The Absence of a Village...

I was recently struck by a conversation I had with a colleague. Struck is actually putting lightly. It was more like I was kicked in the gut. She was sharing with me her sadness at the slow decline she’s noticed in the morality of our youth. So many of the students she’d taught years ago had taken the wrong path…drugs, crime. She wondered how we had raised an entire generation of humans with so few social values, and no moral convictions. She said to me something that I have said a hundred times as an educator, “I wish I could take them all home with me”.
Her comments stopped me short, giving me a heavy sensation in the pit of my stomach. As a child growing up, my mother was a school psychologist, and she actually DID bring students home with her. One, whose home life was so corrupt it made our hearts break, moved in with us for months during my senior year of high school. I never resented her presence as an infringement in my space, or my home. In fact, having that lonely young woman to nurture and support was an incredibly fulfilling experience for me. I found myself less self-involved, more empathetic than I’d been prior. My mother wasn’t crazy to bring this girl to our home. In fact, the experience may have provided Sherry with the love, empathy and acceptance she needed to get through a very rough time in her life. My mother understood this, intrinsically, and thus created her desire to provide her with those things.
I’ve felt that desire strongly several times as an educator, a pull towards that one student who I knew needed something more than what they are getting at home. Sometimes there is neglect. Other times things more sinister. Often though, it isn’t as obvious. There arises an innate awareness, maybe stemming from my experiences as a mother, that a child isn’t going to quite make it with their life the way it is. It is these children who we see “fall through the cracks”, in spite of herculean efforts by the staff members at school. Like the ones who, years later, are remembered by their teachers as “such a smart boy”, and “such a nice girl”, as they begin their third go at rehab. Like the ones sadly recalled as “so popular”, as they sit alone in a jail cell. Like the ones, I realized as I listened to my colleague speak…like the ones who had robbed my house this past Fall.
As she continued to talk, I had an actual physical response to her words. She explained things we all know, such as how children used to learn their values from their parents, and grandparents. It seems that now, she said, parents are too absent, too unaware, or too overwhelmed to take on the moral education of their children.
Oh, I’ll just say it…sigh…parents can’t seem to be bothered with teaching their children the English language, let alone potty training or (GASP!) to read. Guiding them towards becoming productive, law abiding citizens of our country is entirely too draining. Somehow expecting infants and toddlers to internalize these skills by osmosis, or through the efforts of more responsible adults in the schools, at church…anywhere but at home, so many parents of today’s youth have really lost the drive or even know-how to do it.
For many, its tough enough just to make it through the day, ensuring everyone in the family arrives where they are supposed to be. I know THAT all too well. Deep philosophical lessons on the importance of honor are last on my list of mothering duties when I am tired and hungry at the end of the day. I guess I am just as much to blame as the next-door neighbors.
Speaking of which, what happened to those dear neighbors of long ago? The ones who knew every little thing going on around town? You know, those darling, pain in the ass old folk who weren’t afraid of yelling at us when we trampled their flowers in a game of tag, and who called the police at a minute past ten if the music was too loud? I’m sure none of us appreciated their noses in our business at the time. We really couldn’t get away with too much before our parents were notified. Yet, that entire network of people watching out for us provided such a safety net. Any little thing our parents missed, would surely have been seen by the ever-watchful eye glaring out the window next door. I’m still afraid of my mother’s neighbors, now at age thirty-five. Where have those neighbors gone? I’d asked myself that very question a thousand times in the months following The Robbery of my house.
On top of the effortless parenting and the apparent lack of a village to raise a child, we have no great public heroes these days to be role models for any of us. My mother had an entire generation of Superheroes as an example of honor and responsibility. My grandfather, his peers, true heroes all, fighting for the freedom of entire nations, and against the extinction of democracy and justice.
In generations since, we have too often turned towards sports figures, or other talents in the public eye. Generally, they haven’t always proven the epitome of moral standard bearers. Only a small handful like Tiger Woods and Michael Phelps….oh wait….
What my colleague was saying were not things I had really given coherent thought to since The Robbery. Looking back, I realized I’d had very few coherent thoughts about anything at all since that time. Life itself, as we knew it, had been one constant disruption, interviews with detectives, locating suspects, identifying stolen property, haggling (arguing really) with insurance people. The invasion of our home, and the series of unsettling incidences that had followed had been all consuming, and sadly life altering. The Robbery had changed my perspective on so many things. Life in my safe little town no longer seemed so comforting. The world outside suddenly appeared huge and frightening in a way that it never had before. Causing disruption and chaos in every arena, The Robbery caused me to become consumed with anger, feelings of victimization, unfairness. Our most costly possessions had been thieved in one fell swoop. Already experiencing financial strain, the idea of replacing thousands of dollars of electronics, clothing, even food, seemed overwhelming. Resentment towards those who had created that chaos in my life overshadowed every waking moment, and each sleeping breath. My teenage son became vengeful. I sunk deep into an obsession for justice.
And then something beautiful happened. Something I hadn’t expected, and which made the world begin to seem right again. People began reaching out to us. Each person we came in contact with offered a kind word or a hug. My family, worried about my physical safety and my emotional health, sent money. My father offered to sleep at my house when we were frightened. My mother stepped in to shoulder parenting responsibilities when I was just too emotionally spent to do it right. My co-workers, concerned with my immediate well being, organized a donation drive for my family. Generously attempting to replace what had been stolen, they plied me with the necessities, food, clothing, wine, gift cards and even cash to cover the rest. Neighbors, near and unknown began to check in to see that we were safe. Shown love by both family and strangers alike, the dark cloud began to lift inch by generous inch. Through the love, empathy and acceptance of others, my community began to feel like just that, once again. Life resumed, and a new normalcy began, edged always, though, by that nagging resentment towards the criminals, the children, who had upturned my life.
As my colleague shared with me her sadness that day, jumbled thoughts rolled through my mind and feelings in my heart, because the children we had been discussing could easily have been the same ones who were responsible for robbing my house. In a sort of revelation, I remembered the kindness I had been shown by people I had never even met, and wondered if any of those children had ever been shown anything of that sort. Had they felt that same resentment for things they’d lost, not followed by the loving embrace of people who gave a damn?
All along, I had been struggling to bring peace back to my world, despite the anger and bitterness I felt. Seeing our Robbers not as children who weren’t loved but as a chaotic storm, I had never taken a moment to think about where they’d come from. Frantic to see each one of them behind bars, I’d focused all my attention on their capture, their punishment.
But that day, I realized something else. Punishment really was not what those children needed, or what I needed. Perhaps they weren’t really lacking any heavy lessons in morality, or social propriety. Maybe it was something else entirely that they were lacking...those things that had helped me to begin to heal. Perhaps because they hadn’t had that all along in their lives, things like empathy, love and acceptance despite their mistakes, maybe that was why they were weaving such chaos around themselves. And in that moment I discovered just what it was I needed to bring peace back to my existence, the one thing that I’d been lacking in order to heal my soul, and piece my broken family back together.
Forgiveness.

