maintained that he has to be a boy because girls don’t have beards. My daughter replied knowingly, “They do in Poland.” I have no explanation for this response, but it sure as hell made me laugh. Life is funny, and laughter truly does make you feel better.


It was days before I finally figured it out. My jaw and face had been hurting from smiling. What in the world? Smiling. “Happiness hit her like a train on a track, coming towards her, stuck, still no turning back The dog days are over. The dog days are done.” Thank you, Florence and the Machine. “Not running from something, I'm running towards the day, wide awake. A whisper once quiet, now rising to a scream right in me. I'm falling, free falling, words calling me up off my knees. Our future's paved with better days.” I love you something terrible, Eddie Vedder.

It’s time to let go. It’s time to enjoy my days here. The future IS paved with better days. Life is TOO SHORT FOR STUPID. 

You can take the girl out of LA, but you can't take LA....well, actually you can.

I feel like a bit of a traitor, writing this piece, because a number of people I love deeply still live in the LA area. There are some truly wonderful and exceptional people who live there, and who will always hold a special place in my heart. I have friends and family in both LA and Orange County. Honestly though, truth be told? I loathe Los Angeles. There, I said it.

I was born and raised in Pasadena and Altadena for 18 years. It was an awesome place to grow up, minus the smog. In the 70’s and 80’s, there were days that the smog was so bad, we’d actually have “smog alerts”, days in which we would have to stay inside at recess and lunchtime, days when you literally could not see the sun through all the smog. People who didn’t experience this sometimes don’t believe me, but “smog days” were like “rainy days”. We had to limit our outdoor activity during these times, it was mandated. Now, in the summer, when the smog was often at its worst, it was up to our parents to limit our activity. I clearly remember going swimming in the summers and then not being able to take a deep breath afterwards without coughing like an avid smoker at the age of 8. My lungs burned. It was normal to us, we didn’t know any differently. Years later at age 20, I moved to San Francisco to attend college at SFSU, which is in one of the foggier sides of town. When the fog would roll in every day and I could see it from my dorm room window, I initially thought it was smoke. In addition, for probably the first month or so, I actually had a difficult time breathing, and I finally figured out my lungs were not accustomed to breathing CLEAN air. That was truly a shock…my body was struggling to accept air that was devoid of smog.

Despite the smog, I am very grateful I grew up where I did. Pasadena is a beautiful city, and we grew up in lovely homes (mom’s and dad’s) and I had a wonderfully diverse group of friends, many of whom I am still friends with. Pasadena was progressive, open-minded, and comfortable. I wouldn’t change any of that. The public school system was great during those years and I feel they served me well, depending of course on how much effort I was willing to put in. When it’s clear in Pasadena and Altadena, the views of the San Gabriel Mountains are breathtaking, and there are days you can see all the way to the ocean. Summer nights in Pasadena still have a certain smell and the air has a certain feel that make me nostalgic for my teenage years. The neighborhoods have wonderful and amazing history, including the Greene and Greene bungalows, and the charming cottages built in the 1920’s. Michigan Avenue, the street on which we lived, had oak trees so large and so old, they made a canopy over the entire street, a “tunnel of trees” like they have in Kauai.

There are beautiful landmarks like City Hall and All Saints’ Church, where I attended preschool and where my father’s ashes are kept. There are true treasures in Pasadena, but I fear they're being swallowed.

The revitalization of “Old Towne” Pasadena didn’t really begin until I moved away. Before then, that section of Colorado Blvd. was devoid of any real business, there were a lot of abandoned old buildings, one movie theatre, and Ernie Jr’s, an awesome Mexican restaurant that’s now gone. When I’d return over the next decade or so to visit, the area had exploded. At first it was cool, a place to play pool and drink, and some great new restaurants. Then it just appears to have gotten completely out of hand…the area exploded. How many shops can you cram into one area? It’s like the city planners were on methamphetamines…let’s put a Tiffany’s on the corner! But wait, there’s a Hooters on the same block, that doesn’t really fit…ahhh to hell with it!! Money is money! There’s every store imaginable there, from Target to Saks Fifth Avenue, although I’ve heard that Saks closed down. I believe Hooters may have as well. I’d imagine that this exploding Mecca of commerce has suffered with the rest of the country and its economic woes, but it still appeared to me that the developers were manic and loopy. In addition to the stores and nightclubs and galleries, horrific, ugly, expensive townhouses were built down there as well, obscuring any views of the mountains that were there when I was young. Old Pasadena standards like Pooh-Bah records vanished. On a visit about three years ago, friends took me out to a place that had Tapas…it was great, but vastly overpriced, as well as their clientele being vastly underdressed. Not underdressed as in too casual, they were not wearing an adequate amount of clothing to cover their bodies. In other words, they were damn near naked, and these were young girls, probably in their late teens, early 20’s. If they dared sit down or even move, their bits were in danger of popping out. They literally looked like hookers. We were out early too, probably about 6pm and one of my girlfriends was pregnant at the time. I remember asking her, “Why are they dressed like that at 6pm?” “Welcome to the new Pasadena!” was the reply. I liked the old Pasadena. At the same restaurant for dessert, I ordered an item called, I shit you not, “The Caramel Apple Experience”. It’s not a dessert, it’s an experience. Was the ghost of Jimi Hendrix going to appear as I ate it? It was tiny, of course, but delicious. I’m grateful I got to engage in the experience of my dessert.

As with a great portion of the rest of the state, huge scars were gouged out of the mountains to built gated, exclusive communities. They’re hideous. This isn’t unique to Pasadena, or even Los Angeles, but it was still sad to see. Every time I would come down to visit, the place looked different. My perspective was also different, of course, but it also was literally different. It’s completely disorienting. It also appears that many in the entertainment industry have swarmed into Pasadena in droves, making it somewhat of a Hollywood East. When I was younger, we’d go down and party in Hollywood all the time, and it was amazingly, drunkenly entertaining. Through my eyes today, of course, I’d see Hollywood for what it is, a pretty depressing dump of a place that chews people up and spits them out. I’d hate to see that happen to my beloved home town also. However, it does appear to have gotten extremely uppity, too much for my taste. It doesn’t even resemble “home” to me anymore.  During one visit, it was pointed out to me that I was looking around LA as though I was on a different planet. Well, that's how it appears to me now.

