Perfect Fidelity, Allegiance Unwavering... Mind over What Exactly?

This is a lot of things. It may be depression, anxiety, fear. It is a voice inside our heads. It is despair and denial. But to each of us it is an aching feeling, goose bumps and shakes. It is a part of us, a constant battle. But we must defeat it, look it in the eye and take it down. This is to everyone who at any point has felt alone. You are not alone.

It Has Eyes, A Mouth and Sharp Teeth

Can there ever be perfect fidelity? Allegiance unwavering? Inside today, do you have loyalty, dedication, admiration? Maybe. But does it have fortitude, endurance? One minute you are seeking acknowledgement and homage, the next affinity and union. I myself, am emotionless, simple, direct. Yet, I hold tight to my convictions. As blood runs through your veins, pride courses through mine. Doubt resonates only beside confidence. I have never known failure, so I continue to conquer, defile and embattle brain and psyche. I remind, I hint, I nudge. Some may target a resistance, others accept me willingly, no guilt, no remorse only emblazoned attitude.

To feel me creep, means I am present, I have won. The battlefield is quiet, I stand atop the victory, arms outstretched to make known, I have taken charge. They, who I defeat, do not sign a treaty or wave a white flag, because they know not of their defeat. They simply lock step into a cadence of my choosing. While others stand along the route, gazing upon a parade of military might, they shield themselves from the temptation, from following. The percussion is luring. The uniform may unite, the medals are shiny and in abundance. Yet, the colors bleed into one vision of fallacy and narrowmindedness.

Sudden moves cause a disturbance. Eyes turn to squelch the wave. Some cower, stay in line. Others flee, taking with them their voices of dissent. While others stand firm to their curb, watching the procession turn, from ceremony to spectacle. This is when they step off the ledge and enter the march, not to blend, but to disturb, to break the ranks into individuals. To soften the drum beat and embolden the quiet, to raise their voices above the deafening din. This is where I strike back. I win more than I lose. They often need reinforcements to form a blockage. I, the detour, of rebellious minds, leave them outnumbered.

It Has Hunger and Needs to Be Satiated

I devour bravery, courage, follow-through and I often leave stuffed. I am hungry only temporarily. Your mine now, aren’t you, or are you? Is there ever perfect fidelity? Allegiance unwavering? Is there a tempo that can overpower mine? One minute you are in shadow, facing the past. The next you are tectonic, rumbling, breaking down the hierarchy. Not to stand atop in celebration, but to lead as observer, rebel, voice of reason. I fear you, when you feel empowered, so I am determined to disallow, disillusion, disenfranchise you. Make you feel every bit inferior, so you choose to recoil. So, your only option is to tremble and truckle. Retreat in frustration.

Do you know who I am? I think we may not have been formerly introduced, yet I feel you know my name. I am pleased to meet you. Would you care to have a drink, a cuppa coffee, a bite to eat? I thought not. You might have a bit of strength in you yet. But I have my eye on you and the moment I notice you wavering, your nerves cringing, your confidence flinching, I will be there. Waiting with open arms. Drumsticks in hand, your uniform pressed, so your entry into the demonstration will be effortless. Remain vigilant and I may just lose interest. Remain devoted to your cause, your story, your cadence and you just may never see me again.

Plot Fatigue: How to Rewrite Your Weekly Episodes

We all have our favorite TV shows, the ones we have watched since the beginning. The ones with the characters we love, the story-lines we can relate to. Yet, somehow in the middle of the season there is that one episode, where our favorite character says or does something out of the ordinary. The plot seems weak, it doesn't fit the 'universe' or 'tone' that the show usually represents. The characters act differently. The plot seems to have gaps and the dialogue doesn't flow as easily as it does in other episodes. This is plot fatigue. The episode or episodes where the writers are just out of ideas. Sometimes they recycle plots, others they don't flesh them out entirely, but we notice as audience members, as fans.

Not every episode is action-packed and full of witty banter. Writers get tired and run out of creative juices every now and again. Everyone does. They rehash old story-lines, bring back long forgotten adversaries, to spice up a fatigued momentum. Sometimes though, reruns are right up my alley. I like to re-watch episodes from the past- they are comforting. They remind me of origins and life lessons. How my favorite antagonists and protagonists developed and evolved, season after season.

Binge watching television makes plot fatigue much more obvious, you can see the fatigue more clearly. You feel the characters struggle for something new and interesting to talk about. This fatigue, more obvious to the watcher, has to be felt by the actors as well. This slowing of the pace, lack of enthusiasm is not just prevalent in our entertainment, it is not just common in television shows, but in life itself. We generally, however are not binge watching our personal 'live' episodes, our docu-series, our reality TV. We tend to watch the reruns. Just as in the fictional world of our favorite television shows, our routines get stale. Our daily episodes get entangled with drama, when we want them to be sitcoms and vice-versa.

Lessons in the classroom, much like a script or teleplay, get lost in translation, predictable and musty. Often pulled from a file cabinet or off a flash drive. How often do we rewrite them, we may update but sometimes they need a massive overhaul. I pulled a few out of a file cabinet last week, to get prepared for the upcoming unit. They even smelled musty. I knew right then and there, that they were not the final script, they were the rough draft. In years past these lessons had been successful, at least I remember them that way. Once I started really analyzing them, reading between the lines, I knew they might have been fun for some classes, but not for all. They had purpose, but maybe not the meaning that is so important to keep students engaged. They were my comfortable reruns but they were outdated.

Personal episodes are not our day's events. There are many episodes in a day. For educators, each class has its own tone, its own characters, its own plot line. The setting may stay consistent, but every time the bell rings, the story changes. The soft open is my greeting students at the door, some enter exhausted from PE, others frustrated after a math test. Some enter excited and eager, ready for the action, while others want a slow, calm, quiet flow, an even keeled documentary. As an educator it is impossible to meet every students mood. It is much easier, however, to gear the class in a way that lures them all in. Start with a Super Bowl style advertisement to get them hooked. By stirring the plot, changing things up, starting with some sketch comedy, or a fun demo, even the most distracted students won't want to change the channel.

I know lately, not just with social media and writing, but in my classroom I have entered a stage of plot fatigue. Same programs, similar dialogue, frequent advertisements. I feel distracted and I am looking for a way to edit my episodes, make them more intriguing, add some red herrings, plot twists. As the saying goes, I am trying to encourage the sentiment 'the plot thickens'. I have moved some things around, redressed the set. Brought in some new writers. Added some new characters. I have set a new tone. Nothing goes on, nothing gets broadcast without an edit, without a rework, update, renovation. The soft open needs to be more than me standing at the door, it needs to include more action, more suspense, more commitment. When my story lags, the episode lags. 

When my audience, the characters in each class periods plot gets fatigued, the lesson gets fatigued and no amount of plot twists will prevent them from changing the channel. My plot fatigue has been lingering for a few months, lagging my reception. Scrambling my picture. But, instead of altering all my 'shows' I focused on just some. This resulted in a line-up still predicable and stale. So, I have been spending a few weeks, reshuffling the sequence, moving the order around, so that my weekly programming is more in sync with my outlook. My channels are getting aligned. I moved my chat, reworked my evening schedule for work, shuffled some Quiz Bowl times and practices so that there is a new cadence. The fog of reruns if lifting.