Already Gone...

I've lost my mind, and I am not sure where to find it.


It all began last night. I had a sickening, pulse quickening sense that something really, REALLY important was missing. I've had that feeling before, but in the past, I've managed to ignore it, suppress it, or pretend that it wasn't there. Not this time. This time, the feeling was its strongest yet.


Saying that it began last night may be a bit of misstatement. The vacating of my mind probably began long ago. I am not sure exactly when it started, but over the years it gradually deepened. Divot by tiny divot, my sanity has been etched away with each surreal event or extraordinary experience.

It is an odd feeling, the absence of one's mind, as though an appendage has gone missing. You realize something that used to be there is gone, yet sanity dissolves in such minute increments that the realization ultimately arrives like a slap in the face. It WAS there, once upon a time. Why did it ditch me? And where the heck did it go?

Although I am certain my sanity began its slow decline years ago, certain recent events have hastened its desertion. For instance, about a year ago now, my husband moved out of the house we'd shared. Those lonely and tearful nights I spent during and following our initial separation created some serious sanity dumping. Sitting in my garage so as not to be discovered dissolving into nothing, I'd curl my knees tightly into my chest, staring absently at the rafters. It was my own fault my mind left me then. I didn't really want to visit it at all at that point, thinking it was no friend of mine.

Even more recently, after my house and all of its valuable belongings were robbed, my mind slipped even further from my grasp. The trauma to my family was so complete, that I didn't really want to be sane, anyway. Initially, it was much simpler to just follow my mind on its slow descent into lunacy. After all, no sane civilian woman would consider staking out the homes of various convicted felons for entire nights at a time. Sanity would never have allowed me to continue pretending I was living an episode of "Charlie's Angels". Following suspects and casing hide-outs is too, well- crazy!
It was around this time certain friends and family members started to snap their fingers in my face.
"Hey! Keri! Hey! What planet are you living on?"
I soon decided to conceal my nocturnal habits. I no longer invited my friends on the stake-outs. I took my teenage son with me instead.

