Monday, November 4, 2024

 NANOWRIMO 24 Day 4

 

Prompt: Write a story that includes a reoccurring sound 

 

You’re a liar. 

The clerk frowned. “You okay?”

Looking up from my inky fingers, I nodded. Deep breath. “I will be. I hope.”

“You’ve got a little ink on your face. Here.” He pointed to my cheek. 

“It’s a bruise,” I said.  

The clerk winced. 

I had a bunch of matching ones on my inner thighs, but the clerk didn’t need to know that. 

 

You’re a liar. 

Clicking the pen, I scrawled my signature and handed over the paperwork. The restraining order was one page. One flimsy page. It weighed nothing but the words on it, crammed, tiny, splattered with tears, spilling into margins, carried universes of memories, some good once but overshadowed by anger, denial, acceptance, self-hate, which was the worst. That last one would take a while to recover from. 

 

“No one will believe you. You’re a liar.”  Him, my in-laws. He’d enlisted all of them:  father, mother, brothers, sisters. They all said it. Phone calls, voice mails, emails. As if repeating their words over and over would make them true. But I knew better. 

 

The clerk directed me to the courtroom, which was two flights up. The elevator was convenient, but I opted for the stairs. I ascended slowly, each painful step reminding me. 

I’m not a liar. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sunday, November 3, 2024

 NANOWRIMO 24  Day 3

Prompt: I awoke one morning, after uneasy dreams, and find myself transformed. 

 

The cotton sheets, comforter, pillows, rug, all the lovely trappings of the Killarney Royale Hotel are gone. There is only a pathetically small pile of straw, strewn over a hard, dirt floor. My legs are bare, bony. What happened to my calf muscles? Where are my leggings? I’m in a cotton nightshift too thin for warmth. My stomach cramps again. Again? 

 

The room is dark and silent, except for my sister, whose snuffles and sighs must have awoken me. She is on her side, curled up like a cat, shaking in her sleep. I cover her bare arms with handfuls of straw, then study my surroundings. 

 

As my eyes adjust, I see a crude wooden stool, a small table with spindly legs, a blackened hearth. Other than that, our cottage is empty. Well of course it is. We sold everything else for food -- stale bread, mugs of thin soup. How many days ago was that? Too many.  My stomach is on fire. I grimace.  

 

Stifling a groan, I rise onto stiff legs and limp toward the turf bucket. It’s still empty, just like yesterday and the day before and before that for weeks on end. There’ll be no remedy for the cold again today. 

 

The room spins and I lean against the crumbling mud wall to steady myself. Through our window, I see that outside, the sun is rising, shedding golden light over a land that has betrayed us: blighted potato fields, and shallow graves where the kitchen garden used to be, resting places for the parents, the grands, and some neighbors too. I’ll be next if God is kind, but it’s likely my sister won’t have the energy to bury me. It’s almost her time too. Our bones, picked clean by whatever animals still exist on this hellish plain, will stand as testament to our history, the cruelty of the land, the government, the so-called religious urging us to convert to Protestantism so then we can be fed. 

 

I recall my dream. Two sisters, bellies full, wandering our fields which are not decaying but flourishing, in strange men’s clothes, pantaloons tight to their legs, brogues laced halfway to their knees, and carrying packs that buckled at their considerable waists.  They were laughing. 

 

Yesterday, when my sister was resting, which is all we have energy for now, I sat among the graves, tore up handfuls of grass sprouting up from the dead, stuffed my mouth. Like a sheep, I was, chewing and swallowing as though my very future depended on this miserable meal. My belly cramps again. As I double over in pain liquid gushes from between my legs. I pray that it’s blood. I pray that it’s all that I am.  Jesus and Mary, the saints, and every holy thing, take my child. Take me too. 

Saturday, November 2, 2024

 NANOWRIMO 24 Day 2

Needs some editing, but that's for another day.  


Prompt: The day the mirror shattered

 

 

The sounds: dings, beeps, groans, murmurs.

The locale: Intensive Care Unit

The characters: mom (dying), daughter (crying), assorted disinterested medical workers. 

 

The hand of the younger woman who was mid 50s? early 60s? -- grief, especially sudden grief, ages one quickly --  was soft and freckled,  pulsing with life. It clutched – if one can clutch desperately but gently too, the hand of the other, which was unnaturally white and punctured with needles, bandaged, bruised black and red, cold. Too cold. 

