Why do we write? Part 1

 

When I worked full-time, my morning routine wasn’t a routine exactly. It was more an exercise in panic: oversleeping, procrastinating, then rushrushrush. 

This post, which I wrote as part of NANOWRIMO 2026, is pretty much how my mornings went back in the day: https://alwaysatthestartingline.blogspot.com/2025/11/flashnano25-day-28-mornings.html

 

In my retirement, I’ve developed a new morning routine. This one involves getting up when I feel like it, which lately has been about an hour past the crack of dawn. Like my pre-retirement schedule, mornings still involve copious coffee cups and lots of reading. Because I have more time on my hands now and tend to do this reading in a comfy recliner with my feet up and lap readily available, rather than in a straight-back kitchen chair which tortured my torso and forced me up and out, I tend to attract cats. 

It’s quite comfy to start: Coffee, three cats napping/ purring, and my laptop, which is always opened first thing to Heather Cox Richardson’s latest historical and contextual take on the events of the previous day. 

Sometimes we stay cozy, me, Patrick, Alexis Rose and her brother David. We’ll sit for hours while I skim social networks, read emails, distribute chin scritchy scratchies, head pats. Sometimes the four of us doze off. 

“It is said that the effect of eating too much lettuce is soporific.” (Beatrix Potter). My cats are my lettuce. Off topic here, but my daughters and I have been using that word, soporific, since we first read Potter’s books together decades back. It’s so fun to say, read, write. Soporific is a word that makes me smile. Maybe I need to do a post on words that make me smile. 

Also, now I’m humming “I can’t go to work I’ve got a cat on my lap.”  (Morgan Morse).

Enough. Back to it. Sometimes good catnaps get ruined because what I read upsets me so much that I can’t sit still. 

I could write a lot today about many things. There’s so much wrong with the world and it pisses me off that I can’t do more. Writing helps me cope. Today, in HCR’s comment section, I got to read comments from others who feel the same way, both about wanting to do more and also about using writing to cope. 

Here are some excerpts from that comment section. I’m copying and pasting these for me and for anyone else out there who also feels like it’s all too much, and who, like me, also uses writing as an outlet for inquiry, angst, creativity.  

These aren’t award-winning authors with billions in the bank and massive social presences. And I think because of that, I find their words even more powerful. They’re regular folks like me, doing the best they can to take care of themselves and their loved ones during these awful times. Can’t take care of others if you don’t take care of yourself, right? They keep writing and I will too. I edited these a bit to protect privacy. 

 

 

It seems many of us are processing/coping/ interpreting our thoughts through words. Writing it out has often helped me get through the day.

 

Writing lyrics and connecting with nature have helped me to maintain my sanity.

 

Journaling is a vital link to my emotional stability. The very physical act of writing on paper an account of each day gives relief from the pressures. Expressing doubts and fears along with hopes and dreams does a soul good. 

 

I write poetry to process and get it out most days.

 

 

 I respond to so many comments on different reputable sites. This helps me see clearly what is going on, what I want for the future, and keeps me actively engaged and determined to support our democracy and our wonderful people, and the America that I love - not this present pall of corruption. 

 

 

Before I wrote this morning’s post, I went online and searched this phrase: “Why do we write?” There was so much that came up. I could spend days just reading through the first page of results. 

 

Here’s one of the initial pieces that caught my eye.  It’s from The Paris Review, by Elisa Gabbert. 

 

Why Write?  https://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2022/07/06/why-write/

I want to delve more deeply into this article and this subject. But now I need to move about a bit. The news continues to mess with my head. While writing this morning was helpful, I think a couple of hours at the gym today will help me sleep better tonight.  Balance matters. 

 

Forward continues to be my pace. 

 

 

Subject: Classroom fight. Hypothetical.

 Subject: Classroom fight. Hypothetical. (Rough draft.)

Setting: Modern classroom, elementary perhaps, crowded with tables, shelves, stacks of colorful wire crates filled with books, manuals, school supplies.  On each table:  piles of notebooks and iPads, canisters stuffed with fat markers, highlighters, crayons, colored pencils, sticky notepads. As fight starts, furniture will be overturned and carpeted floor will be strewn with books, computers, markers, highlighters, crayons, colored pencils, notepads, fallen crates. 

