a side note

Weirdly enough, after asking about my favorite thing in Israel, and then about the food, the next question is inevitably about my hair. How it figures into the story, I'm not quite sure, but I happily answer.

Yes, I am letting the natural color grow out. Yes, that white is my natural color. And really you want to know how long I've had grey hair? Well, the first streak was discovered on my first visit to a hairdresser (a friend of my Mom's) when I was in fourth grade. I could even show you about where it was, but I know no one is really that curious! Occasionally, there is a follow-up question of "why?" That answer is a little more complicated.

I started having my hair colored not long after becoming a mom. I always looked tired. Heck, I always was tired! A friend suggested that the few stray grey hairs may be exaggerating the overall effect of tired mom-ness. And, actually, she was right. I did feel better about myself when I could look in the mirror and see freshness. After a while, it just got to be fun to change my color with the seasons, with the cut, with fashion and for pure experimentation. I remember one day at the theater, sitting on the stage with the staff at lunchtime, and the statement made to me: "Admit it. When you change the color of your hair, you change -- your mood, your character, who you present to the world." It was true.

The hard fact is, though, it was easy to do because I really didn't know myself. Getting to know me was frightening, and letting anyone else know me even more so. As I've journeyed toward me, toward my place in my own life, I've come to appreciate me more. The me that's real and whole and genuine. I still liked getting my hair colored -- a little redder in the winter, a little blonder for the summer. But something began to change. Little by little people would mention my mood or my health at odd times, telling me I looked ill or angry when I felt distinctly the opposite. One day it occurred to me that for some, my roots showing indicated something unsaid. I would mention it from time to time "No, it's just my roots showing." I began to see who knew me and who didn't, because my friends could see the erroneous correlation; those who knew me less well insisted it couldn't possibly be true, because "I didn't know you even colored your hair!" (Seriously?? How could anyone miss it if they saw me more than a couple times a year?)

Slowly I realized that I was fighting with my roots more than was reasonable, and something that started out as a fun thing to make me feel more confident and healthy, more like myself, was doing just the opposite. I was heading toward being obsessive. Years earlier I had read an article by a woman who had decided to go natural. She said the process took quite a while. About a year, actually. I was intrigued, but knew my natural color was still not anywhere near even. It took me nearly two years to work up the courage to ask my husband and my hairdresser what they thought. I also sent an informal text poll to some friends. Overwhelmingly, the men I asked gave positive responses. Many of the women were leery of the idea. Some asked if the question was financially motivated. (At first, on the surface, yes; but on the most basic level, no.) Nevertheless, I decided I was going to go for it, but the question was, How?

So we made a plan, my hairdresser and I, and now people ask about my hair. Especially when we're talking about Israel. People are funny. And, in all honesty, I have never felt more free. A couple of people have mentioned that the color is flattering to my skin tone and my eyes. My response: "I figure since God put me together in the first place, the combination must be reasonably good." It's so much more than that. So much more.

lighten the load

The gist of my thought for the day:
Often, I have heard people saying that they have 'more baggage' than others. In my view, God gives us what we are intended to handle. He knows, after all, just what He is giving. Whether a change purse or a steamer trunk from another's outside perspective, the weight and density, ultimately, are roughly equivalent because they are personal.




From my reflection today:

The feeding of the five thousand shows the remarkable generosity of God and his great kindness towards us. When God gives, he gives abundantly. He gives more than we need for ourselves so that we may have something to share with others, especially those who lack what they need. God takes the little we have and multiplies is for the good of others. Do you trust in God's provision for you and do you share freely with others, especially those who are in need? (Laudate app for Android, 5/2/14)

My thought as I read:
Would He not also give abundantly of our troubles (our 'blessings in disguise'), so we might share them with others? In this sharing, we help each other: a burden is lightened, and a feeling of being alone is alleviated.






I'm not saying that past hurts, pains, questions or brokenness mean little. Quite the contrary! What I'm saying is that everyone has them. Ev-er-y-one. All of us. We all have baggage, and some of it is visible, and some of it is not. For some, dropping pieces of it here and there is easy--or looks it--and others can't seem to lose it no matter how hard they try.

Each of us has brokenness; each of us as human beings. And no one’s brokenness is more important, bigger, or harder than anyone else’s. Nor is it any less. It’s just simply their own. To think that someone has more reason to be broken than any other is to diminish the other--and one’s own. No one -- anywhere or anytime -- has the ability to judge or rate anyone else’s brokenness, pain, sorrow, woundedness.

Rather, our purpose as family -- God’s family -- is to share in that need that our brothers and sisters have; acknowledging its existence, having a willingness to help bear it, admitting that we, too, need support. None is more broken than another, and no one is too old or too young to be broken or wounded.