 

They were practically doppelgangers, obviously mother and child, separated by decades but connected in ways that couldn’t be seen, but even objective observers, like disinterested medical workers, could feel. Their hair, both recently shaped, chin-length bobs, was dyed the same brown, though the patient’s was tangled, wet with sweat. The daughter wore a pink cardigan over a paisley button down, Christmas presents from mom, who had laughed, delighted, when she opened her present that year, which was the same. In most ways, they were reflections. 

 

The mother’s green eyes were closed. The daughter’s green eyes were open and tear-filled. 

 

She nodded to the doctor. “We’re ready,” she said. 

 

While the nurses unplugged the dozens of tubes attached to the computers surrounding the hospital bed, swiftly, efficiently, too easily the doctor ripped off the medical tape on the patient’s lips, then coolly pulled out the ridged tube that coursed through her throat and down to her lungs, ignoring the gagging sounds that alarmed the daughter and made her jump, gasping and trembling, grabbing her own throat, from her chair.

 

“Stop! You’re hurting her! Please stop! This isn’t right.”  

 

A nurse put a calming hand to her shoulder. “It’s done,” she said. “The suffering. It’s done.” She pointed to the heart and blood pressure numbers, both dropping swiftly until within seconds they reached zero and the machinery stopped. “Her heart was too damaged. It was her time.”  

 

Shattered, the daughter sobbed and stroked her mother’s hand. “Take me with you, Mama,” she cried. “I can’t live without you.”

 

From far away, she heard the doctor’s words, calm and self-assured. “You’re still young. You still have years and years of living ahead of you. Do you truly think that’s what your mother would want? For you to die too?” he said. 

 

Gasping the daughter dropped her mother’s hand and rubbed at the sudden pain radiating from her jaw to her shoulders and arms. Wide-eyed and breathless, she said, “Yes. I think she would.” 

 

 

Friday, November 1, 2024

NANOWRIMO 24 Day 1: Obituary

 NANOWRIMO 2024 Day 1

 

Topic: Write a story in the form of an obituary

 

My Savings Account

 

Today we mourn the death of My Savings Account. Once robust and full of life, MSA has suffered numerous assaults to its system in recent years. MSA’s death while not a blessing, was certainly expected. 

 

Born to a once monetarily conservative Primary Account Holder, MSA had a fairly boring upbringing. Interactions with PAH were quite infrequent, as birthday and holiday presents made up the majority of deposits, while withdrawals were few and far between. 

 

Once PAH hit 16, MSA grew by proverbial leaps and bounds, aided robustly by a weekly $6 paycheck provided by a well-known fast- food restaurant. There were few withdrawals and those were mainly to Filene’s Basement and the local Levi’s store 

 

From PAH’s 18 birthday until age 22, paycheck deposits became more sporadic, and came from an unpredictable variety of enterprises including retail establishments, local restaurants, newspapers, while withdrawals primarily supported the care and feeding of one particular college’s bookstore, as well as local pizza venues and liquor stores. MSA’s future certainly looked dim.

 

But as the years continued, deposits picked up and MSA experienced a renaissance of sorts, with the majority source being meager but steady public school department paychecks. These little drops of water, while certainly not helpful in creating an ocean, were useful in building a pleasant, tiny pond that could perhaps one day host a small rowboat or an inexpensive kayak. 

 

A decade ago, an alarming trend began to emerge, as payments to local running stores, race organizations, physical therapists, wineries, hotels, breweries, and airlines began to flow steeply upward, while school department deposits remained annoyingly and depressingly flat despite rising inflation. Still, brave little MSA stayed remarkably steady, truly an example of persistence, like the little engine that could, only maybe a little weaker. 

 

Deposits from several retail establishments helped to stave off the inevitable for a number of years, but it recently became evident that MSA was nearing the end of life. Feeble attempts were made to stanch the bleeding with cutbacks to cable channel subscriptions, gas and electric companies. But at the same time, PAH spending continued to increase, now in terms of overseas travel and souvenir shopping in addition to all the other running related frippery. 

 

As MSA took its last breaths, PAH seemed blissfully unaware, and was heard to quote Bon Jovi.  “It’s only money. I want to live while I’m alive,” she said as she limped her way onto a plane to travel to the starting line of her next marathon. 

 

MSA is survived by No Regrets, It’s Only A Hill, Friends All Over The World, and an army of physical therapists demanding payment. There will be no memorial service. PAH says she can’t afford it. Her credit cards are maxed out. 