Four students per table. Mostly quiet. Some murmuring, but nothing that isn’t ordinary. 

 

Suddenly, one small human, hair in braids, rises from seat and crosses room toward another small human, ponytailed, who, seeing this human approaching, rises from seat and crosses room. They meet in the center. 

Noises: Distinguish between fighters and non-fighters. 

Fighters. No words. A thud starts it all, fist to face. Then more thuds: fists to stomachs, backs, faces.  Slaps. Lots of slaps -- open hands to faces, torsos, limbs.  

Grunts. Gasps. 

Hard breathing during hairpulling. 

Non-fighters encircle fighters. Mostly yells, high-pitched, also muddled sounds that are word/ scream combos.  Twenty-plus voices that blend together. Mood is chaotic. 

One voice is louder, deeper, but ignored by all. Teacher. Experienced. New to building. First day in this classroom. Yells words like, “stop,” and “everyone to the door” several times. On phone to office, says, “Two students fighting. Need assistance NOW.” Emphasis on now. Followed by more, “Everyone to the door,” and “Get into the hallway” as the punching, slapping, hair-pulling, grunting, gasping continues for several minutes. The crowd stays put, yelling and screaming. 

Then one fighter, exhausted, pulls away. The fight stops. The crowd noises continue. Words emerge: “Are you okay.” “Look at all that blood.”  “Check the floor."  "Is that blood on the table?”  “Oh my God, your hair.”

This fighter pushes students aside, walks to the hallway, the only one to listen to the teacher. (Is that ironic?) Braids, neat that morning, unraveled. Eyes vacant. Affect flat. Body stiff, zombie-like. Blood, scarlet, runs from nose to chin, drips onto white T-shirt. 

Office people arrive. One takes both students. The other, an administrator, stays to talk with class, which is louder now. 

Students jostle for spots on rug. 

Administrator teeters on tiny student chair. Signals for quiet. 

Teacher sits at office chair behind desk. Takes measured breaths with hand to chest, eyes closed.  

Student calls out “What will happen next?” 

“Yes,” teacher says, opening eyes. “Hi. I'm the teacher. First time in this building. Please explain. What will happen next?” 

Admin blinks rapidly. Nods.  Says "It's nice to meet you." Turns back to students, speaks robotically, like she is reading from a teleprompter. Recites platitudes. “You are all safe. There is nothing to worry about. The grown-ups will take care of this.” 

The students nod. 

The teacher, experienced veteran, raises an eyebrow, hand still on her racing heart. 

The admin nods toward the teacher, her voice syrupy now, says how lucky the students are to have this teacher visiting for the day, and how she hopes this teacher will return to this building another day because they sure could use the help. She tells the students to “do a good job, be mindful, remember our school rules.” Then all together, administrator and students recite the school pledge, which includes words like “safety, responsibility, kindness.”

A student calls out, “But what will happen next?” 

The teacher clears her throat so loudly that some students ask if she is okay.

The admin has been in the classroom for two minutes, less than one third of the fight time. 

The admin stands up and rubs her hands together, checks the watch at her wrist, obviously preparing to wrap things up. For a split second, the teacher and administrator lock eyes, then the admin focuses on a spot above all their heads.  

Her tone is wheedling. She does not answer the question. “Now boys and girls, is it a good idea to talk about this fight with anyone? Would it be fair to those two students to talk about this anymore?  We need to all put this behind us, don’t you think? It’s time to get back to work. We're going to have a great day."

While the admin talks, the teacher gathers her coat and bag and crosses to the exit. This obviously surprises the admin who has been talking to the ceiling this entire time and only realizes that the teacher is leaving as her speech comes to an end. 

The teacher waves to the class. “It was nice meeting all of you,” she says. “But now I have to go.” 

To the administrator she says, “Thanks for explaining next steps. Good to know.” 

She walks out the door, muttering, “Exactly nothing will happen next. Same old story.  Won’t be back here. Nope. Cold day in hell before that happens. Nope. Same old story. Won’t be back here.” 

 

 

How to Lose a Sub in Ten Steps

(Sorry about typefaces and mashed words. Trying to fix things but nothing seems to be working. Please run cursor over blue link type to see the mangled words a little more clearly. I know this is wordy. Didn't have time to shorten it.) 