In my classroom I have tossed out the zestless and combined, tweaked, re-purposed parts of lessons and combined them in to something new. I was relying on tried and true when I should be looking for exciting and new. Not just the same old thing on the telly, but options, I can now channel surf. My lessons are more purposeful and less predictable. They are meaningful but not recognizable. My favorite television and classroom episodes are those that I do not figure out the plot in the beginning of the program. I do not know the former friend, we have not been introduced to yet, as being the bad guy. That the characters will argue throughout the climax  and then find solace in each other at the end of the hour. Sometimes an ending needs to be unpredictable. We need to see our favorite characters, break tradition and do something we don't agree with. We need to see ourselves in them, good or bad. But we need to know that next week they will return to us, a little better for their struggle. 

We need to see them evolve and change as we do. Lessons need the same attention. Every audience is different, every classroom is unique and every plot enters a stage of fatigue. But if we recognize our limitations and plan accordingly, revamp and re-imagine with a new lens- then our plot fatigue will be minimal and our episodes will be packed full of excitement and familiarity too. I accept my plot fatigue. I know that in my classroom we have been struggling, I have been short tempered and distracted. I have not been the best I can be, I fell into a rut. But recognizing and accepting my fatigue has opened me up to new possibilities. I do not have to toss out all of my stale lessons, they just need re-imagining. They just need me to see them through the audiences eyes not the writers room perspective.

Plot fatigue is contagious. Channel upon channel, networks, enters a cycle of reruns and familiar, boring plot lines. I refuse to get complacent and bored with my episodes. I look forward to dusting off old scripts and teleplays and yes, updating the set a little. The more things stay the same, the more comfortable we are. But, a little on-location shooting enables us to see learning from a new perspective. See our classroom not as a stationary set, but a flexible, safe, vibrant spot where the audience participates in the plot, they change the outcome with their action and interaction and this makes for great television and awesome learning.

The Doability Doctrine: The Truth is Out There- Do You Believe?

Doability Doctrine

We are all busy. We all have responsibilities: some offered, some sought out, some thrust upon us. We all struggle with time and process, completion and exhaustion- yet we all keep going. Some complain, tell everyone how stressful their lives are- how busy has gone to a new level. But, we are all busy. We all wake up in the morning, get dressed, and do our best to tackle the goals and tasks that lie before us. Some call us courageous and brave, heroes and role-models and in some cases we are. But, in the scheme of things, in the hustle and bustle of daily life, we are survivors because it is in our nature to be. Some put their heads down and push through the 'wall' quietly, while others, heads up, are proud to tell everyone about their journey.

Each of us is carrying around a doability doctrine. One we drafted ourselves. One we edit ourselves. One we refer to in times of persevering. We categorize some things as catch and release while others we complete with fervor. It is our choice to be busy, to be distracted, to delve into things and let others fall to the wayside. It is a beautiful game we play of fulfillment and pride, refuge and guilt. Feeling we need to do it all or we are letting someone down. But, if we stop and really take heed of our position on the board, where are pieces are, some cornered, some free to move with ease, we will see that all of it is a choice, this gallant, valiant course we choose is just that, a choice and we must own that.

As with all doability doctrines there are crossroads, unity nodes where we intersect and our responsibilities overlap. This junction might flash by in a flurry or at times we are forced to slow down for traffic. This is when we can look around and notice there is not just a high way but a middle way as well. We should not need a tectonic shift to level the playing field. Each of our pieces on the board are where we put them. The only way we can move them, with purpose, is if we veer right, detour and snap back. We have to refuse to be swept away in competition mode, it is not about outdoing, outliving- it is about those moments where we see a way to find a common defense, a unity node so we can beat the news cycle. Where our path is self-directed not paved by someone else's agenda.

Dissent Memo

We all got the dissent memo when we started in education. Some of us have ignored it. Some have gone on the record to object, oppose and resist. Either way, taking a stance, is important. It is personal. It can be positive and rebellious but often it is negative and fueled by exhaustion and misunderstanding. This negative discourse is powerful. We can't always stay off the record, there are things we get to say. Our opinions matter. We make change and progress with our opinions, especially if they are positive and purposeful. We do not need to go big, stand on the mountain top and try to convert the locals into our cause. We can take the night watch. Maintain balance. Look between the seats for something better. Share our discoveries. Understanding the 'new normal' is not permanent. Our choice is important, our balance is critical. 

We are fighting a proxy war -we are ambassadors of change, we are educators. But we are also human beings with lives and family, responsibilities beyond the scopes of our profession. We must remember to veer right, detour and then after some time for balance and mental health days, relaxation and refuge- then snap back into educator mode. This is what many of us struggle with. We get stuck in the mud, our wheels spinning until we turn off the engine and walk way. But our vehicle is still operational, all we need to do is ask for help. We may need to dig ourselves out every once in a while but sometimes the mud is just too thick. The shovel is nearby- it is just hidden behind our hyper-focus, our singular drive, our lack of objectivity. As educators we all get lost in this quagmire on occasion. We just need to stop spinning and go get the shovel, resting in the trunk.

The Illusion of Control is simple, it is not an illusion and we are in control. We just have to play the hand were dealt. The fundamental things apply for all educator. For all parents. For every individual.  Time, patience and self-awareness. Limitations, pushing through them and allowing ourselves perchance to dream, because in dreams begins responsibility. Educator heal thyself. Believe you are capable and knowledgeable. Believe in the confluence, the trifecta of balance, work and play. Go on radio silence, plan your course corrections from a quiet nook with a cup of hot tea. Play the music to your ears, loudly, and dance like you did when you were sixteen. Put that on your plate, right next to your grading papers and lesson planning.

Midway to Midtown

We are midway to midtown, riding high seas, and travelling low roads- swimming against the current, moving down the wrong way down a one-way street. Some of us just refuse to let the wave carry us to shore. Put our car in reverse and do a U-turn. We are all the artful dodger- we can pick and choose what we want to pursue. It is alright once in a while return to sender. To have an exit strategy. To choose to run with a skeleton crew rather than an ensemble of goals and tasks. 

We are not just a bowl of cherries, full of pits and stems. We are not simply sour times nestled in with the sweet ones. One man’s trash might just be another man’s trash. We do not have to explore every new and shiny idea. Attend every conference, read every book. How can we possibly? We can walk on past some of the flashing neon and giant billboards that line the educator avenue. The numerical limit is set. Out times of toil and trouble might be unavoidable during those bursts of incoming responsibilities, but our times of sheer exhaustion and mental fatigue need to minimize. 

We are the last link, we have our own shoes and do not need to walk in someone else's to see how great we are. We are educators and we are amazing. We each have our doability doctrine, our responsibility dossier, and our personal choice agenda and now we need to merge them and find balance. we are all busy, we all have many cups in the air, juggling them is difficult but once they land we will have quite the set of china- ready for that hot cup of tea, quiet nook and moment of calm and relaxation. All we have to do is believe.

The truth is out there, can you see the steam from some Earl Gray and a great book? Can you hear the upbeat music of adolescence- is your foot tapping yet? Close your eyes and find your place, your music and let the balance find you.

