Edubabble and other Blither

I opened my mouth. No, really, I guess I typed, which it should be noted I can do almost as fast as I can stick my foot into my mouth. Our school has a cop, who is paid by the district as well as by the city. The one we have now is our second. Some of you may remember Principal Stan and me teaming up to scare off a candidate once. http://edublither.blogspot.com/2006/12/puppet-master-and-his-lovely-assistant.html

We were successful. Cop number 2 is diligent, knowledgeable, and willing to be comical once in awhile, something essential when dealing with middle schoolers. I've seen him boogie for a few minutes at a yay!thestatetestsareover dance, crabwalk like MC Hammer (with the big pants, too) at a school assembly to scare the kids out of drinking, and run around our track on a sunny day in full gear to help promote a yearlong cross-curricular event in which we tried to virtually walk across this great nation of ours. He'll speak in our classes if he invite him, and he addressed our entire team of students earlier this year when we were solving the mystery of who keeps ripping the paper towel dispenser off the wall. He assisted me early in the school year when Blake, a student now studying at an area psychiatric center, informed me he'd punch me if I asked him about his homework. He's a good guy.

He's also a wing nut, according to my next-door colleague, history teacher Loren O'Donnell. Tripper has heard about Officer Stankovich's temper around town, and the officer himself told the kids that he has done some things he's not proud of. A veteran, he's uber-patriotic. These days, we all know that means uber-conservative, ultra-Republican. Loren should know. He's the last of the Catholic Democrats, or at least one of the last who will still admit it, who is not afraid of being denied the right of Communion. Loren is one of the least confrontational guys I know, but he is the most targeted at my school.

When Bush won in 2004, one of the Christians, a colleague of Loren's, came over to smile about it. What would Jesus do, eh? He has received Fox News articles and shady email propaganda (not that everyone can even tell the difference) in his mailbox at school, sometimes signed "Sorry, I just had to vent!" This year has been especially trying. "When did I sign up to be the poster boy for the Democratic Party?" he has wondered to me. He eats alone in his room, tired of hearing the occasional lunchtime debate. I don't blame him.

Besides the two of us, I think there are five other Democrats out of a staff of over 100. It gets old. Officer Stankovich, in between bathroom vandalism stings, pores over the internet, forwarding to us articles about kids who planned to blow up their schools, kill their teachers, and the like. He also sends us inspirational videos, such as the one about the young man with no arms and legs who goes around speaking to schools about not giving up, about living up to your potential, and standing on your own two feet. What bothered me recently, however, what I acted upon, was the email about the Muslims in London demonstrating.

You've seen it, I'm sure. The text reads something like Can you imagine us Americans getting away with protesting Islam in our country? Why would we ever want to make war with this religion of peace? The first time I came across it in my school email, I just moved on to the next urgent message about someone's mom's cellphone number change. I waited. I didn't want to act rashly. I went home for the weekend. I drank. I didn't go back to my school email account. I waited until Sunday, sober. Then I replied. "Hi, Steve. I would appreciate only receiving emails about school or education. Thanks so much, Chrissy."

I sent it. When I told Trip, he thought I sounded teacherly, which wasn't my intention. I wanted to sound matter-of-fact. I wanted to sound non-apologetic because I have nothing to be sorry for. I didn't want to over explain it. I won't. This doesn't mean I no longer like the guy or won't have a beer with him when we all go out. This just means that I don't think any work email is the venue to endorse that kind of propaganda-- Republican or Democrat.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't nervous to see what he'd say. He replied that the email did have to do with school and education, however he wouldn't send those kind out anymore. I'm not going to thank him for something that should be crystal clear in any workplace. When we happened to approach each other in the hall today, forty yards apart, he turned around and went the other way.

It's times like these that I really miss my dad. I'd love to pick his brain about what to do, what do say, how to approach it, what is really meant. I've never really sought advice from anyone, least of all my parents, but this makes me realize that my dad is the only one of my parents who really listened to me and was interested in my job and hearing about it, not really with giving advice or telling a story about how the same thing had happened to him and here's what he did.