And the slow slide continues...

How To Lose Your Mind and Other Small Things…

Alarm didn’t go off? Stuck in traffic? Caught behind various slow moving public school buses? All true…but I’ve used those excuses a million times already. Absently, I waste time I don’t have debating the proper reasoning for my son’s late note of the day. Eventually, I know, I’ll be called out, or he’ll be getting detention of massive proportions. Maybe the car wouldn’t start? Seven minutes.
I cross two fingers on my left hand and write, “Please excuse my son Timothy for being late. He had an orthodontist appointment early this morning.” Hurriedly, I swirl my name and the date at the bottom, and shove it into his outstretched hand. He gives me an evil grin, “Yeah. They are going to buy THAT one. I had an orthodontist appointment last week”.
I stare at him, knowing it to be true, and sigh. Trying not to feel like a dismal failure, I grit my teeth and watch as he carefully packs up his ipod and cell phone at a snail’s pace. Glaring at him, I point at the car clock. 6 minutes. Get out!
“Go! If you’re late, you get detention. If I’M late, I get fired!”
I hit the gas as he slams the car door shut, and glance to the right. My tires squeal a bit as I turn out of the parking lot. Oh God. I sneak a peek back at the school, hoping no one notices.
I purposefully release my clenched, white knuckles from their iron grip on the faded black steering wheel. Turning up the radio volume high, I grab at my make-up bag on the seat next to me. Red light. Deep breath. Five minutes.
Keeping one hand on the steering wheel, I grope around in my sequined rock-star bag until my fingers find the cylinder-shaped mascara tube. With one hand, I swipe the wand over my lashes, one eye on the road, the other on the mirror.
Over the fuzz of the morning-show voices on the radio, I hear the sound of “Soul Sista” by Train playing somewhere on my body. I stop my make-upping in mid-stroke. My cell phone.
Left onto Ellicott, and I shove the make-up back into its bag, now fumbling with the mess in my coat pocket. The car slips a little in the snow, and I slide to a stop. Not today. Carefully I navigate the slickness of the road, squinting my eyes, and tipping my head, handling her as though I am at NASCAR. I brave another look at the clock. Four minutes. I can’t be late again.
I find my cell amongst the rubble, now vibrating to notify me that I have missed a call. I peek at the screen, one new voice mail. Sighing, I see that is was the phone call I’d been waiting for. No time to call back now. Like so many other things I long for, it will have to wait. Slowly picking up speed, I realize that the road is pretty well salted. Must have been just a rough spot back there. I might still make it on time. Two more traffic lights, both green, and I am feeling like Lady Luck may be smiling on me for the moment.
Chugging the final bit of vanilla-flavored coffee from my travel mug, I wipe a dribble from my chin, hoping the drop that lands on my brown shirt doesn’t show too badly. I carefully negotiate the curves around the creek road, letting myself, just for a minute, be wistful, longing for warmer days. The bubbling creek churns beneath a surface that is still frozen, and the bare branches of the trees seem so lonely without their leaves.
Reluctantly, I drag my focus back to this very day on my horizon, and realize I have two minutes left to get there. I corner the final turn onto the street where my school resides, speeding into the lot, then the last parking space in the row. Simultaneously, I grab my laptop, purse and the pile of papers I’d taken home to correct, while opening the car door and hitting the lock button on my key chain. One last glance at the clock tells me I have exactly sixty seconds to make it to the back door before our custodian turns the lock under direct order from my principal.
Summoning talent indigenous to my hometown, I plant my 3 inch heeled boots solidly into the slush and bolt, not missing a beat or step. Of course I don’t slip or fall. I am a Buffalo-Chick, born and bred. Juggling my bags, I arrive at the cafeteria door at the same moment Dave does, keys in hand. Arms straining under their load, I slide past him with a smile, slightly winded from the run.
I stride past the hundred students waiting in the main hallway for the signal to swarm to their classrooms. Pasting on a cheerful face, I call out “Good Morning!” to half a dozen of my own students, cover the ten feet to my room and slip inside. Arms shaking now, my toes pinched up into the tips of my boots, I drop my belongings onto my desk and sigh. I glance at the clock. Eight-oh-one. Another day has begun.