This is a mashup of experiences, but is a realistic representation of a typical day working as a substitute teacher. I had to change some details for confidentiality reasons, but the essence remains intact. I've recently seen some awful things. I suspect that writing this piece is a big part of coping with what I can't -- for confidentiality reasons -- write about. 

It starts at the office. 

1.        When the sub, especially a   retired teacher   with lots of advanced degrees, first checks in at office, make sure to give them an assignment that differs exponentially from what they signed up for the night, week, month before.  Example: If the sub signed up to work a job with 3-5 intermediate level students at a time, assign that sub to a   primary classroom   with at least 20 students. This is called the             "bait and switch”   method and not only sets the tone for the day – which is all about chaos and disrespect, it absolutely guarantees that at the end of the day this sub will delete your school from their    online assignment menu   and never deign to grace your hallways again. Who needs subs? Especially subs who are experienced, highly-educated retired teachers? 

 

2.        The sub will ask for a laptop so they can access the absent teacher’s lesson plans. Craft your response so that the sub correctly infers that their very presence is a waste of your time. First, minimize their decades of education experience by saying something like, “Do you really think that’s necessary?” Then, when the sub politely responds that yes, it IS necessary, remember to act like you’re doing them the biggest favor ever as you hand over one of the dozen laptops at your school that are specifically designated for sub use. This interaction will make the sub ask themselves, “Why do I even bother?”

 

 

3.        Make sure to provide the sub with no emergency plans, no school map, no school schedule. When the sub adamantly asks for that info, roll your eyes, sigh the sigh of the great martyrs and say, “I’m sure the teacher left that information for you on their desk.” Or alternately – works best if you’re snippy and dismissive -- “Ask one of the teachers near the room."

Next is the role of the classroom teacher, and of course the office, yet again. 

4.        Teacher, leave no class roster. This is an important step in creating just the right recipe for a disastrous day. 

 Office, when the sub calls you – the nerve, doesn’t this person know we office people are busy?  -- tell them if they want it they need to come for it.  The office is only three corridors and two flights of stairs away, after all. Plus, the students don’t arrive for at least another five minutes. Who needs time to familiarize themselves with a new classroom/building anyway? 

Office, make sure the roster is out of date, which the sub will only realize when they start taking attendance and learn that half the kids on the list have moved out of district and the other half arrived at the school four months ago but were never added to the class roster because that’s not important.  This additional chaos will force the sub into the initial stages of a stress fugue state, which is always fun for them. 

 

5.        Teacher, speaking of fun. . . Violating    federal and state education laws    regarding    equity and accessibility   is hilarious, so make sure to leave no    IEP/ 504 information. If you’re lucky, your sub, if they are seasoned professionals, will lose their minds over this as they realize that the school is completely out of compliance and violating    students’ rights. Guaranteed that the sub will ask neighboring grade level teachers how to access this info. Make sure that teachers are trained to shrug and stare at the sub vacantly. Responding in this manner -- “Classroom teachers don’t need to know those things.”—will practically guarantee that the sub will have a massive panic attack. Those are fun.  Note: Be prepared. The sub will later report you and your school for these violations. 

 

6.        Office, when absent teacher finally emails lesson plans, (which they of course shouldn’t have to do and wouldn’t have to do if: they’d left an emergency sub folder,  or if other teachers stepped up to help, or how about admin actually gets their hands dirty for a change and make some copies?), forward them to teacher just as students arrive. This ensures that sub has no chance to review plans. Remember: It’s all about the chaos. Reminder: DO NOT provide info on classroom/ school routines, student pull-out schedules, allergies, dismissal plans, aides, etc. So boring. Subs love flying by the seats of their pants, especially retired educators who understand deeply just how profoundly not having these nitty gritty things negatively impacts everything about the school day. 

 

7.        Teacher, if you really want to mess with a retired teacher who is subbing, the trend now is to leave a slideshow.  Follow that trend!  Make the slides really pretty. Use lots of decorative doodads, cartoon characters, catchphrases, hard-to-read colors. Style over substance! Always! Make sure it takes longer to make the slide than it takes for the student to complete the actual work on the slide. Who needs rigor anyhow, right? Bonus points if you leave no instructions on working the technology to show these slides. No school buildings use the same tech after all, and subs thrive on the added stress of trying to figure out how to use new technology at the same time they are trying to teach and manage in a classroom with students they’ve never met before. 

