25 or 6 to 4

(It’s been a long while since I have written via this blog. However, here we are!)

25 … a number divisible by 5 … can be represented as a fraction as ¼ … is a U.S. coin with President Washington’s profile on one side and a varied design on the other … And, it is also the number of years since Kathleen Heisey’s life was taken from us and her murder has remained unsolved.

25 years ago – the last day I spent with her, approximately two days before her death – my kids were in tow– ages 6, 4 and 2 – and Kathleen and I spent approximately $200K in state monies that was on the verge of being sent back to Sacramento if not spent by June 30^th!  These monies were to support Pete Wilson’s “Class Size Reduction” movement and the district did not let site principals know the remaining balance until a week before the due date.  The other elementary principal was on vacation and didn’t want to deal with the hassle of spending so much in so little time.  Kathleen and I, however, were ready to for the challenge on that hot Friday in Bakersfield.  She had put feelers out to other teachers about their needs and wants.  Then, she and I hit G.W. School Supply (which at the time was located in a tiny shopping outlet at the corner of California and Oak and was named something else at the time).  We filled shopping carts with puppets, teaching supplies, incentives, and all sorts of other goodies.  From there, we moved onto Barnes and Noble and CompUSA where we had personal shoppers assigned to us to take our orders.  The morning ended with McDonald’s Happy Meals and wind-up Mulan toys (the original cartoon and not the live action remake) and much laughter and many squeals from everyone – including Kathleen – filled the air.  I said, “See you later!  Enjoy the rest of your weekend! … And, I’ll talk to you on Monday as I am doing a training in my classroom at Browning Road.” And we said our goodbyes and went our separate ways.  Monday came, and as I have written before, I fumbled with the newly installed gates around Browning Road School.  Previously, the campus was wide open and no gates or fences existed as Columbine had not yet happened.  The gates were new security and you had to unlock and open, drive your car out, and then get out of your car and lock again.  Kathleen was not at school. No green Saturn with the license plate, “KATEHIC”, in the lot. I called her at home via my brand new, fancy Nokia flip phone that had a limit of like 30 mins/month for calling, only.  Texting wasn’t even an option at that point and with that model! No answer.  I left a message, “Hey it’s me.  I think I must have missed you as I don’t see your car.  Just checking in if you wanted me to lock up”.  Nothing …

And the next day … my world was never the same. Many of us who knew and loved Kathleen were now rowing a paddle boat in a different, unknown and unplanned direction, with little to no guidance as to how to proceed. The news was all over Bakersfield – on the radio, TV, newspaper, and via numerous landline phone calls (that was the norm 25 years ago!)– Kathleen had been found murdered in her house.  The same house that I had visited numerous times … the place where her daughter, Lisa, had taken photos of my kids in the backyard … Gone … Lots of suspicion and finger pointing of possible suspects … but nothing definitive.  No arrests …

Now, it is 25 years later …. A lot of things have changed … currently, I use an iPhone 12 Max that not only calls but can talk to me, navigate, surf the web, and entertain me with various apps – just to name a few functions!  That 4-year-old that I had with me for our shopping spree?  She just graduated from veterinarian school and is completing an internship in neurology a few miles from my house.  Each day, she is leaving the house in scrubs and with a stethoscope around her neck.  The other two have full time jobs and our sharing a townhouse in Bakersfield and are doing well as a thirty-something and an almost thirty-something.  Myself?  I no longer call Bakersfield home and moved to Los Angeles.  Since then I have worked with three county offices, three other districts, and an additional school site.  I have divorced and continued to make some poor choices when it comes to selecting a potential partner. Kathleen missed the birth of grandchildren, including one who just graduated from high school and I was fortunate enough to join family and friends to celebrate her and her mother with this milestone!

What has stayed the same over these 25 years is that I have never forgotten … and I know I am not alone.  Every day, I think of Kathleen and the impact she had on me personally and professionally.  I have a photo of her that is always displayed at my desk.  I always remember her words to me about doing what is best for students and not for the adults.  That sometimes it takes courage to stand up to the Goliaths of this world but the King Sauls need us too!  Almost every decision I make in my life, I think, what would Kathleen say or do?

As time has passed, I have tried to help lend my voice, my memories, my actions to find answers to our questions.  Who murdered my dear friend? I have been interviewed on local and national programs – by armchair gumshoes and professionals.  No one has helped clear the muddy, confusing waters … Potential suspects and other witnesses have been struck with illness and death over these 25 years.  From observation, it appears that the investigation, professionally, was more about the “three steps backward” than the “two steps forward”. 

And, it’s frustrating … disappointing … disillusioning … that we do not have any more definitive answers from those who have investigated than we did after the first 24 hours.

I have, myself, become a bit of a true crime junky in the process.  How do others get the answers and not us? One of my current favorites is a show called Cold Justice and a former prosecutor from Texas helps small town American law enforcement review cold cases and find evidence – even if it is just circumstantial – to take to a prosecutor.  Maybe it is because this series is part of the Dick Wolf universe and I am a card caring member? … however … I love the premise … What details were overlooked?  What details need to be looked at again? Who of all the potential suspects can be eliminated?        

25 years later … almost a lifetime, it seems … and yet, almost, like yesterday.  When will there be justice for and answers about our dear Kathleen and a life cut way too short?

Lucky

“She’s so lucky, she’s a star 
But she cry, cry, cries in her lonely heart, thinking
If there’s nothing missing in my life
Then why do these tears come at night?”

A few years ago, I read the book The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold.  I absolutely loved this book!  In fact, if Gone with the Wind is my all-time favorite book, The Lovely Bones is the close second – the runner up!  I loved her writing and descriptions … the way she captured the family’s grief, pain and agony.  You felt like you were with the family every step in the grieving process all the while reading the back story as the main character tries to accept her own death and the afterlife and help her family look for the answers to the many, unending series of questions.  As it often happens, when one finds an author that is so compelling, you look for more books by his/her pen to devour.  I then discovered Lucky.  From a synopsis online, this is what I found: “Lucky, a memoir hailed for its searing candour and wit, Alice Sebold reveals how her life was utterly transformed when, as an eighteen-year-old college freshman, she was brutally raped and beaten in a park near campus.“ Yes, it’s autobiographical.  Yes, it’s true.  And the title comes from the fact that she was told she was “lucky” because it could have been so much worse because she could have been killed … and there is where the author found the irony.

I immediately could relate as I have a similar situation that I have often told that I was “lucky” and it could have been so much worse …

I was a victim of child sexual abuse.  There, I said it … out loud … wrote it in black and white … for the world to see.  It has taken over forty plus years to say this fact out loud for the world to hear.  Yes, I have whispered to a few … a close few – confidants, friends, lovers.  And, almost everyone has a similar reaction: “Oh, you’re so lucky; others have suffered so much worse!”

Here is how “lucky” I was … I was somewhere between five to six when the abuse happened.  Most say you cannot remember from those ages but the memory for me is as vivid in mind movie as if it happened yesterday – not in black and white, but in full high definition and technicolor.

I was an only child; however, on my dad’s side, in particular, I had much extended family in the form of aunts, uncles, and cousins.  Of all the first cousins, I was the youngest … a child that my parents supposedly tried to have for years and were finally blessed with.  Some, I am sure viewed that I was “spoiled” because of that status, however, that is from the outside … a façade … a fake outer shell … smoke and mirrors, if you will.  When I was five or six – maybe even younger – an older cousin – about twelve years older than myself – came to live with us during the summer to help my dad out on the farm.  While I am not certain about this, I think part of the scenario was for my dad to do some “mentoring” to him.  This cousin – who will remain nameless – I will continue to refer to him as Z – was the closest I had known to what the concept of a sibling could be.  I looked up to him.  I loved the idea of having another “young person” to be around as he hung out at lunch time, evenings, etc.  Until that one day when it all started.  As a child, I was curious and always wanted to be part of the action. Doesn’t the youngest always want to do so??!!!  No matter what was happening on the farm I always found a way to sneak out from the house and see how I could join in.  Most of the adults – my dad and uncle, who he farmed with – wanted me to stay out of danger and allow them to carry on the work; however, frequently, Z would come to my side.  Make me laugh … show me something that was happening with their work.  And then one day, he lead me to behind the grain bins.  Nervously, he unzipped his pants and exposed himself to me.  Before, then, I had never seen a man’s penis before (of course I wouldn’t have – I was only five or so.)  I remember him showing me how it worked and he asked me touch him.  At first, I was uncertain whether to or not – not knowing where that voice or idea was coming from in my child’s mind… but I did touch him… because he told me to. And I trusted him.  And this “game” continued … over time for months … each time he became bolder with me.  Asking me to do other things to him; asking me to show him how may parts were designed and allowing him to touch me.  I am going to stop here with the other sordid details because they really aren’t important to the story.  Suffice it say that it “stopped” before every leading to penetration and that is why I have been told so often that I am “Lucky”.

