brushfire"This, yes, this, it was always like this." -Stanley Koehler
REFLECTIONS OF AN EMPTY NESTER
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There is so much appalling about Trump’s alleged statement — “Why are we having all these people from shithole countries come here?” — it’s hard to know where to begin. But let’s break it down point by point.
And where to begin with the apologists, the deflectors, the defenders and the cheerleaders? Maybe with the biggest cheerleader of them all, the former Wizard of the Ku Klux Klan and infamous white supremacist, David Duke. His wavering faith was clearly restored by Trump’s remarks. Duke tweets: “Just as the most ardent Trump supporters were about to give up on him in despair — he restores a lot of love in us by saying blunt but truthful things that no other President in our lifetime would dare say! NO DACA! NO COMPROMISE - NO Sh**thole America! Hail Trump!” You have to give him a little credit for his delicacy in replacing a vulgarity with “**”. God forbid his tweet should offend anyone. Does Trump's association with racists make him one? Or is he, in fact, just saying what everyone is thinking, as many of his defenders assert? It may be what they are thinking, but since when is sinking to the lowest common denominator considered a good thing? “I think people have the misconception that you can take the policies without the poison,” New York Times columnist Charles Blow said in a TV segment. “There is no difference between what I believe, what I say and what I do. There is no way to separate what Trump believes on a basic level from what he wants to do. That meeting in which he said this was a meeting about policy. There is no way to separate the racism that is coming out of his mouth from his intention with the policy.” CNN anchor Don Lemon was more blunt and focused on his supporters. “What does it say about you that no matter what, you continue to make excuses for this man, for his vile behavior? Doesn’t that make you just as bad, if not worse, than him?” A racist is in the eye of the beholder. Each of us must decide for ourselves, not based on what lies in Trump’s heart, but what lies within our own.
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This time of year, we hear a lot about how we can live more positively and improve our lives. Now that 2018 is under way and my new year's resolutions already have fallen by the wayside, I realize everything I need to know to be happy, enjoy each day and get the most out of life year-round is right in front of me. It’s modeled by my dog, Ronnie. What makes Ronnie happy are the simple things. A bowl of food. A belly rub. A nap on a warm patch of sunlit carpet. A walk around the block with plenty of time to stop and smell the roses — or whatever. For Ronnie, the return of a beloved family member is cause for celebration — even if that person left only 15 minutes ago. Certain words and phrases bring joy, excitement and anticipation. Walk. Treat. Dad’s home. Others fill him with a sense of accomplishment or pride. Sit. Stay. Come. Good boy. Ronnie — true to a dog's reputation as man's best friend — embodies loyalty. He’s always there — literally: at my feet, by my side, on my lap. He’s an excellent listener and he never interrupts or argues. And he never holds a grudge, even if I accidentally step on his paw. The forgiveness is instantaneous and the way he wags his tail, it’s as if he’s apologizing to me rather than the other way around. Ronnie has good instincts. When I get his leash from the drawer, he automatically stretches. Upward dog. Downward dog. He appreciates the importance of routine. Wake up, scratch, shake, go out back, eat breakfast, take a nap. He also understands when he’s needed. When the kids were little, we used to call on his services whenever they were sick. “Nurse Ronnie,” they called him. He knew intuitively to be present, the comforting weight of his small body leaning against them, a warm tongue to offer reassurance, watchful brown eyes sending messages of love, calm, healing. Perhaps Ronnie’s most valuable asset is his boundless faith. Each day, after we leave, he knows we will return. All he must do is wait. Since time is not a concept relevant to his being, he is devoid of any of the anxiety you or I might feel as we watch — and worry — with the passing hours. If the wordless question — will they be back? — forms in his mind, the answer is always yes. When is immaterial. Such was the epic patience of Argos, Odysseus’s dog, who faithfully awaited his beloved master’s return from a 20-year odyssey, only to greet him with one last wag of his tail before he died. Where there is patience, there is abiding faith. Where there is absence of doubt, there is only hope. Where there is both faith and hope, there is love. This is what I learned from Ronnie I will take with me into the new year. This appeared in the Jan. 11, 2018 issue of the Grosse Pointe News. I was 19, sitting alone in my college dorm room one Sunday evening in March. Earlier that day I returned to campus from spring break and classes resumed the following morning. I had that feeling I can’t quite describe. It wasn’t homesickness; it wasn’t longing. It was something in between. Suddenly