My grandparents also lived in Pasadena, but also had a mobile home in Laguna Beach, so I spent numerous summers there. Their mobile home park, El Morro, had a private beach at the time. The homes were all built high up on a cliff, and there was a tram that would travel up the hill and up and down each little street of the community, picking people up that wanted to go to the beach. It would then travel back down the steep road to the bottom. At that point we would get off and walk through a tunnel that went under the Pacific Coast Highway and emerge at our beautiful, private beach. The tunnel itself was painted on the inside, somewhat of a combination of art and graffiti. When the tides were too high, the tunnel would flood and we wouldn’t be able to get down there. I remember evenings there, watching the waves glow blue in the dark with the phosphorus that was in the water, and roasting marshmallows on the sand. Downtown Laguna Beach is simply gorgeous, I’ve been told it resembles a lot of the beaches in Australia.

I have wonderful memories of seeing movies at the single theatre in town, going to the candy shop or the ice cream shop afterwards and walking across the street to the main beach to watch the guys play basketball or watch the sunset. It was a kid’s paradise, and I will always have awesome memories of that time. Since then, however, multi-million dollar McMansions in gated communities have been built up in the hillsides and my grandparent’s mobile home community was sold to the state. It also feels as though as a woman in Laguna, or Newport, or Dana Point, you have to show proof of some sort of plastic surgery before you will be permitted to enter, preferably breast augmentation. I haven’t been there for years and years, but the last time I was there, at least 8 out of every 10 women who passed by on the street were not displaying the breasts God had given them, and believe me, they were on display. I will never understand this. Had I grown up elsewhere, it’s possible that my self esteem would have been just as low in those early years. However, growing up in LA and Orange County in the 70’s and 80’s, with my fair skin (read “white that’s nearly bluish/transparent”), dark hair, and shall we say, non-voluptuous build, I was the antithesis of what people considered beautiful at the time. In fact, I think I still am, at least in that part of California.

I moved to San Francisco in 1990 to complete my undergrad degree. It’s difficult for me to explain how differently I felt once I arrived there. Everything was green!!! There was no smog, at least none I could see or feel in my lungs. People did not care what you looked like, in fact, differences were welcomed. I lived there for a week, and knew I was home. My dad knew it too…he called me to see how I was settling in, and said, “You’re never coming home, are you?” To this day, I have no idea how he knew this to be true so quickly, the only explanation I have is that he knew me so well. I was so comfortable there, I loved it. Quite a few of my friends from high school went to Cal or SFSU, or other Nor Cal schools. I remember seeing one friend from Cal who said, “You look so San Francisco! You look like you grew up here.” At that point, nothing could have made me happier.

There are money-grubbing, uppity people in San Francisco too, I was a nanny for quite a few of them. All urban areas have their good and bad points. However, the good outweighed the bad for me there, and I never, ever considered moving back to Los Angeles once I’d left. This displeased some friends and family, but I have never regretted it. Griffith Park can’t compare with Golden Gate Park. I will have to give LA the crown for the Hollywood Bowl though, nothing compares with that, another of LA’s legendary jewels. Santa Monica Beach with its cigarette butts in the sand can’t compare with the charm of tiny Bean Hollow State Beach, about 30 minutes south of SF. It’s serene and quiet, usually completely empty, and has perfect little tide pools and amazing sunsets. I used to go there frequently by myself, mostly to escape dorm living for awhile and to write.

The little restaurants outside of Malibu on the beach can’t compare to the Moss Beach Distillery, where they’ll bring blankets out to your lounge chair while you watch the sunset over the ocean while waiting for your table. It even has its own resident ghost. To me, The Castro is more fun than West Hollywood, where I felt looked down upon as not good enough or well dressed enough. Traffic in San Francisco and the surrounding areas sucks, but nothing compares to LA traffic. It’s mind-numbingly horrible. Not only that, but it’s nearly impossible to time or predict. The 405, for example, can be packed any day of the week at any time, there’s no rhyme or reason. Arguably, the weather in LA is probably better than SF, although I really enjoyed actual seasons, even if they happened in the wrong months (summer is winter in the SF neighborhood I lived in). However, nothing compares to the months of October and April in San Francisco, when the warm weather makes its rare appearance and the entire city, in a collective wonderful mood, comes outside and heads to the park, the Marina, and the beaches to sail, fly kites, and watch their children play.

Following my 3 years in SF, I spent one miserable year in Burlingame. Burlingame itself is an adorable little town, and I loved it. The misery stemmed from having graduated college with no idea what to do with my life, living with a roommate I hated, dating someone I didn’t love, and using my college degree to answer phones and wash coffee cups at a software company. When I was accepted to graduate school, I moved to Stockton to attend UOP. UOP is a surprisingly beautiful campus, and often movies are shot there because it looks ivy-league like. Outside of that, I don’t have a lot of great things to say about Stockton, other than I got my education there, started my career there, and met my husband there. I still have wonderful friends there as well, but as a destination, a place to settle down, it wasn’t for me.

For the past 11 years, I’ve been living in Elk Grove, a suburb of Sacramento. Is it exceedingly interesting and stimulating? No, not really. I adore our home and neighborhood, but it’s not unique, it’s a tract home in a development. However, here’s what I love about where I live: It’s homey, all our neighbors know each other, the school district is fabulous, our kids can walk to school and walk to friends’ houses, and anything and everything we might need is close by. Sacramento is ten minutes away, and believe it or not, has some great museums and shows and restaurants. San Francisco, Lake Tahoe, and Yosemite are all within a 2-3 hour drive. Elk Grove itself has actually grown quite a bit, but has still maintained a small town feel. The people here, for the most part, are very friendly and open. It’s not as liberal as other places I’ve lived, but I can live with that. This is where we’ve settled, and this is home. I can breathe here. I can be myself here. I don’t have to pretend I’m something I’m not.

Los Angeles, and Pasadena in particular, I do hold you in high esteem for the experiences you gave me. I also realize that there was always a part of me that didn’t belong there, that was longing to escape. It’s sad, but that’s how I truly feel about it, I didn’t move, I escaped. Choosing to move to Northern California was the single best decision I have ever made in my life, and I have never regretted it. My condolences, Southern California, we just weren’t meant to be.

Ode to an old friend.

When I think of the two of us as kids, the first word that springs to mind is “dirt.”  We always seemed to be dirty, and barefoot, as one of your brothers reminded me today.  Old pictures of you and me, age 3, age 4, age 5…we look like members of the Little Rascals during the depression. Who were those raggedy, forsaken little ruffians?  Our moms were friends, our brothers were friends, and we were the same age, and the babies in our families…we were meant to be best friends early in childhood.  We played, and played hard, hence all the dirt.  I don’t remember if it was your brother or mine who coined the phrase, “Jane and Matthew, what a pair! Dirty face and dirty hair!”  Hey, the shoe fit. The pictures of us at that stage make me laugh, both of us in our 70’s bell bottoms, you with the blond hair and bright blue eyes, me with the dreadful bowl haircut and a freckled face.  We didn’t know what the future held for either of us, we just wanted to have fun.