Probably at least several months later, that “voice” spoke to me again, and told me even though the “game” Z introduced me to may not be wrong, I maybe should tell my mom or dad.  So, I did.  Now, you the reader, imagine if a child significant to you came and shared such an incident, how would you react?  Would you throw him out?  Would you call the police?  Would you confront his father – your brother?  Or, would you do as my parents did when I told them both after mustering enough courage.  They told me to just say no and stay away from him.  They needed his help and there really wasn’t anything else to do.  They thought I must have been encouraging him.  Wow… really?!?! (Says Carol, the fifty year old!).  The abuse continued until Z finally moved on in his life and no longer was living or visiting us.

 

And, so started the downward spiral that I have known since that point of dealing with this abuse.  I was so “Lucky” that – in part – this abuse led to childhood obesity, insecurity in all relationships, several years of battling anorexia nervosa to the point that the general physician who cared for me wanted me to leave my parents’ home and come live with her.  She had no clue about this deep-seeded sexual abuse but what she was learning about, at the time, is that many times it was related to family issues/dynamics.  I went through a lot of counseling and therapy … a lot … from a teen to an adult.  Have I gotten better? – Most certainly! – however I have never been “cured”.  My innocence was lost so many years ago behind those grain bins.  I will never get that back or be able to completely erase this abuse from my memory~

I moved away from my parents … about as far away as I could – first England for student teaching and then California.  I hardly ever looked in the rearview mirror.  I moved on … however, every now and again something would remind me of those moments and I would become almost paralyzed and five years old all over again.

The last time I saw Z was at my parents’ funerals.  In particular, the most memorable was my mother’s funeral.  At the time, I was married and had two of my three children and I was four months pregnant with Dane. My dad made the proclamation that he’d like all of his nephews – Z included – to be a pallbearer.  What?!?!  Are you crazy?!?!  He even said to me, “I know you have issues with Z but I think it is important that he be a pallbearer for your with the other nephews.”  I had issues???!!!!  Z came to the wake/funeral. He barely brushed past me.  While in my child’s mind, he was tall, overpowering – like the Incredible Hulk; through my adult eyes, he was a mouse of a man … who could barely shake my hand and of course made no eye contact.  As it was many years ago – over twenty – and the memory is now a blur as I was in the middle of grief – I blew up at my dad about this incident at the funeral home.  And several extended family members – mostly cousins on both sides – were there to hear the story and heard about this abuse for the first time.  This secret apparently was well kept, placed gently in a box with the cover gingerly placed and taped shut so that no one could know the real truth.  And then – it was out there …

I have not thought about Z for many, many years.  Until this past week when I was recalling some events about this abuse with Thomas and I saw that Z had passed away.  Similarly to the “lookie-lous” on the freeway that I curse every time there is a slow down due to an accident, my friend, Google, and I found all sorts of things to oogle and awe over – including a video put together by the funeral home.  There were a few pictures of him on the farm with my dad and me around the time period that the abuse started.  So forty some years quickly erased themselves and the pain came through as if it were just mere months ago.

For Z – named Z in this writing as it is the end of the alphabet – the story is over.  Did he did good things throughout his life aside from this abuse?  According to his obituary, he did and I am sure that is true.  Have I forgiven Z?  After all of this time … I am pretty sure I have … forgiven … yes … forgotten … no.  Have I forgiven my parents????  … still working on that one!

So, am I “Lucky”???  … well sometimes I do think the answer is yes.  When I place a fifty cent bet on a slot machine in Vegas and get fifty bucks in return? Absolutely!  However, I will agree with Alice Sebold in regards to being “lucky” with this incident of child sexual abuse and say I am not sure that I concur!

 

 

Mama Said There’d Be Days Like This – Part II

Part II – The calm before the storm …

I made use of my time and resources in July with a trip to visit two of my three kids.  First, stopping in Bakersfield to see my youngest and only son, Dane, and then traveling north to see Sammie in Davis where she was still living after college graduation, working as a veterinarian tech.  Time with them and returning to my core helped to repair a few of the cracks in my confidence, although the deeper, wider ones were hard to ignore as each day with the “ding” of email notifications there were always one or two job rejection emails.  Returning home, I continued to “enjoy” my forced vacation, still working each day to search for jobs and apply.  I had several friends cheering me on from the sidelines … “Oh, did you see XYZ job posted?” … “Hey, have you thought about applying for XYZ?” … “XYZ district is a great place to work; I know John/Jane, let me follow up with him/her and see what’s happening with the current job opening.”  As advice and suggestions were given, I gingerly listened and followed each little morsel that was placed on my plate. I widened not only the geography of my job search but also the scope of work … the type of job.

And then the end of July was approaching.  Money was running low and the cracks in my confidence were spread almost everywhere – like cobwebs displayed on old furniture in an abandoned, forgotten home.  My oldest daughter, Laura, who now lives in Seattle, lent a hand after I melted down to her via a virtual conversation.  She was able to help with a gift card for food which felt like a huge weight off my shoulders; in addition, she started helping me with revising and improving my cover letters that were sadly throwbacks to the early 2000’s  and a time when job searching was much easier for myself.  Her writing and editing skills were amazing and I truly believe that some of the jobs that I got called to for interviews were doors that were opened by the cover letters she finessed.

Summer, in L.A. was hot and humid.  The calendar page turned from July 31st to August 1st and still no job.  I knew the start of a new school year was just around the corner.  I worked more feverishly … searched more diligently.  Spent greater time preparing for each interview, doing my research and homework.  And yet, no job.  What I did have were more phone calls from bill collectors.  I was behind on most payments – my car, my utilities, my loans … my focus was on two things – pooling together whatever resources we could come up with to make rent and keep the gas and electricity on. Andres began to throw in most of his salary towards helping me make rent.  And, I became pretty proficient at humbling myself and asking for help. Laura, again, stepped in and helped with a phone bill; another friend lent me money for utilities.  I became quite expert at “robbing Peter to pay Paul”.  I researched all types of assistance options … help with utilities … food banks and assistance.  In the meantime, I learned that while on unemployment, there are several caveats that include interviews, required trainings, job fairs, and etc.  Each time … each opportunity … my pride was swallowed and my humility grew.  I have always heard the phrase, “Pride goeth before the fall.” and I wasn’t going to fall.  So, I tried and tried.  I spent a morning at Catholic Charities – only to find out that I made too much money on unemployment so I could not qualify for utility assistance; however, they sent me home with four bags of groceries and I felt like I had won the lottery!  Money that I might have scrimped and saved to pay for food could now go towards someplace else.

Along the way, I had continued support  of friends who would call or text to check in on my.  After August came September and October and the only thing that really changed was that my confidence felt like it was almost completed shattered into little pieces as all I had were more rejection letters, more phone calls from creditors and etc. and less hope for things coming to a proverbial good ending. There was no longer a Paul to rob from to pay Peter; scrambling to make just rent was almost becoming a full time job.  Even when Andres and I threw together all that we had for rent, there was still a need to pay for phone – my only connection to calls and contacts for jobs – and electricity.  While my parents and grandparents, of course, lived a life without something they could have deemed as a “luxury”, I couldn’t envision it in 21st century Los Angeles, given that the stove and refrigerator were two of the things that were sustaining me and I had no recourse around these things.   All sorts of anxiety reared its ugly heads … Where would I live? … I couldn’t afford living here … so … and with threats of my car being taken, I couldn’t even imagine driving somewhere to escape or live.