Dietrich Bonhoeffer writes:

God loves man. God loves the world. It is not an ideal man that he loves, but man as he is; not an ideal world, but the real world. ... God becomes man, real man. While we are trying to grow out beyond our manhood, to leave the man behind us, God becomes man and we have to recognize that God wishes us men, too, to be real men. ... God makes no distinction at all in his love for the real man. He does not permit us to classify men and the world according to our own standards and to set ourselves up as judges over them. He leads us by himself becoming a real man and a companion of sinners and thereby compelling us to become the judges of God. ... God sides with the real man and with the real world against all their accusers. (Ethics, p. 52-56, edited by Aileen Taylor)

My thought:
God became us, with everything that we are, feel, hope. Maximizing one's own baggage is to lessen the strength and weight of His cross--His ultimate baggage. In the cross, He carried all of our baggage, didn't He? Although my hurts may not have been my fault, how I handle, carry, react, behave may have caused my sin to be added to that weight. If I were to say, "I have more baggage than you," would I be implying that the weight I carry is comparable to, or even more than, the weight of the world; the weight of the cross that saved us? I'm learning to be grateful for what I carry, hard as that may be, because it gives me opportunities--for prayer, for fellowship, for growth, for strength. All in my weakness and inability to carry it all by myself.

Baggage is not a competition. And more: pointing out 'more' versus 'less' would certainly not help anyone who already feels overwhelmed. The unfortunate thing is the diminishing; the implication that someone else's burden is not as important, not as worth sharing. I have a friend who tells her kids "Don't ever let anyone make you feel less than." Comparing baggage piles just makes everyone feel less than. And, honestly, how much of that baggage is filled with garbage? I know most of mine is.

Strike that. All of mine is.

I just choose to carry some of it around with me, despite my best efforts. Not the choice I particularly like to have made, but I continue to work on my own. Not just sifting through it, but also learning to share it with others. Never do I hope to brag about any of the stuff I've got shoved into the depths of my heart. I may hope to compare notes, with the realization of "you, too?!" What's in there, or the combination thereof, is mine and mine alone, just as what you carry belongs to you. I think it's part of my journey to find the people who can help me to pull those broken pieces out, and arrange them on me to build a mosaic. And to help others find the mosaic inside of them.

portions of this post were previously written by me as both email and text messages

pen and ink

Lately I have been writing quite a bit. On paper. With a pen. There are way more spelling errors that way, but the flow of ink has been especially therapeutic. Trying to think things through, and realizing I probably need some guidance, I have been organizing my thoughts on paper.

It's interesting because I've always thought of my blog as a bit of an online journal; someplace I can record my thoughts and feelings and share them with people who want to know about them. Writing in a notebook is a different experience. Whereas I don't particularly wonder who might read my blog, I do find myself wondering who might open my notebook and start to read. While my blog is left out in the open all the time, my journal is frequently very close to me, or in a dark pocket in my bag, safe.

I'd forgotten how particular one can be about a pen. And how attached to specific ink colors and points one can become. A black, fine tip pen (preferably accountant tip) was my prefered tool in high school and college, along with college-ruled paper. Blue ink seemed more dreamy somehow; less serious. Black ink was sure, confident--something I wanted to appear to be. 'Fake it till you make it!' I still like black ink, and I'd love to find an accountant fine pen that won't rip up the recycled paper that often makes up the little notebooks I like. I've added highlighters to my palette along the way, although I use them more often when I read than when I write.

For Christmas, my husband got me a pack of pens, a pack of highlighters, and a notebook. Somehow he was moved to find these gifts for me, even though  at the time I hardly wrote anything. I typed my thoughts. Ever since, I have found reasons to write down my impressions, to make them flow through my hand from my heart and mind.

And I wonder why. Why does it feel good to  shape the words? I use a mix of cursive and printing--often to distinguish specific thoughts or voices. Sometimes I use cursive for the deeper thoughts, the things that feel a little more secretive or private. When I copy down a verse, line, or quote, I print. Why do I do that? Who is it I think will ever want to crack the code? That's the biggest mystery. I am writing for myself. And I know the code.

At least the code for the words on the page.

What I'm looking for is the code behind the thoughts in my head, the movements of my heart. I tell myself I'm looking for patterns, or answers, or bigger questions, but the fact is, I still don't go back and read what I've written. I have a habit of wanting answers now. That probably would be better facilitated if I did go back and read my own words. I think the problem is that I don't value them.

A friend and I were just talking about that. When I have a problem or concern I want to talk about, I hem and haw about speaking up.  Inevitably, just at the point when I am ready to spill it all, someone else drops what seems to me to be a bigger, tougher, or more important problem. Who would want to hear about what's bothering me then? I'm reading a book on brokenness, and this was touched upon. I'll have to see where it leads. And I'll have to figure out how it fits.

wondering why

On Thursday, my husband wore a pink polo to work. Pink looks good on him--he has the right skin tone for it--and this particular polo is cut well, and flatters him. (I am not a fan of polo shirts in general , but that is another topic for another time, perhaps. This one looks good on him, and that's what matters to this story.) Whenever he wears this shirt, his eyes and smile have an extra light.

