Ordinary People, After All

“They are ordinary people, after all. For a time they had entered the world of the newspaper statistic; a world where any measure you took to feel better was temporary, at best, but that is over.”

            One of my all-time favorite books is Judith Guest’s Ordinary People. The story of a depressed high school student dealing with survivor’s guilt hit home to me for many reasons, not the least of which was undiagnosed depression that had troubled me for half my own high school years. The main character, Conrad, ultimately triumphs (as did I, I suppose).

          An interesting aspect of the story is the torment of a private family being thrust into the local spotlight—first for the tragedy of one son drowning; then for the horror of the second son attempting suicide by cutting his wrists. In Lake Forest, this simply isn’t done.

          The quotation above appears partway through the book, when some measure of healing has begun for the family. They can finally live life without the tragedies constantly shadowing them. I empathized with them in the abstract. Now, in a small way, I am living it.

          My cousin, Sue, is two years younger than I. We grew up together as close as most sisters. Eventually, we both moved away from the Chicago suburbs and then, as adults, lived only three hours’ drive apart for a number of years. Thanksgiving together was almost mandatory. When Sue married, I was honored to be a bridesmaid and delighted to catch the bouquet. When she was pregnant, I was at the baby shower. I’ve known both of her sons since their infancy.

          Logan, who would’ve been 25 in November, drowned September 15 at Lake Almenor in Northern California. I cannot say enough about what a terrific guy he was, or what a loss this has been for our entire family. When his body had not been recovered by September 29, a beautiful memorial service was held.

          Listening to Logan’s friends talk about what a great guy he was was both heartbreaking and healing. I knew Logan as my beloved cousin, as close as I get to a kid of my own. His friends knew him from a different direction altogether, and it was beautiful to hear about this other Logan who inhabited the lives of his friends.

          Since I first heard the news, Logan has not been off my mind for a minute. It’s like he’s sitting on my shoulder, and the weight of the grief is exhausting. But I’m not sure I want to let it go, either. I really don’t know why; perhaps it’s about facing the fact that Logan will never laugh with me again.

          Wednesday a body was found in the lake, very far from where Logan had been swimming. Five more days and it would have been a month. I’m grateful that perhaps we’ll be able to find out how a former swim team competitor drowned in a relatively calm lake. I’m grateful that my cousin no longer has to make decisions about hiring people to search. I’m grateful that none of the family has to fear going to the lake again, knowing Logan is somewhere in it. I’m grateful for all the people, mostly total strangers, who gave countless hours to try to help.

          Another cousin sent me a link to the Reno paper where a brief article appeared about finding the body. Someone was quoted as saying they were 99% sure it was Logan. He also said that dental records might have to be used for identification.

          All of that was bad enough, but what stopped me cold was the photo: three guys rolling a gurney containing a maroon body bag.

          And that is where Ordinary People came in and why it hasn’t left me. I’ve seen body bags before, including dozens stacked up when more than 500 people died in a 1995 Chicago heat wave and hundreds stacked up after Katrina.

          But I didn’t know any of those people.

          I know Logan. And of all the experiences of this nightmare month, beyond the crushing loss, somehow the body bag is the worst. It’s cold and final and, ultimately, very, very lonely. I have never before seen a body bag photo and thought about how that photo would affect family members. Now I know. And I have to ask: is it truly necessary to show that picture?

          So here we are, Logan’s family and friends, thrust into the spotlight. We are ordinary people, too. But ordinary doesn’t quite fit anymore.

Job Security for Me

As an alternative high school teacher, I just LOVE bad parenting. Now, many of my students have really great parents and have had other issues—illness, family member deaths, poverty—that have put them behind in school and into my classroom. But kids with bad parents are almost guaranteed to end up with me.

Yesterday was a perfect example. I was running a bunch of errands, and somewhere near the Target dressing room, I overheard this:

“MoMMEEEE!”

“I said ‘No’. I am not buying a watch for a three-year-old. A three-year-old doesn’t need a watch!”

[At this point I am both happy to hear a firm parent and a little sad that there’s one kid who won’t end up in my classroom; but then I certainly hope I can retire before this little one makes it to her junior year anyway.]

“MoMMEEEE!”

“Why do you always argue when I TOLD YOU ‘NO’?”

“MoMMEEEE!”

“Okay but I’ll just get you a plastic one, not a real watch.”