In the midst of this chaos, my health insurance lapsed as of the end of July.  As someone who has Type II diabetes, I had been dependent on medication to keep my sugar levels balanced in addition to keeping my blood pressure at a reasonable rate.  In addition, in late October, my physician from Bakersfield called to tell me that one of my tests that I had in completed in July came back with negative results – a sign of cancer – and I needed to be looked at immediately (after a huge lapse in time needed to communicate this information that was supposedly due to her lack of being made aware of the results).  I became numb.  I wasn’t even going to think of asking the question, “What else could happen?”, because I did not want to even hazard a guess on the answer.  I was on a carousel that kept circling and circling, speeding up with each rotation, and there was no sign that anyone was going to be able to stop it and allow me to get off.

My oldest daughter, Laura, came to visit me and it was a welcomed treat.  She bought me dinner – so nice to have restaurant food again.  We went and visited a museum and it was nice to just walk around and take something in aesthetically again and not let the worry and doubt overcome all my senses.  On the day she arrived in L.A., I had an interview with a school district about an hour from my home for the position of categorical director.  Mind you … my confidence was still pretty broken and in pieces but I felt pretty good about the connections I made with the interview panel as well as how I portrayed my skill set and how I was a match for their advertised position.  During Laura’s visit, this district actually called me to schedule a second interview with the superintendent and others.  Immediately after, Laura critiqued my responses, saying I didn’t sound enthused enough. However, I did attend this interview and in my mind was trying to be the most enthused person on the planet, given Laura’s take of my phone performance.  And, a few days later I got a call that they’d like a picture of myself to use during a board meeting as they presented my candidacy.  I had never been asked this before and this photo now created anxiety that was finally resolved with the emailing of the perfect picture.

Laura returned to Seattle and after the school board meeting, I received the call I had been waiting for.  I had been asleep and my phone was on silent -to avoid creditors – and I saw that I had a missed phone call from the Rialto Unified School District.  I immediately called back.  While going through a myriad of choices to get the person who had actually called me, I saw that the human resources assistant who had been my contact had sent me an email.  “Good morning!  Please give me a call.  I have good news!”

Good news … I had been waiting months for good news.  And, for whatever reason, this day in November was the day it had arrived.  I was in denial … disbelief … almost numb … However, in spite of all of this I felt a huge sense of relief.  A regular school administrator’s salary would be my welcomed, monthly friend once again.  The journey was over.  No matter that I’d still have to go until over a month and a half until having said salary again; the light at the end of the tunnel was finally visible.  Unfortunately, the third day on the job I was in my first, major car accident and of course, the timing was horrible, once again, it was not the worst thing that happened in 2017. However no one was seriously hurt and cars can be replaced or repaired. I saw defeat around every corner in early 2017.  My eyes had adjusted to the darkness; it was almost impossible to see any light in any situation.  So, the accident was a final hiccup in an experience – now seen as a finite amount of time – that would soon be in the past.

I still feel fragile.  While the cracks and webs in my confidence are starting to repair, it will take some time.  Of all life’s experiences, these moments of job loss, unemployment, and desperation are not moments I readily want to relive any time soon.  It could have been worse … yes, yes I know … but what seemed “worse” for me during this time period was often unbearable from my perspective.

How did I get through such an ordeal?  I often ask myself … Here are a few things that helped:

1. I didn’t stop reaching out to people no matter how hard it was.  I do have great friends … some friends I have known for a short time … others for a lifetime. Whether I just needed to vent … to share with someone that I had received yet another rejection letter or  some friends were even able to help financially or with other resources such as food; I will be forever in their debt.
2. I took time to heal myself.  I have a lot of old wounds and scars; we all do.  It’s called life.  However, some of my wounds and scars have been buried quite deeply.  I had a long time friend that I rediscovered a few months ago – Carmen Vesztergom.  Currently, she lives in the UK but had visited LA a few months ago.  It was great to reconnect. She is a very proficient in reiki healing and she visited with me via Skype a few times.  And, I really feel like I turned a corner and healed in some key areas – especially in regards to my past eating habits and disorders.
3. A very special teacher, Connie Jameson, – one who I met in my previous district – purchased a starter kit for me of Rodan and Fields products.  While I still haven’t been able to make my mark in sales, her support got me to try some fabulous products that make my skin feel great.  Some days, I was feeling so down that the highlight of my day was washing my face.  Having a nighttime routine and feeling rejuvenated before going to bed would often set a positive tone for the next day.
4. My animals kept me feeling loved and sane.  My cats seemed to enjoy the added attention and presence.  Frequently, they would nestle next to me and often when I would wake in the middle of the night, they would provide me great comfort.  I also kept the bird feeder stocked on the balcony outside and I have made several fine feathered friends that even come up to me when I step outside the front door.  And, I can’t forget the two dogs that have made me a dog lover – almost equal to cats – Paisley and Jackson.
5. Netflix.  Yes … When in doubt, I found myself lost in series that I “binged” to escape.  From Stranger Things … to Mindhunter … to Call the Midwife and almost every British show that is included in the line up.
6. I never gave up … even when it would have been easier to.  I kept putting one foot in front of the other.  I tried to keep a routine; that helped keep me sane.  But, I never, ever gave up.
7. I prayed – a lot.  Thomas and Andres have been on a spiritual journey that has led them to a Pentecostal church.  I attended with them several times; however, I always felt most at home at Mass … in a local Catholic church.  The tradition, the smells, the familiarity … all wrapped me in a big, comfortable blanket; each time I left the doors with new found hope and strength.

Of all the calendar years I have welcomed and said goodbye to – 2017 is one that I am definitely going to enjoy having in my rearview mirror.  Happy New Year’s, Everyone.  And, thank you!!!

Mama Said There’d Be Days Like This … Part I

Mama said there’d be days like this … there’d be days like this … Mama said …

Actually … not true!  🙂 My mother or even my mother’s mother could not have predicted “days like this”… several days, in fact, during 2017.  If she had, I think I would have done so many things to either prevent or reduce the impact of the pain, agony, and disappointment that I experienced this year.  Or … alternatively, I would have found a way to burrow under the covers and hibernate for most of this year, not waking until the proverbial corner had been turned and it was safe, again, to come out and experience the warmth of the sun.

However, I did not have the opportunity to hibernate – or run away – but live in a series of moments that were some of the hardest, most painful, ones I have yet to have experienced.

The journey all began on March 8, 2017.  The day, itself, was marked with extreme busyness and  attention to details as my department with the school district that I was employed with, hosted a student event called Math Field Day.  I was busy with monitoring events, organizing awards and ribbons, and reviewing details.  As the last award was given and final photo was taken by a proud parents, I scurried to clean up and my boss and superintendent told me that she wanted to speak to me about something important.  Mind you, the time of this request was on or about 6:30 p.m. and I had been at work and involved with these tasks since at least 7:30 a.m. – ah, the life of a school administrator.  She (my boss) had me go to the main building of this school, having the site custodian let us in to a random teacher’s room (who interestingly was still on campus for this event and came in, briefly, as she started her conversation).  She led with a diversion, or so it seemed, about a potential leave of absence of one of my staff members, and then she announced, “It is a very hard decision for me to make but after much thought I have decided that I am taking your name to the school board tomorrow night to recommend your dismissal at the end of the school year.”  Wait …. What???!!! Did I hear that right?!  For dismissal?  Is this really happening?   While, yes, my superintendent had had issue with some of the things that I had done (mostly because I was successful with the varied experience and skill I had brought to this position), I had done absolutely everything she had asked and beyond.  No word had been spoken to me about any concerns she may have had since my one and only evaluation for this district on July 2, 2016.  (I had been with the district since February 19, 2015). If you are an educator, the dates may seem significant and I really did not have an official job evaluation each school year as outlined in education code.  I was stunned to say the least!  I asked, “What grounds are being used for dismissal?”  “Well …”, she stammered, “You are just not a fit for this school district. All you have to do is find another job and then resign from this one and that’s how it will work.”  I asked about a couple more specifics; she shared and I rebutted.  She shared another example; I shared facts and data to support my completion of aforementioned.  Point … counterpoint … point … counterpoint.  And then, I decided to stop the volleying back and forth, grab the “ball”, and run.  “Do you need a minute to compose yourself?,” she asked, pushing a box of kleenex in my direction.  “No”, I replied, “I’m fine!.”  (And no, I was not fine, I was actually mad as Hell but of course I was not going to give her the satisfaction of seeing any emotion from myself.)  Flashbacks of the way I was bullied and mistreated ran through my head.  All the belittling and harsh words that were carefully orchestrated to be shared behind closed doors and only when I was present.  The manipulation of all work I did to be twisted as “wrong” and needed to be reworked and replaced within one of her pre-created yellow and blue templates.  I had swallowed so many words before this moment … did exactly what I was asked to do … stopped sharing my opinions the minute a stern glance was sent my way.  Flashbacks served as an “I told you so …” from my gut and intuition.  I thought I could keep such fate at bay with my attempts at compliance but I my stubbornness and perseverance were soon to be sorely defeated.

