Recognizing A Teachable Moment

When I was a little girl, my favorite day of the year (after Christmas and my birthday) was the first day of school. It was like being given the keys to the toy store and candy store combined, but better, because school was a marvelously magical place where I could learn about everything. School was an ebullient delight, and I tried to never miss a day, and would plead with my mother to let me go to school when I was sick so that I didn't miss out on a scrumptious tidbit of knowledge. No day at school was boring, but some days were so full of wonder that I didn't want them to end.

Perhaps the biggest excitement each year was finding out who was going to be my teacher because the teacher made the whole year good or bad. Back then, it seemed like a complete mystery how students were paired with teachers. Looking back now, though, I can see a method to what seemed at the time their madness.

Out of all my teachers, I only had three duds--my kindergarten teacher, my 2nd grade teacher, and my 4th grade teacher. What do I mean by duds? They were boring and uninspiring, and it is my guess that they didn't like children. Fortunately, my terrible teachers were followed by gems in 1st, 3rd, and 5th. 

My kindergarten teacher didn't believe I could read when I told her I could, so she put me in front of the class with a book and said she was going to teach "Miss Smartypants a lesson" about lying (interesting that she thought humiliating a five year old was teaching a lesson--goes to the heart of her character). Well, I read the book aloud, with no errors, and she blew up. She called my mom and read her the riot act. My poor mom; she hadn't done anything wrong. She didn't really teach me to read; I more or less learned on my own. Fortunately, I was seriously sick most of the rest of the kindergarten school year, so I was spared my teacher's loathing (and I had the great joy of my grandma reading books to me hours at a time--heaven).

1st grade brought Miss Nichols. To my six year old eyes, she was a wonder--tall, beautiful, and smart. Plus, she seemed to like children. She quickly discovered the readers in our class and put us in a separate group to read books of our choosing, after we had finished the "Dick and Jane" books, of course. But Miss Nichols, along with my mom, taught me something even more important than "book learning;" they taught me not to lie.

All the children in my class wanted Miss Nichols to come over to their house, and I was no exception. My parents were not too social and said no when I asked if I could invite my teacher over for a visit. Undeterred, I invited her anyway. Well, wouldn't you know it, I was in the shower when Miss Nichols arrived. When I stepped out of the shower, my furious mother confronted me in the bathroom. She told me to put on my pajamas and commanded me to come apologize for lying to Miss Nichols. I was mortified. I couldn't tell her I lied. I pleaded with my mom to cover for me and back me up, but my mom said my punishment for lying was to confess to Miss Nichols that I had lied and ask her and my mom for forgiveness. You can imagine my agony and torment. How could I walk into the living room and face Miss Nichols, and in pajamas no less? Somehow, I summoned up my courage and walked into the living room and apologized.

I thought I was home free, but, no, Miss Nichols, with a nod to my mother, asked me to sit and have a cookie and some lemonade and explain to her why I had lied. It all came out that "fat Margo" bragged and gloated that Miss Nichols liked her best in our class because Miss Nichols visited Margo's home for dinner. I explained that I wanted Miss Nichols to like me too, so I figured that I had to have her over for a visit. Miss Nichols tried somewhat unsuccessfully to hide her smile, and she remonstrated with me not to call Margo fat (though she was) and she told me that she liked students best who were honest and loved to learn. Really? I could do that. I already loved to learn, and now I had an incentive not to lie--Miss Nichols would like me if I were honest. That lesson has stuck with me all these years.

The less said about my 2nd and 4th grade teachers the better. They were a disgrace to their profession. Thankfully, they were aberrations. Miss Hayashi, my 3rd grade teacher, and Miss Copeland, my 5th grade teacher, however, were shining stars in my galaxy of teachers. They made me and all the other students in my class love learning so much that every day was pure joy, and I tried, with amazing success, once I could choose my teachers, to have some of the finest high school teachers and college professors who have ever taught in a classroom. I liked some of my college professors so much that lifelong friendships sprang up, some decades old, and some just a few months new, but all treasured.

Now, in just a few days, I will be standing in front of two new classes full of students, and I hope that I will inspire my students, like my best teachers inspired me, to learn life lessons as well as book lessons.