This year I could really use his advice, however, with our new principal, Kyle Oldknow, who was hired by the board to replace Principal Stan. Our staff knows better. Although Stan and I had our rows, although I didn't hesitate to tell him what I thought, he listened and didn't just tell me what I wanted to hear back. Not everyone was a total Stan fan, but that was okay. Kyle is an unknown, and little by little I find I'm liking less and less of what I see of him as a leader-- though to have a few beers he's all right. As building rep for our union, I need to watch my relationship with him; I don't want to be as close as I was with Stan, but I don't want to completely freeze him out.

The question now may be What Would Dennis Do?

Twenty-ten started off predictably for me and Tripper. My grandma, my dad's mom, died on New Year's Day after a few years of going downhill. The preacher at the funeral, more about this cocksucker later, called it "death in stages": losing some hearing, sight, then her apartment, etc. She hadn't been doing too fabulously before Dad died and never regained momentum after. People, meaning well, have said that maybe we're just getting the bad parts of the new year out of the way early, that things can only get better, but we know better.


2008 began with Carlin and Kelly breaking up; then we learned that a friend from college had drunk herself to death. Then my dad got sick and died. Then we quarreled with Vic over the house: the emptying, the cleaning, the selling. 2009 seemed to be great since Trip had a new job he loved, but he was laid off in May and isn't back yet. Now this.


Now, I don't want to dwell on past patterns. Who knows what the hell could happen? Certainly not me. All I know is that my grandmother died, and the trip back to RB Town screwed us both ways, taking twice as long each time.


Having left early, we did get to town in plenty of time for the festivities. My sister Vic decided to take Miss Gabor, my niece, to the viewing, her first. She did well. She told me she wanted to go see Grandma in her casket, so we approached. It must have been weird for Miss Gabor, being eye level with the casket, looking directly at Grandma's chipped nail polish, the profile of her face, her clip on earrings. After a moment had passed, Miss Gabor looked up at me solemnly. "How did she get dressed?" she quizzed.

After we inspected Grandma, Miss Gabor wanted to tour the grounds. The viewing and funeral both were being held at the church I grew up in. I was kind of curious myself, so I was happy to show MG around. We visited the fellowship hall, the sanctuary ("What do you do here?" MG asked. "Well, the preacher gives the lesson here," I answered, trying to relate church to something MG was familiar with, school. "What's a creature?" she demanded.)

Next, we checked out the classrooms where Sunday School was held for older kids, middle and high school. Anyone who grew up in an evangelical Christian, fundamentalist, Bible-as-the-Word-of-God, "I wouldn't want to be in a movie theater when Jesus comes back" church would share my utter shock at what awaited us: a pool table. Right here in River City. That certainly was a switch. Shouldn't teenagers' time at church be better spent learning Bible verses so that when the liberal Democrats force them to turn in the Word or not receive health care, Godly teens will still take comfort from Jesus' words? Shouldn't they practice how to witness to others? Couldn't they fashion shoeboxes of hope for heathens on other continents? (Don't ask me what forms of hope would fit in a shoebox. The church youth could grow dendrites by considering that...)

At the actual funeral service the next morning, I learned that all was not lost in the church of my childhood. This vessel of salvation would not be lost in a sea of worldly modernity. The Creature, as MG dubbed him, began the "message" portion of the program. He was eager to do this, let me tell you. We had a hymn or two, a poem one aunt had written for Grandma in the 80s, and some sharing of memories from various family members, yours truly included. Then my Missionary Aunt took the podium, along with a pile of notes and Bibles. She did a wonderful job, referencing Bible verses and Psalms, funny stories as well as sad. All The Creature had to do was say a few comforting words and toss out a few more Scriptures. Then we could have meandered to the fellowship hall for the church ladies' famous ham balls. ("I don't think these balls are famous in the way they think," mused Vic.) The Creature fidgeted and appeared agitated throughout the preliminaries. Don't you know this is my sanctuary? he seemed to be thinking. What about my remarks?