Before I even got to your house, I remember the WALK to your house from mine.  Three houses south from my house on Michigan Ave.,  past the creepy one covered in vines that I never saw anyone come in or out of, around  the corner past the fence with the mean, yappy little dog.  I remember an older lady yelling at me for making her dog bark.  In retrospect, I’m terribly sorry, ma’am, for using the sidewalk.  A couple more houses down on Bell was the one on the corner that had a stone wall.  Across the street at the corner of Mar Vista, and one more house north, was yours.

I can see the steps to your front door, and the entrance to the living room.  We never spent much time in there and some of the furniture was covered in plastic.  At one point, when we were a little older, I remember being told one of the couches in there was called a “loveseat” and that made me embarrassed and curious, since I’d never heard the term before.  What was supposed to occur on that seat?  The next room was the kitchen/dining area where we’d sit sometimes and not do our homework.  Down the short hallway there was a bathroom on the left, and then your parent’s room.  Near the other end of the kitchen by the back door, were steps leading upstairs to two bedrooms and a bathroom… was that the attic at one point?  What else were your parents to do with FOUR boys?  Numerous sleepovers occurred in that upstairs room, a gaggle of boys and one unkempt, squirrelly little girl. Come to think of it, our connection with your family is probably a huge part of the reason I was such a tomboy…I didn’t really have much of  a choice.

Out the back door was this planet of backyard, or at least it seemed so to me at the time.  To the right was some sort of large room with huge windows, maybe originally intended to be a rec room.  As your brothers grew older, they each moved into this detached “apartment” of their own, somewhat of a bachelor pad since you could access it without going through the main house.  The cement in front of the garage was the site of water fights, chalk drawings, and army men battles.  Around the oak tree and around the garage, there was a shed on the left that held the washer and dryer, but it always scared me a little.  It was covered in ivy and the room itself was probably lousy with spiders, and I avoided it at all costs.  Beyond the shed was even more yard with another big tree and tons of space to play.  I remember sitting and playing in the dirt with you for hours, with sticks and strings and our hands.  I loved your house, and remember it vividly.  I felt I belonged there, I felt like it was mine too.  We played wiffle ball in the middle of the street.  My girl-ness was never an issue with you or your three brothers, but I do remember the one day there were some other boys playing, and one yelled, “Why don’t you go home and play with your dolls?” You did not join in the teasing, but you didn’t rush to my defense either, and I understand why.  In front of your other guy friends, you had to save face. I walked home, crushed, but also incensed!  Dolls??  Who the hell had dolls?  I never had or liked playing with dolls, even at my girlfriend’s houses.  When I was a little older, I asked for that decapitated Barbie head you could put makeup on and do her hair.  I don’t remember what sparked our motivation to do so, but the two of us ended up fully vandalizing and defacing that poor head.  It was as though you were saying, “Barbie?  Really? That’s not who you are!”  And it wasn’t, it never has been.

There is lore I don’t remember, such as the story of me being so jealous that all of you boys could pee standing up in the backyard that I just dropped my pants and went for it one day.  I don’t recall this event, but all things considered, I’d bet that actually happened.  One time when we were a little older, you were over at our house and we were arguing, God knows about what. Actually, I was probably the only one arguing. I was around ten by then, and entering my moody stage, which I’m all too familiar with now since I have a ten year old girl of my own.  You weren’t sure what to do with this new side of me, you only had brothers. I remember, as my mother does, you saying, slightly exasperated, “Do you want to fight or do you want to play?”  It was simple to you, and you weren’t having any of my theatrics. We played that day.  Come to think of it, we never fought.  You just didn’t have it in you, it was as though you didn’t see the point of meanness or fighting.  There was some good natured teasing, which we both did, about both of our middle names and that kind of thing, but never anything that was ever actually hurtful.

When we were ten, my mom was involved in an organization called CALC (Clergy and Laity Concerned), and they were having a convention in Tennessee.  It was decided that we would drive there one summer, in her Toyota Tercel.  I was so glad to have your company on that crazy, insane drive!  Along with my mom, was an intern of hers, named Todd.  Todd ended up marrying my sister years later.  Todd had an interesting habit of singing to himself almost constantly, and it wasn’t always a tune you could actually follow…can you kind of hum and mumble jazz?  That’s the best way I could describe it, and he does it to this day at times.  That summer though, during my moody 10^th year, I thought it was going to drive me completely insane.  We were trapped in this tiny car, driving across the country with this odd young man who wouldn’t stop mumbling jazz.  Thank GOD I had your company!  I remember we attempted to camp, and my mom quickly discovering that you can’t really camp in the South without a tent like we could in California.  Within minutes, we were all being eaten alive by mosquitoes and had to sleep in the car that night.  We stayed in a few motels, and I believe that was my first time staying in a motel because I remember being fascinated that we didn’t have to make the bed.  We laughed like crazy when we went through a town called “Bucksnort.”  That was the funniest thing we had ever heard, and just the word would put us in stitches. Who in the world would think that was a good name for a town?  For years following, we debated which state it had been in, I said Oklahoma, and you said Arkansas.  We didn’t have the Internet then, but I’ve checked. We were both wrong, it was in Tennessee.  At one point on the trip, we were staying with friends and I heard you quietly crying at night.  I didn’t want to embarrass you because I knew you didn’t want anyone to hear, but my mom heard and asked if you were okay.  You missed your mom.  You were always such a sweet, sensitive soul. It was also around this period of time, shortly after I believe, that you lost your father.  I didn’t know what to say to you.  Oddly enough, I remember the dress I wore to the funeral.  I had to borrow it from one of our housemates since I was on the tall side for my age and because as an avid tomboy, didn’t own a dress.  I was sad for you, for all of you, but what does a child say to another child who has lost a parent?  Looking back, I’m just glad I was there.

The early 1980’s brought in a flood of new technology that blew our young minds.  Your family acquired the most amazing thing I had ever seen in my life…the video game Pong. A game you could play on the television!  And you could control it with dials you held in your hand to make the lines on the screen move!  It was incredible.  Then came Pac-Man, but we had to go to arcades to play that.  We spent a lot of time and quarters in those arcades, Pac-Man, Centipede, Frogger, and Donkey Kong were amongst our favorites.  We went to Catalina Island one time with my mom, I can’t remember if it was a day trip or a camping trip, because we did both.  On this particular trip though, I don’t think either of us saw the light of day.  On a beautiful, glittering day on this lovely island, we were slaves to Avalon’s video arcade.  The sun hurt our eyes when we finally emerged.  You also had the very first cable TV system, which was an enormous box that sat on top of your television, and was called “ON” TV.  There were movies on it, but there weren’t channels like there are now.  Heck, I’m not even sure remote controls were out yet, we still had to change the channels on a dial by hand.