Why mention it? Because at the end of the day, he mentioned that when he wears that shirt, he gets many comments. All of them questioning his motivation. "Why are you wearing pink today?" "Feeling exceptionally secure in your masculinity today?" "Did your wife buy that for you?" And the ever popular, "Why would you want to wear that?" For the sake of clarification, and because now you may also be wondering, I rarely buy clothing for my husband. Heck, I rarely buy clothing for myself! I do not like shopping for clothes, and both of us are particularly hard to fit. I was, however, with him when he bought this particular shirt, and I believe all I had to say about the purchase was a reminder about my aforementioned dislike of polos in general. Also, if you take a look at my husband, and have a conversation with him, you will discover that not much affects his masculinity. (His name, Guy, fits him like no one else I've ever met!)

Why did he wear the pink shirt? He likes it, plain and simple. It's also comfortable, well made, and fits and suits him. It does happen to have a breast cancer ribbon embroidered on it, but that isn't even why he bought it. It was on the sale rack, and fit the criteria in the last sentence. (That was one of the comments he heard, "Well, it is for breast cancer, so I guess it's okay.") My question is, why do people feel the compulsion to comment on it in so personal a way? He's a New England sports fan in Central PA--Steelers country--and will get questions and good-natured jabs when he wears shirts and caps representing "his" teams, but none are personal, questioning his very being. Those questions are general and global, with the most personal being along the lines of "How come you like New England/Boston?" (His accent is now mostly imperceptible to most of his friends and co-workers.)

Telling me about his day, he said that it seemed that everyone had an opinion on his shirt, and the opinions were quite polarized. Everyone either loved it or hated it; no comments in between. I found myself wondering--are there any colors that a woman might wear that would cause that kind of response? Is there any other color that would elicit that kind of strong response? And why would the fact that "I would never wear that color" make it okay to judge someone else wearing it?

I have, for myself, a rule about wearing colors that are close to my skin tone. I avoid it when going out in public. No nude to tan shirts for me, or certain shades of yellow, cream, grey, and even pink, but I would never consider saying "Why on earth are you wearing that shirt that blend in with your skin and makes you look like you're not wearing anything? You must be feeling very secure in your skin tone." Nor would I say, "Why are you wearing a polo? You look like everyone else." Mostly because I recognize these aversions as my own personal quirks, not anything I feel compelled, or even able to express vocally. That said, I have offered fashion advice to our sons to avoid colors that blend into their skin, particularly on bathing suits. And I have been known to mention to my family, out of earshot of the wearer, and when the wearer is someone I do not know, that I could not wear that [shirt or dress] that blends into my skin. I don't mention anything at all about polos. They all seem to like them.

Why is pink -- or rose, salmon, shrimp, coral, or any other variation -- on a man so controversial that people, both male and female, find it necessary to point it out? "You're wearing a pink shirt." I just don't get it.

made it myself

I hate clothes shopping. I can't stand the hunting. The trying on is bad, too, but every once in a while, the right stuff ends up in my arms and the trying on is bearable. Who am I trying to kid--that rarely happens. More often, I wind up pulling, grunting, squinting and twisting, only to ultimately wonder (often aloud) who the heck thought this piece of clothing would fit a human being! They look great on the hanger, or on the mannequin (who, by the way, was not wearing arms when she was put into that sling you call a 'top'). Of course, it is so easy to forget that the hanger is only two dimensional and the mannequin does not need to breathe.

Despite the frustrations of clothes shopping, I do happen to have some clothes that I actually wear--and like! I've found a couple of lines that work well with my body, and I've learned what fabrics like me and which do not. I'm still working on the whole "wardrobe" concept; I much prefer fun pieces, and end up with minimal "goes with"s. Oh, well, I make it work, and tend to feel pretty good in the process. Of course, some of that has to do with the key pieces that I have made myself and love to show off!

I used to downplay the articles of clothing I made. When someone would comment, I would respond politely, and skirt around the answer if they asked the origin. I don't know why I did this. I don't know if it was some level of insecurity, or a feeling that if it was homemade it was worth less. Or maybe I just didn't want to get involved in any discussion. At all. Nowadays, though, when I am complimented, I follow up my thanks with a cheerful, "I made it." Which is invariably followed by a "What? You made it?" I smile sweetly and nod. Just once.

It's not the noticing that has changed for me: it's the personal affirmation of my talents. The "I made it" does more for my emotional health than the original compliment, or the subsequent discussion. I don't tell about making my clothes for the "bond" it might create between me and the compliment maker, although it is nice to chat and take that little break from our days. Rather, talking about it is more to remind me that I am someone, something, other than what I do, day in and day out. I feel most alive and productive when I am sitting at my sewing table, focusing on guiding the fabric under the needle. When I am matching fabric with style of pattern to create something that says "ME!" I love that feeling of "me-ness" that comes from knitting a scarf or a wrap or socks that no one else will ever have.