there was a knock on the door. I wish Prince Charming would walk through that door, I thought. And in walked my future husband. I know that sounds like revisionist history. How do I remember a random thought that went through my head so many years ago? I don’t know; I just do. I remember he was wearing jeans and a red zippered sweatshirt with a hood. It was a little small and later he told me someone had stolen his jean jacket from the back of a chair in the student union, leaving the sweatshirt in its place. He really liked that jean jacket, he said; it took him a long time to acquire that perfect fade (this was the early 1980s, before the pre-faded look came into style). He had stopped by because he was returning a tape deck my roommate had lent him for the lacrosse team’s road trip over the break. We got to talking and we haven’t stopped since. And yes, he is my Prince Charming. He was my Prince Charming when he took me on our first date for ice cream. He was my Prince Charming when he hand wrote lyrics to a Led Zeppelin song and slipped them under my door. He was my Prince Charming when he showed up in my room at the infirmary on his way to practice after I landed there overnight with an ear infection, looking as happy to see me then as he does now, 32 years of marriage and three grown children later. And he is still my Prince Charming. He is my Prince Charming who cooks me dinner every night — and does the dishes, too. He is my Prince Charming who makes me laugh. He is my Prince Charming who helps me make the bed every morning, clears the snow off my windshield and promised me not only a rose garden, but a vegetable garden, too. He is my Prince Charming who plays guitar and writes me songs. He is my Prince Charming who never complains when I spend a Friday night with my book club; he is happy to keep the dog company, cook ribs because he knows I don’t like them and listen to his recently resurrected vinyl collection at way too high a volume for our neighbors' comfort. He is my Prince Charming who didn’t chastise me for absentmindedly driving his car to work one day, making him late because everything he needed was in that car, or losing my phone during a long walk with a friend. In fact, he helped me retrace my footsteps — did I mention it was a long walk? — all the while resisting saying out loud what was surely in his head — questions like, What were you thinking? And, Do you have any idea what a new phone will cost? We found the phone and now I recall that stressful afternoon as a convivial walk on a fall day. Don’t get me wrong — he isn’t perfect. He makes an awful lot of noise when he can’t find something he needs in the utensil drawer. He’s quick to accuse me — or one of the kids — of taking or moving or misplacing something and he’s right only 90 percent of the time. He can be a bit of a nervous Nelly. But that’s part of his charm, I suppose, and exactly what I didn’t know I was looking for that long ago evening while I waited for my prince to come. This appeared in the Nov. 9, 2017 issue of the Grosse Pointe News. When I saw the post “Me too” pop up on my Facebook feed so many times I lost count, I didn’t join in. Not because I didn’t find it powerful and emotional, but because I honestly couldn’t think of an instance when I had been the victim of sexual assault or harassment. And until the #MeToo campaign kicked in, I didn’t realize how unusual this was. I did, once, narrowly escape an encounter that could have been much worse. When I was 10, my family spent the summer in a fishing village in Greece. We lived in an apartment over a restaurant on the beach. My brother and I used to hang out with village kids near the restaurant and the owner, Yiannis, was openly hostile to us. I’m sure our presence was bad for business. One day, during the afternoon siesta, I was alone on the beach and Yiannis invited me inside the restaurant for a lemonade. I was surprised how friendly he was — I had never before even seen him smile. My Greek was limited, but he gestured for me to come inside and I knew the meaning of the word “limonata.” Once I was at the back of the restaurant, near the kitchen, he handed me the bottle of lemonade. At that point he started to hug me. I tried to make sense of his actions. He was just being friendly, like an uncle, I told myself. I also didn’t want to be rude or hurt his feelings. But I knew what he was doing was wrong. I remember backing away from him and trying to sip my lemonade. He told me to finish the drink and bring the bottle back when I was done. I thanked him and started to leave, but he stopped me. “No tell,” he said, in English, and made a gesture across his lips. And I didn’t. I returned to our apartment and said nothing. Later I returned the bottle, exactly as I was told. There were several local fishermen in the restaurant at the time and Yiannis barely acknowledged me. That evening, after a family dinner at a restaurant farther down the beach, my brother and I were carving our initials on a piece of driftwood below our apartment. I looked up and Yiannis was standing in front of us. He spoke with my brother for a bit, but the moment he turned away, Yiannis caught my eye and motioned with his head toward the restaurant. After