The next few days … weeks even … are now a blur.  The board meeting occurred and a 3-2 vote was cast in favor of letting me go.  My phone was on fire and all wires were burning via phone calls, text and Facebook messages.  I was wronged; I was innocent.  I did not break any laws and did all the things I was told.  I had improved systems and test scores and forged relationships with staff, teachers, students, and parents and it did not matter – not one iota!  Surely, good will prevail I thought.  I will either not lose this job … or something even better will come along before June 30th.

I began my job search journey almost immediately.  I polished the dust off my resume; reactivated some job search accounts.  I was ready to find that next, right job although I have to admit that I had hoped by some miracle – enveloped in denial – that I would miraculously not lose this job.  I had support of many caring, dedicated professionals at my workplace.  I felt, however, that I was diagnosed with a fatal, deadly disease and hospice was just around the corner.  Many did not know what to even say to me when they saw me.  I received more hugs and pats on the back (as well as kind words) during that time period than I have for most of my adult life.  Everyone knew … many agreed it was wrong and evil … most knew it was driven just by one person.  I had brave souls come forward and send emails and speak on my behalf at board meetings.  Yet, the decision was not going to reverse itself.

I submitted several online applications and the first few jobs, I received what would end up being over 100 letters, stating, “Thank you for taking the time to apply for the position XYZ, for the XYZ School District. We were very impressed with the quality of the candidates who applied for the position. Unfortunately, you were not selected to continue on to the next level of this recruitment process. We appreciate your interest and the time and effort that you invested in applying for this position and wish you success in your future endeavors.”  In essence … it’s not you, it’s me (us); you’re just not the right “fit”.  So, I tried … again … and again … and again …

A few months into this journey, I learned that there is a secret club that exists and no one really talks about.  It is similar to the “The Dead Mothers’ Club” that I heard about while watching a HBO documentary.  This documentary, that included interviews of famous people whose mothers had died, outlined that one really did not understand living and surviving the loss of a mother until one actually experienced.  Having lost both of my parents and several significant family members, I would agree that this premise is true.  Therefore, the new secret club that I joined (or was involuntarily signed up for) was “School Administrators Dismissed Without Good Cause” Club.  I had a couple of close friends who had experienced their names taken to board as mine was and they became compassionate and truly empathetic listeners.  Their advice was on target.  Immediately, I applied any advice or counsel I received.

In May, I finally landed a couple of interviews.  I purchased some new accessories and clothes for this latest job search endeavor.  I had always been told that I interview well.  I secured several jobs before this one.  I was confidant.  I went to the first interview, second interview, third interview, and for at least one of them, I was invited back for a second.  The other two, I waited the appropriate amount of time and did not receive the awaited phone call.  Soon, an email would come, stating that I was not chosen for the position.  I went to the second interview, wearing a different suit and accessories, yet still quite confident.  However, the end of the week, I received the dreaded phone call from the HR secretary, stating, “Mr. XYZ wanted me to call you and let you know that a different candidate was selected.  We are sorry.”  Again, it’s not you, it’s us; you’re just not a fit.

A slight crack in my confidence seemed to appear – similar to a small rock hitting a car windshield – ever so slightly – the crack spread – slowly, carefully, with one rejection after the other.  I still hung onto hope with the coming of June which would be my final month with the school district.  At this time, I was in alignment with Kubler-Ross’ stages of grieving and I oscillated between denial, bargaining, and anger – sometimes all at once, circling like a cyclone.  While searching for a job, I was also carrying out my duties as director as if my final prize would be a big button, proclaiming how I righteously did all that I was told to and following all the rules in spite of how I was being wronged.  I know that there was a part of me who really believed that a miracle may happen and that I wouldn’t be released.  Yet, I applied and applied.  Sprinkled in during this time were a few interviews, and followed by numerous rejection letter/emails again … again … and again …  The crack in my confidence was widening, deepening, spreading out of control that soon a myriad of spider web cracks were visible versus one small, tiny line that first appeared.

June 30, 2017 …my last day … came … went … and I did not have a job.  I had several applications simmering and an occasional interview scheduled.  However, when July 31st came around, I had no game plan for a paycheck.  So, I filed a claim for unemployment benefits.  I had never filed before.  Because I was somewhat bullied or strong-armed into resigning versus and official, final board decision to let me go, I had lots of explaining through email and phone interviews to gain final approval for benefits.  Phew!  Or so I thought … until I realized that the maximum I would get per month would be only 22% of the salary that I was used to take home.  How was I going to afford my car, phone, rent, utilities?!?!  I’ve had a lifetime, literally, of being the main bread earner and I could see no other possibility other than finding a job as soon as possible – but the rejection letters kept coming.

With this move to the Los Angeles area, I had taken on the role, again, of being the main source of income with Andres, Thomas’ son, completing his Associates’ and currently working locally in a job paying minimum wage and Thomas’ decision to return to school.  I was able to afford such a position and support such a choice but without this job and salary, I did not know how to sustain such an arrangement.  Almost immediately, I cashed out a 403b for retirement that I had started a couple of years, prior.  In addition, I knew a check was coming to pay out my vacation days — days that I had been hoarding, saving, counting and recounting since I was given my marching orders in March.  I still clung to the hope that I would very soon secure a new position just in time for the start of a new school year.

To be continued … to find out the rest of the story, please check out Part II.

First to fight for the right – And to build the Nation’s might …

Quarantined.  Yes, you read that correctly, I was quarantined.  Flashback to the summer of 1988 and I was working at Camp Algonquin as a counselor for a program that was sponsored by United Charities of Chicago.  This camp provided a week away from the city for single moms and their children who were under stress due to poverty, violence (domestic or otherwise), or life in general.  As a camp counselor, I had been exposed to chicken pox … again … in my life, having alluded this disease on numerous occasions throughout my childhood where every little bug bite or hive would be assumed to be the outbreak – finally – only to send me home one day and return the next, having been fooled once again by in itch that was not of the chicken pox variety.  The camp nurse – surprised and shocked to hear that I had not contracted this common childhood disease all these years decided that I should be quarantined because I had several red bumps and had been exposed to a miniature camper that had to have his summer fun ended and was sent home to fight off the virus and avoid scratching.  So, here I was … quarantined in the nurse’s quarters.  What to do? … hmmm … well, there was no TV, no radio, a few outdated magazines, and the latest Chicago newspapers.  I don’t remember having a book with me so I began to read the Chicago Sun Times more voraciously than I ever had since that seemed to be my only source of entertainment.  I came across the Dear Abby column which I read from time to time.  Her current prose was not advice to the lost or lovelorn but rather a plea for letters and correspondence for military personnel who were stationed in isolated duty outside of Alaska.  My interest was piqued!

Little did Dear Abby know but I was raised quite military proud as I had two uncles who had served in World War II.  My father was also supposed to serve but when a mastoid in his ear was discovered, he was sent back home.  One uncle – my Uncle Ernie – had attended Officer Candidate School and eventually became a captain in the US Army, serving his country proudly while designing bridges and etc. and leading his company.  My other uncle – Uncle Ed – had served as a Lieutenant in Japan and the Pacific and never really talked about his time there as he had truly seen the horrors of war on the front lines and first hand.  Uncle Ernie, however, had fueled my romanticized version of the military and that time period; he had stayed in close contact and with many of his army “buddies”, often attending reunions and get togethers.  He kept a duffle bag packed with his uniform and things — a uniform that now sits in the back of my closet — ready to serve his country at a moment’s notice.  As a child, I spent hours in his lap, listening to his tales of his time abroad and his service to our country – all the time regaling stories to me of army life and life in England.