Where once I was concerned how I would be regarded if people know that I make stuff, I now see the value in sharing that bit of myself with others. And I guess that's what it came down to: I was feeling guarded. Now I have, for various reasons, no reason to hide behind myself.

I love it!

a great teacher

This morning, I woke to find news that a teacher of mine from High School had been murdered, outside his home. While I was shocked, I continued on with my morning as usual. At work, I told a co-worker, and after finding a news article online, emailed it to her, along with my thoughts at the moment.

I remember, I had space in my schedule, and decided to take some business classes, so I took accounting to fulfill a math requirement, and I took Intro to Marketing as an elective. How hard could it be? I thought, and I figured I would be circulating in a slightly different crowd than usual. Both thoughts were not entirely correct! The marketing information was fascinating to me--none of it was particularly difficult for me, but I ate it up: shrink wrap vs. clam shell packaging; the ratio of soda straw diameter to soda cup as figured by fast food chains; the relative hardness of seating in regard to turnover in a dining room.....all information that ultimately helped me in some of my college classes, though I remember sitting in that back corner of the room whining along with everyone else that it was fairly useless information. (I had a mad desire to fit in when I started that class.) As for the "new crowd," well, some of my friends must have had the same idea, as I don't remember meeting too many I didn't already know there. The teacher was Mr. Poet, and I loved class with him. He was not murdered.

He did, however, encourage any of us that were enjoying his class to join the school's Distributive Education Clubs of America (DECA), which he co-advised with a fairly new teacher, Mr. Keith Reed. Mr. Reed was, I discovered today, reading the news articles, only 6 years older than me. Yet he had the confident professionalism that made him both much older than that and ageless at the same time. And, yes, we all thought he was "cute." I remember even Mr. Poet mentioning it from time to time. I believe he was newly married at the time, and impressively aloof to our admiration. We didn't know anything about DECA, or what we were supposed to do as part of the club, but we would get to spend time with a fun, youthful teacher--and get out of school once in a while! What more could high school seniors ask for? Turns out, there was so much to learn--about business, about competition, and about life.

In DECA competition, Mr. Reed put me in the Supervisory Level competitions, even though I was terrified at the idea of playacting as a Manager. He said he knew that I had more brains than most of the judges, and that all I had to do was be myself and I'd do well. Nothing ever made me feel more confident in high school than his assurance, along with darn good scores at my first attempt at competition! I don't remember how many competitions we went to, although I do remember a hotel stay that was one of the best experiences of my Senior year. Sharing a room with three friends, all nervous about performing well and looking good in our business suits, was good prep for college dorm living! At competition, we would wait in chilly hallways for each other, and at awards, we'd eagerly await each other's scores, and graciously thank "Keith" (or "Keithage," as Jackie referred to him!) for his guidance, to which he would shake his head and say, "You can't call me that, you know." Eventually, it evolved into KEEEEEith! Since graduation, I have always thought of him as "KeithReed;" all one word.

When I'd have boyfriend troubles, he'd tell me to behave "professionally" and "with dignity" so that it wouldn't evolve into drama in my life. I learned so many life lessons from him. From him, I learned the value and importance of discretion, transparency, discernment. At the same time, I learned about teamwork in a work setting, and how it differs from, and is similar to, the teamwork necessary in sports. When Tanya and Jackie made it to National Competition, he encouraged us to be supportive of them, rather than jealous, promising to cheer for them on our behalf, which I have no doubt he did. At that same competition, I was being awarded a DEX scholarship from Johnson & Wales, where I would be going to college. Keith, my parents, and I (reluctantly! I wanted to go to NOLA!!) agreed that it made no sense for me to go on the trip just to accept the scholarship. Instead, Keith walked the stage to accept it for me while Jackie and Tanya cheered him on. Before I even knew what one was, he was my mentor.

I lost touch with him after graduation. (I left that September with the intent of never looking back. Another story for another time.) And with Mr. Poet. Though I have thought about the lessons, and the random information about marketing and merchandising floating in my head, and I frequently thank God that they were part of my development. Keith Reed will be missed by the students he was serving as Superintendent, those for whom he had been Principal, and by us, his early students, as well as by his family and friends. My prayers, and my tears, are for you today. I never could say it in the public school setting in which we knew each other: God bless you. Thank you for all you were, and for continuing to utilize the extraordinary gifts you had!

under a rock

"Plants and birds and rocks and things" (Dewey Bunnell)....these are the things that give life to my days. Waking in the early morning, before the sun rises, and hearing the birds wake and start to chirp. Sitting on the porch with my morning coffee, hearing the leaves scuttle across the road. Smelling the heady aroma of a Japanese iris while strolling through a beautifully landscaped garden. And rocks.

So many rocks are beautiful to look at--quartz and marble, diamonds and emeralds--but those are not the rocks we often find in our day to day. Oftentimes, the rocks we come across are in our way, or are deeply embedded in our path. Others tumble away when we stumble upon them. Worst of all, though, are the rocks with rot and decay hidden under them.

