elementary school

Hey There, You’re a Rock Star

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FreeVector-Rock-StarsYears ago, I co-taught Sunday school with another church member, and one Sunday she said, “Sue, I’m tired of my nomadic life on the road.”  I knew she traveled several times a month leaving both her husband and children to fend for themselves.  But she was making mega bucks.  “You know I have a teaching degree I’ve never used.”

No, I didn’t know it.  “If you think you want to teach, I can arrange a interview with our HR assistant superintendent.  You realize you’ll never make the same amount of money you make now.”

“Of course.  There’s more important things than making loads of money.  I need to be with my family, and I want to make a difference in the lives of kids.”

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“Deb, teaching is the most important profession in the world, for without a teacher there can be no nurse, no attorney, and no plumber.  I’ve observed you; you will be fabulous.”

Deb was hired as a teacher in a Title I elementary school and earlier this week emailed me:  I’m so proud to work for such a supportive governing board and superintendent.  You’re rock stars.

Rock stars?  The true rock stars are you and your fellow teachers.  You who are paid $35-40,000 per year to educate our future.  You who collect warm clothing for children in need.  You who tutor children at risk.  You who work tirelessly day after day to ensure each child maximizes his/her potential.

Curiously, I’ve never swooned over The Beatles, Smash Mouth, nor Justin Timberlake.  Yet, I’ve been euphoric when I witnessed the myriad of student accomplishments made possible by caring and dedicated teachers.  So unless Bruce Springsteen wants to run away with me, teachers will be my #1 rock stars!

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2018: Welcome to the 70’s

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I never said, “I’ll be glad to watch this year go; hopefully, next year will be better.”  Every year of my life has brought its challenges and laughter.  Granted, each year has been different–sometimes 360 degrees different, but still each year has been interesting, confounding, and humorous.

As I child, I didn’t like January 1, even though we celebrated my paternal grandfather’s birthday I was bored by the endless, TV football games and dreaded I would go back to school tomorrow.  For me, it was a very long stretch to spring break and summer vacation.  Further, it would be months before the sun shone, the daffodils appeared, and I could rid myself of boots and a winter coat.  I’d be sentenced to a classroom writing a report about George or Abraham, cutting and pasting hearts on doilies, wearing green, ad nauseam.

Admittedly, 2017 changed my life.  While it has been a year of joy and accomplishment, it has been a year of introspection.  Now when a major home improvement needs done, when a big-ticket appliance breaks, when I get the itch for a new car, I make each decision based on a 20-25, year warranty.  Yes, 2018 will bring my 70th birthday.  A most anchoring realization.  I don’t want to replace an air conditioner when I’m eighty, nor dicker with car sales folk.

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Yet, 2018 will also bring my youngest’s 30th birthday and her magical, fifth year as cancer-free, so I’ll suck it up.  I’ll turn 70.  I’ll publish my first novel in collaboration with my brother.  I’ll get another tattoo, buy a puppy, and take a riverboat cruise on the Mississippi, if I can find someone who wants to tag along.  But most importantly,  I’ll throw a big party in celebration of my youngest, fifth cancerversery.

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Let the ball drop, NYC.  Dr. Suze is ready for 2018!  Happy New Year!

 

XYZ: Examine Your Zipper

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Many will recall the childhood comment: XYZ.  Usually, it was made to a boy, who emerged from the lavatory after those stupid, elementary school bathroom breaks.  Perhaps, you’ve experienced them, where the teacher lined up his/her class at the appointed hour and marched them down the hall.  I referred to this practice as pee on demand.

Though invented in 1851, zippers weren’t used in clothing until the 1930’s.  In the 1937, Battle of Fly, the zipper was declared winner over buttons.  This new tailoring idea in men’s trousers promised to prevent the possibility of embarrassment.

In recent weeks XYZ has morphed into headline stories, graphic dalliances of sexual harassment, even rape, have been exposed.  Certainly, rumors of the “Hollywood casting couch” have been around for years, but both men and women victims remained silent.  Now, it seems to be a pervasive epidemic propagated by those in power over the powerless.  Further, fueled by fear of losing a starring role, a job, or even getting a good grade in a college course.

Finally, victims found their voice.  Unnamed predators are probably suffering from sleepless nights and wobbly knees.  And thankfully, this week voters rejected a known creep, who advertised himself as an upright, moral man.

My advice to the powerful is simply: XYZ.  None of your employees, nor teenagers shopping at the mall are interested in your sausage.  And in this case, it doesn’t pay to advertise.

 

 

 

 

Labor Day…Humbug!

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Please know I have no problem with honoring our nation’s workforce; they earned it.  Further, I do know the first Monday in September has been a national holiday for 123 years.  However, as a child I loathed Labor Day, for it signaled the end of summer. My world screeched to a standstill.

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The city swimming pools closed, the amusement park went on hiatus, and the wonderful county fair was over.  By Tuesday, the pools would be drained, the park concessions shuttered, and the fair carnies would disassemble their rides and head south.

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The weather noticeably changed; soon all of the trees would shed their leaves, and I’d be helping rake them.  Then winter would come, and months would pass without sunshine. No green grass, no flowers, naked trees–I found it depressing.

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Yet, the worst thing about Labor Day was that Tuesday I’d have to go back to school!  I didn’t hate school, but I did find it stifling.  In my era, school was highly regimented.  I found it absurd the older I got that we had regularly scheduled bathroom breaks.  As a fourth grader, I absolutely knew if I had to go to the restroom.  I didn’t need to line up in the hall, march downstairs in the girl’s line to the potty.  (The boys had their own line on the opposite side of the hallway, and the teacher sashayed down the middle.)  It was so stupid and rather insulting to be led like cattle to the loo.

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I kept a calendar counting down the days to my first break.  Thanksgiving was an eternity; Christmas was eons.  In the meantime, I suffered through the humility of having my paper torn up in front of the class due to my poor handwriting.  I slogged through math.  I weathered my weekly flutophone class.  I consciously programmed myself to not pee on demand; my sole act of defiance against the system.

Fortunately, in Phoenix, I no longer dread Labor Day where  I swim in the pool, grill a rib-eye, and knosh on salad.  However, when I shopped the grocery Labor Day specials this week, I was a tad miffed pork, baby back, ribs were buy 1, get 2 free.  WTF?  What’s a Lone Ranger suppose to do with 12 pounds of ribs?  Shuffle off, Labor Day.