I wrote a letter to an unknown serviceman (or woman) and sent that letter to the address outlined by Dear Abby.  I asked the nurse for a stamp and put it in the camp mail (or rather the nurse did because, yes, I was still quarantined!).  A day or so later, my red, itchy bumps were deemed to be mosquito bites and I went back to my young campers and fellow friends and counselors and soon forgot about my quarantined stay in the health center.

Fast forward to the Fall of 1988, I was back at Blackburn College and busy once again with life as a college student – classes, teaching observations, tutoring, and of course a little partying (what?!  All work and no play made Carol a very dull girl!).  Mail (yes, the snail mail variety – the only one of its kind at the time) was the number one day brightener.  Imagine my surprise when I received a letter from a Coast Guardsman named Phil Lombardo who was stationed off the coast of Midway Island at a place called Kure Island.  He was stationed along with 20 other Coast Guard men (only men) on this island, monitoring LORAN equipment and enjoying island life.  Apparently, Dear Abby had done such a good job recruiting support and letters for the isolated duty military off the coast of Alaska that some of the letters got routed to Phil’s station.  Amongst all the letters, he picked mine out – along with a couple of others – and sent a letter.  

I wrote to Phil throughout the rest of my college years, detailing the mundane things one does as a college student and sharing with him some of the American life moments he might have missed while away and he shared the details of his military life and life as “Gilligan” as he was stranded on an island thousands of miles away.  Via the mail, we became fast friends and while, yes, I had romantic interests and thought he did as well – until I found out he was also writing to a few other girls at the same time 😉 – the friendship was what was most important.  As my uncle Ernie had passed earlier in 1988, I am sure a huge part of my draw to Phil was the conversations we had that reminded me of happier times with my uncle.  Because of my uncle’s stories and experiences, I always had a huge admiration for those who served in the military.  Phil would share not only words but several pictures that he developed himself while on the island.  Images of birds and wildlife were captured.  He had sent me a picture of himself in his Coast Guard dress uniform and of course, I was smitten.  These images brought his written words to life.  Mail was a tricky thing for him as it came and went only once a week via a helicopter. I admired his hard work and dedication; his positive attitude and willingness to serve our country.  He had shared stories with me of other Coast Guard stations he had served at including Martha’s Vineyard and outside of New York City.  Again, fuel for fire of the familiar connection I once had with someone who was near and dear to my heart.

The rest of the story, as Paul Harvey used to state, is that young Carol went back to Camp Algonquin once again the next summer (Although no chicken pox scare as she finally contracted them during Spring Break a year later and missed a trip to build Habitat for Humanity houses with former president Jimmy Carter!) and she finally graduated from Blackburn after a study abroad trip to the country her uncle shared so many stories about.  Yes, she did get to see the daffodils in the springtime as they dotted the English countryside.  She and Phil did finally meet, got engaged and were married.  She had captured the heart of the young Coast Guardsman whose picture travelled with her to home … to across the ocean … and back.  That story may not have had the final happy ending originally hoped for – however, three beautiful children, now young adults, is not too bad of story that is still in progress!

For those of you who have served, who love someone who is serving or has served you, I salute you!  The sacrifice to keep our shores – and beyond – safe is larger than any word can say.  Thank you … thank you all … for your service and sacrifice!  

Back in Time …

A few nights ago, I pulled this old, wool blanket out from under my bed where it was stored (or rather stuffed out of sight). My dad had named it “Old Red”. It was the blanket that was always used by whomever was sick at the time and was often hauled out of my parent’s closet on those occasions. I remember it being a monstrosity of a blanket that would wrap around me and I would immediately feel better. At one time Old Red had nice, red satin trim that I used to like to rub against my face but alas … the red satin trim has been long lost and forgotten.

Now, no, I am not sick and I am not sure why I still even possess this raggedy treasure from the past. Most likely it was to bring about some extra comfort. I have been feeling lost lately, trying to find purpose again. Facing an invisible crossroads in front of me and almost afraid to take any step in fear that it will be the wrong one! I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and I sometimes feel like a stranger is staring back at me. Perhaps this self doubt could all be chalked up to my job search situation … or a midlife crisis (LOL) I am not certain!

However, being enveloped in Old Red’s scratchy yet comforting embrace made me reflect on past times of my life. In the wee hours of the morning, with just a few city sounds outside and the low whirr of my fan, I thought about moments that I’d like to go back to – even for just a short visit. To make this more palatable for the reader (if there is more than just myself – LOL), I decided to make this into a top ten list – similar to the countdown that David Letterman was known for.

Here are Carol’s top 10 back in time travel destinations:

10. The Blizzard of 1978 – Do you remember midwestern friends? I remember looking out the window in amazement. Drifts of snow that came to roof level of our barn and farm buildings called my name be explored. The silence that blanketed our house from the insulation of the snow is still memorable. At time, I had the mumps, however my mom knew she couldn’t keep me contained so after a couple of days, I was bundled up in a snow suit along with a hat, scarf, and mittens,and I bounded up and down one snow drift after the other. Yes, I miss snow!

9. My final student teaching practice in Ambleside, Cumbria, England. If there were a set time that I would say everything was “perfect” it would have been the 6 months I spent in England for my final student teaching. It began with a dream and was nourished and later flourished after my college professor, Dr. Gem Reid, had picked up a flyer at an international student conference of a small teaching college that was located in the Lake District. Growing up, my uncle who had been stationed in the UK during World War II, and he filled my head with descriptions that were only fueled by all the books I read. I loved every moment – every place I visited. I got to experience spring in the Lake District – the same place described by Wordsworth. The very green hills dotted with yellow daffodils … beautiful white swans that swam in the lakes and rivers … every rugged castle that begged to be explored. (Why, again, did I not stay????!!!!)

8. Las Vegas Trip from December 2013 – When I decided to move from Bakersfield to Los Angeles with Thomas, I had a lot of doubt and nervousness. I don’t do well with change – especially the impending part. I had secured a job with Los Angeles County Office of Ed and we were to move, officially, on December 11th. The Vegas trip was completely spontaneous and irresponsible given that I wasn’t even packed yet to move … Thomas and I decided that afternoon, we booked a room for a couple of nights and journeyed eastward. I had never experienced the old Vegas and upon our arrival, we stopped at Fremont Street. I loved the neon of the old … the stale smell of smoke … the past captured in the present. I was quite lucky that trip as well and won $900. It was amazing! And, so was the company. We laughed and played and laughed some more. I miss those days. The stress of my current reality has taken its toll.

7. Feeding a Giraffe – Little known fact: You can feed the giraffes at the Santa Barbara Zoo. I have always loved giraffes. I am not sure when this obsession began but it has been lifelong obsession. I love seeing what could be an awkward creature move so methodical and graceful. How beautiful their faces are with long, curly eyelashes. So, one trip that I made with Sammie and Laura, I went and paid the small amount for the lettuce, essentially, and climbed up to the platform and got my opportunity to feed my lifelong, favorite animal.

6. My graduations – I have worn a cap and gown at least four times in my life. From 8th grade (which was a big deal in the small town I was from) to high school, I first experienced the excitement and joy of completing and academic task and donning a cap and gown. Even more enjoyable was completing my undergraduate and graduate degrees. When I conferred my Masters’ degree, I was fortunate enough to have my friend and mentor, Chris Doyle, “hood” me and my children were able to watch from the risers.

5. My wedding to Phil – You may assume that because I am divorced, this event would not make it to my top 100 list, let alone my top 10; however, I feel it is correctly placed at number 5. We didn’t start out bad or broken. We began good and whole – as two united as one. We had a beautiful church service and we were both filled with such love and hope. I wish things had stayed that way but alas they did not. Still, it was a beautiful day that I reflect upon often.