he left, my brother commented on how unusually nice he seemed. It was then I told him what had happened earlier that day. I think if I hadn’t let it out then, some part of me believed I needed to obey this adult and follow him into his restaurant. My brother was 13 years old. He was as innocent as I, believing adults were to be listened to, counted on and trusted. Yet he instinctively knew what was the right course of action. He didn’t doubt or question me, saying, “Are you sure? Is it possible you misunderstood?” or hesitate in any way. “We need to tell Mom and Dad — now!” he said. We ran down the beach to where our parents were still sitting on the restaurant terrace, enjoying a glass of retsina and the view of the Mediterranean. I don’t remember if I told them or my brother did, but either way, having him with me made it possible. And as soon as the secret was out, all the guilt, fear and shame disappeared. Any power Yiannis held over me was gone. I called my brother the other day to thank him — for believing me, for not questioning me, for knowing what was the right thing to do. He recalled the same details I did — even the log on the beach where we carved our names — which was reassuring, as memory can be a frail and elusive thing. But while I remember it all so clearly, what I can’t do is tap into the psyche of my 10-year-old self and recall why I didn’t immediately go to the person I trusted the most: my mother. She was the person to whom I confessed all my guilty secrets. The time I lied to a friend about having a horse. The time I pocketed a 15-cent trinket from a novelty store. Each time, my mother absolved me of my guilt with the strength of her love. That a stranger held that sort of power over me is what helps me understand why women all over the country typing “Me too,” many releasing long-held secrets for the first time, are not alone. On Dec. 1, 1955, a woman named Rosa Parks, tired from a long day of working at a local department store, sat down on a city bus in Montgomery, Ala. The bus began to fill with passengers, with several white people standing in the aisle. The bus driver asked four of the black passengers to relinquish their seats and move to the back of the bus. All but Parks complied. When the driver asked her why she wouldn’t move like the others, she replied, “I don’t think I should have to stand up.” Flash forward to August 2016. Colin Kaepernick, a black quarterback with the San Francisco 49ers, sat on the bench in silence during the playing of the National Anthem. Unlike Rosa Parks, he wasn’t breaking any laws. He wasn’t arrested, thrown in jail or fined. In fact, no one even noticed. After several games, his actions attracted media attention. He explained he sat because of the oppression of people of color and ongoing issues with police brutality. Like Rosa Parks, who is reported to have said she was tired of giving in, Kaepernick, too, was tired — not physically, but in spirit. He sat not for himself, but for others. He sat to bring awareness and make a change. “This stand wasn’t for me,” he said. “This is because I’m seeing things happen to people that don’t have a voice, people that don’t have a platform to talk and have their voices heard, and effect change. So I’m in a position where I can do that and I’m going to do that for people that can’t.” From the beginning, Kaepernick insisted his peaceful protest wasn’t meant to disrespect the troops or the flag. In fact, he even changed his methods after talking to NFL long snapper Nate Boyle, a former Green Beret. On Boyle’s advice, Kaepernick opted to kneel instead of sit. Athletes kneel when players are injured on the field, out of respect for a fallen comrade or opponent. Many people kneel when they pray. What could be a more respectful and thoughtful posture, than to kneel in silence with a bowed head? Yet outrage ensued. Kaepernick was accused of being un-American. He sacrificed his career and livelihood, as team owners received angry threats from fans and he wasn’t picked up the next season. Regardless, even though unemployed, he continued to fulfill his pledge to donate $1 million to a host of charitable organizations. Rosa Parks, too, made sacrifices. By defying a bus driver and starting a 381-day bus boycott, she changed not only history, but the trajectory of her own life. Both she and her husband lost their jobs and were unable to find other work. She received death threats and fled with her mother — later followed by her husband — to Detroit to stay with relatives before moving to her own home. Parks would remain in Detroit until her death, heralded as the mother of the civil rights movement and awarded many medals of honor, including the NAACP's 1979 Springarn Medal, the Presidential Medal of Freedom and the Congressional Gold Medal, the highest civilian award. Today, when school children read stories about Rosa Parks, they learn about her courage in standing up against segregation in a peaceful, respectful way, no matter the cost to her personal safety. Kaepernick, too, was peaceful and respectful. So were the many players who joined the protests this year. Yet the president, in less respectful terms, said when a team owner saw a player kneel, he should “get that son