As we grew older, we started to drift a little bit.  You went to Catholic school, I was in public school.  We started to have different friendships.  However, we still remained pretty tight until middle school.  Around the age of 11 or 12, I got a new “stereo” for Christmas and it had to be assembled.  It had a turntable of course, and may have had a tape deck.  It also had two huge speakers, and you came over to help me figure it out.  I remember fumbling with two pieces of plastic, not being able to figure out what the hell they were for.  I tried to put them together like a puzzle, that didn’t work.  I tried to attach them to the stereo itself somehow, that wasn’t it.  You very calmly watched me as I struggled trying to solve this mystery and you said, “This is kind of like watching the monkeys at the zoo when they’re trying to figure something out.”  Nothing could have been more funny, or accurate.  I remain, to this day, totally and completely spatially impaired, and I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve heard your voice saying that when I’ve been struggling trying to figure out how to put something together! I can't even fit my shoes back into the shoebox in the right way so they'll both fit without several tries. Those two plastic pieces ended up being stands the speakers were to rest upon, but you were the one who eventually put me out of my misery and figured it out.

As the years went on, we lost touch somewhat, but would see each other at various events, like your brother’s wedding or parties for mutual friends of our mothers.  I heard you’d graduated high school and joined the Army. Many years passed and I heard you’d moved to Fresno and were going to college.  I was proud of you.  A few years ago, I heard that you’d gotten married and was so happy to hear that you’d found someone to spend your life with.  Last year when my father died, I can’t even express to you how much it meant to have you make the effort to come all the way down to Pasadena for his memorial.  I wish I’d had the chance to thank you more than I probably did.  Before that, I have no idea how many years had passed since we’d actually seen each other in person.  Maybe 15 or 20 years had gone by, but you made it, you were there for our family.  And you were the same sweet, good natured person I always knew, without a mean bone in your body.

When I received the email from my mother last Monday that you’d died suddenly, I didn't want to open it.  I could only read, "I'm sad to tell you that Matthew..."and my heart just stopped. I was praying you were in the hospital, or had been in an accident, nothing permanent.  It didn’t seem possible, you were only 40. I was still at work, and I opened the email and burst into tears, and my head was swimming.  What happened, were you sick?  Thank goodness you and your wife didn’t have children so they didn’t have to experience losing a father young, as you had to.  Then I felt badly that you hadn’t had children because your wife would be alone.  Oh my God, your mom…your brothers!  This can’t be happening.  You were a constant, a presence in my life that was always to remain, even if we rarely saw each other.

Today at your funeral, I got to meet your beautiful wife and her family.  She and I clicked quickly, and she told me about meeting you and how you were so nice, she thought you had to be too good to be true.  So she’d test the waters, asking you if it was okay if she went out with her guy friends.  Your response was "sure."  She remained in a state of semi-disbelief, that you could be such a genuinely kind, sweet, and happy person. This didn't surprise me at all, but it did make me smile.  That was you.  The person you were at 6 was the same person you were as an adult. She also told me that you used to carry Cheez-Its around in the pocket of your shirt, which made me burst out laughing.  Some things never change.  I thank God she got to spend the last ten years with you, and the last five as your wife.  You were a lucky man.  I was touched beyond belief when both she and her sister knew immediately who I was as soon as introductions were made.  “This is Matt’s Jane!”  That nearly killed me, with joy and sadness. I was amazed that you held me in such high regard.  I love that you remembered me as being such a huge part of your life as much as I remember you to have been in mine.  Today, it was incredibly hard to see your family in such pain and shock.  It was the weird, mixed feeling I had at my dad’s memorial…I was so happy to see everyone, but my dad was gone.  I was so happy to see your family, my second childhood family, but the circumstances were incredibly tragic.

In the last couple of years I’ve been doing a lot of thinking…about life, getting older, and losing people.  I’ve fully accepted that life is an incredible gift, and no one knows how long we have.  I’m so saddened that your life ended so soon, Matt.  It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.  At the same time, I feel so blessed to have had you in my life, during my childhood, and to have been “Matt’s Jane.”  I wouldn’t have been the same person without you.  The question you asked me all those years ago has a different meaning to me now.  I can still see your sweet round face with your ice blue eyes rolling slightly as you asked, “Do you want to fight or do you want to play?”  Thank you, Matt.

I want to play.

Education in California. REALLY???? You should be ashamed.

I'm just plain heartsick right now, I don't know another way to explain it.  For all of us in our school district, we've known that things have been bleak for some time now, although it appears to get worse and worse every year.  Last school year we all had to take 9 furlough days, I know other districts had to take more.  We also dealt with layoffs, increased class sizes, and virtually no resources.  In a way I didn't think it could get worse, but it has.

Initial pink slips went out to employees in our district who would possibly be laid off in March.  Many were rescinded, but today, a number of teachers I work with and consider friends got the final notification that they're out of a job.  There are a lot of factors that go into deciding who gets laid off, but seniority is one of them.  The irony here is that some of the most talented, dedicated, and effective teachers ARE the newer ones, the younger ones, the ones with tons of energy and enthusiasm.  This is not to say that I don't know a number of fabulous teachers that work their asses off too, but are on the older side and have done it for longer.  But allow me to describe some of the teachers I know of who will be out of a job as of June 30th.  A teacher who worked  SO closely with me on a particular case that she and I were talking and texting after hours and weekends, just to keep each other informed about this child.  A teacher that decided that starting an after school tutoring group would be a great idea, and who implemented it...for FREE.  She herself, has a large family and children of her own to take care of, but is so concerned about our kids who need help that she was willing to volunteer her time.  Another is so crazy, active, and dynamic that his kids can't take their eyes off him.  He's creative, bright, and inventive, and pretty much defines thinking outside of the box.  Another teacher, who no matter what is going on, can make me laugh until tears stream down my face.  This is such a waste of incredible gifts and talent!   In addition, we're losing numerous secondary counselors.  How is that going to work?  We all know that our kids in middle school and high school don't need any guidance or TLC, right?  Not with the average age of girls becoming sexually active at 14 or so, not with kids just smoking weed on campuses with no regard to rules, or meth becoming a regular past time, not with school dances beginning to resemble porn movies.  They'll be just fine.  Right?