Aha! Success!! I wanted to call over and say,

“ Hey—I can certainly tell you why she keeps whining. For the same reason my dogs don’t beg from me, but they do beg from my mom. It works!

But then, I want whomever takes over for me when I retire to have nice, full classroom of students whose parents couldn’t say no and mean it.  Good luck. By then, teachers will probably be getting paid based on how kids raised like this do on their standardized tests. So good luck.

But mostly, good luck to the little girl who is in for a big fat trauma when she realizes the real world couldn’t care less how much she whines.

Beloved friends: is it seriously necessary to be completely rude when discussing politics? And is it necessary either to make stuff up or copy it from unreliable sources? I'm pretty much done and over with it, & it's only August. If you switch on the hysteria and rudeness because you are incapable of having a polite, reasoned discussion, please do everyone a favor and SHUT UP! (And I don't care which side you're on as I say this, or how well I like you outside of political discussions.)

Thomas Jefferson must be rolling in his grave--NOT because President Obama got elected or because Gov. Romney might, but because we are using our blessed free choice as an excuse for pettiness, meanness, and even cruelty.

And I promise you, there is a special place in hell for people who say either of the following: 1. The Aurora shooting proves there should be no gun control, because just think how great it would've been if only a dozen people could have shot back (no doubt hitting each other, too); or, 2. The Aurora shooting proves there should be gun control like crazy, because the shooter couldn't have gotten a gun otherwise (because lunatics scrupulously follow laws).  Shame on you for using such a horrific tragedy to further your own political agenda.

What the Aurora shooting does prove is that we should treat each other—especially those we love most, but yes, everyone—with kindness, love, and respect, because we never know when they will be taken away from us. Next time you want to call me stupid because of my political views, especially when the best “reason” you can come up with for your views is “because I said so and you’ll just see!” promise me you’ll consider how you would speak if Jesus were standing in front of you. Or Thomas Jefferson, who might just be wondering if freedom of speech was such a smart idea after all.

Personally, I like freedom of speech. Yours AND mine. And even if, in my own head, I’m thinking you’re an idiot to believe what you do, I promise not to be rude to you.  How about you promise to do the same?

RIP David

I read some very bad news today. I am a member of a FB page from the first high school where I taught in Sacramento. Someone posted that one of my former students has died of a staph infection in his lungs. He was one of my most memorable students, and in his honor I present an article I actually wrote six or seven years ago. It's not actually about him, but he's nevertheless kind-of the main character. Here it is:

The Smell of the Sawdust; the Love of the Wood

It’s so hard to get good help these days. I’m 49, single, and currently boyfriend-less. My 79-year-old mother, who was widowed at 51, lives with me. I live in the sixth house I’ve owned, so you can imagine how much I know how to do around the house. I’m from a family of carpenters, so the smell of sawdust is in my nose and the love of wood is in my hands.

Nevertheless, there are things I cannot do (fix the air conditioning unit), should not do (rewire circuitry), or am too tired to do when I get home after a long day of teaching (almost everything else). I’ve finally been teaching long enough to be able to afford help. But the ability to pay for help, alas, does not equal the ability to find it. Some guys are just lazy. But I’m more concerned with training: people who are willing to help, but don’t know what they’re doing.

All of this is by way of introducing David, a student in one of my first classes 18 years ago. I noticed him because when I got to his name on the roll sheet, students were poking each other and grinning, ready for me to screw it up. When I flawlessly pronounced his Polish last name, this junior in high school actually stood up and said, “You’re the first teacher in my whole life who ever pronounced my name correctly!” I laughed and explained that I was from Chicago and my mother’s family was Polish.

But David’s name is not what makes me think about the lack of handymen available. It’s his high school major. Of course, high school students don’t really have majors, but David did. He was in his fourth year of woodworking when I had him in my English class again his senior year. The woodshop teacher told me that, hands down and no question, David was the finest finish carpenter he’d ever known.

“You mean among all your students?” I asked.

“No,” he said emphatically, “all the woodworkers I’ve ever known.”

David struggled in English. He did every single assignment, even re-writing essays to improve them, and still ended up with a B- he was happy to have earned.

I have thought of David often in the years since. I have no doubt he’s building beautiful furniture someplace, and his boss loves him for his work ethic as well as his skills. I like to think that he’s probably making more money than I am.

