Category: Commentary

I love the cul-de-sac where I live. I have wonderful neighbors who are kind and loving and ready to help each other. They are a diverse group that seems to prove the idea that having many different kinds of people can make an organization or community stronger. It is in their individual uniqueness that they bring much joy and kindness to our daily interactions. Ours is a beautiful street filled with a cross section of educational levels, races, cultures, religions, sexual preferences and ages. We embrace each other just as we are and learn from our differences. We are a happy bunch who understand implicitly that help is always nearby when we need it. Being in the midst of diversity is such a lovely way to live. It is like a rose garden filled with variety and color. 

A few summers ago my husband and I visited Maine with the purpose of helping our granddaughter move from the apartment provided for her internship into student housing on campus. It was still two weeks away from the arrival of most of the students so the area felt oddly empty save for the many retired folks who inhabit that part of our country. Everywhere we went we saw mostly grey haired white people who had retired to the lovely state filled with trees and ocean views. it felt strange to be in such a monochromatic bubble even though it was of the kind that existed in the time of my childhood in the south. 

My granddaughter explained that part of her internship duties had involved determining how to attract more diverse populations to the state. It seems that businesses were languishing in the absence of the kind of vibrance that I take for granted where I live. The concern of industries and the government in Maine is that without the vibrance of many different types of individuals and families the economies will not grow and may even become stagnant as the older people die. 

There are some in our country who seem to believe that diversity should have no prominence in our government or corporations or schools. They somehow equate diversity with an evil ploy to make it difficult for white men to achieve the highest levels of success that they once enjoyed. I hear folks saying that it is common for a white man to lose a job to a female lesbian of color. Such beliefs make me realize that a large number of people do not fully understand the nuances that result in the hiring of someone for a particular job. They do not remember or know of the prejudices that impeded all but white males in job placements of the past. Nor do they seem to realize that when searching for the best applicant for a particular job there are many characteristics that lead interviewers to rank one candidate over another, none of which boil down to meeting some false set of quotas. 

As a Dean of Faculty and Instruction in a high school I participated in a group selection of new teachers. Most of the time those invited to an interview were already culled from multiple resumes and applications that came to our desks. Our first process was to use the information that they provided to find individuals with the education, experience, and recommendations that made them stand out as persons who would be best qualified to teach our students. After that we interviewed each of them to get a feel of their personalities and how well they would mesh with our faculty, our students and our school culture. 

Sometimes the high grades from college and the outstanding essays outlining their goals were not enough to convince us that each person had what it would take to interact with our students. There really was a kind of “it” factor that would tell us that one person was more suited than another. To be certain that we were on the right track in our selection, the finalists would be asked to teach a sample lesson in a classroom that we would select. It was always in watching them interact with the students that we were able to make our final decisions and never was that made simply in some artificial effort to create diversity rather than to look for the best candidate. Sometimes the person with the degree from an ivy leagues college just did not click with our student population. Such persons were not passed over because they were not diverse enough but because they just were not right for the environment in which they would have to work. 

I myself began working at that school as an older white lady because I had years of positive experience working with children of every kind of background and intellectual ability. The principal who interviewed me was wise enough to gather that I was earnest when I told her that kids are kids to me. I have but one job and that is to teach and nurture them so that when they leave my classroom at the end of a school year they will be ready to move to the next level. She soon learned that I was also someone who was sought out by the younger teachers who sensed that I was willing to help them to adjust as well. 

I think we give the idea of diversity in organizations a bad rap because someone who did not land a job needed to find a reason for being rejected in favor of someone who seemed to be less qualified. It is certainly painful not to win the prize and I understand that as well. I have been passed over many times and I generally consider myself to be lucky in that regard. I know that if my philosophies did not mesh with the boss I would no doubt end up being miserable on my job. Being selected for a position in any organization is a matter of many different reasons, the least of which is artificially creating diversity. When diversity finds its way naturally into an organization everyone gains and we should all celebrate, not attempt to officially and legally push it out based on numbers rather than the whole person. 

When deed restrictions, segregation or laws kept certain people out of certain neighborhoods in the time of my youth I was isolated from the magnificent beauty of the many diverse ways of living. My cul-de-sac resulted because everyone who lives here had a chance of buying one of the houses. Diversity is organic and natural when we take away the prejudices that make us believe that only certain people should be allowed to do anything. We may try to wipe it from websites and history but it cannot be rubbed out. We have moved on from that.  

I am an enigma wrapped up in contradictions which I suppose is true of most people. I have a morning routine that involves a long stretch of quiet time before the rest of the world awakens. I like to watch the sun rising with as little noise as possible and definitely no conversation of any kind. Too much cheeriness before I am ready literally rattles my brain and sends me off balance for the rest of the day. Since the men in my house usually sleep two or three hours later than I do, I don’t have to dodge chit chat or well intentioned “good mornings” that induce the same kind of dread for me as fingernails scraping across a blackboard. 