The beginning of the service was very hard for me and Vic. As soon as Dad's brothers and sisters filed into the row in front of us, my first tears came. Seeing that he wasn't with them, my grief, calm for past few weeks, stirred. The Creature made all that better, though. Let's be clear, however: no one who knows me need fret that I heeded Christ's call. I am still okay with the fact that we've lost touch and do not have a personal relationship. (If he was on Facebook, though, I'd probably be his friend.) The Creature made it all better by delivering, with great gusto, a fire-and-brimstone sermon on The One True Way to Everlasting Life. The Creature reminded me that today's society wants us to believe that there are many ways to get to heaven, that all religions are equal, that Buddha and Muhammad are Jesus' peers. This simply is not true. The Creature cautioned me that not everyone gets a room in His Mansion like my grandma who hadn't been to church in years, my grandma who played bingo, uh, religiously, my grandma who read tabloids and smutty romance novels more than her bible. My grandma who would probably be more concerned that they dyed her hair more brown than red than she was about the nonbelievers at her funeral.

My mother later remarked that she was waiting for me to call out, "Good fucking grief, let's get on with it already! The poor woman's been dead a goddam week, for chrissakes," then leave. (She, Vic, and my brother Frank all would have followed me, they told me over balls in the fellowship hall.)

"I thought about it," I admitted, contemplating the percentage of yellow food on my plate....corn casserole, cheesy potatoes, jello salad. The church ladies like ham balls and yellow food. "I just decided that this is probably the last time I'll have to listen to that cocksucker or step foot in this place, so I just kept my mouth shut."

Maybe that's the real new beginning?

is almost over, thank god. May has been a clusterfuck for a long time, probably as long as Trip and I have been together. In May, there's the rush of grading, sorting, finishing, scrambling that accompanies the end of the school year. There are the birthdays of two nephews. There's Trip's brother's birthday. His grandmother's birthday. There's Mother's Day. There's Memorial Day. We don't necessarily have events tied to every one of these events, but May seems like an eternity.

Some highlights:

• Brent, Trip's brother who lives in Philly, visited last weekend with his two sons, ages 5 and 2. Brent's wife, Jen, is taking classes and gratefully snatched the opportunity to study, clean, and maybe even bask in her house, alone. Brent's oldest, Lance, had turned 5 a week or so previously, but none of the Dogpatch family were there, so we had another birthday celebration for both him and his father at brother Carlin's house. He received presents. There was a cake. The next day there were more presents at Trip's mother's house. No "birthday" cake, though, thankfully. "No wonder kids today seem so bratty sometimes," Trip quipped. "They've had so many fucking birthday parties that they think they're 15 years old." Food for thought, indeed. Trip and I don't remember having meltdowns ever-- we certainly did, we're sure, but they were too long ago to remember. Our 5 year old nephew and 6 year old niece are still having them. I cannot remember having a tantrum. If I had when I was that old, I'm sure my ass would have been cracked.
• At Carlin's house, a breakthrough occurred, one that we thought we'd never see. Deb handed Trip a napkin and said, "Here, Trip, give this to your father." Trip's dad and Deb were on the deck at the same time, along with his wife. He laughed at one of Deb's jokes, one that some of the younger people had not gotten. She appreciated it. She suggested baking soda for a bug bite that plagued him. Surely Armageddon nears.
• Deb and I went to our fourth Springsteen show and had a great time. Except for me stupidly inserting my atm card into the receipt slot. I hadn't even had one beer at that time. This was in the lobby of a Marriott, and we were helped by the brother of one of my former students. Over a hundred miles away....
• This past week I ran into Dixon, who is now 21, at our watering hole, or post. Trip, the Senora, and I were watching the Pens in the playoffs. Dixon had texted me that he'd be there, asking me to be there, but arrived with his dad and waved vaguely. I was confused at first. Was he drunk when he texted me? Later, though, he came over and updated me on his life. He lives with his girlfriend down the street from us, has quit college after being told he couldn't even reference marijuana in a non-fiction human interest story about an transient hippie, and works at Burger King. He plays his music, writes, and would like to be a philosophy major if he could stomach the thought of finishing college.
• I receive newsletters from the honors program I was a part of in college. They usually contain 8 to 10 articles written by students about various topics. The most recent featured a piece about dressing up by a young man who described himself as a decent student (all A's, he added in parentheses) but not an academic superstar. How can that be? What have we come to in education if straight A's doesn't qualify you as an academic superstar?
• Tonight Trip and I are postbound again, meeting the Senora to watch game 1 of the Stanley Cup. I have discovered I really enjoy watching hockey.