 

8.        And remember, teacher,  that sometimes technology doesn’t work. This is why it’s important to leave NO alternatives, like assignments using books, papers, pencils. Subs get paid SO much! Make them sweat for those big bucks! 

 

9.        Do NOT leave quiet, independent student work (yes, it's absolutely a best practice to do exactly that, but who cares) or teacher manuals with structured lessons that an experienced teacher will have no problem using. You know what kind of work is fun to leave for subs? No work! Make the first fifteen minutes of the day free time and write explicitly that students are allowed to get out of their seat, wander the classroom. Next, do    parlor games!    Yes! Musical chairs! Seven up! Sure, research shows that the first few hours of the school day are absolutely the best times for young minds to accept and process information, but what do researchers know? Free time! Yes! Party games! Yes! Academics the first ninety minutes of the day?  NO!!! 

 

10.  For the rest of the day, sprinkle in a whole bunch of awfulness. High stakes math tests with problems the kids have not yet been introduced to are awesome ways to frustrate little minds. They’ve just spent the morning playing games so if they get stressed now, oh well. Maybe have the sub spend fifteen minutes introducing and expecting the kids to master a sweeping topic that the sub knows from experience takes at least a month to understand. The sub's frustration is palpable. So juicy!

 

At this point, the sub’s blood pressure will be off the charts. They’re exhausted. Angry. They’ll likely be crying inside as they try to squelch their sadness over the state of education today, and try to block memories of heady times when they loved teaching this and other topics using: rich texts, like    Newbury Medal books; lots of    cooperative group learning,    multiple intelligences/ differentiation. You know, proven methods and materials that  excite and enhance student understanding, inform kids’ decision-making, help them grow into decent humans who would make the world a better place. 

When the day is done, the sub will write a scathing tome -- filled with indignation and self-righteous anger --   on the    substitute review platform, and will contact appropriate authorities to report certain violations. Don't worry. Nobody will read these things. Nothing will change. 

The sub will look up state statistics on your school and will look for trends particularly in the    staff retention category. Upon finding exactly what they expected to find, rates that are in the toilet, the sub will feel some sadness, remembering times in their own career when they worked at places that loved chaos and teacher disrespect, and that also -- of course -- struggled with staff retention. Big whoop. It's not like kids need stability or anything. 

The sadness will be short-lived as it dawns on the sub that, for them at least, those days are done. Retirement has its perks. They’re no longer trapped in a toxic place and time. The next day the sub will ignore the half dozen calls from desperate admins requesting their services. The sub will sleep late, then might stay in pajamas all day or get dressed and hit the gym. The sub might lounge around, watch movies, read books, go for brisk walks, bask in the bright, winter sunlight. 

The sub will take time to rethink how to live life. Maybe they’ll sub again. Maybe they won’t. Sure, schools lose out when they don't have subs and already exhausted teachers have to temporarily take additional students into their classrooms. But in the end, the retired teacher sub has to do what's right for them. It’s their choice now. They know their worth and they know that, finally, they no longer have to settle for chaos, disrepect. The sub will be filled with gratitude. They know they can move on. And they do. 

"If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better." Anne Lamott

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Anatomy of a burnout

Once upon a time I took a week off from the gym to go to a beach.  Was jumping out of my skin, an addict needing her fix, every day I was away, even though I ran daily, stretched each morning, noon, night, and engaged in all kinds of activities that replicated the weights and machines I normally used at my Y:  planks, squats, lunges, pull-ups, push-ups, sit-ups, all the ups. 

Thinking about this now because it’s been four months since my last marathon, three months since my last run, and 18 hours since I got on an elliptical for an hour workout then jumped off it, fed up, disgusted, bored out of my skull after forty minutes. 

I’m trying my best to get out there and maintain fitness. I’ve tried everything. Been eating right. Taking all the vitamins. Bought some new workout clothes. New shoes too. Even recently joined an expensive, trendy gym. Not because I wanted to, though they do have my preferred elliptical brand, which the Y out here in cornfield land doesn’t. I joined because I thought the pain of seeing that stupidly high monthly deduction from my bank account might be the spark – guilt works wonders with me (oops my Catholicism is showing), that would re-ignite my passion for all things sweaty. 

Not happening.  