When I think of what is under a rock--worms, bugs, ants, wet, death and decay--I turn away. Although sometimes the view is fascinating, I usually resist the urge to lift a rock. Instead, I consider the beauty of the rock. The strength and support of the size and shape. And, more often than not, I stand on the rock.

That's where you'll find me--standing high on a rock, arms outstretched, the sun on my face and the wind in my hair, smiling and praising the universe, God, and nature. Feeling unabashed joy.

Me? Under a rock? Never.

wildflowers

Yesterday, I promised myself I would write today (which is not usually a hard promise to keep, except for the time factor), and this morning, I wondered just what I would write about. I poured coffee, took the dogs out, and sat on the porch step, where I found myself thinking about fences. Like the dogs, my thoughts began to wander around the green and somewhat weedy yard of my mind.

At first, my fence thoughts were absolutely related to the dogs. I've often pictured a fence around the yard, and I even know what style I'd like, complete with the gates (I have a few pictures of inspiration that I cut out and put in a binder, long before there was Pinterest!). Of course, because it was early morning, and I was alone, and I had coffee in my hand--and, quite honestly, because I am me, and I can't help it!--I began to wonder whether the fence would more likely keep things (people? animals? demons?) in or out. Which lead, inevitably, to the idea of the fences in my life, in my mind, in my heart.

Forever, it seems, I've had fences inside to keep myself safe. What I've found is that keeping myself safe doesn't always allow for growing. I've let people through the gates, and some have sowed weeds, which angered, irritated and frustrated me enough to close and lock the gate again. More have helped to tend my garden; helping to pull out and dispose of the weeds, helping me to select the right flowers, fruits, vegetables.....Still....

It's the fences that have kept me in.

I've opened the gates for a number of reasons, and I'm determined to keep them opened, cautiously, for a while, anyway. I've discovered that there is buried treasure, as well as weed roots with tendrils that have been missed, broken off, forgotten.

It's funny--the fence I picture around our yard is only tall enough and the spaces are only narrow enough to keep the dogs in, yet when I am looking at myself honestly, there's been a stockade fence in some of the areas of my psyche, and I, myself, have been kept out. It's time to rebuild.

Each day, I am learning anew to appreciate those who make me happy, who allow me to be happy, who know happiness. I'm finding the roses and the wildflowers, and smelling each one.

"Let us be grateful to people who make us happy; they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom." ~Marcel Proust.

nature's music

I have felt like a cannon ball for some time. Thick and heavy, unyielding, and yet pushed to do, act, be. I haven't been writing, running, dancing, sewing because I have felt crammed into the barrel of the cannon. Stuck in a long dark tunnel, with occasional noises around me, a circle of light ahead, and waiting for the big boom.

Now I'm left with a headache.

Recently, little by little, I have given up myself. I stopped dancing. I sewed less and less. With those things, I told myself it was because I was now running and doing yoga, and something had to give. But I realize I have not even played music in the background of my life. My CD collection, while not huge, is pretty diverse, and there has always been something on as the soundtrack for my day. Again, I told myself it was because my job did not allow me to play music--or even muzak--so I just got out of the habit.

Turns out, all of it was just falling away. For no real reason.

This morning, I woke to the low rumbling of thunder. Not the crashing, crazy storm kind, but the refreshing summer storm kind. Both the thunder and the rain were so gentle, the windows could stay open. The lightening more a glimmer than a flash. I let the sounds wash my mind clean.

I still have the headache. I still hope today is better than yesterday. But today starts my search for the old me. The me I like the best. I don't know if I will go back to the things I used to do, or if I will find something new, but I'm not rolling to the back of the cannon, waiting for the fuse. I'm going to be the confetti that comes out of the circus cannon.

Yes, that's me. Confetti.

speed post

Life's been crazy, with no time to sit, and now there are cookies in the oven. The words need to get out somehow, so a stream of consciousness list is what we get. Here goes.....

This kind of cool weather has me in heaven, although it is kind of a drag when working at a pool.

Don't do something stupid because others do. It only makes you look stupid.

I'm proud when I find out my kid did not do something stupid.

A bully is a bully, no matter how popular s/he happens to be.

Don't get on the good side of the bullies just to stay out of their way. They will still feed on you.

Weren't we just pregnant together???

I can't believe it's over!/Thank God it's over!!

Oh, how I miss those days when I could do something stupid and say it was because someone else was going to do it, too. So I looked stupid once in a while.....at least it was never something STUPID!!

I am your mother.

Bullies exist in every age group. I was bullied as a kid. I was bullied in college. I have been bullied as an adult. I've stood up to bullies more as I've gotten older, but they still make me cry. (should probably go on a Post Secret postcard, but there you have it.)

I am not your mother. Leave me out of it.

My boys make me so proud. Each and every day, and I wish I could make them really understand that.

Time's up.

standing up

I have a confession to make: when I was a kid, I was bullied. Funny it should be that I feel like saying so is a "confession," and I don't mean the ha-ha kind of funny. Why should I feel as though being bullied is something that should be hidden? Why do I feel as though it diminishes the strength I have now? Today's headstrong woman is not related much to that beaten down girl. Not really.