Once my foibles have been carefully protected I’m ready to take on the day and I become as chatty and animated as anyone. Since this is the version of me that most people see, they would no doubt be confused by my reclusive early morning self. Thankfully in the state of retirement I have all the time that I need to successfully begin each day in a way that really works for me. 

When I was still working I actually enjoyed having to drive long distances to reach the schools where I taught. In the isolation of my car I was able to prepare myself for the interactions to come. If I was truly fortunate I would go directly to my classroom upon arrival and silently prepare for the day that lay ahead. By the time the students arrived I would be ready to handle the hubbub that is an inevitable part of teaching. 

I always got along with my first period classes because teenagers never seemed to be fully awake in the first hour of the school day. They liked my quiet voice and the fact that I usually made few demands for them to interact as long as I sensed that they were paying attention. I did not mind that they sometimes wrapped themselves in blankets and seemed to be vacillating between wakefulness and an urge to catch a few more zzzs. I understood them and so we had a kind of mutual respect for one another that worked quite well. 

As the school day wore on I became more and more animated and that energy would follow me home. I was wired and ready to tackle any challenges while chatting all the way. I suspect that there were times when I drove my family crazy with my nonstop iterations of all that had happened during my day. 

I still do that in the evenings. Like a creature of the night I come alive and appear to have the personality of a full blown extrovert. I’m like a Chatty Cathy whose off button does not work. Given an opportunity to talk with someone I am open for any amount of time. I become adventurous and ready to go anywhere on a whim. If I did not think it would bother my husband and father-in-law I would engage in big projects in the evening hours because by then I am still raring to go. 

Once my energy is sapped I am able to sleep like a baby on most nights unless something is bearing down on my mind. In those times insomnia stalks me and I often give up the fight to rest and arise in the dark to read or do some writing until the anxiety that is keeping me awake settles down and allows me to surrender to slumber. 

Mine is a routine that has worked for me for decades. I lucked out in finding a soul mate who did not mind my idiosyncrasies. I have had a tougher time with the arrival of my father-in-law because he awakens with a spring in his step and a hearty “Good Morning!” that makes my teeth hurt. I prepare the kitchen in the dark hours of the morning so that he can fend for himself and the two of us will not have to encounter each other until I am good to go with his cheeriness. On the other hand, he becomes more sedate and lethargic as the day wears on, retiring for the evening at an early hour that precludes my tendencies to work late into the night. 

It is amazing how we humans learn to live together even as our personalities are often so very different. We each settle into routines and patterns that work for us and as we grow older it is more and more difficult to adjust as things begin to change. I suppose I truly understand why my father-in-law dreads the very idea of living in the structured environment of senior living. Like me he has his distinct ways and disdains the thought of having to adhere to a schedule created by someone who does not know his emotional needs. 

I used to visit my aunt who shared a room in a nursing home with a variety of individuals. I found myself thinking that I would surely go insane if I had to wake up each morning without my alone time. For that matter being forced to comply with a regimen determined by caretakers would be horrific. For now I enjoy the freedom of being myself and allowing my father-in-law to do his thing as well. I am thankful even as I know that the day may come when my freedom will be curtailed and I will have to learn how to go with the flow. Until then I’ll watch the sun rise each morning with nary a sound. 

Most teachers spend several weeks during the summer taking classes designed to keep them up to par with the latest educational methodologies. I have partaken of so many courses and conferences that helped to inform me in becoming a better and better purveyor of knowledge to my students. I almost always found a nugget of educational gold in those sessions and sometimes even learned a bit more about myself. 

There was one occasion in which those of us participating began the two week marathon by answering straight forward questions about our viewpoints of the world and most especially our students. We had no idea what the purpose of such an exercise might be and it was fun to provide our thoughts and beliefs. A few days later we received the not so surprising results of the survey noting that more than ninety percent of us had scored in the high ninetieth percentiles of altruism which was defined as “a belief or practice of selfless concern for the well-being of others.”

Given that teachers earn disproportionately less than other college graduates for work that is  extremely important to society it was not surprising to us that our altruism was the driver that kept us returning to the classroom year after year. We already knew in our hearts that we had decided that the reward of doing something bigger than becoming wealthy was our motivation. It was nonetheless interesting that our devotion to our vocation was so universally grounded in our desires to make a difference in providing opportunities for our students to grow and prosper. 