of a bitch off the field.” Meanwhile, the vice president saw fit to spend an estimated $200,000 to attend a football game where the silent, peaceful protest was a given, only to leave in a carefully staged, self-serving protest of his own — on the taxpayers’ dime. Make no mistake: no one applauded Rosa Parks the day she refused to stand. Many were likely annoyed, as her actions delayed them from getting to their destination. Others probably thought she, like Kaepernick, should know her place. Who did she think she was, this “uppity” black woman refusing to stand for a white person as the law required? And then there were those so vehemently opposed to what she represented, they threatened her life and livelihood. In many people’s view, Kaepernick and other NFL players are out of line with their protests; their role is to perform for our entertainment. How dare they “disrespect the flag” and use their platform to draw awareness to the oppression of people of color? They are no more than “rich, spoiled athletes.” Apparently when a white person is rich, they owe their success to their own hard work, but when a black athlete, having overcome insurmountable odds in many cases, reaches the zenith of success in his chosen field — literally through his own blood and sweat — he is supposed to be grateful for all this country has given him. Today we universally commend Rosa Parks’ actions, forgetting that 62 years ago, they drew outrage — even death threats — before they resulted in change. This is what we ignore when we focus on the present: how future generations will remember our actions. Colin Kaepernick may never play professional football again, but history will look back on him — like Rosa Parks — as a hero and agent of change, deserving of our respect, our gratitude, and even a medal of honor or two. My niece is getting married at the end of the month. It promises to be a grand affair — a blending of cultures with the central events a Christian marriage ceremony and luncheon followed by a Baraat — the groom’s wedding procession — and Hindu marriage ceremony and reception. My family members and I are excited to take part in the festivities, from donning Indian attire and having henna applied during Mehendi night to participating in a family dance to the tune of “Happy.” My sister — the mother of the bride — has asked me to speak at the reception. I’m honored, though a bit daunted, by the request. As I reflect on to say — what advice I can impart to these 20-somethings, each embarked on an illustrious career in the medical field — I find myself calling on my usual Muse: my father. He always had the right words for every occasion, usually in the form of a poem. I have no such poem to offer the bride and groom, but I can share what I learned from my father on five essential themes: love, happiness, marriage, parenthood and life. I will begin with love. My father wrote a poem about love, even though he insisted it was about snow. In part, it reads: “So this is how / it comes, / no thunder, wind, / or windstorm’s / violence to rend / our lower nature, / only a presence …. Without event / the miracle is here.” I could write volumes on what my father taught me about happiness. Mainly it wasn’t what he said; it was how he lived, enjoying and appreciating life’s rituals and traditions — even the most mundane. But here’s an anecdote. My family was about to move to Grosse Pointe to embark on a new chapter in our lives. I was talking to my father on the phone, telling him I didn’t want to leave because I loved our life in Baltimore. “If you’re happy where you are, you’ll be happy where you’re going,” he said. I’m confident my niece and future nephew-in-law will take their own happiness with them wherever life leads them. On marriage. My mother once told me that early in her marriage, she felt trapped. Her world, she feared, had narrowed to this one man. She shared her feelings with my father. His response? Why, he said, I rather looked at it that my world had doubled. Knowing this young couple’s two families, I believe this will be the case with them. Their lives combined will make for a more whole, more complete world — what my father meant in his poem, “Half,” written for my mother, “the whole we were not till / the halves so met in us / made one, one love, one life.” Next, I suspect, comes parenthood. While my father was not one to impart parenting advice — so much of the example he set was by instinct — he lived by one essential mantra: to be present. When we were fixing up our family home after our parents were gone, we had difficulty closing the double doors in my father’s study due to rusty, unused hinges. That’s because over nearly 60 years, he rarely closed them. And finally, on life. Late in my father’s life, my sister had the presence of mind to ask him what was the secret to a long and happy life. “Marg,” he said, “I’ll tell you. Two words. Routine and destination.” I think I will close my toast with these words and the sincere wish my niece and her new husband begin their marriage with the blessing and promise of such a life. This appeared in the Sept. 7, 2017 issue of the Grosse Pointe News. With age comes wisdom. But what good is that wisdom if no one cares to listen?