What happened back then? Specifics, I cannot tell you. I have simply chosen for so long not to remember the details, that I really, truly don't know them. What I can tell you is that for at least one school year, "J" called me fat. On a regular basis. The fact is, I was fat. Not babyfat chubby, but more on the round side. The thing is, though, that was around 2nd or 3rd grade, and by the time she started saying it, I was dancing twice a week, and had thinned out quite a bit. I do remember that when I saw a picture of myself wearing my new green knit dress, I was horrified at the little girl I had been. And between that and "J" saying it over and over, I was convinced.

Somehow, though, I think there must have been more to the story, though maybe not. Our neighborhood was a circle, and my sister and I would usually walk to the corner to catch the bus before it went around picking up kids; when we first started school, we were ostracized because we went to a parochial school and wore uniforms--the only ones on the morning bus. It was hell. There were never any seats for kids "like us." Finally, the bus driver got fed up and assigned seats to the other kids so there would be an empty seat when we got on. Soon after that, we started walking to the corner, although the route had changed slightly by then, the bus less crowded, and things started to look up.

Yet I remember clearly the day I stood at our front door, straining to see the bus lights around the circle, hoping against hope that my mother would wave the bus on when it got to our driveway. I, the kid who loved school, books, classes, even homework, did not want to go to school. I didn't want to face "J" or the other kids who would stare, or worse, laugh, when "J" would call me fat names. I wanted to stay home, curl up in a corner, and hide forever. When I told my mother that morning, through tears of fear and frustration, all she said to me was, "She's just jealous. Now stop crying, don't let her get to you, and go to school." Even now I'm stunned. Jealous of what?

"J's" bullying affected me for a very, very long time. Through the rest of Junior High, High School, and into college, I was unable to handle (read: trust) more than one or two friends at a time. Every time I left the room, I was sure someone was talking about me. I never knew what to do or say to fit in. Until I bought my Senior Ball gown, with my own money, and heard the saleswoman tell me that it "fit like a glove," I honestly thought I was fat. (I still fight that self-image, and have a very hard time accepting when people tell me I "look great.") My first boyfriend dragged my heart through the mud--repeatedly--because I had no idea that it wasn't right. More than once, I berated myself for not having the guts to run away from home.

A few months ago, while visiting with one of my oldest friends, I learned that she, too, had been bullied by "J," as well as another dear friend of ours. In fact, she told me that just about everyone she had mentioned it to in our class had been. I was amazed. And wondered what the deal was.

When my son, who enjoyed school as much for the social aspect as the educational, refused to get out of bed one morning, and told me he'd rather die than go to school again, I panicked. He told me about a classmate verbally jabbing at him, daily. I felt like a failure for not picking up on it, for not nipping it in the bud. He was in elementary school--younger than I had been. I stormed into school, and demanded to see the principal and the guidance counselor, both of whom proceeded to tell me they just couldn't see that boy doing something like that. They reassured me that they did not think my son was lying, but again said that it couldn't have been that bad, because someone would have seen or heard something. I felt like a helpless 13-year-old again: no one had seen or heard anything "J" said, except me--and her other victims, or potential victims. Nothing of significance was done, and between that incident and what I now think was bullying by the teacher he had that year, it took a good three years before he really wanted to go to school again.

The other day, someone asked a friend why bullying is considered a crisis now, after all, it's been around forever. After quite a bit of what I think was really good discussion, someone pointed out that it's not that there is more prevalence today; rather, our tolerance has reached its limit, as it had with other social "norms" that are now considered other than normal. I think that's a very good way to concisely say what so many of us who deal with kids are feeling. The causes, in my opinion, are very involved, but he was exactly right: I, for one, am fed up.



College saved me. I finally learned to be someone I could be proud of, ironically related to an incident of a teacher bullying a classmate, and she stood up to the teacher. When I later took a class in which the instructor tried to intimidate me, I proudly stood up to him, and came out with both my pride and an A.

Shortly before I left for college, looking through my old pictures, I realized that all that time when "J" was telling me how fat I was, she was always much heavier than I was. If only that realization could have erased the damage done, perhaps having been a victim wouldn't feel so dirty. Maybe it's because I know people who have been through much worse at the hands of someone else; I don't feel worthy or something. All I know is that a part of me did run away, I just didn't know it.

what you've heard really is true

I have very few regrets in my life, and, fortunately, the ones I do have are more related to opportunities I've passed up rather than things I have done that I shouldn't have. Still, there are lessons I've learned, and truths that have been revealed along the way. Nobody wants to hear anyone say, "some day you'll understand," but if I could write a letter to my younger self....

Dear Teenage Me,
 There are so many things you need to know about yourself--far more than you think you already know. You will change. Your life will change, and life will change you, and there is no way to know which is affecting which more, or what the end result will be. That much you know, although the extent is unknown to all but the Spirit you most believe in.