Truly legislators, WTF??? 

Some may think I'm grandstanding a tad, and that I really have no right to be so angry because I still have my job. The truth is that I am  protected as a school psychologist, because we're tied to special education and federal mandates.  But I'll tell you what...there is no way I will be able to do my job as well, or as effectively without these talented people in my midst.  Nope, not possible, not without the support of these amazing people.  I have never worked as hard in 14 years as I have these past two years, and I truly believe part of the reason is I've been trying to rise to the level of the dedication of these teachers. I'm blessed with two children who appear to learn fairly easily, at least so far.  However, I'm so concerned about the kids who struggle...and it's going to get worse

There are some delightful people in our society who appear to feel that teaching is a piece of cake, a "part time job".  One particular schmuck on Fox news claimed his mother was a teacher for 20 years and was done with her day at 2pm, and he remembers shopping with her the rest of the day.  (sidenote to my right wing friends, this is one schmuck).  On his show, Jon Stewart, the source of all good things, showed the clip of him saying this and replied, "Hmm.  My mom was a teacher and I have vivid memories of her bringing work home, and she worked her ass off.  Maybe YOUR mom was a shitty teacher."  I can't express how much I loved that statement.  For that schmuck, whose name escapes me, I challenge you.  Take a trip up to South Sacramento and just make a one day attempt to teach in an elementary school.  What will you do when a 3rd grader tells you to "fuck off"?  What will you do when you bring this to the parent's attention, you're accused of racism?  Or, even better, take a trip to the other areas I've worked in South Stockton.  Good times to be had there.  Go ahead, work in the school that was smack dab in the middle of the projects, and it was common knowledge that when it began to get dark, you LEAVE.  Why?  Because a number of people who live there get their kids off to school (or not), sleep all day, and then wake up and start partying.  This is not a stereotype, this is a true story I got from a parent who was working her  ass off to get her own children out of that environment.  How will you deal with the parent who tells you sadly that she can't afford a new pair of glasses for her son who is damn near blind and rides his bike to school, only to see her drive off in her brand new Escalade?  How will you respond when you ask a 2nd grader what he'd like to become when he grows up and he confidently replies with a shrug, "I'm just gonna sit on the couch and get my check!"  Go ahead, Sir Schmuck, give it a try.  Then there are the schools in the wealthier areas, I'm sure that would be a relief, correct sir?  Well, those parents have lawyers, and they aren't afraid to use them.  Any lack of achievement by their child is your  fault, and they will email you every single day  without fail, sometimes several times a day to make sure their precious Johnny is receiving the lion's share of your attention.  To hell with the 25 other students in the class, NO other child is more important than their darling Johnny, who more often than not is a totally spoiled hell raiser.  How easy and "part-time" is this job now, Schmuck?

Teachers do NOT go into this profession to have extra time off, and sure as shit don't do it for the money.  They do it because they genuinely care about the future of our kids.  And right now, California is chipping away, fairly rapidly, at our children's access to fabulous teachers.  Supplemental programs?  Drama, GATE (which I had my own child tested for today when there was no logical reason to), art, band...you know, those things we looked forward to as kids?  GONE.  It's all about test scores now, and this is not the fault of the teachers.  There was a recent quote that stated California "ranking 49th out of 50 states is an indication of the state's deteriorating educational status in recent decades."  This is an excerpt of "California at the Edge of a Cliff" by Thomas G. Mortenson.  But wait...Californians are supposed to be progressive...no offense to any other states, but we're worse than, let's say, West Virginia??  Are we in Bizzaro World?  Isn't California the home of Stanford, Cal, UCLA, and Cal Tech??  How is this happening?  Well...perhaps, just perhaps, it may be due to the fact that we're axing awesome teachers, and narrowing the scope of what they can teach until it's as thin as a frayed, uninteresting thread.  It's criminal.  Our children are the ones who will suffer the most, and it's dreadful.

My dear, late father taught high school speech and debate for 37 years, and is no doubt quite disgruntled by these turns of events.  He made a difference .  At his memorial, older men would approach me and tell me that he kept them from killing themselves, getting hooked on drugs, and helped them become lawyers and lobbyists.  They graduated before I was BORN.  Now tell me how unimportant teachers are!  My own favorite AP 9th grade teacher made a tremendous impact on me, and initially I couldn't stand her.  I wanted to take regular English, I didn't feel like working that hard, but she refused to sign me out. You, dear Mrs. Ivory, wherever you are, taught me how to write and started my love of literature, which is a huge part of my soul now, at 41.  At the time, I was 14.  I remember watching her acting out the death scene in Hamlet with total horror...what a freak! Well, I love you, freak.  And I also love Ms. Hayes (3rd grade), may she rest in peace.  I love Mrs. Patterson (6th), Mrs. Ivory (9th), Mr. Moore (12th)...all of these individuals helped shape who I am. 

I am saddened beyond what I can express that I will no longer have the honor of working alongside these angels who sacrifice so much for our babies.  To my dear teacher friends who are facing this dreadful injustice...please do not think you haven't made a difference or are unappreciated.  I SO admire you, because I couldn't do what you do.  I don't expect this to be comforting right now, but I do believe that when one door closes, another opens.  I hope the one that opens involves children, because you are all gifted, and please follow your passions. My thoughts, prayers, and unwavering support are all with you.

California, wake up.

Happy Mother's Day

My mother is a very complicated person. It’s interesting the kind of perspective you get with time and age. She and my father’s divorce was final when I was 4, and she gained an independence that I think had been lurking in her for years, just waiting for a chance to emerge and be put into action. She is frighteningly intelligent, probably the brightest person in our family, a family of pretty damn smart people. She will scoff at this, but I really do believe it to be true. My mom is dedicated, passionate, stubborn, set in her ways, and will NOT be moved from her opinion. She’s a role model for SO very many other people, I can’t even count all of the people who have approached me over the years to tell me how inspirational she is, how much she’s helped them, and how lucky I am to have her as a mother. There were times that was a little bit difficult for me to reconcile…my mom doesn’t always connect in an outwardly emotive manner towards the ones she truly loves, her children and her family. It’s taken me years to understand and realize that just because she doesn’t express her feelings in the same way I do, or at length in the manner that I do (I am my father’s daughter), doesn’t mean that those emotions aren’t there. And it doesn’t make her love me less, she’s just shown it in different ways.