But if David were in high school today, he’d be a dropout. We have no room for him. He didn’t test well. He could read and do math, if you gave him plenty of time. But testing doesn’t allow plenty of time. David could sometimes come up with truly different and thoughtful insights about the literature we read. But testing doesn’t allow time for thoughtfulness.

Worst, though, is the fact that there are few high school woodshops for the Davids out there to learn in. And students like David, who test poorly in math or English, are often subjected to three or even four hours per school day of those classes, leaving little time to complete other requirements like social studies or P.E., and no time for electives.

In short, there is no place for David today. He would be one of the thousands of students we are indeed leaving behind. And we are all the poorer for it, and not just because I cannot find a handyman.

Let’s consider David starting high school in 2005 instead of 1985:

David did not watch T.V.; he found it boring. He also did not read books, unless coerced. His reading test scores were slightly below average. His computational skills were average, but he saw no point in algebra; he did not awaken to the magic of math until Geometry—a subject he was instantly able to apply to his favorite activity, working with wood.

If David showed up today at my previous teaching assignment in San Diego, he would be scheduled for a three-hour English class and a two-hour math class every day. Oh, and he’d get lunch. He would not have time for woodworking, but it’s just as well. Non-academic classes like that are being eliminated from most high schools anyway. Worse, David would have no time for his required classes in physical science, social science, or P.E.; so he would be forced to take them in summer school or begin his tenth grade year 15 credits behind.

Oh wait—actually, David would have to take a standardized reading test in February of his ninth grade year, after only one semester of intensive work in his English class. Unless he had gained approximately 2 grade levels in one semester (an extremely difficult task, even for the brightest and most motivated student), he would be assigned to a six-week four-hour per day summer school class in reading. If he were lucky and progressed two grade levels in one semester, he would take a two-hour summer school class in reading, and a two-hour class in math. So he’d be back to starting his sophomore year fifteen credits behind, without ever having failed a class.

With any luck, he would end his sophomore year so far behind on credits that he would give up and drop out. The State Attendance Review Board people are understaffed and too busy looking for non-attending eight-year-olds to bother with David, and his school wouldn’t have to include his consistently low test scores in their API rankings. Everybody wins.

Except, of course, David.

And, of course, me. Because in the new, improved 21^st century scenario of the American high school, David doesn’t get to build cabinets in my home office because he doesn’t know how. Instead, he is on public assistance or in jail. At best, he’s a hard-working man in a low-paying job, contributing far less in income taxes that he would have as a high-income finish carpenter.

And these are only the financial costs to us all. I once heard an interview with Robert Pastore, the actor who played Murphy Brown’s Eldon the painter. He talked about how important it was to give kids the chance to find out what they’re good at. “Just imagine,” he said, “what would’ve happened if no one had ever handed Eric Clapton a guitar?”

And what, I ask, is going to happen to all of today’s Davids who never get handed a hammer or a saw? Tomorrow it won’t be hard to find good help. It’ll be impossible.

Two Days NOT to be Single

As I begin to consider leaving middle age for "senior citizen" land, I can't help but think about life as a single woman (which I have always been, though certainly not by choice). Most of the time, I can stay busy with friends and family, and I try not to think about the fact that I don't have anyone to cuddle up with at night. (Miniature schnauzers notwithstanding). 


There are two days of the year, however, when being single hits me in the face and calls me a loser: Valentine's Day and New Year's Eve. 


I have actually been in a room with thirty or forty other people on New Year's Eve, enjoying visiting with people and having a reasonably good time until midnight. At that point, everyone kisses their partner.


Except the very few of us who have to stand around awkwardly, pretending we are so so happy for everyone else and don't mind being alone. So the evening that normally would have left this party-loving extrovert really happy turns into another day to feel like I really belong in some other universe, Inevitably, I go home feeling just a little bit empty.


Valentine's Day is the worst day to be single. I try very hard to observe the holiday by giving funny kid valentines to my friends and family, allowing myself to eat a little chocolate, and sometimes even distributing flowers to friends. As a skin care/make up consultant, I also do a little more business than usual, so that's certainly something to celebrate. 


But I have also sat in an office watching literally EVERY other woman there get a bouquet of flowers. That wasn't the worst; I can be happy for other people. The worst is the surreptitious (and sometimes overt) pitying looks from the other gals when they look at my empty desk.