A Combination of Words- Thank you Educators

A Combination of Words

As educators we choose our words with caution
We temper our emotions
Keep moving forward, even on the toughest of days
We listen, share, anticipate greatness
rather than
Expect mediocrity or negativity
Yet we see it, hear it, we know it is there

Our world is in turmoil, it shakes with imbalance
misunderstanding and self-centeredness
But as educators, we understand
the fragility of thought, misconceptions and fear
We strive daily to overcome it and help our students see beyond
Failure, judgment and complacency

As educators we see the world for what it is
Challenging
Fluid
Scary
but we also see its potential
its camaraderie, respect and admiration
and thus we enter battle
we rebel
we soar to the skies with a vision
this is our journey...this is our calling

Tempered Radicals

I am a saint of imperfection
A torchbearer in the labyrinth
All around me are familiar places, insatiable appetites
"It's not my problem." some say with heads in the sand
"Miss the boat or catch the wave" a pace set by others, often unforgiving
Conversational wisdom, lacking but
Present, we as educators keep it circulating

Avoid Complication, some keep their voices silent
Filaments and Fibers, however link the masses
What stops you from speaking out?
What roots you in your passion, yet silences your voice?
What you can control is simple, yourself
We all have common tactics, as educators we share them
We begin with novelty then add familiarity
We seek a cacophony of learning

We have become tempered radicals, a counter-balancing force
Our ideas, some vintage, still in the package
Others hot off the assembly line
Our wave of ingenuity, synchronicity, is tidal
Cross-purposes
Bolts of creativity
Tupor or hibernation eventually leads to an awakening and formerly squelched
Inactivity has become our action


Context for Kings and Queens

Many eyes judge, misunderstand our calling
We do, we teach, we inspire
Light and shadow is present in every situation
It is context for kings, pauper and commoner
The noise is rambunctious, often deafening but
Despite yourself, the wolf inside peeks its head
Vaulting ambition, unsettling the guard
What's past is a prologue, the cold open, the title sequence
Just start the dialogue, just push play
The war without, creates the war within
The expanse may shift inward but
The momentum will collapse and the sheer force
of freedom will cause
momentary brilliance and an on-going rebellion
Can you feel it?
Can you hear the trumpets calling us to the charge?

Fun-House Mirrors

We live in a world of
Fun-house mirrors standing tall, discombobulating
distracting, dismembering our reality
Messing around with gender roles
Tearing down societal norms
Falling, twisting and bending light and personality
We have learned to talk around the problem
Fake it till we make it
The long, bright, dark no matter our vigilance, creeps in
Form and void lacking
Night finds you, even when the moon is full
But the aura of our community, guides our way
These mirrors are constructed with the sheer purpose of fear
But we can also use them to shatter the lines created by those who feel they are in control

Firebrand

Revolution brings change, topples regimes
Empires fall with mere words: dispersed, considered, agitating complacency
Educators each hold a megaphone and together they are a quake
The hour and the day is irrelevant
Some days its an easy watch, guarding the border is effortless
But we get busy and the focus wanes
The spoils of war are often generous in riches
They can be shiny and rewarding, however
War is also destructive, rendering mobs silent, we must stay vigilant
If we plan our defense with skill, we can see beyond the distractions
Unite against a common enemy

Peace is harder to maintain than war
Many are restless when things are calm
They seek turmoil, they yearn for a reason to be
angry, mistrustful, a firebrand in and of themselves
With a weapon of words
To battle them we need to listen
and use their words to strategize against them
Find a commonality not a bigger divide

The world around us is not inherently negative
We surround ourselves with positive people
We seek open-mindedness and kindness
As educators we see the good in people
We have hope- this is why this field
is our calling, our passion
We are firebrands

Firebrands are common on both sides of the river
The stream between us is one of common ground, similar values, universal needs
Firebrands stand on the both shores
As the flow of possibility, entices
Both trying to shape the curve
carve the meander into rapids
Many with a passion for kindness
Inciting positive change
Many are radicals for joy
Leaders of a mindful insurgence
Staying mutinous against cruelty, prejudice and discrimination
They continue to be rebellious, because they know the cost
A continued stranglehold on the well being of humanity

Firebrands are so hyper-focused on their passion
nothing else can sway them
Both sides have an army that will fight for their cause
Both fly their pennants proudly
It is time to lower the flags
Build bridges
Listen to the messages not of the extreme, but of the many
These voices have more in common than they have different
They just get muddled by the loud
Seek commonality and the river will slow, become shallow,
so
The positive firebrands can unite- We are educators and we are firebrands of kindness and
mindfulness

Stay open-minded, flexible, be a firebrand- wings expanded, soaring
See beyond the predators and rise with a vision
beyond the confines of what other people say,
what other people do
Glide, sail and ascend, with words of encouragement
enthusiasm and truth
and others will take flight to join you in the cause

Thank you educators, eduheroes, you are making the shift possible. You are inspiring others to be practical rebellions, purposeful agitators and meaningful renegades.

We Didn't Start the Fire: (Chapter 3 Sign O' the Times)

The Tincture of Unrest 
The gravel hurt the bottom of my bare feet as I walked to the edge of the roof. The smell was acrid, it stung my nose almost as much as the sharp gravel did the bottom of feet. This particular apartment building, located off Hollywood Boulevard was tall enough so that a panoramic view of Los Angeles could be seen from the rooftop and higher floored residences. My friend, lived several floors down so in order to witness the chaos, we had to run up several flights of stairs. We arrived at dusk, already short of breath. As the darkness took over, there was a stillness surrounded by an audible mayhem. Sirens wailed. Looking across the street, every roof top was covered with onlookers. Some in chairs, some standing but all gazing onto the surreal.

The usually smoggy skies of Hollywood were sheathed in a layer of black smoke. I stood at the edge dumbfounded, gazing in each direction only to see more ebony vapor tufting into the air. It was hard to breath, I felt dizzy, so I sat down, dangling my feet over the edge and began counting the building fires around me. Turning my head to see 360. My friends and I, generally a boisterous, upbeat group, were mulled into a silence. Los Angeles has a hum to it. An energy that vibrates even in the wee hours of the morning. But, this evening, just as the sun stealthily disappeared, the night sky didn't lose its hue. The golden chroma, around each fire seemed to combine into one large complexion of despair. I started to cough, but stayed put awhile longer because the mesmerizing glow was enticing. I had never heard so many sirens. I had never seen such a colorful Los Angeles sky.

April 29, 1992. I had worked all day, in San Juan Capistrano but at 5:00 decided to head up to Los Angeles to help my friend move. She was moving back to Orange County. I hadn't seen the news, so naively I ventured to Los Angeles on this tumultuous day. I got on the 5 freeway and as I passed through Orange County everything was normal, nothing triggered an alarm. I was listening to the radio, I remember the song, "Burning Down the House" by Talking Heads. I was singing along and as the song ended a news break began, "Fires have broken out across Los Angeles as unrest bubbles over after the Rodney King verdict was handed down today." The DJ was saying how the song was very appropriate for the day and next up was "We Didn't Start the Fire by Billy Joel." I knew of the Rodney King case, everyone in California did, but I didn't remember the verdict was coming on this day. I looked around, didn't see any smoke or fire, so I continued on my way. But, as soon as I crossed from Orange County to LA County, I started to see some smoke, one or two plumes here a few over there. But, I was almost there so I decided to keep going.