4. First trip to Disneyland with the kids – Yes, I am a bit of a Disney fanatic! I did not visit Disney World, myself, until I was 16 when I visited my aunt and uncle in Florida. I remember being mystified at all the attractions that I had only heard of. I visited in the summer which meant, of course, in Florida that it rained a couple of times and was hot and humid, but that didn’t matter! When I first took the kids, the excitement was almost doubled. I remember Laura’s little hand in mine and she was almost shaking with excitement and joy. It almost brought tears to my eyes several times as I remember feeling the same when first visiting such a magical, happy place!

3. A visit with my Grandma – I spent a lot of one on one time with my Grandma. I was her youngest grandchild. I remember looking up at her as she cooked, often perched in a chair along side her. I remember her crocheting in the evenings or reading the paper and I would lay my head on her lap and she would stop what she was doing to stroke my hair, moving it from my face to behind my ear. Every time I do that, myself – inadvertently move my hair to behind my ear – I think of her. She and I spoke Slovak together – as if it were our own secret language. I am sad I did not get more time to spend with her.

2. The birth of my children – I was fortunate enough to have three normal pregnancies and deliveries and while yes, a fair amount of pain and discomfort were involved, I would not trade those moments for anything in the world! I remember the great joy of holding each of them for the first time, counting fingers and toes and tracing noses and faces with my index finger. Holding little miracles for the first time still takes my breath away.

1. A day with my Uncle Ernie – You may have thought that the birth of my kids would have been Number 1. A close second but I really have to say that my Uncle Ernie has been on my mind so much as of late. He was my dad’s oldest brother and yes, my favorite. He and his wife, Doris, could not have kids so the nieces and nephews enjoyed extra attention. I loved talking to him. He always tried to understand where I was coming from when I shared my most private thoughts and dreams with him. One of my favorite memories was when he would take me down to State Street in Chicago at Christmas time to see all the store displays. It was so magical! Animated characters coming to life, bright, flashing lights, sounds and smells of the holidays… and walking with him and my (then) small hand in his. He passed away when I was a junior in college. There is so much I’d like to tell him … to ask him. I still remember what it feels like to receive a hug from him, with his arms wrapped tight around me – so close I could smell the faint fresh soap and slight scent of aftershave. I miss him so much!

So, there you have it! Carol’s top ten back in time travel desires. Unfortunately there is no sign of Doc or Marty or even a DeLorean so these are going to have to stay as cherished memories. Still, I do have Old Red (although he got tossed into the washer and dryer as he was a bit dusty after his stay under my bed) to wrap me up tonight and help me remember times that had a bit more joy and bit more happiness!

Only the Good Die Young …

Subtitle: Why Do Bad Things Happen to Good People?

For those of you who are friends with me on Facebook, you know that I posted that this past weekend I took to searching in my version of “Fibber McGee’s Closet” (okay, I had old parents who brought their old cultural references to me! Ha!), looking for a long, lost treasure.  While the particular treasure that I had in mind is still lost among the shoes, craft items, clothes, etc., I found many other “treasures”, including old Christmas cards and photos of friends and family from long ago.  Along with these items of now memorabilia, I found several small photos of my dear college friend, Susan’s, children when they were small.  Susan and I were very close friends when I was at Blackburn College.  We were both the same age and of the same major – elementary education.  Susan was the friend that I studied with … laughed and partied with … cried a few tears with… the list goes on and on.  However, after graduation, I moved to California, got married, had three kids … and never looked back at Illinois very much while swept away with life’s busyness.  We were in contact now and again, she much better than I with sending Christmas cards and messages through the years and most recently reconnected on Facebook.  I always remember our love and friendship with a huge smile on my face and I always remember her huge smile and heart that I know have not changed one bit over time.  Most recently, Susan and her family have had to endure a horrible loss – one that is most parents lifelong fear – the loss of a child.  Her teenage daughter, Anna, was killed in a car accident around Easter a year or so ago. I am sure that Susan recalls the exact date, time and minute this event occurred and is much more precise than “around Easter a year or so ago”.  My heart continues to go out to her and her family.  Anna’s school pictures as a young baby and small girl were among the treasures I found last weekend.  A little girl that I only knew through pictures; however, the smile and sparkle always looked familiar to me as I saw those same attributes in my dear college friend. Just yesterday, Susan had posted a picture of her daughter from a Timehop memory.  Many friends commented as I had with warm thoughts and prayers, but I had added, “I don’t know how you do it.”  Her response sparked some thought on my behalf.  She replied,  “Thank you Carol, whenever people say that, we respond with “we don’t have a choice.” I don’t get it and prob never will but it is what we’re dealt with so I try to find joy each day. Not always an easy task. But Anna always found the joy….💜💜💜” You may be asking yourself as I have … why Susan and her family? … why this particular family was given this set of obstacles?

Many of you know that I have my current struggles in search of full time employment.  There is definitely a back story with many sordid details that don’t need to be rehashed or relived.  However, suffice it to say that I had a high level job in a school district involving curriculum and instruction and I really enjoyed what I was doing.  I seemed to have made connections with almost everyone in the district except for my boss and that ended up with my name being taken to the school board for dismissal.  I felt it was out of the blue but of course, there were signs along the way.  I had done great work, created an awesome team, made connections with many teachers, staff, and parents, and even improved test scores.  Completed the list of all the things to do personally to “improve” – do all as I was asked – but for naught.  Nothing. Nada.  I felt as though I was in one of those Spaghetti Westerns that my ex-husband watched time and time again.  Out in the heat of the Southwest … sun blazing down … I become displaced with one of the hombres (although not a bad one, in my humble opinion) … looking side to side … facing my enemy … waiting for Clint E. to show up in his sarape, hat, and a cigar dangling from his lower lip.  However, Clint E. never showed up to save the day.  No hat and sarape … no instantly recognized music playing for his arrival … He must have decided to be Dirty Harry for the day and save someone else because the end of June came and bullets rang through the air and I was left, heaped in a pile and awaiting the arrival of the buzzards and other scavengers. For 27 years, I have always prided myself on my career – the jobs I had … the work I did.  And while I have applied and applied with a few interviews sprinkled here and there, I still have not secured full time employment.  Yes, I have asked the question, “Why Me?”  “What did I do to deserve this?”  “What could I have done to prevent this?”

So, I subtitled this “Why Do Bad Things Happen to Good People?”  I know there are books on the topic, even.  I’ve read at least one that was written by a Rabbi.  At the time I read, when my friend Kathleen had been murdered, it made sense to at least help me to not feel completely helpless and alone but this question comes up time and time again.  As I write this, there are earthquakes that have occurred in Mexico and Japan.  Hurricanes have impacted several shores; most currently, the entire island of Puerto Rico is without electricity because of said hurricane. Homes lost … lives lost … even hope lost.  I am sure that there are several “good” people out there asking the same, exact question – “Why me?”.

This past weekend, Thomas treated Andres and I to the movies and we saw Mother! with Jennifer Lawrence and Javier Bardem.  *SPOILER ALERTS TO COME!!*  If you Google reactions to this movie, you will see quite the array of responses. People either liked or hated it and there were very few opinions found to be in between.   Much of the movie was allegory and metaphor – of which I enjoy – so I did like the film.  There are many parallels to the Bible (which given the director/writer is agnostic or atheist is quite interesting) and Javier plays Him (aka God, Jehovah, the Almighty, etc).  In several parts of the movie, Javier is seen trying to love and welcome everyone. He listens without apparent judgement.  Chaos could be raining both inside and outside and Jennifer (Mother Earth) watches in horror, wishing that Javier would just do something to stop the madness.  And, he tried on occasion but most of the time the people kept coming and coming and their free will prevailed. After reading Susan’s comment, I have thought about the graphic portrayal that this movie provided in regards to all these event happening without, what appears, to be a “good” reason.     

I don’t have the answer to the question, “Why Do Bad Things Happen to Good People?”.  If I did, I am sure that my money worries and woes would be over!  We all have our ‘crosses to bear’ and yes sometimes those ‘crosses’ seem unbearable.  I do think that Susan’s response actually is what I have been trying to do during this time of frustration and uncertainty – to find a bit of joy each day.  Some days that is harder than others.  At some point, I know these grey skies will clear up … but until then, this writer is putting on her “happy face” and continuing to put one foot in front of the other.