Been averaging three one-hour gym visits a week. For me, that’s bad. I’m a five-times/ week person. Three only if I have a race coming up. The forty minutes I did yesterday? I wanted to leave after twenty. Told myself, as I walked to the car that I’d do an hour today. Probably not going to happen. Still in my pjs and have no plans to get dressed.  

I’ve been a runner for as long as I’ve been an adult. This is not normal for me. I always always always made getting to the gym a priority. For three decades I went nearly every day while working full time and raising two kids alone/ caring for my elderly parents alone/ working second and third jobs. Never occurred to me to NOT hit the gym.  

Now I’m retired and working part-time when I feel like it. I have all the time in the world but have no desire to spend any of that indoors working out or outdoors running or walking. Here’s my life two, five, fifteen years ago: Work eight hours, hit the gym for a one-hour cardio session, which becomes ninety minutes, then yoga and/ or weights.  Or after working all day, set out on a four-mile run but do eight miles instead. At least five but often six days a week.

Now: Work a few hours maybe, go to the gym for an hour and stay only 30 minutes. Or, wake up early, read, eat, get dressed to go to gym, but go to the market, bookstore, or mall instead.

I know for sure the burn out began last year. I began dreading every run. I thought it was because my doctors were telling me to take it easy for months, until certain test results came back. So, I was understandably nervous about stressing my body. But when test results were just fine, I wasn’t grateful, wasn’t inspired at all to rev things up.  Instead, I procrastinated like you wouldn’t believe. Took the sheer fear that I would waste marathon entry money -- for marathons I'd signed up for pre-burnout, by not finishing within the time limits to keep me training. Through it all, doubt I experienced even one endorphin high. Still, managed a bunch of half marathons, ten marathons, and got to 100 races of 26.2 miles or more. 

The entire purpose of those last few races was to get me to 100 because I wanted to check off that box. Before that last race, I told myself I would never have to run another marathon ever again. That thought and that thought alone is why I showed up that day. 

At some of those races last year I was with people who do 100 or more marathons a year. A YEAR. There was a time when I thought for sure that one day that would be me. I’d run everywhere all the time, just like them. I’d run all the states again, then run countries and continents. All that was holding me back was the arduous mundanity involved in working for a paycheck. I figured once I retired, I’d happily pursue that running vagabond lifestyle that I saw so many other folks loving. 

I tried. Turns out that’s not me. The traveling and running started off fun, but after a year and a half or so, it got tiresome. The travel got annoying. The running became an inconvenience. I remember thinking, while I was in Australia, that it was a shame I was scheduled to run the Sydney Marathon because I really would have preferred to do more sight-seeing. All around me, people are thrilled about getting to run this amazing race in this spectacular city, and me? I’m thinking about how it’s a bummer that I don’t have time to visit X Museum and Y neighborhood and take part in Z experience. 

I remember sitting with a bunch of other marathoners and listening while each rattled off a litany of injuries they were coping with. I swear it seemed like they were trying to outdo each other’s pain. Some talked about how they ran so much that they used drugs and or liquor to help anesthetize themselves while they ran. They laughed about downing shots of Fireball those last couple of miles. All I could think of was how much they were damaging their organs, which were already overtaxed because of all the miles they were covering. This horrified me. Was this what I was destined to become? Someone who didn't care about damaging their hips, knees, liver, pancreas? 

In my head a picture formed of a relic from ancient Pompeii, the plaster-casted remains of a suffocating dog in the throes of an agonizing death, desperately chewing at his chains trying to break free and save himself from the noxious ash and gases spewing from the erupting Mount Vesuvius. Doesn’t take much of a leap to figure out where my head went if that’s what I was picturing as these super accomplished athletes were one-upping each other with injury and painkiller stories.  I once saw marathoning as this life-affirming activity that was vital to my very existence. But at that moment, the image of that poor dog revealed everything about my more recent feelings toward the sport. 

So why bother even going to the gym, if I’m now thinking of marathoning in terms of agony, self-harm, entrapment? That’s the question I’m struggling with. The answer right now: I definitely have no desire to become a Motrin /Cortisone shot/ alcohol-guzzling runner who marathons every weekend and five days a week too. (Not that everyone who runs all those miles is a drug and alcohol athlete. There are some though, and they are the ones who are forefront in my head right now.) But I might want to run another marathon sometime in the next year or so. Or not. I want to leave myself open to possibility. Things change. Just because I hate marathons right now doesn’t mean I’ll feel this way forever. 