My Savings Account

 

Today we mourn the death of My Savings Account. Once robust and full of life, MSA has suffered numerous assaults to its system in recent years. MSA’s death while not a blessing, was certainly expected. 

 

Born to a once monetarily conservative Primary Account Holder, MSA had a fairly boring upbringing. Interactions with PAH were quite infrequent, as birthday and holiday presents made up the majority of deposits, while withdrawals were few and far between. 

 

Once PAH hit 16, MSA grew by proverbial leaps and bounds, aided robustly by a weekly $6 paycheck provided by a well-known fast- food restaurant. There were few withdrawals and those were mainly to Filene’s Basement and the local Levi’s store 

 

From PAH’s 18 birthday until age 22, paycheck deposits became more sporadic, and came from an unpredictable variety of enterprises including retail establishments, local restaurants, newspapers, while withdrawals primarily supported the care and feeding of one particular college’s bookstore, as well as local pizza venues and liquor stores. MSA’s future certainly looked dim.

 

But as the years continued, deposits picked up and MSA experienced a renaissance of sorts, with the majority source being meager but steady public school department paychecks. These little drops of water, while certainly not helpful in creating an ocean, were useful in building a pleasant, tiny pond that could perhaps one day host a small rowboat or an inexpensive kayak. 

 

A decade ago, an alarming trend began to emerge, as payments to local running stores, race organizations, physical therapists, wineries, hotels, breweries, and airlines began to flow steeply upward, while school department deposits remained annoyingly and depressingly flat despite rising inflation. Still, brave little MSA stayed remarkably steady, truly an example of persistence, like the little engine that could, only maybe a little weaker. 

 

Deposits from several retail establishments helped to stave off the inevitable for a number of years, but it recently became evident that MSA was nearing the end of life. Feeble attempts were made to stanch the bleeding with cutbacks to cable channel subscriptions, gas and electric companies. But at the same time, PAH spending continued to increase, now in terms of overseas travel and souvenir shopping in addition to all the other running related frippery. 

 

As MSA took its last breaths, PAH seemed blissfully unaware, and was heard to quote Bon Jovi.  “It’s only money. I want to live while I’m alive,” she said as she limped her way onto a plane to travel to the starting line of her next marathon. 

 

MSA is survived by No Regrets, It’s Only A Hill, Friends All Over The World, and an army of physical therapists demanding payment. There will be no memorial service. PAH says she can’t afford it. Her credit cards are maxed out. 

 

 

 #flashfiction

#nanowrimo2024

#nancystohlman



 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sunday, January 28, 2024

Gaslighting is fun, said no teacher ever

Gaslighting is a thing in many workplaces. It’s such an easy way to manage people, especially if you have no respect for them and want to make sure they understand that they’re a dime a dozen and can easily be replaced in a heartbeat.

 

So, it goes without saying – but I’ll say it anyhow, that in education, gaslighting is rampant. No wonder so many teachers leave the profession after just a few years or stay but eventually go out on medical leaves and/ or take meds for depression, PTSD, anxiety, high blood pressure. 

 

I’m retired a while now but still working my way through some stuff. Like many of my colleagues, some of my school experiences did a job on my psyche and affected me in ways I’m still discovering. The triggers are everywhere. For me, gaslighting is one of those.  

 

Here are some experiences, mostly generalized, that have affected me and many of my friends. I wanted to write this for myself just to get some things off my chest. But also, there are folks out there who have absolutely no respect for the profession. Maybe if you read this, it will open your eyes a little to some of the many things teachers are up against. And to any of my teacher friends who read this and can relate, I’m thinking of you always. 

 

 

Admin: If you have any questions, just email me.

Reality: After sending multiple follow-up emails: Crickets. Nothing but crickets. Common in all professions of course, but when it comes to dealing with follow ups on out-of-control students and safety issues, email responses are vital. To those who say, “Why email?  Go immediately and talk to so-and -so.” Yes, of course. But an email trail is important not only for documentation of the student issue, but for covering your butt too. I know teachers who have lost their jobs because issues came down to admin said teacher said kinds of things. And the teachers always lose. It’s disgusting but it’s reality.

 

Admin: We are here to support teachers. 

Reality: Here’s a reworking of one teacher’s life one year. Admin: “Ah, so you’re busy helping your seriously ill, elderly parents all those hours after school every day and are finding it hard to manage things? Why don’t you learn to multitask? Bring your plan book or papers for correcting with you to their doctor appointments so you can work while you’re in the waiting room with them.”  

