Fifty years ago this week, I signed my first contract to teach in an Ohio public school; 11th grade English.  I was twenty-two years old and naively assumed my students would love English as much as I did.  The second day of school I was proved wrong.  I passed out the textbooks and told the class to turn to page 25.  Then I noticed the Caucasian, young man with curly red hair, holding his text upside down.  “Mr. Simmons,  please turn your book upright so you can read.”

Much to my horror, his face turned bright red.  He stammered, “Sorry.”  And thus began my relationship with 16-year-old Stanley Simmons who was almost illiterate–he couldn’t spell his last name. Stan was the best he could do.  I met with Stan every day in the library during our lunch period trying to teach him to read and write.  In early October he asked, “Do you know what it’s like to die?”

“No, Stan, I don’t.  Why are you asking?”

“I’m just wondering.”  I was so shaken by his question, I went to the guidance counselor and asked him to meet with Stan.  The counselor supposedly did and had no cause for concern, nor intervention.  Yet, Stan continued to talk to me about death.  In early November it got worse.  Stan announced: ” Don’t make me write today. I can’t.”

“And why would that be?”  With that, he flopped his very bruised, swollen right arm across the library table.  “Stan, what happened?  Please talk to me.”

“I wanted to find out what a car felt like.  I put my arm on the driveway and had my brother drive over it with a car.”  I fought for words.

“Let’s go to the school nurse and have your arm checked.”

Stan’s reply, “No, I’m ok; I just can’t write.”

Fifty years ago, teachers had to follow the rigid line and staff, which thankfully changed over time.  I begged the counselor to see Stan.

Holiday break, and I went to my parents’ house for two-week hiatus.  My mom found me outside shoveling snow from the sidewalk, ‘Sue, Dr. Jackson wants to speak with you.”  My direct supervisor?  Dr. Jackson, a formidable, no-nonsense, superlative educator?  Whoa, why?  I knew I turned in my grades.

We exchanged greetings of the season, “Sue, Stan Simmons committed suicide last night.  He hung himself by an electric cord in the closet.” I was devastated!  I was twenty-two- years old; teenagers didn’t do that.  I grieved.  After school resumed in January, I was sitting in the teachers’ room grading papers, and the counselor walked in.

“Hey, Sue, did you hear about Stan?” I nodded.  “You know he was one student I couldn’t get interested in.”  His statement became my life-changing moment.  I earned both a Master’s degree and doctorate in educational leadership.  I have been a high school principal, school superintendent, associate superintendent at the Arizona Department of Education, and an adjunct university professor.  I volunteered, I was co-president of United Parent Council, and in 2000 was elected to a school board.

Many folk assume I’ve received compensation for my twenty-year service–not.  School board members in Arizona receive no monetary benefit, just the joy of watching a play, touring an art exhibit, attending numerous sporting events, handing a diploma to a first-generation high graduate, and reading to a class.  Priceless. Further, as a public education advocate, I’ve also put my money where my mouth is.  And no, you’ll not find my name among the gifts and donations section of a board meeting.  Anonymous is fine with me.

In closing, Stan Simmons is NOT a figment of my imagination.  It is a true story, which about I rarely talk–too painful.  I’ve been a blogger since June 2013, under a private domain name which I own and with a service (Word Press), which I pay.  I’ve published two novels, three English reference books, and the story of my daughter’s cancer nightmare.  I’m an English major; I’ve never taken anyone’s words as my own without citation.

But most importantly, I do for our public school children what I could not do for Stan.

Throw mud on the wall to see if it sticks. An idiom defined as: offer an idea or strategy to see if 51% of Americans agree.

The US Postal Service is over 240 years old. It employees more than 600,000 folk–third highest employer behind the federal government and Walmart.  Its fleet size is in excess of 250,000 vehicles. Further during the holiday season, it delivers almost 1 BILLION packages.  Yet, petty politics has blocked its funding to make it more difficult to deliver mail-in election ballots.  In Arizona, mail-in ballots have worked successfully for years; I should know I’ve been on the ballot five times.

I choose not to debate the mail-in ballot issue.  I’ve far greater concerns, such as the economic impact on the automotive industry, the postal work force, and the greeting card industry.  Admittedly I pay several monthly expense bills on-line, but NOT utilities.  I have learned the hard way that internet/cable service, electricity, and water bills surreptitiously increase if I don’t pay attention.