So, I guess I’ll continue to make occasional deposits into my fitness bank by hitting the gym a couple of times a week.  It’s easier to train if you’re not starting from square one. Not dead yet, though I do think I’ll stay in my pajamas today.  I have two books I want to finish, some current events to stress over, and some Congress folks to yell at. For now, that's all I've got. 

Instead of Celebrating MLK, I Chose Cowardice

I was subbing in a local school on Thursday, the day before this particular school system was off for four days, Fri-Mon, due to the state’s Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.  Day holiday on that Monday. 

A teacher who pulled kids out from classrooms to work with them in small groups was talking with three students as they all entered her work area.

“When did Martin Luther King die?” The student who asked this was maybe seven years old. 

“1949, I think,” the teacher said. 

I was packing my book bag. Immediately, my head shot up. “It was 1968,” I said. “Not that long ago. I was eight years old. That year. . . It was a dark time for our country.” 

The teacher barely blinked an eye. “Oh, maybe he was born in 1949, then,” she said to the students. She started passing out worksheets. 

I was in the process of leaving the classroom to head to another location in the school. I stopped, stood there paralyzed. 1929. I knew this.  He was born in 1929, the same birth year as my dad, my dad who wasn’t murdered at the height of his humanhood, and who went on to live a gorgeously full and remarkable existence until he passed at age 88, all this living stolen from the great Dr. King by an assassin’s bullet.  

I said nothing. 

My excuses washed over me. I was a visitor to the building. I was not even supposed to be in this room at this time. This teacher was starting her lesson. Already, I was in the way and out of place. 

I taught about Dr. King, his life, his necessity, for thirty years. If asked, I could have stepped in immediately and led an engaging lesson right then and there, no materials necessary, on this heroic hero catalyst for good. 

I wasn’t asked. So I didn’t. 

I continued packing up my things and as I headed to the door, the same student said, “Why did he die?” 

I stopped and waited to hear the teacher’s response. 

“He wanted everyone to be good to each other,” she said. Could she have been any vaguer? 

“But why did he die?” 

“I don’t know,” she said.  That was verbatim. 

She started passing out books and papers to the kids. 

Before she could change the subject, I had to say something. But what? How? I didn’t have the courage inside me to convey what I wanted to say – “You need to talk about this with these students right now.”

What I said instead was almost worse than saying nothing. From across the room I called out, “Does the district not want you to teach about Dr. King?” 

“That’s their classroom teacher’s job. She read a book to them.”  

I nearly stroked out. This was a classic teachable moment, and this teacher fucked it up big time. She should have dropped everything - EVERYTHING - and talked with the students about Dr. King. To hell with lesson plans. To hell with any excuses. 

Here’s what I would have done. 

Nope. Just deleted all that because that's just excuses. Any words about would I WOULD HAVE done muddy the waters and distract from this fact: I did nothing. I turned around. Left the room. 

There’s no coming back from that. I did nothing. That’s a moral failure on my part and I need to own it. 

Tact. Self-control. Courtesy. Diplomacy. Those are some of the terms that came up when this morning I googled “saying nothing when someone else says or does something wrong.” That’s proof right there that google isn’t the end-all-be-all of human understanding. 

I know in my gut exactly what I am – a coward. I could have seized that teachable moment and, with just a few carefully chosen phrases have changed a kid’s life. Because it was obvious to me then and is even more acutely obvious to me now that that young student wanted to talk about Dr. King. It was obvious he was still processing the story his teacher read to him. He had questions. Good questions. He wanted answers. Good answers. Possibly life-changing answers. 

And I could have given them to him. 

I chose cowardice. I took the easy road. 

This week my being is consumed by the events unfolding in Minneapolis and the protestors who are doing all they can in freezing, dangerous conditions, to protect the Constitutional rights of their friends and neighbors. They are heroes. They are everything I am not.

And here’s me, in my nice warm house, choosing passivity and comfort when, with just a few words I could have done so much. 

They put me to shame. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My story (a tiny part of it): When sexual harassment was the norm

 It’s taken me decades to realize how much of life I’ve missed out on because I was born female in a male-dominated society. 