Take care,

Kate

For those of you who might be wondering, as of today I have sold 105 copies of my book Dueling With Dementia: Not The Love Story We Planned. One thing that is exceptionally thrilling is that readers in seven countries (Ireland, Great Britain, Canada, Australia, Austria, Iran, and the USA) have read and liked my book. That is really humbling.

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The Joy Of Voting

When I was five years old, my mother took me into the polling booth with her, where she cast her vote for Adlai Stevenson. I didn't understand voting at the time, but I did think it was great fun to stand in a booth with a curtain closed behind us. I urged my mother to explain to me what she was doing. She said she was voting. I asked if I could vote too. She laughed and said not until I was twenty-one. Voting was for grown-ups, my mom said. She told me it was a right and a privilege to vote, and that I should never take it for granted because there were lots of countries where citizens did not get to elect their leader. I was so excited and could hardly wait to grow up so that I could vote.

Four years later in 1960, my very sweet grandma Virginia and I watched the Democratic and Republican conventions together, and we watched the Kennedy-Nixon debate. My grandma told me that it was important to understand both parties so that I could be an informed voter and vote wisely. Election night that year was the first election night I stayed up watching the election returns. I was thrilled, especially when my candidate, John F. Kennedy, finally was declared the winner the next day.

Four years later, my parents made a radical turn and became Goldwater Republicans. I was puzzled how two people who voted for Kennedy in 1960 could vote for Goldwater in 1964, but my parents did not care about my questions. I was enlisted to stuff envelopes and go door to door stumping for Goldwater with my childhood friend Nancy. It was a real eye opener. We had so many doors slammed in our faces. We weren't certain whether we were right or wrong, but we sure saw how strong people's feelings are when it comes to their candidate.

Four years later, still too young to vote, but now starting to think for myself, I decided that I was for Bobby Kennedy, while my parents were for Nixon. For the life of me, I could not understand how anyone could be for Nixon. My grandma Virginia and I stayed up on primary night, both of us hoping for Bobby to win our state of California, and, sure enough, he did. But, then tragedy struck. Bobby was assassinated. My grandma and I hugged each other and cried. We couldn't believe it. We felt lost.

Four years later in 1972, I was finally old enough to vote. I was ecstatic and couldn't wait to step into the voting booth. I decided that I was for Hubert Humphrey because I felt badly that he had lost in 1968, and I thought he had the best chance to beat Nixon. My boyfriend, who I loved very much, was for George McGovern. I liked McGovern a lot, but I thought he was too naive and too nice to be president. On the night of the California primary, my boyfriend took me to McGovern's California headquarters in Los Angeles to watch the returns with others who worked on his campaign. What a thrill to be in the room when McGovern and his wife entered, and he gave his victory speech. My boyfriend and I kept hugging each other with undiluted joy. We didn't get home until after three in the morning, and I had to get up for work at six, but it was worth it to get so little sleep. We were part of the democratic process, and we felt so alive, so patriotic, and so full of joy.

Fast forward to 1988. My daughter Amy was five, and my son Gavin was three. We go to the polls to vote, and I take them into my booth with me just as my mother had done with me thirty-two years earlier. I got tears in my eyes, as I explained the privilege, responsibility, and in my case pure joy, of voting. I did the same with Hugh and Grant four years later, and I'm delighted to say that each of my children votes in every election. I am SO proud.

 

Two things that trouble me these days, however, are how many people stay home and don't vote, not even by absentee ballot. I cannot understand how any citizen who has the chance to vote chooses not to vote. What's up with that? Do these people want to live in a dictatorship? Do they want someone else deciding their lives? 

And then there are the voter ID restriction laws being enacted in many states, especially swing states. This is crazy. Voter fraud is so rare as to be statistically negligible. Many of the legislatures enacting these laws are brazen enough to say it is to elect a Republican. This is disgusting. Democracy demands a level playing field, which means that all citizens should be able to vote, and we should be making it easier for them so that more people will participate in our democracy. And, Citizens United should be thrown out immediately. Corporations are not people! They have no right to influence voters.