This was before cell phones and pulling over in that part of town to use a payphone would not be advisable, I could hear my mothers voice "NEVER get off the freeway in unfamiliar territory." So I traveled the distance and when I arrived at my friends apartment building, I was a bit nervous, but until I sat down before the TV, I didn't have a clue how dangerous things actually were. We watched the news for what seemed hours before the danger started to creep nearer to our location. Eventually helicopters were above us and they started to show fires a block away. Several in fact and they seemed to be moving inward closer to us. So we looked at each other and without saying a word, jumped up and made our way to the stairwell.

We ran to the roof. The gravel hurt the bottom of my bare feet as I walked to the edge of the roof. The smell was acrid, it stung my nose almost as much as the sharp gravel did the bottom of feet. This particular apartment building, located off Hollywood Boulevard was tall enough so that a panoramic view of Los Angeles could be seen from the rooftop and higher floored residences. I had parked on the street in front of her building, at the time I thought that's lucky, there was never any street parking near her apartment. But, looking down at that moment- it struck me- as I kicked my feet against the wall, I looked down to see my Jetta, safe and sound. I wondered if it would make it through the night. My car made it through the night, the apartment building we slept in made it- we however went on an adventure most of the night and almost didn't.

Curfew, What Curfew?
It was about 8:30 PM April 29, 1992 when a county wide curfew was implemented. But, we were curious. There were more fires than firefighters could handle and as such many just were left to burn. One of our group that night was a volunteer firefighter and he wanted to see if he could help in any way. We as, 20 somethings, basically feeling we were invincible, decided to tag along. So we piled in his car, a brand new BMW and drove around Hollywood to just observe the discord and dissension, or so we thought. We didn't get but a few blocks before we saw a house fire, not an apartment fire. A women was standing in the street yelling for help. We pulled over and our friend, the volunteer firefighter, jumped out to help. It was about 30 seconds later, before we even got out of the car, that we saw him run into the burning house. We got out of the car and approached the distrait woman, helping her sit on the curb near our car. We all stared at the house in disbelief.

A few moments later, out came our friend with a cat in his arms. He walked over and handed the woman her cat then said we should go and see who else we can help. The woman thanked us and several neighbors came out to help her. As we drove around the area, nothing was more palpable than the heavy weight of smoke and fear. We saw groups gathered on street corners, the looks on their faces as we drove past, told us they would be part of the anarchy soon. Looking back, not only was it ridiculously ignorant to drive around during this situation of civil unrest but in a brand new BMW, well that made us even a bigger target. But we again felt like we were invincible. We hit a road block and the police scolded us and told us to go home. We didn't listen though, until we began to see looting. Not of just mom and pop shops but grocery stores. Parking lots full of people pushing bulging carts of food and supplies quickly to their cars. At first it looked like shoppers but then employees were running out of the store too and this is when it hit us- large scale robbery was all around us, arson was all around us and we needed to go home and be safe. This adventure, was the least memorable of the next 24 hours, however.

Midtown Containment
We woke up a bit late on April 30, 1992, one of the longest days of my life. It was 11:00 AM and we had to be out of Los Angeles by 5:00 PM before the curfew was in full force. We had to load the truck and get on PCH. The freeways around Hollywood were shut down and the only route open to go south to Orange County was on Pacific Coast Highway. We were on the road by 4:00 and the streets were nearly empty until we reached the coast. Then traffic was at a stand still. It looked like a Loony Tunes cartoon- cars were driving on the sidewalks, cutting each other off, fender benders every where. We were a caravan of two cars and a moving truck in between them. On the back seat of my Jetta were two large television sets and a computer, stereo and other appliances. This made me nervous as we were two females, in a traffic jam, in the not so nice part of Los Angeles. The streets were crowded and all eyes were on the traffic jam of those who could escape the mayhem.

It was about three hours into our journey and we were inching our way south towards Orange County. It was getting dark and more people had gathered on the streets. You could feel the rage, it made my hair stand up on my arms and neck. We rolled up the windows and looked forward trying desperately not to make eye contact with the crowd. The heckling started slowly but quickly became loud and directed very much at the cars bumper to bumper, unable to escape the wrath. Several young men walked up to our car, "Hey, looks like some nice TV's you got here, they might look real nice in my house." We kept looking forward. Then they tapped on the window "Hey, ladies, how much for your TV's?" They laughed and then tried to open the door. "Knock, knock- let us in." one taunted. Then from behind them we heard a voice, "Leave them alone, now get outta here." An older man walked up to the car and said, "You two need to get out of here, things are getting bad." We smiled and said thank you through the window, but we couldn't get out of there as we were stuck in gridlock traffic, but we changed lanes to the inside so we could move away from the curb.

Florence and Normandie
Traffic didn't lessen for another two hours when we finally reached Florence and Normandie, where the day earlier a truck driver had been beaten and killed. This was when we finally saw police officers and military patrolling the streets. But when we stopped at a red light- a group of people ran across the street and threw molotov cocktails into a few store fronts. The stores erupted into flame and several police officers ran over to our car and said "drive, drive and don't stop at any lights." Just get out of Los Angeles county. This we did. We were rerouted around PCH a few times due to riots but eventually made it back to Orange County. We saw fire, looting, even a few carjackings. Gun fire was everywhere and every shot rang in our ears, reminding us we should have stayed put for a few more days. I have never been more afraid in my entire life. Our gas tank was on empty and we ran out of gas as we crossed over into Orange County. Our friends, in the other car in our caravan, returned with a gas can, about half an hour later and filled our tank. What should have taken 90 minutes to travel- took us 8 1/2 hours to traverse.

Ice Cream and Balloons
It was not until we had fuel and we made it to a local grocery store that we had a chance to eat, go to the bathroom, call home and make sense of what we had seen. That grocery store was full of people, shopping with a sense of calm. They had no idea what was happening ten minutes up the road. There was a community fair in the parking lot and children were walking around with balloons and ice cream cones. I just sat on the hood of my car watching them. This serene juxtaposition of riot versus residential. This family haven versus the chaos of civil and social unrest. I had spent over 8 hours watching as people's rage destroyed livelihood and security. Where they felt they had no other voice than to deface, ravish and sabotage the 'establishment.' To injure and kill anyone they felt was not on their side. It happened because of hatred and prejudice. It lingered because of a single verdict that made it clear that some people can get away with heinous actions. It ended only after the National Guard and local police made their presence known everywhere.

This was before Facebook and You Tube videos. Before Twitter and Instagram. It took awhile for news to disseminate and squelch the violence. However, even today the underlying inequality and prejudice persists. I look back on these two days that I spent within the LA Riots, they have come to be called, with an understanding that me and my friends were lucky, we had a guardian angel looking over us because so many times we were in the line of fire, gunshots rang out around my car many times. Fires were started as we sat at red lights. Anger was directed at us because we appeared to be part of the cause. I wish I could say everything is good now- we learned from our mistakes- but these moments of rebellion and strife are bubbling up in many places. If we do not stop to reflect on the cause of anxiety, discontent and tension more such events are going to take place. Past meets present in way like no other in this rebellion. We can't just talk about the causes and effects, we need to focus on the why, the societal inequalities, the isolation and disenfranchisement and be open to understand our relationship to them.