I’m retirement age now, born a decade and a half after the end of World War II, a paltry four decades after the 19^th Amendment – the one giving women the right to vote, was ratified by Congress. Put that in perspective. Forty years ago from now was 1986. Music, fashion from that  time is still popular even today. It’s the time period in which the hit show Stranger Things is set. Forty years passes in seconds. 

Compared to today, women’s rights in the 1960s, just four decades after women got the vote? They were practically nonexistent. 

The things that were considered normal behaviors in my childhood? Today you’d be arrested. I could talk about lots of things, but today I’m talking about sexual harassment.  

I was in first or second grade at recess on the playground at my Catholic school the first time I was sexually harassed. I want to say attacked, but based on what I’ve googled, “attacked” might not be the right word. At the time, it certainly felt like an attack. I remember feeling shame and humiliation. I remember crying. The fact that I remember the exact circumstance almost sixty years later certainly says something. 

While I don’t know the right term, I DO know this. If what happened to me back then happened today, there’d be social services involvement, parent meetings, court. I was six. I was six and I was sexually harassed. 

Daily sexual harassment was the norm by the time I was in junior high, though there is nothing normal about gangs of boys following girls around the playground, making fun of their developing bodies., and giving them obscene nicknames. At recess, teachers ignored us when we complained about boys making games of lifting our uniform skirts to expose our underwear and snapping our bra straps. We girls had no choice but to either ignore what the boys were doing or laugh it off. If we didn’t, we weren’t good sports. 

Sexual harassment was normal outside of school too. I clearly remember walking down the bustling main street of my city, book bag on my shoulder, heading to the bus or to piano lessons, minding my own business. There were cat calls always. I was twelve, thirteen, fourteen years old. These were men ten, twenty, thirty years older. 

This bothered me, yes. But this happened ALL THE TIME. To me. To my friends. We never talked about these things. Why would we? There was nothing to talk about. This was the norm. 

“Today I breathed air.” Why would I feel the need to say that to anyone? 

“Today an adult male told twelve-year-old me that he wanted to fuck me.”  So what else is new? 

High school and college, things calmed down. Maybe I wasn’t as appealing once I was legal? Who knows. 

That’s not to say there weren’t stories. I have some. Plus, I heard all kinds of stories from other girls my age. Those aren’t my stories to tell though, so I won’t talk about them here. 

Things heated up again after college. For one, I started running. Whistles and obscenities as I’m running the streets around my neighborhood. Every. Run. Normal. 

I started working at a big company. My first professional job. It was the 80s. We women on the executive track had an unspoken dress code. To be taken seriously, you had to wear a suit. So every day: jacket, modest skirt, silk blouse, some sort of tie/cravat at my neck, heels, nylons. One day I wore a dress to work, not a suit. It was pointed out to me by a co-worker that this faux pas could cost me. A dress? Did I not want to be taken seriously? 

My first day at work, my boss introduced me around the office. It was a forgettable experience except for the one gentleman who misheard who I was. He told me I was a lovely young thing and told my boss he had a pretty daughter. I laughed it off, good sport that I was. Yes, I know that’s not sexual harassment, but it absolutely is telling in terms of how women were viewed. 

I’m writing this today because recently I read an obituary that brought all this back and more. “More” because I’m only skimming the surface here. I’m leaving out a lot. 

The obit was for a guy who was a department supervisor at the company where I worked. I met him a few months into my job. I was one of a handful of folks who ran at lunchtime. He was a runner. Like me, every day he’d run two miles out, and two miles back. We’d wave to one another. Lots of us would wave to one another. 

When winter arrived, the roads were awful. Some folks still ran outside, but I joined others who opted to run in the underground company garage, a huge, quarter mile loop. The garage was just a short stairway flight down from our changing areas. Running in the garage was boring, a little dark. But it was a safe alternative to the icy roads. Plus, we didn’t have to pile on the layers. We could run in just a T-shirt and shorts. 

Sometimes I’d run alone. Sometimes I’d see others. This guy ran at my pace, and we’d often run together and chat. I found him a little irritating in truth. I was fresh out of college and had big plans to travel the world, explore new things. He was older, deadly dull in my opinion --  loved to drone on and on about his wife, kids, elderly dad. 

He had a short stride. Though he had a good eight inches on me, his feet hit the ground at about twice my rate. The sound of his foot striking the cement floor drove me nuts. 