If I had my way, we would take the money out of politics. We would get rid of lobbyists.  Elected officials would earn a small stipend and have to buy their own insurance--I bet we'd see universal health care enacted in no time--and no lifetime pension other than Social Security. Why should our elected officials have better benefits than the average citizen has? Also, each candidate would be given exactly the same amount of money to run his/her campaign, and there would be a time limit of a month to air commercials, which could only be positive. No negative commercials manipulating the voters with fear. We need to think of the future of America, not just the next election cycle. We need to think bigger and outside the box. We need to look at the positions of all our political parties and find a way to create a coalition. We need to bring back the joy of voting and of being an informed citizen.

It's the joy that is missing. Fear makes us think small, makes us think only of ourselves and this moment. Joy opens us to potential and opportunity. Joy expands our world and encourages us to think bigger and more inclusively, a bigger tent for all people. So I say that this year we should bring back the joy of being an informed voter so that people will be eager to get to their polling place on Tuesday, November 6, 2012. And be sure to bring your young sons and daughters with you into the booth so that they can start looking forward to growing up and being able to vote too.

Take care,

Kate

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My Favorite Child

Just a moment ago, one of my sons phoned, but I did not know whether it was Gavin or Grant. Their voices sound the same when they greet me, and when I ask which son is calling, each son inevitably replies, "Your favorite son." Well, they are both my favorite son, so what do I say? I try to figure out which son is most likely calling at that moment and then say his name. Just as inevitably, I hear laughter, their laughs are quite distinct from one another, and then I know I guessed incorrectly. There follows a teasing, "I knew it," followed by another laugh. I immediately feel horrible, fearing that one son will think I favor the other or vice versa, when in reality, I love them both with all my heart, and you can't love anyone more than that.

Ever since Gavin joined his sister Amy, and then later Hugh came along and finally Grant arrived to complete our family, my children have tried to find out who is my favorite child. The better question would be if I have a favorite child, but, no, they assume I must. Why is that, I wonder? They guess one or another, and they are always wrong because I do not have a favorite child, or, more accurately, each one is my favorite child at the same time. Each child is part of my heart. My heart has four chambers, and I have four children. I tell my children that I have a four part heart,  and each child is a chamber of my heart. I cannot pick an auricle over a ventricle; my heart needs all four chambers, or I would die. In the same way, I cannot pick one child over another because I need each one to make me whole and complete.

Before I had my children, I liked to think that I was a puzzle with missing pieces, though I wasn't sure what was missing. When each child was born, another piece of the puzzle that is me was filled in. Once all four were born, the puzzle that was me was complete. Each child fits in my life and heart in his or her own special way. Their essences are unique, and neither can take the place of the other. That is why I love it best when we are all together because then life seems whole and complete--everything fits, at least for me.

For my children, however, I am just a portion of their individual puzzles, probably part of the border.  My children are in the process of filling in their life puzzles, finding what makes them complete, and it is thrilling to sometimes be another puzzle piece in their life puzzle and sometimes an observer from my border spot. Sometimes, too, it is sad when I realize that my portion of their puzzles is getting smaller, though I know that is the way it is supposed to be.

My four children, however, are the pieces of my puzzle that make me whole, so I hope they always know that each one is my favorite child every minute of every day.

Take care,

Kate

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A Blowing Bubbles Kind Of Day

Yesterday was a perfect day for blowing bubbles, but I couldn't find my bubbles until last night, so I blew bubbles on the deck this afternoon in honor of yesterday, watching the rainbow bubbles floating all about me and feeling happy.

When my children were young, I bought quarts of bubbles at a time. The kids and I would blow bubbles because it was a happy day, a sad day, or just a regular day that seemed to require bubbles. We would laugh and chase the bubbles about, trying to catch one of the rainbow-colored spheres, believing it would bring good luck or grant a wish. We would laugh as whatever dog we had tried to catch a bubble, only to have it burst on her nose. We would laugh because bubbles are fun. Any day becomes a better day when you blow bubbles together. That is why yesterday was a perfect day for blowing bubbles.

Yesterday was my middle son's birthday. 24 years ago on July 14, Hugh was born. When each of my four children was born, I was euphoric. My heart felt like it would burst with joy, but it did not burst,  instead my heart stretched to include one more child, one more blessing. The moment each child was placed in my arms, I felt more complete than the moment before, and it is impossible to imagine the world without each of my four children in it.