Quiet Voice, Loud Mind, Personal Greatness

Loud Mind

My mind is never quiet. Sometimes as I am falling asleep it settles to a hum but generally it is buzzing with activity. Its my hive. Thoughts fluttering in and out: radiant ideas, colorful perceptions, vibrant brainstorming all leading me in different directions. Each tempting me with nectar and pollen. Sometimes they stick, sometimes they are hollow when I reach them. This cavalcade of mental conversation can lead to conceptual or experimental design. The contemplation either sends me through trial and error, honey is created or not. These projects evolve with the swarm of energy. They unfold daily, often resurfacing with a thick viscosity, until I add it to the honey comb. Waxy and succulent, these strategies often get harvested and added to the collective of tactics, procedures and approaches I use frequently.

Often though, it becomes conceptual - formulated into a big idea. These take hold, the buzz is louder, vibrating and humming until I set out to execute a plan. If I choose to go in a different direction, the gentle sting of a reminder, or a navigational redirect lures me back. These become elixirs, a sweet magical panacea- these are sought after, however, their arrival from the garden is not by my choice, they can not be forced. When they arrive, however, they do so with great fanfare- this is not to say they always come to fruition, but they do spark other avenues. These visions, muses, need more time, more effort, more focus to design and implement. But they are the ideas that shape my actions, illuminate and stimulate ingenuity. They can be bold and obvious or slow to ignite and delicate- either way- they make an impact on how I think and what I do. My conceptual processing and analysis is driven by tunnel vision, agility and discernment. It is cross-country rather than urban travel. It takes refinement and editing.

I start my day with too much information, I am overwhelmed, I have to jot down ideas in my journal. Bits and pieces of inner dialogue, visual cues, words that spark creativity. Then I have to walk away. Drink a cup of coffee and read, or write a blog post. Think about something else. Hone my verbalization, my personal melody. When I wake up my inner music is Jazz, lots of shrieking instruments, rapping of percussion, mixed with grunge guitar and the harmony of a piano. Sounds chaotic right? It is. My brain is trying to separate all the sounds into their perspective rhythms. It is exhausting. I get distracted and my mind wanders from sheer overload. But, when I finally hear each instrument, each beat- my creativity sharpens. I may lose concepts in the unraveling, but those that remain, become little ditties, ear worms per se, until I do something with them. This orchestration, pollination of sorts, happens every morning and often at the end of the day as well, as my mental wing beat slows and the play list of the day begins to upload.

Why am I telling you this? This lack of fluency, chaotic rambling may seem foreign to most people- yet for many of our students, it is routine. When they are sitting in our classrooms, this cacophony of the senses, extended, shapeless circumference of information- rapidly bombarding, noise, spots of clarity surrounded by moments of guitar strumming- is constant. To some it may appear as visual distraction- a million ideas wiggling their fingers close to their peripheral. To some it comes as waves of slow steady buzzing, circling them or the banging of cymbals. But, it is there. Every student gets distracted. We as educators get frenzied and find ourselves adrift, on occasion. I know I do. I have to repeat my mantra- refocus at least once a class. However, we recognize we are lost more quickly than our students and we rarely hold it against ourselves. So why do we get so agitated and perturbed with our students when they lose their way? Everyone loses sight of personal greatness, personal potential, we just need a nudge to remember.

Personal Greatness

Finding our personal greatness can only happen if we turn to look at our faults, our hindrances in the eye and accept them. I practice, daily, frequently, on keeping my mind focused. I have mantras I repeat every class period to keep me on track, to keep my eye on the prize. The trophy or blue ribbon is not self-satisfaction or gratitude- but rather fluency and consistency. When I focus, really observe and remove the buzzing, the hum, the aura of flashing light- I have a sense of myself. I understand my reasoning, my impulses, my isolation. Above all else, I recognize the struggle for personal greatness in others. We all want to be recognized but I believe deep down, we want to be happy with ourselves first, to love ourselves just the way we are. When we are children we start out having this sense of self, this trust and admiration of 'us'- but we lose it as we get older because the comparison makes us feel less great.

We compare. As humans we compare ourselves to others. But comparing ourselves to great people does not diminish our greatness. Our personal greatness may be obscured by doubt, dimmed by the flashbulbs focused on others, by their personal paparazzi. We all get trapped in the quagmire of short-term gain over long-term sustainability. The freshman action may get people noticed, revered but the sophomoric, junior and future endeavors are what really matters. The choice to dig in the dirt, get stung by a bee every now and then, lacing up our sneakers for a 10K. This is what matters. Knowing when it will be best for us to sprint. When it will be more beneficial for us to be a marathoner. Ultimately, being able to adjust our pace accordingly. Drinking lots of water and crossing the finish line even of we are last, this is personal greatness.

Personal greatness means waking up every morning to the babel and clangor of thoughts and ideas. Knowing in order to synchronize them into a musical piece, we must be patient. We do not need a quorum. What we need is a clarity of greatness. Even if no one sees your greatness- if you believe, you can find your personal greatness. You can accept the pandemonium as your personal cadence. Percussion and bedlam may be the tempo I awake to, the modulation many of our students march to, but ultimately it is the meter, the miles we travel, the luminous intensity that redirects our actions, for better or for worse. It is current, flow, charge and fluctuation. Wrapped in oscillation, reverberation and aperture. It is the nature of change itself.

Quiet voice, loud mind. Jumble, ensemble, colony and yes swarm. Our greatness can be collective or unique. Yet, we all have greatness. Some thrive on conceptual living while others experimental. Some need a balance of both. Whether a marathon is in your future or a few laps around the track- get some good running shoes. Tie the laces tight and let the race begin. There may be a hive of bees nearby, flying solo or in a swarm but eventually they will share in the fruits of their labor- this is personal greatness. We will always have the demons inside us that make us feel less worthy, less successful, less great. These collide with our positive thoughts every day. But we can't ignore them, we can't let them fall into extinction, because we need them- they pollinate, provide the elixir of creativity- they help form the hive, the protective layer around our chaotic, busy minds. Without turmoil- we would never see the tranquility, feel the calm, know with uncertainty the pleasure of knowing ourselves.













once I do

Transmogrification of a Fickle Beast

Transmogrification huh? Big word. I know what you are thinking. But it is the appropriate word, it embodies the meaning of what this post is about – ‘to change or alter greatly and often with grotesque or humorous effect.’ Thank you, Daniel Webster Dictionary, it is a word I use a lot but needed a little help getting the definition accurate. To me it’s a messy change, much of the time it takes a realization, an awakening so to speak. This makes it feel very scary, beastly, uncomfortable. I have been hearing a lot of things about speech, freedom, lies, and just plain old meanness on social media. This inspired me to rant a little. Let my fickle beast see the light of day.

We all have one, the fright factor of our personal beast, depends on how much we tend to it. How much we take the time to train it. The beast within all of us, transmogrifies frequently- its fur gets ruffled and it smashes its fists- reminding us of its presence. It stomps loudly as it paces, deciphering unkind words and harsh language. It tells a few jokes to satisfy our need for snarkiness and sarcasm. Yet, it for most of us, they do not react without a reason- sometimes unidentified, but it follows our lead. Sometimes we need it to rumble from within us, rattle its cage, profoundly to enter us into battle. 

But when we need it to abate, how can we calm it and keep it from destroying us from the inside? How can our voice amplify our opinion and point of view without shaking everyone around us into a frenzy? 