I tolerated him because I had to. He was one of my boss’s friends. We would occasionally interact with him and his department.  I tried to avoid him --running a little earlier/ later. He always found me. 

It was still snowy and icy the last day I ran indoors with him. When we’d gotten in our four miles, as was his custom he gestured for me to go first up the stairs to the first-floor changing areas. 

As I did so, he grabbed my rear end. 

My response? Nothing. I did what was the norm. I pretended nothing had happened. I acted like everything was okay. Without saying another word, I went to the changing room, showered, put on my suit, and went back to work. I told no one what happened because why would I?

The next day I brought my outdoor running gear and headed out onto the ice. I never ran in that garage again. Thankfully, I was never alone with him again either. I honestly don’t know what I would have done. Our departments did have meetings together, but I avoided him. I don’t think I ever spoke with him again. 

At work, I became increasingly disillusioned. I was bored. Fed up.  I realize now that what I was experiencing was likely anger and disgust. The idiot guy was the only one who physically harassed me. But the whole male as dominator environment was just overwhelmingly depressing and I didn’t care enough or know how to fight it.  I left that department a few months later. I left the company a few years later. 

I learned from his obituary that he was 17 years older than me and that he’d been happily married for almost sixty years. He was also a faithful, active, prayerful member of his Protestant church for the last fifty years. 

Raised an eyebrow at those factoids. He grabbed me forty years ago. Happily married? Religious too? His idea of do unto others doesn’t exactly mesh with my understanding of that Golden Rule. Wow. Hypocrite much? 

This story about the asshole, supposedly deeply religious and prayerful, who grabbed at me? That’s a story I’m okay with sharing. Why? Because it’s so common. What I just wrote about happened all the time. Still happens all the time. It’s not super personal to me. Doesn’t change the fact that it’s wrong though. Doesn’t change the fact that that grab absolutely changed EVERYTHING for me, as far as wanting to stay at that company and totally annihilated any interest I once had in being part of a corporate environment. 

And add to that that our nation elected to the highest office a loser proud of the fact that he can grab whatever he wants whenever he wants.  I’m so disgusted with every single human being who didn’t think this should be a dealbreaker and went ahead and voted for him anyhow. It’s like being grabbed all over again, only now I'm not shutting up. 

 

 

By the numbers: 2025

Random list. No particular order. 

3 – Roundtrip drives, Mass/Midwest. 

2- Roundtrip flights, Mass/Midwest.

4 – Protests. 

3- States protests were in.

20+ - People I defriended on social media because they continue to support adjudicated rapist/ felon and I can’t even.

5+ -People who defriended me over politics before I defriended them. 

10+ - Times I asked businesses/ vendors what political party they supported before I decided whether they deserved my business.  

3,000,000 (feels like) - Times people in other countries offered condolences to me over present US politics. 

200 (and this is not an exaggeration and might even be on the low side) - Times called elected representatives demanding action be taken against adjudicated rapist/ felon and his enabling staff. 

50 (also not an exaggeration) - Times I was nearly incoherent with rage on phone calls with those reps. 

10 + -Physical therapy visits.

20+ - Long runs on anti-gravity treadmill.

365 -Nights I woke up at least once, stressed about my country’s politics.

10 – Number of pounds I gained stress eating. 

20 – Daily mg dose for high blood pressure. 

18- Hours spent on longest flight. 

4 – Continents visited. 

9 – Marathons

2- Official half marathons (not including half marathon distance or more training runs).

100 – Total number of marathons to date.

343ish – Days I doomscrolled. 

6 – Books read. Shameful. 

365 - Days practiced Duolingo for at least 30 min. 

300+ -Days doing NY Times games online for 10+ min.

 2- Months I took off from doing any kind of physical activity after hitting 100^th marathon. 

 0-Regrets I have for taking that time off.

1- Times I rewatched every episode of Stranger Things.

1-Times I watched the Stranger Things Finale (and already once in 2026).

30+- “Will Steve die in Stranger Things finale” google searches. 

36 – Blog posts.

36 – Number of blog posts that could use rewriting. 

78.2k – Number of visits to this blog to date. I’m stunned. 

0 – Resolutions made for 2026 that involve running. 

3- Resolutions made for 2026, tentatively.