Almost every physiological measure that I have taken has resulted in the same assessment of what makes me tick. I also understand all too well how my fellow teachers are cut from the same cloth. We find joy in the very idea of being the helpers in this world. We see the needs of people and we do everything we can to lift them up. The same might be said for nurses and fire fighters and other people who provide services to the community. There is a vast array of selflessness across the globe that provides love and care to people. 

Ironically those of us devoted to being the helpers understand the need for leaders who know how to produce funding for our projects. We look to them for the resources that we need knowing that they have skills that may be lacking in us. That is the nature of altruistic people. We see the possibilities of every kind of talent that humans exhibit. We realize that it would be a  tragedy to only develop business acumen or engineering skills in everyone. That person with a great sense of humor who makes us laugh is as important to our survival as humans as anyone. The goal of education should never be exclusive. We need those who design bridges and those who have the skills to actually build them. The value of each human is unique.

There seems to be a great deal of pressure these days to retool our schools and universities to focus only on what some deem as being practical goals. As a mathematics teacher I have always enjoyed almost universal approval but I know full well that some of the most important lessons a student might ever encounter occur not in the STEM classrooms but in the history classes or when reading great novel. It is important that we think about our own thinking and it is in the humanities that some of the most impactful moments occur. 

None of us are robots nor should we be. The ability to understand our fellow humans is as important as unlocking the mysteries of numbers and physics. It really is possible to be brilliant in one area and somewhat lacking in another. That is why we have so many different types of work for people to do. Once a person finds his or her niche magic often happens. Sadly our society tends to provide kudos for many professions over others in a very lopsided way giving the impression that some work is not as important as others. We sometimes retool our schools to rank majors more according to the income that they will produce rather than to the impact that they will have on how we humans treat each other. 

I never took a philosophy class in college. I was too busy to add what seemed to be a somewhat frivolous class to my schedule. it would not be until I had retired from work that I would sign up for an overview of philosophy in a continuing education program. It did not take long for me to be totally addicted to reading more and more from the noted philosophers of history and the present time. I soon realized that the process of considering how and why we humans thing\k and behave was one of the most important things I had ever done. I now look forward to applying the ideas of philosophy to all facets of life. My studies have expanded my mind and my outlook in exciting ways. 

There should be no restrictions to learning. Of course young students need grounding in the basics but it would be wrong to deny opportunities to explore any facet of human knowledge. The more we open our minds to new ideas the better we are in helping communities of people to thrive. Our minds are not dough which should be cut into repetitious shapes. We are individuals who each have a personality and longing to contribute our talents to the world. Never, never should we be stifled in our lifelong journey of becoming.

I suppose that I still see my father through the eyes of a child and yet I somehow conform my memories of him to the journey that has led me to the person that I am. I was but a child when he left this earth and he was a very young man still attempting to find his true purpose in the story of humankind. While I have had plenty of time to sort out who I am and how I hope to impact the tiny speck of the universe in which I have lived, he was still in the process of becoming. 

My father was off at work during most of the days in which I enjoyed being his child. He set out for early each morning and came home as my mother was preparing dinner. He would exchange the suit that he wore to his job with khaki pants and a comfortable shirt and then ensconce himself on the couch where he would read the afternoon newspaper. I knew not to interrupt him while he was busy studying the many sections of local and worldwide news but I liked sitting nearby waiting and watching for him to take notice of me with commentaries about what he was learning from the words imprinted on those pulpy pages. Invariably he informed me with his own editorial views about what was happening in the world around me, often adding his own knowledge of history to explain the whys and wherefores of the daily march of time. 

Those brief moments with my father would become precious to me after he was gone. I would remember the classical music that he played on our Victrola and the chuckles that seemed to come from way down in his belly when he encountered a story that was funny. He seemed to enjoy explaining things to me and so I made it a point to be present and attentive so that I might earn the pearls of wisdom that gave so freely from his prolific thoughts. 

Whenever we went to visit my father’s parents, my grandparents, I was often guided to my Grandma Minnie’s side where I learned folksy skills, but I would also be listening to the conversations occurring in another room between my daddy and his father. I never knew exactly what was animating their discussions, but I could hear the liveliness of their voices and the references to books and articles that they had read. i suppose my own quest for knowledge and love of reading began from my father’s example and a childlike urge to make him proud of me even after he was gone. 

My home is filled with books and magazines. I have online subscriptions to so many newspapers and periodicals that I can hardly find the time to stay up to date in reading them. Like my father I have certain times in the day when I pause to give my full attention to learning about the current events and news. I have long daily discussions with my husband and often think of how much he would have enjoyed talking with my father. I envision the two of them enjoying lively discussions in attemps to make sense of the world. 

I have an everlasting link with my father through learning. I imagine sharing what I have discovered with him. I realize that the happiest moments for me are found in wandering through bookstores, and partaking in serious studies of history and science while also finding ways to laugh at our human foibles. I know that my life has been quietly guided by the gift of curiosity that he awakened in me. Sometimes I feel his spirit and encouragement pushing me to find answers to the many questions that I have. 