You may say I’m a DREAMER, But I’m Not the Only One

     A few weeks ago, Thomas, Andres, and I were driving to Santa Barbara for the day to attend Thomas’ family reunion.  As weekend trips on the 101 can be a bit hectic, Waze took us on the scenic route on the 118 through the Simi Valley and back roads to Ventura.  Amidst our bickering about either how loud and possibly annoying the music was (from myself) or how cold it was in the car due to the A/C that was turned up – via stealth mode – by someone experiencing a hot flash (from Thomas), I remember looking up at one point and seeing fields with rows of farm workers picking some kind of crop.  They were visible from both sides of the road. Dressed with long sleeves and big floppy hats to protect from the prickly or scratchy plants and often less than favorable weather, they moved up and down the fields.  Mind you that although I have currently been job searching, the biggest worry I had on that day was Thomas’ music choices and the temperature of the inside of the car.  As we passed them, I stopped a couple of times and said silent prayers for their efforts and sacrifices.  I know that the work that they do is hard.  I come from a long line of tenant farmers and I know what it takes to get up in the morning and work out in the elements.  I hated every minute of it.  I would try to find anything to get out of it!  However, here were those workers, under the heat of the blazing sun, working to pick some product on a Saturday that we can all enjoy at our dinner table all in the name of a better life for those they hold near and dear to their hearts.

     Now, I am not making the assumption that all of these farm workers are here illegally.  Of course, there are many who went the direct channels and have permission to work in the USA.  There are many who represent generations of Americans who have lived and worked in this country. However, there are some, of course, who were not able to access those channels and found a more elusive, dangerous path to get here with the same goal in mind – a better life for their families.  From my very comfortable position of inside Thomas’ car, it is impossible to see or know the difference between those two groups – those here legally and those not.

     As a teacher in both McFarland, CA (Yes, like the Disney movie!  I knew BOTH David AND Danny Diaz plus others) and Arvin, CA, I knew that some of my students were brought here illegally by their parents.  The beauty of the Supreme Court decision from the case Plyer v. Doe is that public schools cannot exclude illegal immigrant students from school; the school cannot ask such questions about current citizen status.  Before those of you who may be armchair politicians that tend to lead a bit to the right, on the ready to blurt out about how your tax dollars shouldn’t go to support such students, may I highlight the fact that these students and their families live in the community, purchase goods – thus paying local and state taxes, contribute to the greater well being of the community through churches and other organizations and most likely have taxes taken out of a check – taxes that they will never be able to claim due to their legal status.  

     What I remember are the faces of the students who did not have a choice of where they lived or where there first day of school would be. Children that were brought to this country by parents who hoped they would have a better life. I remember an Edgar standing at the door of my second grade classroom, trying his best to hide behind his mother who had two other siblings to drop off at other classrooms.  She quickly pushed him into the classroom and hurried off with the principal to the next classroom.  He was dressed on what would be classified as “new to him” clothing.  He was quiet and shy and slowly took his seat.  The other students, eager to help make a new friend, inundated  him with questions and survival strategies for the second grade.  Edgar fortunately arrived at what is now known as “pre-Prop 227” and was placed in my bilingual classroom where we spoke and learned in Spanish a large portion of the day.  I remember another student – an Esmeralda – who arrived when I was teaching first grade.  She had long, auburn colored curls that were tightly pulled to form a long, cascading ponytail that ran down her back.  She was her mother’s only child and her mother lingered at the classroom door.  Esmeralda was decked out in a new outfit (not just new to her) and new backpack.  However, she arrived with the same spirit as Edgar – timid and shy.  She, however, experienced CA public schools for the first time during “post-Prop 227” and was not afforded a bilingual classroom.  As part of an English Immersion situation, many of the students did not use Spanish as frequently as most of their world became “ingles”.  Similar to Edgar, Esmeralda gingerly took her seat, moved her backpack to the chair behind her, and smiled the best she could as her mother slowly disappeared from view.  Two different students … two different years … two different schools … yet, a similar story.  At the time, I did not know their parents were not here legally.  I had no way of knowing.  However over time and after building trust, they confided with me that phrase on heard on occasion “No tengo papeles.”  

     For parents who say “No tengo papeles” there is much caution that has to be exerted everyday … for themselves … and especially for their family.  It’s a precarious life. Yet, both the Edgar’s and Esmeralda’s that find themselves in this country as young children, they grow up only knowing life as an America.  In school, they learn our history, recite our Pledge of Allegiance, learn our rules, and learn and speak the language of the majority.  These children know Sponge Bob, Dora the Explorer, Spiderman, Disney Princesses and other popular children’s cartoons.  Because of their parents’ legal status, or lack thereof, they often do not go back to their birth country to visit.  All they know is America where they live and breathe.  And these children grow up with dreams and desires originally sparked by their families who brought them there.

     I grew up as the daughter of a tenant farmer and such status and low income (my parents tax return at the time reported about $9,000 per year) afforded me a  four year college education that was paid for – free and clear.  Now, yes, I was born here … My parents were born here … However, without such support, I am not sure how I would have made college happen.  I am resourceful but not that creative!  My own children – all three of them – received some assistance for the UC system due to my head of household, single parent status, and the number of kids in school at the same time.  On the other hand, Edgar and Esmeralda would never have such an opportunity for such support until President Obama enacted an executive order for these “Dreamers” to be able to apply for such status to allow them to have basic access to driver’s licenses, education and scholarship, and other programs.  Why shouldn’t they have access to such things needed to carry out their dreams and plans and become the productive American citizens that we have told them they were since they first stepped into the doors of our public schools?

     My hope is that senators and representative from both parties – Republican and Democrat – take up this cause that has now been tossed up into the air like a weightless, crumpled up piece of paper.  The Esmeralda’s and Edgar’s of this world – all 600,000 plus of them are counting on that event to occur and desperately need our support.

Sunrise … Sunset

It’s amazing to me how ‘significant days’ or rather ‘used to be significant days’  sneak up on you.  You wake up … look at the time … look at the day on the calendar … and think … “Oh, so today would have been ….”.

August 3rd – today – would have been my 26th wedding anniversary.  26 years … However, this particular day was last celebrated – officially – August 3, 2002.  After that, my little world – or should I say ‘our’ little world imploded, first, then exploded.  Still, even though I have not been “Mrs. Lombardo” since April 2004 – when the ink was dry and official on the divorce papers – I still remember August 3, 1991 – clearly.

We were married in the Finger Lakes region of upstate New York; in my ex husband’s hometown of Waterloo, NY.  It was a hot and humid August as it usually is in that place and time of the year – very similar to the current weather conditions here, in Los Angeles, – warm and muggy – when the humidity shrouds the air like a proverbial wet blanket.  What was different, however, is that the day was mixed with an occasional summer rain  that caused us to move plans for after wedding activities from outside of my former in laws’ house to inside.  

Phil and I paid for all things concerning our wedding on our own. My mom did pay for my wedding dress – which to this day still hangs in my closet, cloaked in a plastic bag and remaining in this sealed contraption for practically 26 years.  This treasure from my past has made approximately ten moves with me … taken up space in ten closets.  Why it chooses to still hang around with me (or why I choose to hang onto it) remains a mystery?!

We wanted things to be simple at our wedding.  The guests were mostly composed of Phil’s family as it local for them.  The only members of my family who attended were my parents and up until the actual day, I did not know if they would actually attend as they were not in agreement with my marriage to Phil.  After all, not only was Phil Italian but he was also CATHOLIC!  Eventually, they decided to attend.  My best friend – at the time – was Pennie Dugan (now Wood) and she came, serving as my Maid of Honor.  We had met as first year teachers at Browning Road School – myself coming from the state of Illinois and she from Idaho; we became fast, best friends.  

Our decorations for our wedding followed the ‘simple’ theme.  A simple bouquet of flower for myself consisting of pale yellow roses and lily of the valley.  Phil’s sister, Maria, had picked wild flowers from nearby fields for table settings, displaying them in various size jars and vases.  The wedding cake was made by one of the local bakers who made cakes and desserts out of her kitchen for various festivities.  