As my mom kind of got her “sea legs” as it were, she discovered the things that she felt passionately about. Justice. Peace. Fighting against having the MX Missile tested in a section of Nevada in which the Shoshone Native Americans lived. Talking about it now, she tells me how absolutely terrified she was at that time, and she truly believed we wouldn’t live to see adulthood. The Russians had the bomb, it was the height of the cold war, and she was truly scared. But instead of staying home and just staying blindly afraid, she did something. She demonstrated. She joined (and helped found?) an organization called CALC, Clergy and Laity Concerned. No one can organize like my mother when she’s got a bee in her bonnet about something. She worked really, really hard. From my perspective at the time, I felt cheated. She wasn’t home much. She made sure I had what I needed, but I wanted her time and attention and there were times when that just didn’t happen often enough for me. Now, I went with her on trips that had to do with her mission…when I was ten we drove all the way to Tennessee to a convention. I saw a great deal of the country. I got to take a childhood friend with me. Not exactly a vacation, but looking back now, I wouldn’t have changed it. However, perhaps that’s where my aversion to extremely long car rides stems from.

When I was in high school and my 20’s, our relationships had its highs and lows…we did have lovely times carved out for just the two of us, since my siblings were both out of the house by the time I was in high school. We went to see the ballet on a regular basis, which is one of the reasons I adore dance so much today. The American Ballet Theatre, The Joffrey Ballet, and the Dance Theatre of Harlem. That was our special time together, and we did it once or twice a year. One year, just by pure luck, we got front row seats to Giselle, put on by the American Ballet Theatre. Then over the loud speaker, it was announced that the lead dancer that night had been changed, and would be danced by….Mikhail Baryshnikov! In the front row!! I can’t remember how old I was, 15 or 16, but I believe we both squealed. That was one of those nights I will never forget. She would have been closing in on 50 at that time. When that beautiful man came out and danced the lead, and the entire audience audibly gasped at each leap, I looked over at my mother. She had the exact same expression I did that night. Wonder. Giddiness. Awe. She looked so young that night. She looked like me. We also took one day each year to play hooky and went to Catalina Island for the day. We’d walk around Avalon, eat a lovely lunch, sit on the beach and relax…sometimes we’d fish. These were awesome things she did for and with me, and I don’t know if she knows how fondly I remember them now.

When I began high school, she had a calling. In addition to working full time, she joined seminary in Claremont to become an Episcopal priest. At the time to me, it seemed like it came out of nowhere, but my mother always had a deep spiritual life, I just didn’t really know about it. I remember long timelines, written on butcher paper taped up to the walls for her to memorize. I remember her having to learn to read the Bible in Greek. In short, she busted her ass, I don’t even know when she slept. There were nice evenings when the house was quiet, we’d light a fire, she would make homemade bread (which I can still smell and was so good it just needed a little butter and it tasted like cake), and we would sit in the living room together and study to classical music. This didn’t happen as often as it might have, as my high school grades will attest to. But when it did, it was lovely. Calm. Peaceful. And we were both working towards something, together. It felt good.

However, as is the case with most teenage girls, I didn’t feel like my mom had the foggiest idea who I was, and I knew for a fact she didn’t know what I was up to. Sneaking out…drinking. Drinking a LOT. Ditching class like it was my job. For some of this time, we had housemates, people who lived with us, renting out the available rooms. There was communal money for food, and it was kept in a red Chinese silk coin purse in a drawer in the buffet in our dining room. My best friend and I would often ditch school, run home, grab a $20, and go have pizza. We never bought booze with it, because we had another way to acquire that for free. I’ll leave that story out for now. My mom also didn’t really understand the things that were important to me…growing up in the 80’s in Pasadena, I was into makeup, clothes, jewelry…girly crap. Well, as a matter of fact, I’m still into makeup and clothes! It’s just part of who I am. I think she was baffled, and as a result, would sometimes let some snide remarks fly, and my sister, 8 years my senior, would often join in. I wasn’t innocent either though, and there were a lot of arguments.

I wrote a story a long time ago that I need to find. When we were growing up in Pasadena, we had roaches in our kitchen. Disgusting of course, but seemingly, oddly normal at the time. When we’d enter the darkened kitchen and turn a light on, the whole countertop would scurry. I would scream like the girl I was…my mother, unruffled by my theatrics would give me a quick eye roll, and then charge in with her teeth clenched, smacking as many roaches as she could get to with her bare hands. I would watch in a combination of horror and admiration…there really wasn’t much she was afraid of, truly. She was the spider killer. She was the person who set the rat traps in the basement. Years later when she was ordained, I walked up to the altar and she put those same hands on my head and gave me a beautiful blessing, and I felt it. The same hands that could wipe out a dozen cockroaches with pure ferocity in about 30 seconds. When I left home, I would often become hurt by my mom’s lack of contact with me. She wouldn’t often call me at college, send me care packages, or letters to just check in. It made me sad. I once brought it up to her and her response was, “You have my phone number.” Ouch. When I would get her on the phone, she didn’t want to hear about my life, she wanted to talk about her parishioners, and their children. I wanted my mom to be interested in me. But you know, not all moms are created equal, they aren’t cookie cutter, nor are they meant to be. It’s taken me a long time to recognize and accept this, and it really is okay. She does not like large, fancy gatherings. At my college graduation, she split before she ever saw me in my cap and gown because she was afraid of missing her plane…turns out she had plenty of time. At my wedding, she told me she was going to take off, and I asked her if she’d stay just a little longer so she could see us leave. She said no and left. It hurt my feelings. Through the years, I have truly felt like these things meant she didn’t care about me, or like me particularly. I understand now that it’s not the case…she absolutely loves me. She just does it differently than most, and shows it differently than most.

About three years ago, we had a dreadful, ugly falling out. I really wondered if our relationship could ever be repaired. At looking back over the things that transpired that weekend, I can pinpoint SO many things that I could have done differently. The root of so many of my problems with family members has come from me scrambling like a manic lunatic to please everyone else, doing things I don’t want to do, agreeing to things I disagree with, and just working myself into such a lather, staying silent, and then exploding. To the other people, it seems out of nowhere, because they aren’t mind readers, nor should they be expected to be. I exploded at my mother after plodding along, and not speaking up. Her feelings were truly hurt, but again, emotions and expressing them are areas that were difficult for her. So she really lashed out at me, and I was really messed up about it for a long time. However, since then, things have changed dramatically, and for the better. I set my boundaries, and they’re clear as day from the get go. If I’m asked to do something I don’t want to do, guess what? I say “no” instead of seething inside and giving myself a damn ulcer. And my dear mother, now in her 70’s has been nothing but sweet and supportive of me since we reconciled. It seems as though each year that goes by, it gets better. She’s told me I’m a wonderful mother (!). She’s told me I’m a talented writer (as she very much is). She’s backed me up in times of pain, helping me to put things in perspective. Once she’s spoken her mind though, she’s done….she doesn’t kick it after it’s dead like my dad and I did. She tells me she loves me, is proud of me, and knows I’m doing God’s work with the kids I work with every day. Granted, it was awkward when I got the phone call my dad had died, and she was visiting at the time. I just retreated into an odd zone in my mind…but mom just appeared somewhat flummoxed and paralyzed. Looking back, I feel bad for her position. It was as though she knew she should do or say something, but was just stuck, and was probably really concerned about possibly saying the wrong thing. So her nose started to bleed. She’ll probably maintain it’s because of the dry air up here, but she’d already been here for a couple of days and was fine. I believe her nose bled at the news that the father of her children had died, and not knowing what words to say, her body reacted instead.