As a quasi-historian, without documentation, most family history is lost.  As any competent researcher knows the value of primary sources vs. secondary sources,  Primary sources are those eyewitness accounts and/or photos, original literary works, speeches, and historical documents.  People don’t write letters anymore, for the internet has rendered it obsolete.  Much of our understanding of US history is from letters delivered by the postal service:  the Civil War, WWI and WWII, the Korean War, and the Viet Nam war.

Many of us waited for the postman to bring the Sears and other Christmas catalogs, by mid-December our dog-eared catalog was falling apart. Call me old-fashioned, but I love Christmas and birthday cards.  I delight in handwritten thank-you notes.  I cherish my grandmother’s diaries and my father’s letters to his parents during his freshman year.  (A poor country boy dropped into Ohio State University in 1940.) Being a pack rat, I reminisce not only over picture albums, but of every card, picture, and note my kids gave to me.

To this day, the post office continues delivery home-made, care packages to our college students and to our men and women serving overseas.  But yet, mud-slinging has threatened the destruction of one of America’s oldest institutions.

Believe me, on November 3rd, I’ll shred my mail-in ballot and vote in person.  (No one can challenge my birther-right; my family moved to here prior to the American Revolution.) I will not be disenfranchised by cheap muddy rhetoric, nor petty politics.

Pile of Vote Badges – US Elections Concept Image

Most of us agree COVID is not hoax that will miraculously disappear by the time you read my blog,  I’ve 4 months left in my twenty-year service as a school board member in a large suburban school district and truly believe ideal education occurs in face-to-face instruction.  I believe schools should act in the best interest of children, not what’s convenient for adults, and remember our classrooms were not built on social distancing.

On Thursday, the Arizona Health Department issued benchmark metrics for the safe reopening of classroom teaching–positivity rate of 5% or less.  (Arizona is currently at 10%, while NYC has gone from a 70% positivity rate in March to less than 1% now. It is doable.). Thus, our school board voted to postpone opening until our county reaches the 5% benchmark.  Of course, we began virtual, interactive learning on August 5 via technology; we have a “soft-opening” plan when the magic 5% is sustained for 14 days.  Is this good for kids?  Hell, no!  But what I know about medicine and virus could fit under my fingernail with ample space for other things I don’t know.  Since I’m one of five board members responsible for the safety and well being of over 33,000 students and staff, I heed the advice of experts.

Now, I find myself deluged with emails urging the start of fall high school sports.  Based on my fingernail knowledge, I’ve no problem with Cross Country, Swim and Dive, Golf, and even badminton, but football?  Really?  Full contact, sweat, and spit.  Traveling on school buses around the Valley.  My head aches, when I read: Dr. Skidmore, my son may lose his football scholarship to Ball State University, where he’s slated as the number 2 quarterback. Sorry, the MAC has already cancelled its season; I suspect they will understand.

My son has been so depressed he can’t work out in the gym this summer.  He’s already been offered a full-ride at OSU and is destined for the NFL.  Really?  Your son, a senior, is unable to devise his own workout program?  He’s welcomed to hoist my sofa over his head innumerable times while I vacuum dog hair.  He can dig up my dead bushes, move several tons of granite, and climb up and down my stairs to move heavy junk anytime.  The upside is I’ll pay him.

Jack’s 92-year-old grandmother, who tested positive for COVID was only ill for three days, and she wants nothing more than to see her grandson kick the winning field goal. And by the way, you made us sign a waiver to hold the school district harmless. Delighted to learn his grandma is well, but if football happens, I suspect there will not be the usual 6,000 spectators. As to the waiver, which has been done for over 20 years, please know we’ve spent far too much money in court. The waiver does not prevent the district from copious lawsuits. Thank you, but the district could livestream the game on You Tube.  PS. We won’t sue you!

Forgive my rant.  All I want is to get students and staff safely back together in the classroom. I want kids to experience the camaraderie of collaboration and the joy of learning under the guidance of an A+ teacher.  Is that too much for me to ask?