Maybe you want it to rumble and quake, sometimes it needs to, to protect us. But most of us, daily, want to speak our truth in productive conversations and avoid the hall of beasts. Can we transmogrify our beast- more importantly, spark transformation in the beasts of others?

It’s time to wake up from this- the over-crowded, the hall of beasts. Each, pushing out a little further on the wall of decency. It’s time to change from reactive to responsive. Mission me, to mission us. Is this type of alteration, rebirth a reality? Not just a mutation but morgrification, a big, frequent change that's so absurd it’s funny or so painful its monstrous, malformed, aberrant. This type of transfiguration will look contorted, misshaped and bazaar. It will take such a shift that it will not be smooth and natural. It will be brutal, fierce and bestial. It takes a lot of energy to tame a herd of barbarians. But we know from history, that indeed they can be conquered. The problem with the hall of beasts though, is it takes a defeat of hatred, prejudice, misogyny and so many other aspects that haunt human nature.

Changing from one form to another is growth, aging, maturity. But it can also be ‘crossing over to the dark side’ or losing ourselves in something that is not healthy for us. This transmogrification can be slow and methodical, undetectable. But, when it happens suddenly, the sheer force of it causes a rupture, tearing the flesh of decency, putting a fracture in the common sense and respect most people hang on to. Placing over the beast a sticky film, coating its fur with droplets of coarseness, crudity and offense. 

Whether the shift is positive or negative, it causes damage and unfortunately it is already happening. So combat it, a mindset must be altered, and this is often the most difficult of upheavals-a recognition and acceptance of personal transmogrification. It is not ‘them’ that need to change, but we ourselves. Negative speech is never going to go away. Cruelty and ‘superiority complexes’ are embedded in humanity. What we must do, is accept this and find out how to navigate through it.

Free speech, flow of information, independent thought, this is what makes America and so many other countries around the globe, great. But in those regions where it is stunted or absent, the hall of beasts is over-crowded, as ours is reaching its capacity. If we submerse ourselves in a bubble of opinion that only matches our own- we are allowing the beast to awaken without purpose, allowing it to get a foothold. We are creating a situation where we become ignorant. Not necessarily of truth or fact, science or opinion, but of the big picture. If we feel we have all the information sussed out, then we accept our reality without a voice or dissent. Is everything in the media unbiased? No. Is everything on the Internet, or social media accurate and truthful? No.

But both platforms are insightful. The beasts wants you to think that ‘them’, those people over there, are trying to trick you. The beast wants you to think they are telling lies and innuendo- so you ignore them or sometimes fight back with a negativity. The beasts wants to keep you in flux, keep you uncertain. Our beast is getting overtaken by the crowd. But, if we venture to the border at least, peek over the fence, maybe we will see and hear an alternate perspective. 

We will notice they many of 'them' are in the same place of confusion. Not all, some are cruel, some choose to use words as a weapon because it empowers them. But most people are in a constant state of overload.

This new information can help us understand their drive, reasons, motivation. Now don’t misunderstand me, I do not think society has delineated lines of us and them, they are flexible borders, often temporary depending on the discourse, but we as humans group based on similarity, thus their thoughts are similar and different from our own, so we sometimes harden these borders, without patience or clarity to guide us in a more fruitful way.

We see an opposition an opposite and this often is the stigma that causes the beasts to battle. So, it becomes us and them. If we take a moment to notice their ‘camp’ has tents and a campfire just like ours we see, we are not all that different after all. We have a central vision, a common idea, goal based on the opinions around us. When we plug our ears and hum over the deluge of negativity and dishonesty, we miss this comparison. We miss the positive, open-minded discourse that many in the other camp are shouting. They just often get snuffed out by the louder negative ones. When we fail to listen, we stay ignorant of the big picture.

Its like a sticky film covering our emotion and intuitive drive- it halts progress- it traps us in the quagmire in which those who want us blind, prefer us to stay. People are mean. You know every now and then your beast rears its ugly head. It can sometimes be unavoidable- outbursts expected. 

There are bullies, trolls, naysayers who actively seek to harm and undermine. It sucks but unless they threaten, they have the right to think and say their hateful speech. We have the privilege to ignore them. Violence spawn’s violence. Anger flames anger and resentment- and as humans we feel we need to retaliate verbally or physically. This usually happens because we are caught unaware- our beast hears the information and reacts before we have time to process it. But if we listen, really pay attention, we will be more in tune with the chaotic, influx of information. We will be able to understand why 'they' are so angry, why 'we' are so angry, so we can negate the negativity with a plan. A plan of personal responsibility because this is the only thing, we have control over.

Listening to multiple points of view, really listening, is the only way we can prepare ourselves so we can ignore or nudge the conversation. We are not all orators of destiny. Most of us try to stay on the bright side, stay optimistic, but also stay clear of the hall of beasts. We want to participate without spite or malice in return. If we understand the motivation of those who do not think the way we do, we can use language they can relate to, rather than add fuel to the fire. Hate runs deep, disgruntled rhetoric travels faster than mindful dialogue. To steer clear, we must look at the bullies head on- feel angry, even hurt and attacked, but we need to return a shot across the bow with conciseness, focus and maybe a little witty banter thrown in for good measure. This will throw them off guard and we in return won’t be shamed by our beast. Instead maybe even a bit respected by our restraint and candor.

It all starts with a transmogrification, a sharp, bitter truth. Staying mindful and open-minded keeps your beast aware, on up against a corner in the hall of beasts. It will keep your beast more focused. But for others gearing up their beast for battle is what comes naturally. We can not silence the hall of beasts- it is far too noisy, rambunctious and cantankerous. We must have ‘thick skin.’ Yes, I hate this turn of phrase too, it seems like a band-aid, it will not protect us for more than an afternoon on the playground. But, paying attention to our beast, transforming our reaction is what we have direct control over. 

This in effect will be like ‘thicker skin’ because we will survive getting pierced, bruised, and may even have multiple abrasions from the words of others, but our beast will be at the ready with some first aid. Our beast sometimes loud, often prickly and fickle- but in the end, is our frame of mind, our voice, our individuality and transmogrification hopefully, is inevitable. This transformation of sorts, will keep the conversation going even in the most troubling of times. It will keep us sane and focused in these troubling times.

Just Another Day (Chapter Two: Sign O' The Times)

Faulty Realigns

One of my earliest memories I just recently found out is wrong. We all have faulty memories we all change upsetting or painful ones to deal with them head-on. This memory, of just another day in the life of me, was fabricated into a lie, a lie I told myself. But in fact, it really happened. Bits and pieces have emerged but being so young at the time, I know the event will never fully resurface and I guess I will have to be alright with this fact.

When I was five years old, in kindergarten we lived in Pomona California. We had a house on Alameda Street, I remember the basic layout- my sister and I shared a room that faced the pool in the background. The only pool we ever had. We had three dogs, Evette, Cuddles and O’Shaughnessy – two poodles and a scotty dog. I grew up with dogs, its funny how now I am more of a cat person. But as a child, dogs were always found in our house, they even moved to Hawaii with us and had to spend six months in quarantine- we had lots of visits to the kennel. This I remember vividly, aged seven, but this day in the summer of 1974, when I was just five is just fragments and misconceptions.