So while not perfect, (and whose mother is, really?) I have learned so very much from her. She is strong. She follows her passions, and is supporting my writing, even though I warned some of it might hurt her feelings. She’s somewhat awestruck that all three of her children have successful marriages. She adores her grandchildren. And from a very young age, she truly did teach me how to care about people who had less than we did, and how to demonstrate that. I was too little to remember, but she told me that when busing started in the early 70’s, we made signs that said, “Welcome!!” for the black kids who were coming over to our neighborhood school, while some people were actually there to protest them coming. I was bused over to a school in a predominantly black neighborhood for K-3rd grade. Pssst…guess what? They’re just people! Equality, justice, fairness, and love for ALL people, regardless of race, money, sexual orientation, or religion…these are all things that my mom taught me. Dad did too, but mom was more active, more passionate, and more deliberate. Did her passions take time away from me as a child? Yes, they did. She may have done things a little differently if she could go back now, I don’t know. But the lessons are still there, and they stuck. And they are the ones that I am trying to teach to my own children, particularly my daughter who is old enough to understand. THIS is why we sent money to Japan. THIS is why I have never allowed myself to be mistreated by a man, nor will my daughter. THIS is why we’re becoming more involved and my 10 year old daughter is volunteering (appropriately) with an organization our church is involved in, rescuing and housing girls who have been trafficked for sex. THIS is why my children pray every night for people who have less than we do. Sure, we’re the parents, and we’re teaching them these things, and church helps. But that sense of justice, and what’s truly right and wrong, I get from my mother. And I don’t think I’ve ever told her that.

Thank you, mom. I love you. I'm proud of you. Happy Mother’ Day.

Crossroads

I am not a fan of the saying, “New Normal.” It’s what counselors say when their patients are going through a serious loss, of a job, a marriage, a family member. For me though, it implies that there was an “old normal, or a “normal” at all. What the hell is normal? They should just tell you, “Your world is likely to be turned upside down in the months to come…there is no way of predicting when or why or how it will manifest. People you trusted will turn on you, and people you could never rely on before may surprise you. Things you never thought could even be fathomable may happen. The earth’s poles may shift. See you next week at 4!”

My dad died two months and 4 days before I turned 40. A pretty monumental event, coinciding with my entrance into “middle age”. His memorial service was exactly one week before my 40th birthday, so I kind of skipped it. No, I honestly skipped it. Nothing to celebrate last year, I wish I could have gone to sleep on the 24th and woken up on the 26th. Some people were unsure of what to do with that information, because a lot of folks say things they don’t mean, “No, please no bother, I don’t want to celebrate”, and then become enraged when there’s no surprise party. I am not one of those people, and thankfully, most of the people in my life understand that. There are no hidden meanings, or gifts I deftly hinted at. I say what I mean. Now 41 is within a week. Do I want to celebrate? You know, not really, but not as vehemently as I didn’t want to last year. I don’t need big plans…I’m just going to let things unfold. I still want to get my tattoo, that will be the main thing I will do for 41. In any case, what I’ve really noticed in and around entering this decade is how many things have changed. Things have changed in fact, in perception, and in understanding, of damn near everything in my life as I’ve known it up to this point.

There aren’t many people on this earth that truly understood the special bond I had with my father.If I had to hazard a guess, I might say 4, and none of them are in my family. Some say it was because I always needed him to validate me. Some may believe it’s because he spoiled me mercilessly and because I resembled his beloved mother. I believe it’s partially because I was the only positive thing that came from the end of a terminally ill marriage, a little new baby face in the midst of a colossal failure. It’s a miracle I even got here. 

Still, it was more than that. He got me, and he was the only one in my family who truly did. I never had to use millions of words to try to get to a place of understanding, he just understood. That didn’t mean we’d let those words go to waste though, we were both talkers, ad naseum at times. The things that drove us crazy about one another were the things that we saw as our own shortcomings…we were overly-emotional and dramatic, had the tendency to just obsess and gnaw on a problem until the bones were licked clean, and to complain. Actually, complain isn’t a good enough word, it was more dramatic. We lamented. Why couldn’t so and so be different? Why did this person not accept me? Why didn’t I reach this goal? Whine, whine, whine…but it never felt like that at the time.

It felt like sharing my soul with my kindred spirit, and most importantly, it felt safe.I still have long talks with him, and ask all the same questions…but the conversations are one-sided now. He hears me, and I’m sure he answers me, but not always in ways I recognize. I accept that his responses to me are out of my control, and I may not be able to truly hear them until I get to a better place, but I’ll keep talking!

I’ve recently been dealing with a deep rift, a major fracture in a relationship I had counted on as always staying strong and true.  I was blindsided.  I know people lash out when they’re in pain, when they’re unhappy, but I never would have imagined in a million years that this person would turn on me as they have.  I have been shredded into tiny pieces over being such a disappointment, for not caring, for withholding my love, and not meeting deep and seemingly totally unrealistic expectations. This has happened over months and months now. I originally found myself apologizing, scrambling to undo what I had no idea I’d done in the first place, only to have the sincerity of my apology put into question.  With good reason, actually…how DO you apologize for something you have no recollection of doing, and when it’s pointed out to you, you don’t agree with the assessment of the wrongdoing?  The apology was void, I agree.  But in the grand old tradition of being myself, the fixer, I would have done anything to smooth things over, so I kept trying.  It didn’t work.  As the months progressed, more and more and more of my shortcomings were pointed out, my lack of support, of loyalty, of love, of desire to spend time with them.  I didn’t feel this way, I absolutely loved them, with my whole heart and thought I was doing everything in my power to illustrate that.  An unfinished argument ensued, an ugly, judgmental one.  I wasn’t going to concede that I didn’t care, because it wasn’t true. It quickly became a self-fulfilling prophecy however, because now I absolutely feel the way I was originally accused of feeling.  However, when my “deluded thinking” was chalked up to a questionable mental state, I had to stop.  When I was pitied for being in a state of functional depression and anxiety and being “medicated”, I had to stop.  When I was begged to get the things “fixed” in me that were “broken”, I had to STOP.  No more poison, no more slashing at my heart.  STOP.  How many people do you know who would be foolish enough to come back for more?  How mentally unstable would that be? 