In the last decade or so of her life, my mother used to complain about feeling “marginalized.” She was no longer the center of her children’s lives, her grandchildren, as much as they adored her, were so entertained by each other during family gatherings they didn't always pay attention to her and men ceased to notice her. This last struck me as odd coming from a woman in her 80s. Looking back, I realize she wasn't looking to be leered or whistled at. She just missed the days when she could turn men’s heads. After all, in addition to her wit and intelligence, it was her great legs that first attracted my father to the tall, slim brunette he would later ask to marry him. My parents told my three children the story of that first meeting and subsequent courtship during one of their frequent visits to Michigan. Likely they wouldn’t have shared the story if my children hadn’t asked. I’m so glad they did. Many years later, it’s a treasured memory. In turn, my kids’ rapt attention was a gift to their grandparents — a tribute to a long marriage and life well lived. The story goes like this. My father was a young professor at Yale. My mother, a teacher at the Spence School for Girls in Manhattan, was visiting New Haven with her cousin, Tom, and a group of friends to watch the boat races. Someone invited my father to come along. He was captivated by the rapport between my mother and Tom. “They had so much fun together,” he said. He assumed they were boyfriend and girlfriend, only discovering the true nature of their relationship at the end of the weekend before he and my mother parted ways. My father accompanied my mother to the train station. They exchanged phone numbers, my father proposing a visit to New York. No definitive plans were made to see each other again, but my mother said when she turned from the steps while boarding, their eyes met in a silent, mutual exchange. She compared the moment to the song, “Some Enchanted Evening,” when “you may see a stranger across a crowded room.” I'm grateful for that moment as well as many others my children enjoyed with their grandparents. By sharing their stories and memories, my parents passed along a lasting legacy to future generations. There are few family gatherings of my siblings, nieces and nephews that do not include mention of one of my mother’s famous stories or my father’s jokes or lines from one of his poems. We even have a private family Facebook page dedicated to their memory. Imagine if more young people reached out to the elderly. It could be a grandparent, neighbor or stranger in a nursing home. The kids would be enriched by the knowledge that comes with age and experience. Hearing tales of a childhood different from their own, but with commonalities, would teach compassion and empathy. They would be all the wiser from listening, even if just to a romantic tale of how two people's eyes met across a crowded train station some enchanted evening. This appeared in the August 10, 2017 issue of the Grosse Pointe News. Let me spell it out for you, Mr. Trump.
There is no moral equivalency here. There are only acts committed in the name of hate and bigotry and acts committed in the name of love, justice and equality. It’s not a question of free speech or the right to peacefully assemble or protest or even the existence of statues — although if you don’t know the difference between George Washington and General Robert E. Lee, you’re even more ignorant about history than I thought. And my bar was pretty low. The issue is rhetoric. And what you need to stand up against unequivocally is rhetoric about hate, prejudice, bigotry and exclusion. You need to make it clear no group in this country will be tolerated that clearly states its rights reign supreme over the rights of other citizens of this country. So if you want to compare, say, the alt-right and white supremacists to #BlackLivesMatter, let’s start with what each stands for. One is about supremacy. The other is about equity. One is about hoarding rights for the majority. The other is about equal rights for the oppressed minority. One is anti-American and the other represents everything America stands for. Have you figured out which is which? So let’s go back to rhetoric and begin with #BlackLivesMatter. Have you read the BLM mission? I have. It’s about acknowledging, respecting and celebrating differences and commonalities among people, seeking freedom and justice for black people, and creating an intergenerational, life-affirming and safe community for all black people, regardless of age, gender or sexual orientation. It's the same mission we seek for all people in this country; the difference is black people do not receive these rights in equal measure as white people. And alt-right? What does it stand for? Members of the alt-right — who share the beliefs of white supremacists — believe white culture and Western civilization are at risk of being overtaken and pushed aside by minorities and religions such as Islam and Judaism. Their beliefs are founded in the notion the white race and European culture are superior. They believe descendants of the “founding stock” have a right to “resist dispossession.” Here are a few things shouted at the Charlottesville protest. “Blood and soil” (a Nazi slogan), “Jews will not replace us” and “Fuck you faggots.” That is what they believe. These weren’t the chants of a few rogue protestors distorting their mission. That is their mission. See the difference? It’s pretty simple. So no, there isn’t hate “on all sides,” Mr. Trump. There's hate on one side — and that’s the side you’re on. To the mom who wrote, “I Am a Mom & I Am Armed,” posted in NRA Family, I have so many questions.