Phil was late to arrive to the ceremony.  That should have been a sign!  However, a night of partying with his best man and groomsman apparently delayed his early rising although when things were breaking up and were horrible and hateful Phil later said it was because he was reticent to marry me and was trying to make up his mind.  (Side note: at this point, the author of this narrative places a present day “Whatever!” after the previous statement since at the time the former idea – he was quite hungover – was the apparent reason for his late arrival!)

I remember feeling so filled with happiness and joy as the huge church doors opened into the sanctuary.  I couldn’t help but smile; my face could not hold the corners of my mouth from turning upwards.  The dress I had selected made me feel like a princess.  That sounds cliche but is the truth.  It was an ivory color, with huge, tulle-filled puffy sleeves that tapered down my arm with lace and bead work.  The back was open (which was scandalous to my then mother-in-law as I was showing my back in church!!!) and the front had delicate lace down to the sweetheart neckline. Beautiful beads and pearls adorned the dress in various patterns from top to bottom.  I wore no veil but some tulle and some yellow roses that I placed in my hair.  

As my former mother-in-law was a church musician by trade, she did the organizing and arranging of the music for our wedding.  I had one song that I absolutely had my heart set on being sung – “Sunrise, Sunset” from Fiddler on the Roof.  I loved that song … I was obsessed with that song.  The lyrics told the story of the life I had dreamed of once I found the ‘right man’. However, it had to be played before the service per Catholic rules and regulations.  It didn’t matter.  I remember tears welling up in my eyes as I stood outside the epic church doors leading to the sanctuary.  While the sound was slightly muffled by the closed door, I still heard the pipe organ bellow out the notes and chords of the familiar song.  And, the soprano soloist’s voice rose and fell along with the verses and chorus.  Perfect.

Walking down the aisle to Pachebel’s Canon in D (I know – now also cliche! Yet, I was not going to go down the aisle “Big, fat and wide!”), I was as happy as I thought I would ever be.  I locked eyes with Phil who was also had a huge smile across his face.  I felt electricity pulse through my veins as our hands touched while reciting our vows.  The rest of the ceremony is now a blur in my memory.  I do remember the feeling of taking Phil’s arm once Fr. Cosgrove had pronounced us man and wife and feeling as if all the strength I needed to combat whatever life would throw at us.  A similar wedding tune played in my head – The Carpenter’s, “We’ve Only Just Begun”.  If you had told me at the time that this marriage would be short lived that there would be fighting, doors slamming, a broken bone, broken spirits, tears after tears peppered with some joy, of course, in the form of three beautiful children, several pets, and a couple of houses that we tried to make into homes, I would not have believed you.  We were going to be married forever and ever – just like our parents and their parents before us.  At least that is what I thought at the time.  Yet, it didn’t take long for us to move from “We’ve Only Just Begun” to “Hurting Each Other”.

The afternoon of that day was marked with off and on summer showers.  We actually had one dance together as a couple to the “Anniversary Waltz” while his mother, a musician, sang and played the accordion.

Early that evening, my beautiful wedding dress was packed away into the zipped bag it is now serving its life sentence in.  Phil’s car, a red, Volkswagen GTI, was packed to the hilt.  Only a small crawlspace from the back to front of the car existed for our adopted, six-toed black kitten named Igor to navigate when wanting attention or food (usually the latter).  We drove away and as the waving hands of friends and relatives became harder and harder to see, we were on our way to a new adventure.  Just the two of us!  

There have been lots of sunrises and sunsets since that August 3rd.  Now, it should just be another day on the calendar; however, every now and again nostalgia creeps in and reminds me of what once was when we had only just begun!

Where the Green Grass Grows

I come from a long line of farmers … on both sides of my family.  You would never know that given that I currently live in the sprawling metropolis of Los Angeles. I am a city girl who enjoys the fruits of city life – 24/7 shopping, loud noises, so many lights that the evening stars are not visible.  Both grandfathers – interestingly both named George – chose their life profession to be that of tillers of the soil.  My father took after his father (although his name was not George! — that was my uncle who lived less than a quarter of a mile from us who was also a farmer) and sowed seeds on the land that would never be his in name or deed.  As next generation in line, he chose to continue the contract for indentured servitude (aka tenant farming); a contract that ended with him as no other male Mehochko’s chose to continue.  Almost everything that he brought forth was passed onto the landlord who didn’t break even a sweat during the planting or harvest as he looked down at us from his central air conditioned palace, located outside the city limits of Chicago.  

Growing up, I never saw the attraction!  I hated field and garden work!  Pulling weeds, sweat pouring down my face – the frequent deer fly landing on my glistening brow, painfully biting down and attacking … leading me to smacking myself on the forehead time and time again!!!  And, after working all day out in the fields, my dad found his hobby – his “relaxation” – to be spending time in one of his TWO gardens, pulling out even more weeds and caring for more plants.  I never understood it!  It seemed crazy to me!  My mother joined in on the gardening madness, during the day, picking various ripe fruits and vegetables, which led to a frenzy of freezing and canning all sorts of things in the extreme humidity and heat.  While inside, I could escape the deer flies, I could not escape the hours of cutting and peeling and packaging green beans, corn, carrots, tomatoes, etc.  All for the promise of “oh, this will taste so good in the winter”.

I always dreamt of a life that did not include plants (especially weeds), deer flies, and hours upon hours of picking, cutting, cleaning, freezing and canning.  After coming home the first summer after college to more picking, cutting, cleaning, freezing and canning – I found other work to do the subsequent summers.  Working the college switchboard in a nice air conditioned administrative building and serving as a camp counselor for a couple of summers saw me through my college years.  Upon graduation, I packed my bags for some California dreaming and the rest is history, as they say.  City life has been my life for almost three decades.  

However, the past couple of summers, I have strangely found a new outlet – a new hobby.  When we first moved into this townhouse in Glendale, the master bedroom had this small balcony that I had blocked access from for at least a year with an exercise bicycle that I promised myself I was going to use at least once a day.  Let’s see, in the course of the year, I did not ride that bicycle even once but I stubbed my toe on it plenty of times, trying to get access to the closet.  It also became a convenient holder of my laptop bag and purse as it’s handlebars made a convenient coat rack.   So, one day, I had decided a door knob would work just as well as a laptop bag holder and I got Thomas to begrudgingly move the exercise monstrosity of a bike to the curb.  Now, I had access to the balcony.  

After a quick clean up, I decided to go to Home Depot and get a few pots, soil, and plants and create a small herb garden.  I began with basil, oregano, and rosemary with a bit of mint thrown in for good measure.  Quickly, the little plants took off and I acquired a few more.  I enjoyed snipping a few sprigs of this and that and tossing it into what I was cooking and was surprised how quickly the taste of the food was enhanced.

This spring, as my work life through myself and my personal life into a whirlwind of turmoil thrown in with a lot of uncertainty and despair, I have thrown more of myself into my little garden.  I have planted the aforementioned herbs adding thyme, sage, parsley (yes, I now have parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme) along with two different kinds of chili peppers, Roma tomatoes, strawberries, and some flowers (petunia’s, marigolds, and Sweet Williams).  I have also set out a bird feeder, much to the delight of my two cats who immediately freeze and stare the minute what they perceive as potential prey darts into their view.  Too bad for the two felines that a sheet of glass separates them from what their natural instinct calls to them!  I’ve created their very own, personal zoo!

In the evening, thanks to some solar lights that I got at Dollar Tree as well as a string of fairy lights in the form of dragonflies, I have some make shift lightning bugs and sparkle to add to the ambiance!

I have found great solace in pulling weeds (did I just write that?) …in working the soil around the plants … in watching what started as small, contained plants grow into a mini, urban fairy garden full of green lushness, blooms and promises of even more to come.  Each night, I look forward to spending time at dusk, watering and caring for my makeshift little garden.  The minute I open the screen door, the aromas of basil, thyme, oregano, etc. greet me as my my eyes delight in the evening splash of colors from the sun setting in the West.  It is my own, personal getaway.  And while it is not the Midwest and my name is not George (or Georgina, even) I have come to appreciate what generations before me long knew was magical.  It just took me a little time to get here!

P.S. And there is not a deer fly to be found!!!