As an educator I have realized just how precious my father’s gift of example has been for me. All too often I have encountered young people living in homes devoid of opportunities to enrich their knowledge. Nobody has inspired them to unlock the wonders of the printed word in the kind of ways my father did for me. It is often up to a gifted teacher to show them the glories, excitement and power to be found in reading. 

I have encountered students whose home life was in such turmoil that they had little time to enjoy the luxury of reading. They often had to simply find ways to survive the hardships inflicted on them by fate. They were on their own while their parents struggled just to keep food in the house and a roof over their heads. The horror stories that I have heard are legion. I suppose that my love of teaching has evolved from wanting to be for them what my father was for me. 

After my father died I became a model student in his honor. My childish mind somehow believed that it was what he would have wanted me to do. Over time his habits became mine and in turn I passed them down to my daughters and my students. Doing so has provided great purpose for my life but I see that there is still much work to be done. Far too many people today are easily mislead because they do not take the time to cull through the many lies and propaganda efforts that depend on ignorance to survive. I suppose that means that I still have work to do, encouraging one person at a time to set aside time to read and to learn. It should be as routine as breathing. My father showed me that we must always feed and exercise our minds. From him I received an inheritance beyond measure.

And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey’s blow. Oh, somewhere in this favoured land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,
But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.                         

——-Earnest Lawrence Thayer 

I know that I should be content that my University of Houston Cougars made it to the championship basketball game. They were among an elite group of teams who edged forward game by game until there were only two teams vying for the national title. Just being there should have been enough for me but my history of being a Cougar fan is more complicated than a single moment or a single game. The loss to Florida in the final moments brought back memories that have cursed me for decades. 

It was nineteen eighty-two and I was about to finish my decree after pausing to take care of my mother who had battled mental illness. My resolve to get back to school had stalled when my husband developed a rare fungal disease that put him in the hospital for months undergoing chemotherapy. In the meantime I had been blessed with two little girls who vied for much of my time. Eventually the challenges that had pulled me out of the university had subsided and I had returned to complete my degree. It was all about to come to fruition. 

There was another legendary University of Houston team that garnered the nickname Phi Slamma Jamma. Guy Lewis was the coach and star players like Akeem the Dream Olajuwon and Clyde the Glide Drexler were heading for the final game in the March Madness marathon. I was even in a course with Clyde and had worked on a group project with him. Hakeem would meet Clyde after class and I often walked behind them as I rushed to an English class in another building far away on campus. Ironically I was so focused on completing my studies that I did not associate those two with the jubilation that had infected the entire student body. i only knew that my group had received a failing grade on our presentation because Clyde had not shown up on our appointed day. 

When I complained to my husband he laughed and asked if the Clyde of my group happened to have the last name of Drexler. When I nodded he laughed and told me that Clyde was busy winning basketball games and moving into the finals. it all made sense when I though of how tall and powerful he looked. I was suddenly forgiving and understanding even as I nursed my disappointment in receiving the first failing grade of my university career. 

I was incredibly busy attempting to complete the courses required of my major. I was reading and writing papers and studying for exams with not a moment to fritter away. i was also responsible for the care and nurturing of my daughters and the main keeper of my home. When the final game came I had to keep to my unforgiving routines while my husband watched in the back of the house in our den. 

At the very end of the contest he called me anxiously announcing that I had to watch the final moments as it seemed certain the University of Houston and its Dream Team was going to win. I raced to cheer them on and just as I entered Hakeem missed a throw. My Cougars had lost. Me and my husband were stunned and I forevermore became synonymous with being a jinx. 

It all ended well for me despite my unrelenting disappointment. Clyde returned to class and the teacher realized that she had made a terrible mistake. We received an A for our project and not long after that I graduated and began my career in education. 

Of course a lifetime passed. I spent over forty years as a teacher and administrator. I earned a Masters’ degree from the University of Houston and my children grew up and left home. I finally retired and began tutoring and taking care of my elderly father-in-law. A new group of talented basketball players from the university fought their way to a spot in the final game. Once again the lure of a national championship seemed possible but in case my jinx was real everyone begged me to stay away from watching the game and so I did.

Of course our mighty team lost once again in the final moments. I did not see this and I was not the jinx but I still felt a bitter disappointment. It was difficult to believe that this had happened once again and unlike most I was not simply content that the team had lost. I selfishly wanted more for them. There was no joy in Houston and no joy in my home. I guess we have to wait until next time and hope that we finally get the gold. I hope get to see that because there is no fun in losing and I always think of Mudville when we do.