You talk about keeping your family safe. You write: “I am a woman by design. I am a Keeper of my Home, a life-giver, life-defender, protector of the weak and voice for truth. And when these things are threatened, I will stand ready to defend.” Well, I am a mom, too. And I, along with my husband, kept our three children — all grown now — safe by keeping guns out of our house and our children away from homes like yours. Statistically speaking, if we had a gun in our home, our kids were far more likely to die by their own hands or a family member’s in an accidental shooting than be shot by some armed intruder — the faceless specter you invoke with your rhetoric. But here's the part I don't get. I'm hoping you, as “protector of the weak” and self-professed “life-giver,” can help me out. To keep your children safe 24/7, you need a loaded gun with you at all times. When you’re sleeping at night, do you keep the gun next to you in case someone breaks into your house? What if your child comes in seeking refuge from a bad dream or to cuddle with you, but reaches for the gun before she reaches for you? You boast of having a concealed weapons permit. You say you stand behind your Second Amendment right to protect yourself and your babies. You said if I meet you “at the park or at the grocery store,” I can be sure you are "exercising that right” because it's your “duty to protect.” What about my duty to protect my child from the likes of you? I felt pretty safe at the park and grocery store until you came along. You say you keep your gun holstered. Do you carry it around with you even when you’re lounging at home in your pajamas or yoga pants? Have you ever left it unattended on a countertop or shelf even for a minute? (We all have those moments wondering where we put our purse, our keys….) Has it ever gone off unintentionally, maybe when you were cleaning it? Have you ever thought it was unloaded and realized it wasn’t? When you volunteer at your child’s school or accompany your daughter to a classmate’s birthday party, do you inform the teacher or other parents you’re packing? When you invite a child over for a play date, do you mention you have a loaded gun in your home? And if it’s unloaded and locked safely away, the bullets stored separately — as is advised — what possible good is it to you if a gunman bursts in and starts shooting? It's like an umbrella. It can't protect you if you left it at home. And you never know when a storm might be coming. Fortunately, you have a few moments to get your umbrella up. Worst-case scenario you’re splashed with a few drops of rain. But how exactly would the following scenarios play out for a good guy (or girl) with a gun? You’re driving in your car and inadvertently cut someone off. He takes a loaded rifle and shoots you in the head in a case of road rage. You get in an altercation at a movie theater about texting during the previews. The man, a retired police officer with a registered weapon, pulls out his gun and shoots you. You’re at a gas station and a man pulls up next to you and tells you to turn down your music. You decline so he shoots ten rounds into the car at you and your fellow passengers. These are just a few actual examples of people killed by guns. In each one, the shooter was a legal gun owner, like you. He was a responsible, law-abiding citizen — until he wasn’t. But here’s my question. In these instances, how exactly do you plan to discharge your weapon and “defend the defenseless”? I hate to be the one to tell you this, but there’s not a single thing you or your gun could have done to protect yourself or anyone else in these and countless other scenarios. All stars must align for you to do what you have sworn so valiantly to do: protect your family. I'm not saying it can't happen; I'm just saying it's pretty darn unlikely. So here are some suggestions — in no particular order — for keeping your family safe. Invest in a security system. Instead of a loaded gun, keep a charged cell phone on your nightstand and call 911 if you suspect someone is trying to break into your home. Take a self-defense class. When you drop your child off at a play date, ask if there are guns in the home. Warn your children about the dangers of talking to a stranger on the street or on social media. Make sure they have regular check-ups and are fully immunized against disease. Store cleaning products and other harmful chemicals out of reach and behind childproof locks. Throw away leftover prescription drugs. Turn pot handles out of reach of little hands or, better yet, put pots with hot liquid on the back burner. Get to know the parents of your children’s friends. Get to know your neighbors. Support your local police. Make sure your children are safely secured in their car seats or wear seat belts. Listen to your pediatrician (“So you have