Have I been in a state of functional depression? Of course I have! It’s only been a little over a year since losing my father, and it didn’t matter that it was expected. I’d been braced for it for years and years, yet I could not imagine a life without him in it. It left a giant hole in me. Some days are perfectly fine, and I can get work done, laugh, spend time with my children, take care of my home and family and everything is roses. Other days I don’t want to get out of bed, but when I dream, they’re bad dreams. So there’s no real escape from grief, and I know that time is the only thing that helps. I have enough experience with alcohol and other things to know that even the escape they would provide would be fleeting, and leave me feeling worse after the fact. It’s been a year…and I’d thought I’d been making some progress until this current relationship exploded. I’m now dealing with two major losses. This last one may pass, most folks think it will, but it’s not so much what actually went down that saddens me. It’s the lens I see through now, as though I’ve been given a different pair of glasses to look at this person now, as well as in the past. They were on a pedestal…forever. Their shortcomings were consistently and intentionally overlooked, for decades, it’s not as though I didn’t notice them.  I merely excused them. A pardon, if you will. Forgetting birthdays consistently, hell, it happens. Never a thank you card or call after receiving a gift, or flowers, or for giving up my own Master’s degree ceremony to be at theirs? Of course I would be there, it wasn’t a question, but there was never a thank you, and it was always okay. They were infallible. With these new glasses on, I see different things, traits that have always been there in varying degrees. Arrogance. Self-Righteousness. Elitism. Just plain meanness. Why did I ever want to play for this team? It's one thing that I played along as a teenager, and a young adult (and I did)…but into my 30’s? Why wasn’t I able to see it? Why did I view these traits when I DID see them as being acceptable? Was it merely because they weren’t directed at me? What makes it worse is I would jump onto the mean bandwagon, and be one of the minions, standing behind and cheering as other’s faults were pointed out, with no regard to what damage might be done to their emotions. So it’s more than sadness over a lost relationship, or fear that so much is changing, it’s disgust with myself, that I was such a poor judge of character for so very long.

The people I trust most in the world  help to shore me up, and they’re very good at it, my friends. They know me best, and they know where my weaknesses lie and what I’m the most afraid of. I’ll feel relieved, vindicated, and at peace with the difficult, but nonetheless accurate truth that people and relationships change, often for the worst. I’ll accept it, and believe it. With the most recent loss, I received probably the best advice ever, “Stop petting the rabid dog.” But then it’s as though at the end of the night I forget to totally close the door in my soul, a tiny crack is left open, and all the nasty, tiny dark spiders of self-loathing and doubt begin to stream in. It doesn’t matter if they make sense, it doesn’t matter if my heart and mind know they’re wrong. They’ll still swarm in and make themselves at home for awhile…and they whisper….”They’re right about you. You’re weak. You’re selfish. You care more about your outside than you do your inside, you’re a selfish mother, you’re sloppy, you have no patience, or loyalty, or integrity.” When these begin to swarm, I write their voices down in my personal journal so as not to torture any of you who may be reading this. In fact, my personal journal could be titled, “Pathetic account of self-loathing.” And it is pathetic…in reading back over it, it’s always the same. So not only is it rather stupid, but it’s also unoriginal and boring. Man, I can't even make that interesting! The only antidote I’ve found for this is being busy, and that’s not terribly reliable, especially when they creep up in the middle of the night, or like now, when I’m on vacation and have entirely too much time to think.

In experiencing all of this, I am learning quite a bit. Firstly, support can come from some pretty unlikely places. People in my life to whom I’ve often been unfair to, and jumped on the “mean” bandwagon toward have forgiven everything, and shown me nothing but love. Close, close friends I’ve had for nearly 30 years now are experiencing the exact same thing. To the point of humor…how can this be? How can these people in our lives all lose their fucking minds at the same time? I’m sad for my friends, but also praise God for it, thank you that it’s not only me! Thank you that maybe I don’t actually suck and that it’s their problem and not mine! The more folks I talk to who are around my age are either experiencing something similar currently, or have very recently. And the reason is all the same…we’re tired of walking on eggshells, we’re tired of trying to contort ourselves into uncomfortable, unnatural positions in order to keep everyone else happy, we’re sick of being scapegoats and doormats. Toxicity has to leave now, thank you very much. Peace is out there, and is attainable, but not under these circumstances. Houses, hearts, and souls need to be cleaned out. It’s painful as all hell, more painful than I ever could have imagined, but it’s time to let it go. I’ve written a couple of things on Facebook recently referring to what I’m currently experiencing. One was to not meet meanness with more meanness. That will simply validate the person and lead them to believe that meanness is normal and acceptable, and it’s simply not. There is a LOT of venom inside of me, a lot of below the belt things I could pummel this person with, but I am proud to say I have not, and will not. It doesn’t make you feel vindicated, or as though you’ve gotten someone back, or let them “not get away” with something. Letting that kind of ugliness out into the world hurts your own inner being and soul more than it hurts the target. And it’s for that reason that this person remains in my prayers, as hard as that is. Another recent observation was that if people focus on what they aren’t getting in friendships and relationships, instead of focusing on the love and support they do receive from them will be perpetually disappointed and unhappy. There was no amount of attention that I could realistically give this relationship that could have possibly sufficed or satisfied them, and the reason is it’s not really about me. It’s what’s missing in them. And while this feeling may change over time, the saddest part of all of this is my recognition of how little I believe I will miss this relationship. It’s a relief in so many ways…I don’t have to knock myself silly trying to please, I don’t have to run in circles, I don’t have to entertain and be constantly available. All I need to do is be true to myself, and the truth is that I need peace in my life now, more than ever before.

So I’ll continue to face hard truths, and be prepared as one can be for the poles to continue to shift. I’ll continue to pray for the people who have hurt me the most, but that’s the most I can offer them at this time. I will keep the poison out of my bloodstream, and surround myself with the amazing souls I’m lucky and blessed enough to have in my life. I will check and double check the door to my soul to make sure there aren’t any cracks left open to let the little mean-spirited, evil beings sneak in…and I’ll try to keep my appointment at 4.