The temperature I remember, it was hot. I was in the front yard playing with my friend from down the street. Not a friend necessarily, more accurately another bored child who lived in the neighborhood. I don’t remember her name or her face, but I remember her blonde hair. It was long and, in a ponytail. I don’t remember what we were playing but most-likely dolls, as that is what I was usually playing, all the way up to middle-school and I must admit, into it as well. When I was a child in middle school, it was the early 80s and we didn’t have cell phones or computers so board games, dolls and playing outside were my form of entertainment. Sometimes Atari or Intelevision, but not for long, the noises and fast pace generally exhausted my Dyslexic brain quickly. My imagination tended to be my guide. I got very creative and learned to play by myself for hours at a time. Outside playing was a normal activity, having a friend to play with was not.

On this day we were playing outside under the hot desert California sun; my mom was cooking dinner and had an eye on us from our kitchen window. I do remember looking at her a lot to make sure she had us in her sights- I tended to lose friends quickly, I was odd, and was waiting for my playmate to decide to ditch me. We were sitting on the sidewalk, the path from our house to the street, I remembered this fact after I concentrated on the event for a while. Bits and pieces emerge every time I focus on it. We were getting along, laughing. I remember it was a good day, she was being nice.

Then this car, blue clunker, I have been told, screeched up and a man got out and approached us. I couldn’t tell you what he looked like either, tall I think, but I was five and everyone was tall to me. He grabbed me by the arm and began dragging me towards his car, my knees were getting scratched on the pavement, I screamed, kicked him hard in the shin- I mean hard. He let go and pushed me to the ground. Then he grabbed my playmate, she screamed and tried to break free- he had her almost to the car when a man from across the street yelled “Let those girls alone, I know your plate number.” The man, spooked by the voice of another adult, pushed her to the ground too and then the car sped off. 

Both of us sat where we were and cried. The man from across the street sprinted over, he had a small dog on a leash, I remember it was a poodle, like ours. This made me feel safe somehow. My mom ran outside, grabbed me in her arms. I have no other memory. We were safe. In my mind this replay is in slow-motion, it seems like it took place over ten minutes. But it was about a minute and a half from beginning to end. For my entire life, I believed this to be an event the two of us made up. We created for attention. The girl was a sassy, snotty girl and she was mean to me, other times she had me pretend to disappear from my mother’s view and we hid at the side of our house. This got me into trouble to say the least. But I was desperate for friends and thus, that memory replaced the real event in my head for all these years.

I didn’t even remember the man from across the street, until during my mother’s account of that day a few years back. I was floored to find out this event took place. The whole thing, one that I firmly believe was like every other time she got me to hide from my mother, was real. It is like a shattered mirror on the ground, each piece a glimpse but there is no way to put it back together, nor do I need to. It was an event that thankfully ended well for us, but sometimes I let it creep in, what if?

Insight Solidified

I grew up in my early years in four states: California, Hawaii, Utah and Colorado. By the time I entered 8th grade, my family resettled in southern California- where I graduated high school and then attended UCLA. This nomadic lifestyle made it difficult for me to make friends, add in my Dyslexia and shyness, well let's just say my childhood school pilgrimage wasn't always easy. I seemed to have this stink on me that no matter what school I attended, seemed to make people run the other way. Looking back on it now, I still can't figure out why. But it shaped me, the trials and tribulations of moving frequently and having the scent of doubt and suspicion, made me very aware of the relationships and interactions of students. They haven't changed much over the decades and as a teacher, this hyper-awareness picks up on a lot. Much to the chagrin of my students. I have a no tolerance bullying policy and I reinforce it with a keen understanding of adolescent dynamics.

It is strange to me that ever since I can remember I have heard, “Kids are mean” and to me they generally were. But adults are mean too, just in different ways. This notion of mean haunts me, I see and feel the cruelty. But my experiences have made me who I am. Intuitive, empathetic and patient. I think therefore education chose me for this reason. The money did not lure me, the misjudgment and criticism didn’t lure me, this I have learned to let wash off me, it was the idea that we all must enter our path knowing we might not fit in, we may struggle and run in to people who do not understand us or even try to- but if we light our way with optimism, we can learn when to reroute and detour, because we will see the divots in the road. I knew my path was to keep the passageways of my students well-lit and paved, to help them choose the highway best for them.

“Don’t Stop Believing- “by Journey is my theme song. In fact, I sing it to myself every day. A song from my childhood that was played on 8-track on family car rides. It inspired me then, during my tumultuous years. It was the song playing during my first school dance, dance. It is the song my family sings on our road trips- it is not just kitschy and fun- it is meaningful because it is my mantra. Never let the past shut you down. It is what we do with our memories that matters- overcome and keep moving forward.

Don’t Stop Believing

Childhood ghosts are not a myth. We all have them. Sometimes when I am driving in my car, I will see something or hear a song and it will trigger a memory so vivid, I must pull over and listen to it. I firmly believe in the meaning of things, the purpose of the past. The man from across the street, his face I finally remembered. An elderly man, long gone from this Earth now I am sure, but his essence still swirls around me. A protector, a hero, who I never got to thank. These heroes are everywhere. We often pass by them never knowing their role in our lives. Yet, their actions change ours. I think as educators we are heroes. Not necessarily an Avenger or X-Men but a classroom champion, pedagogy paladin, wisdom warrior. Yet, these titles are rarely bestowed upon us, nor do we need them to be. Because we are not in it for accolades, even though when we are recognized we accept humbly. We are educators because like the man across the street, we see, we prevent harm, we intervene- yet at the end of the day, we go home, we do not expect recognition, we are just human after all.

Don’t stop believing in heroes like the man across the street that so valiantly saved our lives, oh so long ago. There are more of them than we think. We are living in a time where “Adult’s are Mean” and kids are modelling their behavior. It has become alright to be a bully, and while many are- we need to remain steadfast on our quest to not be. We need to sometimes quietly from across the street observe, intervene and speak words of mindfulness. Other times we need to be boisterous and realign our faulty society into one of positivity and grace. This grace is why we entered education; I know it is why I did. 

When our students see us acting like a pedagogy paladin, like a classroom champion- they will too. For some it may take more patience and more guidance but if we stay true to who we are, we can get them to see the benefits of kindness.

“Always be you” a hero? A champion? Not a silent passerby, but a man across the street who stopped in his tracks, crossed the street and on just another day, saved two girls lives.

"When Doves Cry" (Chapter One Sign 'O' The Times)

Chapter One: When Doves Cry

Is it weird I can't remember the date? I remember the song on the radio “When Doves Cry” by Prince. I don’t remember the month or day of the week, but I remember every detail of the day, the week after and the funeral. It plays in slow motion sometimes, even all these decades later.

The Big Chill was a movie we had all seen. Eighties movies weren't all about teen angst. In fact, we, as a group, preferred to see a variety of films, a few of us were inspiring film makers and were in search of a voice, our own unique style. Now television shows in contrast: what we watched, were mostly kitschy, typical, goofy shows that were popular at that time: Robo Tech, Knight Rider, the A-Team and above all else, Miami Vice. We even filmed a few episodes of our own show, Laguna Vice, theme song, local tourist sites in the opening credits and all. We lived and breathed that show for a few years. Looking back on episodes now, it may seem very dated, but the music, the music was very current and meaningful in the 1980’s.