an inquisitive toddler at home? Go out and get yourself a gun,” said no doctor ever). Follow instructions on toy boxes. Keep potential choking hazards away from your child. Remove blankets and stuffed toys from your infant’s crib. Make sure furniture is properly secured to the wall and curtain cords are out of reach. Have your chimney cleaned regularly. Take a CPR class. Teach your toddler to swim. Never take your eyes off your child at a beach or pool, even a baby pool. Hire a lifeguard if you’re hosting a pool party. Check the batteries on your smoke detectors. Invest in a carbon monoxide detector. Have your home inspected for lead. Watch for signs of depression or anxiety in your child. Seek professional help whenever in doubt. The top causes of death for children are accidents — car crashes, choking, drowning, fire, falls, poisoning and yes, unsafe access to guns — along with disease and suicides. There are enough dangers out there without adding a deadly weapon to the mix. So if you really want to be a good mom, get rid of the gun and arm yourself with common sense. Because even if you follow every suggestion listed above, each moment you own a gun increases the likelihood you’re not keeping your child out of harm’s way, but putting her in the direct path of a fatal bullet. I thought the days of corporal punishment for students were from a bygone era, as outdated as gas lanterns and horses and buggies. I thought we lived in a kinder, gentler, more enlightened nation that understood violence is never the answer.
I guess I wasn't paying attention. Apparently corporal punishment — deliberate infliction of physical pain by hitting, paddling, spanking, slapping, or any other physical force used as a means of discipline — is allowed in 15 states and unregulated in eight. It’s prohibited in the remainder of states. According to a recent article, a school district in Texas approved paddling as a disciplinary measure in a 6-0 vote by the school board (one member was absent). The principal or “campus behavior coordinator” are the only ones allowed to administer the “disciplinary management technique.” Parents may opt in or out. I’m not sure if this makes it better or worse. So Johnny and Billy commit the exact same infraction, but Johnny gets paddled and Billy doesn’t because Johnny’s parents gave the go-ahead and Billy’s didn’t? What kind of message does this send? And what if Johnny and Billy are different races, religions or ethnicities? Or if it’s Johnny and Suzy? My mother was a public school teacher in Massachusetts, one of the states where corporal punishment is prohibited. The law stated a teacher couldn’t strike a child in anger. “So smile when you smack them,” she and her colleagues used to joke. My mother did strike a student once. It was during dismissal and students were lined up on the sidewalk getting ready to board the buses home. One of my mother’s students, a sixth-grader named John, must have acted up. He was always pushing the limits of my mother’s patience. She said something to him and he called her a word she claimed she had never before heard spoken aloud (it begins with an “m” and ends in “er”). She slapped him across the face without thinking. I think she was as shocked by the slap as he was. It’s a wonder my mother wasn’t fired. She did this in plain view of many students and teachers. Surely if John had told his mother, she would have marched into the principal’s office the next day and demanded my mother’s dismissal. No such thing happened. John’s father had died earlier that year. He and his father had had an argument and his father went to bed and never woke up. This was why John acted up in class and at dismissal that day. I think John knew in spite of the slap, my mother cared about him. He straightened up his act shortly after that — or so my mother always said when relaying this story — and years later she ran into him and he told her what a difference she had made in his life. But this wasn’t because my mother lost control that one time and hit him in the face. It was because she consistently showed him, in a variety of ways, how much she cared. My mother was a nurturing and maternal figure in many of her students’ lives. For some it filled a void. For others, like John, it helped them through difficult times or provided consistency and guidance through the ups and downs of adolescence. She was also trusting. My siblings and I considered her naïve, especially when we got away with our own adolescent antics. But for her students, it showed a certain amount of faith not just in their abilities, but their innate goodness. If your teacher trusts you, you are less inclined to want to let her down. I’m not sure where paddling fits into this scenario. What next — dunce caps? |
Mary Anne BrushJournalist, fiction writer, wife and mother |