For now, be true to yourself. I know you think "fitting in" is all-important, but I've come to realize that everyone else in the room has the same goal. None of your friends has cornered the market on what is "cool" or "fresh" or "legit" or whatever it is you and your friends call it. Neither has the media. Your parents may seem old-fashioned--and in some ways they are, to be sure!--but they did live through the same pressures that you did. Really, they did. Absolutely, "things were different then," but that doesn't change the fact that every adolescent has had to deal with severe and difficult peer pressure. Not many people make it through High School without some kind of story to tell, and even fewer would say that they would do it all exactly the same way, given the choice. Or that they would want the same experience for the children in their lives. Unfortunately, in an effort to forget the pain and difficulties of being a teenager, far too many adults say, "You don't know how easy you have it." But instead of tuning them out, or getting annoyed with them, ask questions. And drop the attitude when you ask; listen for a real answer, and if you don't get one, ask again.

As adults, we don't really like to be questioned. We'll try to brush off the questions; to give you easy answers that don't really tell you anything. Ask anyway.
Don't ask questions that you don't really want the answers to. Ask what will help you. Ask how we dealt with peer pressure, with bullying, with breakups and first love. Ask if the risks were worth it; how they might have changed our lives, our ideas about ourselves, our parenting now. And listen carefully to how we feel about reputations back then--whether it still matters what those friends thought of us at the time.

Be true to yourself. You may think that you are, because you are doing what you want to do instead of what your parents want you to do, but are you really? How important is it, really, to do what someone else is doing? To wear what someone else is, to act like someone else? Does it really make that person your friend? As a little kid, the game of Follow the Leader is fun and silly, but as a teenager, it can become confusing, frightening, and downright dangerous. Don't always follow. I've learned that wearing and doing what I like has led to people saying that I have "a great sense of style," even on the days when I am just wearing sweats and a t-shirt. Dressing like the fashion magazines, pop stars, or the popular kids at school just adds up to a uniform. Trust me on that.Yes, it's fun to have new clothes and to be fashionable, but only if it is both flattering and comfortable to do so, otherwise, you might as well be a lemming.


And don't risk your own self for the sake of what someone will think of you. If he breaks up with you because you won't have sex, he'd just have broken your heart some other way, but at least he won't have taken a piece of your being with you. If she teases you for being a sentimental boy, she may not be comfortable enough with her own feelings to allow you yours. Is that worth your heart? If others' behavior is risky, obscene, or just plain idiotic, they are not strong enough themselves to be someone to emulate. Those who respect themselves are the ones who people remember and respect the most in the long run.
You will be told, "Everyone is...." You will tell your parents, "Everyone is....." When you say it to your parents, you know it's a lie; therefore, you should probably consider that when you hear it, too. That's the hard part. I mean it, that is the hardest part.

The things you do to try to fit in, and that can only be explained with that reason, are usually the things that will get you into trouble. End of story. Those who are at the top of that food chain don't even really want to get to know the real you. Spend more time worrying about how you want to be remembered later than about what will be said tonight. Remember that no matter how big or small your school/neighborhood/town might be, it really is tiny, and news about regrettable acts travels far faster than that of strength and character.

Strive to be YOU. And remember that your kids will ask you questions, too. Live the way you want to answer them. Yes, you will make mistakes, and you will do things that don't fit your own view of yourself. Best to admit them, face them, and allow the people who truly have your best interests at heart to help you sort through them. That's not likely to be anyone in that crowd who was with you at the time. No, it's more likely to be your parents, a teacher, an adult you trust--someone who's been there and has had time to reflect.

You probably stopped reading a long time ago. I remember feeling preached to, and zoning out and ignoring any advice from adults. I hope, if that's the case, with all my heart, that you make better choices than your peers. That you become a leader, or even a lone wolf, because you believe in yourself.

Because I believe in you.
I really do.
And I'm here for you.
Warmly,
Me

it all comes back

Watching my boys (which includes Guy) as they participate in their various activities is one of the joys of my life. The sidelines are a great place for me to be: I can see what's going on, gauge my own level of participation to my a) understanding of the event, and b) to my desire to be noticed or not. I can choose whether to cheer out loud, or just within myself, and oftentimes I do both at the same event. It matters little whether the event is sports- or school-related, team or individual; I like to see my boys doing what they do, and the associated reactions and interactions.

There are times, however, when watching brings back memories that I hope my children never have. Yesterday, at Drew's soccer game, I was suddenly struck with the realization of why I didn't do team sports. Sure, there are the "reasons" that I was given when I would ask about playing softball, but in all honesty, when I was told the schedule didn't fit the family's schedule, or Mom was 'against' team sports, I was secretly relieved.