My sister phoned me several weeks ago and at one point in our conversation shared:  “I was talking with Grayce the other day, and she almost broke my heart when she said, ‘Grammy, I miss the zoo so much; I worry about the animals!’  Then Grayce cried.”

Grayce (5) and her little brother, Dax, (almost 2) live in Pittsburgh.  My niece and nephew-in-law frequented the zoo with them, until…. COVID closed the zoo to visitors.  COVID closed the schools.  And COVID imposed travel restrictions of those outside of Pennsylvania.  Truly, COVID has reeked havoc on the emotional and social well-being of children–far too young to understand why their grandparents don’t visit, why their parents work from home, why they can’t go to the public pool or playground, nor the zoo.

One night I entertained myself by looking at children’s toys on Amazon.  Wow, interactive this, mini kindles, owls that can be taught to fly.  Complex building systems, science kits, and robots.  Not a yoyo, color book, nor a non-remote kite.  Then I searched zoo and what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a plastic bag filled with larger zoo animals and a play mat on which to construct a zoo.  Simple, creative, and imaginative.  No glitz, no whistles and bells–just lions, and tigers, and bears, oh my!

On a rainy Pittsburgh day, Grayce and Dax opened my box and entertained themselves for several hours.    My phone rang; my sister.  “Sue, I can’t begin to tell you how much fun the kids have had today with the zoo.  Grayce is rather annoyed Dax says the moose is a deer, but they’ve had a blast today.  They even face-timed us to show us their menagerie.”

Hmm.  No batteries, no flashing lights, no sound.  Simple imaginative play.  Perhaps, all of us might benefit from a new box of crayons and coloring book, a jig saw puzzle, a deck of cards, or a paper airplane.  Perhaps a hardback book, a basketball, or a box of chalk.

Sorry, I’ve got to go. Alexa is ordering my Roomba around, my phone is tweeting, and I’ve got to track my likes on Facebook.  Later.

Yes, today marks my 72nd year.  Who knew the last six months would be so life changing for all of us?  True, a few months ago, I danced with death and somehow survived, probably for a myriad of reasons.  Prayers, not mine, but others?  My friends? My wonderful family?  I don’t know.

I don’t profess to know much, but since COVID I’ve realized we are all in the same boat, not a luxury cruise ship, but Huck Finn’s homemade raft floating down some murky river.  I adore my dogs with their unique personalities, and truly, I’ve never minded being alone.  Quarantining, social distancing, restaurant and gym closings, and restricting travels could make me crazier than I already am; yet, I write this blog to thank  those who have slapped me along side of my head and shouted: “Wake up, Sue. We care about you. We love you.”

Of course, my realization did not occur over night.  It happened in small snippets; taps on my back, if you will.  I found myself communicating with folk I hadn’t interacted with for 10-20 years.  For me, I often randomly think about something my college roommate and I did, I think about my cooperating teacher who urged me to teach, I think about my next-door neighbors who are ALWAYS here for me.  I think about my childhood friends; my personal psychologist, Janey; my sorority sisters; my work friends; my school district friends; my new friends.

After my dance with death, which my recovery I attribute to both the Almighty and Satan–who both decided I wasn’t worthy, I had an epiphany.  I needed to connect/reconnect with all of them.  Hell, we’re all floundering in these uncertain seas.  We all must entertain each other the best way we can.  Curiously, even my ex and I have reestablished a bit of civility.

Tough times.  Perhaps, our new normal.  Perhaps, all of us were so caught up in our own lives we forgot about all of those folks who have enriched our lives.  Folk who matter. Now is the time.  

True, 72. Thank you all for making my life so fabulous!

Group Of Friends Walking Together

In September, I will have spent 50 years in some form of public education: teacher, college professor, principal, superintendent, school board member, and mentor.  (Of course, that doesn’t count the additional 16 years I spent as a student.)

As a teacher and a professor, I encountered ONE student among the thousands who was illiterate.  Stanley Simmons, a 16-year-old, white kid from Appalachia couldn’t even spell his last name, let alone read.  Unfortunately, he committed suicide before I could get him the proper help.