Laguna Canyon was a death trap many called it. No streetlights, a rural twenty-minute, winding road that connected the 5 Freeway and Main Street in the  hometown of my adolescence. About halfway through from the bustle of the freeway, you could turn on El Toro road and travel inland, but the initial expanse was dark and virtually abandoned, except an occasional car speeding by in the twilight. It was a great place to play pi-diddle (one headlight shout out) but not a great place to run out of gas or run off the road, for if you did, it could be hours before someone found you. We didn’t have cell phones; we took our chances. Some of us crashed but lived to tell the tale. That was not the cause for a funeral, for our group at least.

Our funeral was by choice. Not of ours, but of his. No matter how much we felt like a community, things still shook us at our core. It doesn’t matter how much you love, trust, connect- some of us got lost. The weeks that followed we were interviewed by many, questioned by therapists, pitied by many who never gave us the time of day. I remember every glance, every concern, every silent accusation. “How well did you know him? Was he acting weird recently, not himself?” Repeated answers, “very well and no, he was acting normal, perfectly normal.” Looking back purposefully now, I feel the same way. I think when you make the choice, you really make it, you either want to be convinced against it, or you don’t. He didn’t. Thus, we saw him every day, laughing and smiling as always- interacting normally. We never suspected a thing.

Suicide has always been a taboo topic. Some feel if we talk about it, it might inspire people to do it. Recently this has begun to change, at least a little. By talking about depression, we bring it from a place of shame, to a place of hope. But in the 1980’s, it was a topic never discussed unless in the aftermath of one. The conversations did not feel comforting, they felt accusatory, these distant adults were concerned we would have a chain of them and thus they kept us under lock and key. But we were not unhappy teenagers. He wasn’t an unhappy teenager, at least not around us. We were kept in the dark because being such a big group, one of us would have noticed, one of us would have said something, and he decided to take his life.

The floor of the car was covered in broken cassette cases, Tiger Bar wrappers and Diet Coke cans. They crunched under my feet as I turned to climb out from the passenger seat. I didn’t have a car- I was 17 and decided why should I get a license when everyone else in my group had a car and could drive. This day we were supposed to pick him up, we honked for ten minutes, but he never came out, no one did, so we left. She made a three-point turn in her Honda Civic and we headed down the hill a little faster than normal, the bottom felt like it jumped up and bit us in the ass, as we hit the speed bump in a frenzy. Her soda tipped and splashed all over the dash, floor and my lap. I was wearing pink shorts but had to change into a pair of her jean shorts, soda dripping down my legs as I attempted to change while the car was still moving.

The sky was cloudy, I remember because we were all in shorts and the forecast was sunny and warm. It turned out to be anything but. Rain creeped in from the ocean and drenched us, as we ran from the car to campus. I remember laughing because Sam’s hair turned curly and frizzy. She looked ridiculous and she got angry because the weatherman got the forecast wrong. Back then it wasn’t that accurate, it was wrong more than right, but we decided to trust his instincts, so no umbrella in the car, we decided to just take our chances in the beginning storm. My hands were still sticky as we ran to first period, just at the bell. I giggled as I licked the Diet Coke from my fingers.

We went our separate ways, making our way to our first period classes, shouting “Later loves” to one another. Her’s AP Lit, mine Biology. Mr. Reich gave me a glare as I skidded, wet sneakers, into my seat, right in the front, as he sat us alphabetically. I turned to see if he was there, I was going to give him a glare of “where were you?” but his seat was empty. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, conversations started, as Mr. Reich shifted from attendance to handing back our quiz. The dreaded Circulatory Quiz. As he got to my desk, Mr. Reich asked “So where is your friend, Miss Jahant, he is never absent?” This was the moment, the moment I remember feeling dread for the first time that day. Then I looked at the clock and it seemed like it wasn’t ticking at all- each hand frozen in place, as the door swung open and our principal walked in briskly. The rain fell heavier now, and the skies were grey, nothing like a warm and sunny forecast.

My principal looked at me, then down at the floor. I remember thinking to myself, he doesn’t even know me, why is he looking at me? I didn’t do anything, for once, I hadn’t done anything that would have gotten me looked at twice. He walked up to Mr. Reich, who pointed at me and said, what seemed too loud for the occasion, “Take your things Miss Jahant, go with Mr. Owens please.” The conversations silenced and all eyes were on me. This was the second time I felt dread, I was wracking my brain all the way to the door, it slammed behind me. “What’s going on? Why am I in trouble?” He sighed “You are not in trouble, just follow me please.” The eventual answer to all my questions, was so unexpected, I still look back and remember not crying for what seemed hours because it literally felt like I was in an episode of Miami Vice.  

All my friends were in one room, the choir room. Crying loudly. Sam was there- frizzy hair and all- she had given up on trying to contain it, it was sticking straight up in spots. She looked at me and mouthed, he’s dead. I looked around the room, counting all my friends, he’s here, there he is, and then- it dawned on me, all my dread compiled- I dropped to the floor. I still wasn’t crying; I was in shock. “Did he crash?” I said. My band director helped me get up and walk over to a chair, he knelt beside me, no sweetheart, “He killed himself.” I laughed out loud. “No, he didn’t, he wouldn’t- he was happy.” Everyone fell silent, nodding in unison. “You don’t need to be unhappy to choose to take your life,” a stranger said.

We all turned to see someone in the doorway, they looked very official. Later, we found out they were a district grief counselor. There were a lot of conversations over the next week and then a funeral. Purple and green balloons, hundreds of them, each with a message attached, let go at sunset over the beach. I remember waiting until the last balloon was gone. A few messages had come loose and were strewn across the sand. I gathered them up and handed them to his little brother. I remember this vividly, his ten-year old face, with the same look of disbelief, yet an undertone of understanding.

This event rocked our world, created a fissure that never completely healed. But it also made us stronger, we paid more attention to each other, were more aware of how one another was feeling. 

He was our friend. A suicide makes you doubt. Makes you ask questions, you otherwise wouldn’t. It makes you say things you would otherwise leave unsaid. We listened a lot to Peter Gabriel those next few weeks- San Jacinto, Biko, Don’t Give Up and Red Rain are still my go tos for a quiet remembrance. It took a while before Prince was our go to- but eventually he was. Then our musical selection changed, and Paul Simon, Phil Collins and other more contemporary artists made there way onto our mix CD’s. But our music, the music of Prince, U2 and Oingo Boingo remained our cadence.

There was no social media to share our feelings on, we only had one another. People who never knew our names, after that day, knew our names. Our group somehow changed from a quiet, off-beat, basically ignored cohort to almost popular. This we rebelled against, in every way imaginable. It made us isolate ourselves even more. Unlike today, we could do that. We didn’t have Instagram accounts or Facebook streams. We graduated a year later, while a few of us ventured off to campuses across the country- most stayed close by- at least for a while. Then my departure took me to another country- I was England bound and the University of East Anglia was the farthest from a community of friends I have ever had, in fact it was a lonely year indeed.

Post Editorial

I have written a few posts on depression. This is a topic very close to my heart. The more we talk about it- change it from shame to hope, the more we can address the roots of it, which are extensive. Some are easy to spot, while some are not. To this day we do not know why our friend killed himself.

Let’s talk about our feelings and share them so others feeling the same way, feel like they are connected and are never alone.

https://iteacherimother.blogspot.com/2018/08/ps-no-one-is-happy-all-time-journey.html