You see, I was on a kickball team when I was a kid, and it was one of the worst experiences of my life. Oh, I tried to love it! I packed my shorts, shirt and sneakers in my bag every week for practice, and I walked with the team from our school over to the public school where we would practice, and I would run the laps for warm-up, but inside, I was terrified. First of all, my bag for my gear was a plastic shopping bag from Izard's department store--a very cool bag, to be sure, as it was covered with this patchwork of 'newspaper' clippings and ads, and it was in the days when it was pretty unusual to have a plastic shopping bag, but it was really not the best device for carrying gym clothes. It didn't take long for the bag, my shoes and my kickball clothes to permanently develop the scent of Frito's. No one ever said a thing, so I have no idea if anyone ever even noticed, but I sure did.

Truly, that was the least of my worries. I was a dancer. A dancer dances. A dancer does not stand behind home base in a "ready position" and catch a kickball, all the while saying, "Come on, come on, we can do this." And a dancer certainly doesn't stand at first base and get hit in the stomach and chest by a line drive kick, and actually hold on to the ball! (The latter fact one that our coach picked up on rather quickly.) Oddly enough, a dancer can quite easily manage to kick the ball backwards, on the floor, toward the opposing team's catcher. Pretty consistently, too, I might add. I worried that our uniform shirts, which came from the Champion outlet, were not as nifty as the other teams' shirts, and that my shorts, which came from the irregular bin in the same outlet (the tag was missing), might not match everyone else's--or worse, were backwards (remember, no tag!) and would not stay up where they were supposed to. And we had to wear tube socks. I have never been a fan of the tube sock, and I think that is probably also related to kickball.

Anyway, back to Drew's game. As I watched, I could see how they have improved over the course of the season. They were communicating with each other quite a bit--telling each other to cover this side, take it to the corner, get away from the center--and passing to each other in the mid-field. Just as I was thinking that they were showing some nice teamwork, one of the boys clearly started to hog the ball. And that's when it hit me. Some kids are just going to take the spotlight, no matter what. This kid reminds me, in so very many ways, of one of the players on my kickball team. She was also in my class. I think she might have been the pitcher--and she was, still is, in some ways, my tormentor.

She was bigger than me, and she was meaner than me, and it turns out, when I talk to our classmates, she left everyone with memories somewhere between uncomfortable and downright painful. She took my friends from time to time, but really took my self-image. Before I started dancing in second grade, I was a chubby little thing ("little"--HA! I was not little at all. As tall as most of the boys...), but for years--until 5th grade? 6th?--she would taunt me about being fat. I wore hand-me-downs (except for what I got at Champion), and I heard about that all the time. I was from a family of 6 kids, and so she told me I must be poor, and that's why we lived in the country. And when I didn't kick the home run I was so obviously big enough to kick, I never lived it down.

I remember standing at the door, waiting for the bus, and telling Mom I never wanted to go to school again. That this girl was making me miserable, and that she was probably right about all the things she'd said about me. Mom's response was, "She's just jealous." (Her standard response, along with, "If you miss the bus, you're walking to school.") When I asked what she could possibly be jealous of (remember: fat, clumsy, friendless, poor, and therefore stupid), she simply repeated herself. Oddly, she did not tell me none of it was true. I went to school. I survived. I found a friend or two who would not be swayed--or would no longer be swayed--and I started to write poetry and a book. Boys started to think I was funny and fun to be around, but since we'd spent every day together from the time we were in first grade, they didn't "like" me, so even though the actual comments stopped, in my head, I still heard them all.

In 7th and 8th grades, I began to have some confidence in my intelligence, mostly due to my writing style, and because I had both boys and girls as friends, I also began to feel less alone (although not necessarily less lonely--I still struggle with that at times) and less concerned about Champion shirts, since I only wore them for gym class anyway. But it took years for me to understand that I was anywhere near healthy. I clearly remember the day in high school, walking to the library from school, and having to walk past her house in town to get there, when I realized that all that time, she was fatter than me by a long shot. (She also was from a rather large family--at least 6 kids.) Yet, I still struggle with my self-image.

Not all ball hogs are like that. Some hog the ball because they don't know any better, and some just look like they are hogging it, but in reality, everyone is giving it to them; probably because they have a real talent or knack. Some sports require one or two members of the team to handle the ball more than anyone else, and in those cases, there may be either showboating or a graceful generosity that sets a player apart. I have trouble watching team sports when true teamwork is not apparent. I get uncomfortable, solely due to my own experiences. Myopic, I know, since it was one team, a very long time ago, but it was an experience that stunted a part of me, I now understand.

In the soccer game of life, I am one of the ball boys, but only if it's my turn. I have little desire to be in the middle of the field. I want to see what's going on, help out where I can, but hide my insecurities, my inabilities, my fears about belonging and fitting in. Inside, I am both strong and fragile, and not always wise enough to protect myself. Seeing my boys with their respective teammates fills me with hope that their experiences are better than mine; that they are being built up, rather than torn apart. And that through their experience, there will be strength of mind, body and spirit.

And I hope they know that as I watch them from the sidelines, my sometimes silence is due to my respect and admiration for who they are, what they have accomplished, and where they are headed.

Go Team Tanguay!