Last summer I spent a wonderful week at the beach in North Carolina.  Not as posh as the Outer Banks, Myrtle Beach, or Hilton Head, but lovely.  Curiously though, every eating and/or drinking establishment had a sign: NO shirt, NO shoes, NO service.  And curiously, no one defied the rule.  No one during my week stay made the national news ranting about his/her right not to wear shirts nor shoes.  Obviously, the beach goers were literate, and they all graciously showed the bartender their ids when requested.

Yesterday, I ventured to the grocery.  The sign on the door read: Mask Required by order of the City of Phoenix and Maricopa County. Though there were only 20 or so shoppers in the store, 5 weren’t wearing a mask.  Store managers and cashiers, who work for marginal salaries, choose not to endure the wrath.  As I came around the corner to the ice cream aisle, there stood an unmasked, perhaps 25-year-old woman looking for ice cream.  My evil side was bubbling; my mouth was about to flap:

“Excuse me, ma’am, I know you can’t read, may I help you find the flavor for which you search?  I can read, so there’s no need for a taste test.  Strawberry? Rocky Road?  Mint Chocolate Chip?”

Of course, I said nothing.  I’m not real big on public confrontation, but I know, based on my episode, 25% of the folk in that store couldn’t read.  Tragic.

Hmm.  Perhaps, illiteracy is trending to the same heights as COVID is.  I shall ponder that notion.

As a child, I was taught at home, at school, and at Sunday school, to play by the rules. Of course, I broke some, like not cleaning my room, or coming home on time from a date.  But for the most part, I never threw a scene about a foul nor a bad grade.

When my youngest was a high school senior, one of her friends, Amy, –a renown golfer–couldn’t play golf simply because our high school didn’t have any varsity players.  The Athletic Association dictated that varsity players must be sophomores through seniors.  Amy needed the college scholarship; she was worried it would be taken away if she didn’t play golf.

And with that, Amy’s four, senior friends, signed up for the golf team.  The four had played miniature golf, but real golf?  Not.  “Mom, I made the varsity golf team!”

I was stunned–in fact, 14 years later I’m still stunned!  “Mom, we need to talk.”  Talk?  I knew/know very little about golf.  Perhaps, her dad knew.  “I need clothes.”  Spare me, my kid was always in need of clothes.  Designer this, accessory that, shoes, ad nauseam..

“Don’t you wear a school uniform?”

“Duh, Mom, you’re on the school board. You know girl sports don’t get guy perks.  Golf courses require proper attire.  Collared shirts, Bermuda-length shorts or golf skirts.  The golf course kicks you off if you’re wearing jean shorts and a sleeveless tee.  Can you believe it?  Our coach said she won’t let us on the course unless we’re dressed appropriately.  We have to follow the rules.”

Yes, this was 14 years ago, and yes, I made sure my kid dressed like Michele Wii.  And yes, my kid to this day has a swing that makes men envious at the driving range.

Had I written this four years ago, everyone would have gotten the point.  But today, I need to spell it out:

• My kid and her three friends did this solely to help Amy get her scholarship.  They didn’t care they had no skill.  Their gesture was selfless.
• With the help of their coach, they learned to dress appropriately on the golf course.
• They lost every match with dignity because it was not about them–just Amy.

When I see social media posts: I will not trade my freedom for your safety, I wonder.  Your freedom to wear cut offs on the golf course? Your freedom not to wear a face mask to a private club, like Costco or Sam’s Club? Your freedom not to pay income taxes, nor obey the speed laws, nor wear bathing trunks at the resort pool?

If you don’t choose to comply, I hope you have a good attorney and/or a sympathetic ICU doctor.

We’re all angry. COVID-19 has disrupted our world. In some states, like Arizona, movie theaters, gyms, bars, water parks are shuttered.  We have to wear a mask and socially distance, and we can’t have large public gatherings.  Damn! How frustrating in America on the cusp of the July 4th, Independence Day with most firework celebrations cancelled.

We look to place the blame.  Pray tell, where?  The President? China? The Governor? Big Business? Aliens? The health care community? An exercise in futility given our current crisis.  Case in point: a number of parents in our 30,000 student school district are miffed the school board voted to deliver instruction electronically for one month. OMG!  NO! The school board must send children back to school NOW.  

I get it. Working parents are inconvenienced because their children are not physically in a “brick and mortar” building; they have to work.”Your job is to teach.” I get it, but my conscience weighs heavy.