Hugh's birth held a special surprise--he was our only child to be born who didn't have a complicated, death-defying birth. He was our only child whose umbilical cord Gordon got to cut. He was our only child we got to see turn from blue to pink while lying on my chest, and he began to nurse immediately. Because he was so "well-born," Gordon wanted me to change the middle name we had agreed on of Gwydion to Evan because Evan means well-born one. I felt apprehensive about this, superstitious in a way, sure we should stick with Gwydion and not call attention to the ease of Hugh's birth, but Gordon was insistent. Had I known you could have two middle names, I would have named our son Hugh Evan Gwydion, but I thought you could only have one middle name. Completely illogically, I will always believe that had I stuck with Gwydion, Hugh would have avoided schizophrenia.

But Hugh did not avoid schizophrenia. Eight years ago, he had his psychotic break, and his paranoia and delusions keep us from celebrating his birthday together, or even contacting him at all. Hugh's schizophrenia has taught me about a kind of love I did not know existed--a sad, patient love of open, empty arms waiting, with an everlasting wisp of hope, to welcome Hugh home with a giant hug.

Until that moment comes, however, I shall continue to blow bubbles because when I'm blowing bubbles, I am momentarily transported back in time to our deck in the Santa Cruz mountains, and I feel the happiness and hear the laughter of all of my four children and me as we try to catch a rainbow-colored bubble without breaking it. Perhaps if I can catch a bubble one day, that will be the day that Hugh comes home with his schizophrenia vanquished forever.

Take care,

Kate

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There Is Always Tomorrow, Until There Isn't

From childhood on, we are inundated with the promise of tomorrow. Annie sings in her musical, "The sun'll come out/Tomorrow/ So ya gotta hang on/'Til tomorrow/Come what may." So, we learn from an early age that all we have to do is get through today, and tomorrow everything will be better, or, at least, it might be. It's an implied promise, and it's a false one because there just might not be a tomorrow.

I don't mean to sound all doom and gloomy, but I do want to impress upon you that you won't always have a tomorrow to say the things you wish you'd said today or do the things you wish you'd done. You have to say what you want and do what you want today.

One night in March 1970, my mom came to kiss me goodnight. She had been annoying me all evening, yelling at me for washing my hair. I told her that I was 18 years old and could wash my hair without her permission. We went round and round, neither of us giving ground, and by the time she came to say goodnight, I was in no mood for a goodnight kiss. For the first time in my life, I told her no kiss that night.

My mom came to my room twice more. The second time she told me that I needed to kiss her so that I wouldn't have any regrets. All that did was make me angrier. I told her that she was only 39 years old and that I'd have thousands of days to kiss her, but I was NOT going to kiss her that night no matter what she said. She looked at me so sadly, far out of proportion for what was going on. Little did I know.

The next morning, I heard a strange sound. It was a gunshot. My mother had killed herself, and we would share no more goodnight kisses. 

Not kissing my mother goodnight on her, unbeknownst to me at the time, last night alive affected me deeply. It changed me profoundly. I determined that I would let people know that I care about them. I would tear down my protective wall. A risky behavior on my part, one that leaves me vulnerable to possible hurt and rejection because many people want to keep their walls up to protect their feelings and don't want their protective walls scaled. I had to learn to share my feelings while not storming others' barricades. I had to find ways to connect. I absolutely refused to let anyone else die before I told him/her that I cared.

To this end, I always hug and kiss good-bye and goodnight. When I love a person, I say so. When I like someone, I hug. No one, and I mean no one, is going to wonder about my feelings. I am big into good-bye waves. I wave until a car filled with friends and/or family members is out of sight. I blow kisses. I send cards. Friends call me a rememberer. I make sure that I leave nothing important unsaid, and probably, as a consequence, share too much unimportant stuff, but that's a small price to pay for making sure the important stuff is said. When I die, I'll be sad, but I'm not planning on having regrets for words left unspoken.

There is always tomorrow, until there isn't, and we don't know when the "isn't" is going to come. Death, mental illness, dementia, all things that take our loved ones away from us, usually come when least expected, and they do not announce their intentions to rob us of our loved ones. So, when you like someone give a hug, when you love someone share your feelings. If we say it today, we won't have to worry about there being a tomorrow.

Take care,

Kate

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