 

Reality: Admin: “So you say that this one student is causing all these problems and you say you can’t manage the classroom until this student gets some sort of additional support, like an instructional assistant? Maybe the problem is you. Maybe you need to try harder.” 

Teacher/s (with more time in classroom than admin will ever have) go/es out on medical leave due to blood pressure issues. 

Replacement teacher – brand new and just starting her professional career, gets no support whatsoever, and is fired within weeks of hire for not being able to control class, an unfair experience that will absolutely affect her for many, many years to come.  

Finally, after months of day-to-day subs each of whom refuse to return to that classroom, and some who walk out, refusing to stay the whole day, the student gets needed support, and with the school year more than half gone, the classroom finally gets its third and final teacher. 


Reality: Veteran teacher with mobility disability has classroom moved from first to fourth floor in building with constantly broken elevator. Nearest bathroom is on third floor. 


 

 

Admin: Cell phones are not allowed in classrooms. Simply follow protocol. Protocol, which takes a good chunk of teacher’s planning period: If students don’t put their phones away, contact x, then if that doesn’t work y, then if that doesn’t work z, and finally admin. Admin will handle it. Follow the process and everything will be fine. 

 

Reality: Teacher jumps through hoops and follows all the steps then gets to admin. Admin does nothing. 


Reality: At faculty meeting, admin blames teachers. Because faculty hasn’t focused on building relationships with students, students feel they don’t need to do what they are told, which is why they don’t put their phones away. Then, while next meeting presenter is talking, admin whips out phone and shows pics of family vacation to admin/ office/ teacher friends instead of listening to presenter.  

 



System bases teacher evaluations and classroom planning around useless testing programs like Fountas and Pinnell, MCAS, MAPs.

Reality: For years and years, teachers push back, saying that the program is a giant waste of time and money, is faulty, and its data can be easily manipulated. 

Reality: Some teachers receive poor evaluations and/or lose their jobs because their students aren’t meeting data expectations. 

Reality: Teachers and students lose twenty-plus classroom hours every quarter due to testing. 

Reality: Teachers are beyond stressed because testing is everything. 

Reality: After decades, school system suddenly and mysteriously drops that particular testing - FP for example, because –surprising no teacher anywhere, it is determined by someone somewhere that the testing is useless. 

 


No cigarettes, drugs, or alcohol allowed on school property. 

Reality: Teacher/s yelled at by admin – yup, public humiliation of teachers is a thing in some schools, for confronting student about vaping in bathrooms, hallways, etc.  No consequences for the student. 

Reality: Email sent to staff telling teachers to ignore various student odors and allow students to sleep in class. 

 

 


No weapons allowed on school property/ Schools are safe

Reality: Unless and until school systems implement airport-like security protocols, there will always be weapons or the possibility of weapons in schools. 

Witnessed parent with gun in waistband of pants in school hallway (might have been an undercover cop but never found out for sure and I’m pretty sure shouldn’t have had the weapon anyhow). 

Had to divert my dismissal line as one man holding a gun chased another down the alley next to our school (school property). 

Witnessed a teen kid– not from my school -- in parking lot across from school, where we teachers often parked our cars, showing a pack of kids his weapon. 

One year a student brought a BB gun to shoot me. Thankfully, another student reported it. 

My car - and other teacher cars paintballed, while parked on school property. 

Front bumper crushed, a hit and run on school property where staff, parents, and often time school neighbors park. 

License plate stolen. 

Last year, had my jacket stolen from my classroom. 

My experiences aren’t unusual either. Lots of teachers have lots of stories. Students too. 


Reality: Though many teachers and admin object, school committee changes policy to allow students to carry backpacks while in school.  Some kids report they don’t like the new rule because they are worried that some kids are carrying weapons in their backpacks. Teachers’ typical lunchtime discussion:: “Of course, the kids are carrying weapons, drugs, alcohol in their packs. But even if they didn’t carry their packs, kids would find a way to get illicit things into school. So, if the stuff is going to come in anyhow, why bother banning backpacks?” 


Reality: Schools are as safe as that one random kid who helpfully lets a stranger through one of the many many outside doors in her school. One of my schools had 16 doors, all alarmed by the early 2000s, but still. . .all it takes is that one helpful kid. 


Reality: Schools are as safe as that one kid who risks all to tell someone in authority that xyz has a weapon in his/her backpack. 