You want me to risk the health and safety of our teachers and ancillary staff so you can work?  You want me to risk the health and safety of your children and family?  Why don’t you ask your employer what he/she is doing to help our soaring virus numbers?  Why aren’t employers encouraged to help families with child care issues?  Why is it the school’s problem?  All of us must rise to the proverbial occasion, if we are going to squash COVID-19.

Tomorrow is the 4th–a wonderful celebration.  Some of us will act responsibly; some of us won’t.  Dr. Suze will be delivering dinner to a young father and four school-age children, all with non-severe cases of COVID.  Why?  Because his wife and kids’ mother is in ICU on a ventilator.

‘Nuff said.

(I know you’re thinking I’ve multiple personalities–last week Kelly Clarkson and this week Hester Prynne.  Don’t we all?)

Many of us read The Scarlet Letter in high school.  Hester Prynne, an unwed mother in the Puritan Massachusetts Colony is subjected to not only public humiliation, but to prison for refusing to identify her child’s father.  She is forced to wear a scarlet A for the rest of her life.  And though the author, Nathaniel Hawthorne, never defines the significance of A, most agree it meant adulteress.

Though my children are legitimate, this week I became a marked woman, despite the fact my state welcomes folk:

I’m forced to wear the red letter.  Arizona is the new coronavirus epicenter!  If I decide to fly to Hawaii, New York, New Jersey, or Connecticut, I must be quarantined for two weeks in these states.  Not that I’m contemplating an airplane ride, but I never thought I’d experience lockup upon arrival.  Next week, all Americans will not be permitted to travel to Europe.

I refuse to blame anyone in particular, except us.  Many of us ignored precautionary measures.  Many of us flocked to the beaches, bars, and night clubs when restrictions eased.  Many of us acted like the dragon was slain.  In retrospect, we are responsible for the spikes in cases in Texas, Florida, California, and Arizona.

Fortunately, one of my alma maters has a logo, which I can easily have branded on my forehead:

I’ll get the tattoo guy to change to maroon to scarlet red.  Then, everyone will know Arizona Sue has arrived in Newark, NJ.

And today Arizona hospitals are requesting crisis care–triaging to decide who gets a COVID bed and who gets hospice.  I get the:

Call me ASH.

(Warning:  This blog is written in jest; we need a little humor these days.)

The internet was atwitter last week with news of Kelly Clarkson’s split from her husband, Brandon Blackstock.  It was reported the couple had been having problems and being quarantined together exacerbated their issues.  True, none of us have ever experienced a moment like this, and one can easily understand when faced with a 24-7, 7-day a week lockdown cabin fever rages!

Years ago, when I lived in the Ohio Lake Erie Snow Belt, nothing made me want to go like NOT being able to go.  And fortunately, during those winters I never spent more than a week in lock up.  But imagine being cooped up with a spouse or significant other for months at a time.  Even the strongest relationships are challenged.

Case in point:  My next-door neighbor, Sassy, has been married for fifty years.  She said to me last night, “You are so lucky you live alone.”  Hmm.  Alone, not quite.  I’ve a cabana boy in the guest apartment and six dogs!  Hardly, a dull moment.

Sass raged, “Do you understand what it’s like to be followed around, being constantly asked what’s to eat or what are you doing?  Then, there’s the proverbial lost car keys, the computer issues, and his incessant humming.  He’s driving me crackers; I wish he’d bugger off and go to the gym.”

I’ve been spouseless for ten years, and at my age, I certainly don’t want to clutter up my life with an old man.  God forbid, if he’d catch a cold!  Talk about needy and whiney.  “Come here, Sue, I don’t have enough strength to pull the Kleenex out of the box.”  Spare me, no woman ever had as bad a cold as a man.  And in this pandemic, I feel very fortunate to be accountable to six dogs, who love me unconditionally, who never ask for my credit card, nor a ride to the mall, and who don’t amass truck loads of laundry.

So Kelly, while I was familiar with your name, heard some of your songs, I certainly was not a fan, nor had I watched American Idol.  However, when I read of your quarantine issues this week, I could relate.  I offer you my elderly advice: What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger!  I am an authority on that point.