 

 

 

 

No school personnel should have to tolerate verbal or physical abuse. 

Reality: Admins have so much else on their plate, that reporting verbal abuse almost always gets ignored or gets at most a two-minute meeting with student. Or gets a phone call home, which is a waste of oxygen nine times out of ten. 


Fun reality: Admins sometime blame teachers for the student verbal abuse: “What were YOU doing that prompted the student to call you that.”


Reality: Things I have been called – in many different languages so I’m somewhat multilingual now, include bitch, old cow, fucking bitch, whore, old whore. 


Reality: It’s the teacher’s word against the student’s word. Threats get consequences - if the student admits to it and/or there’s another witness besides the teacher/ victim. 


Reality: Physical abuse of staff gets addressed - if witnessed by someone. Usually.


Reality: One case – circumstances changed to protect those involved – staff injured while breaking up fight.  Student bragged to others that they’d injured school staff.  Student denied it in official meeting.  The videotape – camera in all halls and stairways is pretty much the norm now in lots of school systems, didn’t clearly show the part of the fight where student allegedly punched and injured staff.  Result: Student walks away, exonerated. 

 

How does the staff member cope in a situation like that?  The staff member either leaves the school, the system, or the profession, or retires early, perhaps on disability – only 40 percent, which is tough to prove if that disability is due to something “invisible,” like school-related PTSD. Or the staff member finds some other way to deal with the fact that a kid beat them up and nobody did anything about it. 

 

If, like me and many of my friends, you’re “lucky” enough to only start experiencing some of these gaslighting techniques as you approach the end of your career, one good coping mechanism is to focus on the big picture. You take things one day at a time. Keep your eyes on the prize: that retirement chart that tells you that soon, very soon, you’re done, and you’ll never have to think about any of this again. 

 

But here’s the thing. Once you’re retired, sometimes you still do.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Monday, January 1, 2024

24 Resolutions for 2024, Song Title Edition

 24 Resolutions for 2024, Song Title Edition

 

A shit year, 2023,  for the most part. I don’t want to write about it but also, I want to write about it.  Rather than continuing to sit here, stare off into space, relive the past and then shuffle forward with heavy heart, there’s this, a sort of lighter take. 

 

1.     Feeling Stronger Every Day (Chicago)

2.     Free Falling (Tom Petty)

3.     Miracles (Cold Play) 

4.     Shut Up and Dance With Me (Walk the Moon)

5.     Underdog (Spoon)

6.     Only the Good Die Young (Billy Joel)

7.     Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked (Cage the Elephant)

8.     Long May You Run (Neil Young)

9.     Don’t Stop Me Now (Queen)

10.  Dream On (Aerosmith)

11.  Life Is a Highway (Rascal Flatts)

12.  Don’t Stop Believing (Journey)

13.  You Haven’t Seen the Last of Me (Cher)

14.  I Won’t Back Down (Petty)

15.  Eat It (Al Yankovic)

16.  Hungry Like the Wolf (Duran Duran)

17.  Red, Red Wine (UB 40, Neil Diamond

18.  Renegade (Styx)

19.  Hit Me with Your Best Shot (Pat Benatar)

20.  Rosalita (Jump a Little Higher) (Bruce Springsteen)

21.  Shake it Off (Taylor Swift)

22.  Anti-Hero (Swift)

23.  Girls Just Want to Have Fun (Cyndi Lauper)

24.  Take on Me (A-ha)

 

 

 

Monday, July 10, 2023

Teaching. 30.2 years. 13 lyrics. Chronological order.

 

None of this has anything whatsoever to do with my students. 

 

 

1.     “A B C, easy as 1 2 3.”

 

2.     “Stayin’ alive. Stayin’ alive.” 

 

3.     “Outgunned, outmanned, outnumbered, outplanned.” 

 

4.     “She works hard for the money.”

 

5.     September 2001: “Come on up for the rising. Come on up lay your hand in mine.” 

 

6.     “Oh, we’re halfway there. Oh, living on a prayer.”

 

7.     “Ch ch ch ch changes.”  

 

8.     “Shake it off.  Shake it off.” 

 

9.     “All I’m asking is for a little respect.”

 

10.  “Just another brick in the wall.” 

 

11.  “The waiting is the hardest part.” 

 

12.  “I’m unstoppable today.”  

 

13.  June 2023: “School’s out forever.” Too obvious?