On potholes, perfection-related paralysis, and waking up. Some other thoughts too.

 A few days ago, my college posted this on social media: 

On April 6, 1830, Rev. James Healy was born in Georgia to an Irish immigrant and a biracial enslaved woman. James and his siblings were sent North to be educated. James attended Holy Cross, and was in the first graduating class of 1849, of which he was valedictorian. He was ordained a priest in 1854, and named bishop of Portland, Maine in 1875, making him the first African American to become a Roman Catholic bishop.

 

I was, in today's vernacular, ‘triggered’ by the first sentence of this post. I wrote an explanation of why I thought this was so here: https://alwaysatthestartingline.blogspot.com/2026/04/reverend-healys-mother-eliza-clarke.html

I don’t think it’s my finest writing, I use a ton of sentence fragments and don’t think I connected A to B to C as well as I could have. I thought about deleting that post but then remembered a few things. First, I’m not perfect. Second, I want to be perfect but I am not though I keep trying. Third, this blog is a keep trying thing. Fourth, there are a lot of positives about trying to be perfect. Fifth,  there is, for me, at least one huge negative. 

That negative is that I get paralyzed when I try for perfection. Paralyzed for me means I start thinking too much and in that process talk myself out of doing whatever it was I thought I desperately wanted to do. More on that another time, perhaps. (That's not me talking myself out of writing about paralysis, by the way. That's me making a note to myself publicly -- which helps me take accountability, so that I will seriously consider writing about paralysis at a later date. Right now my brain is going in another direction, away from writing about paralysis,  and I want to follow that direction. Yes, I know that's a little convoluted. Welcome to my world.)

When I say, in the link above, that I went down a historical rabbit hole, I mean that for a few days I mostly sat on the couch in my living room – an exceedingly comfy couch, for hours and hours, almost always with at least one cat in my lap. 

Cats stupefy me.  Reading on my laptop stupefies me.  

One day last week, I was exceptionally zoned out. Over the course of several hours, I left the couch for two cups of coffee – Keurig stuff, which just doesn’t give my heart the jolt that I likely needed, a small container of non-fat yogurt, a couple of cups of tea – Barry’s, which to me smells like my childhood, even though I was raised on Red Rose.

When I stay mostly seated, especially in flannel pajamas, a fleece bathrobe, with cats nearby, my heart rate drops and my eyes start blurring. Seriously, at a couple of points I checked my heart rate and was fascinated to find that it hovered in my usual sleep range. Even with multiple cups of caffeine chugging through my veins, I kept nodding off. 

The fact I was able to wake myself up and force my fingers in enough sustained movement to put together those disjointed paragraphs on Reverend Healy’s mother was, in my opinion as I look back now, a tour de force.  

This last year has been tough. Dealing with health challenges has been bad enough. Then there’s the fact that I struggle every minute of every day with the depressing, horrific fact that the people of this nation elected a rapist to the highest office in the land. And every day, this guy commits more rapes, on our Constitution, our immigrants, our poor, our environment, our Allies, our globe. I have not been able to come to terms with this. The day I DO accept any of this? That’s the day I spiritually die. It’s not going to happen.  Thinking about all this angers, frightens, and exhausts me. 

It’s not lost on me at all that the anger, which I touched upon in that linked post that focused on events back in the mid-1800s,  is absolutely connected to the current state of our world. For me, past, present, future is all connected. I don’t understand how for others it’s not. How did we, as a a nation, get to this awful place? 

I’m in a different place now, physically I mean, that I was when I wrote that Reverend Healy post. I’m on the East coast for a little bit. Yesterday my trip started too early, at an hour when back in college I’d be thinking it might be time for bed. I was already on the second plane of the day when daybreak hit. Yikes. That's early. 

Because I dozed on the plane, upon landing after the final flight I was in a fuzzy twilight state, but also was going through the motions of a fully functioning human: unbuckling from my seat, stomping my feet to get the blood flowing, but also sort of  sleepwalking into the terminal. I felt a lot like I did when I wrote that post the other day. I was of this earth but just barely. 

I hit the restroom, which brought me back a little more onto the firmament. The stalls hadn’t been cleaned in hours. That startle to my system helped me wake up a bit.  I splashed a ton of cold water on my face, in the process soaking the cuffs of my sweatshirt, which stunned my wrists into alertness, at least.  In my carry-on bag, hiding under my laptop and the historical novel on Ann Boleyn I’ve been trying to plow through the last three weeks – I keep nodding off within a couple of paragraphs, I found my brush and ran that through my hair, tugging harder than I normally do because I thought maybe the stressed hair follicles would get more blood flowing through my skull and force me into movement.

I stopped in one of those overpriced airport stores selling magnets, readers, coasters, coffee milk, and T-shirts printed with scenes from Newport, and winced as I handed over an exorbitant four bucks for a bottle of Diet Pepsi. Coffee doesn’t seem to do a great job of keeping me awake these days. I was thinking that a couple of gulps of my old college constant might be just what my bonked-out system needed. 

By the time I got to the luggage carousel, the crowds were gone. Mine was one of only two suitcases still awaiting pickup. That’s stark reality in your face right there that I was truly in some sort of hypnotic state. Normally, I’m that aggressive traveler impatiently marching back and forth, annoyed times ten, determined to get out fast and furious from the tangled mess of clueless travelers and crying kids that is my typical experience with luggage retrieval. 

Two hours, 80 highway miles of potholes, 16 ounces of fizzy caffeine, and thousands of pissed off drivers later, I am staring at my ocean. 

I exited the car and walked across the sand, which yesterday crackled under the soles of my beaten-up sneakers because the ground was spotted with the broken remains of slipper shells and crab carcasses. As I stood on the wettest part of the beach, inches from the encroaching surf, the ocean rumbled in that comforting way that reminded me that you can still count on some things in this world to be true, like tides, sunsets, clumps of seaweed after storms,  potholes. 

Thick banks of gray blocked the sun, which turned the ocean a jewel-like jade green and brought out a sparkle in the white caps that set my soul soaring. I realized that, for the first time in weeks, my head was clear.

Today my intention was to write more on that initial post about Reverend Healy. I want to write the truth about a few weighty things, like that his mother  had no control over what happened to her kids. Like that it's quite possible she was impregnated to death. But I need a break. The sun is shining and the chickadees are singing.  The neighborhood squirrels are chittering away and jumping around, partying it up big time because I just threw them some pieces of my apple. I'm having so much fun watching them. The crocuses are blooming and the daffodils are bursting and ready to explode. The hydrangeas are waking up. So am I. More will come but not today.  

Reverend Healy's mother: Eliza Clark matters

 I want to start by saying that I hate the word ‘triggered.’   

I’m not sure why. Could be because it’s been: overused, used incorrectly, used to mock and minimize. Could be because it’s not exactly active. You don’t trigger. You GET triggered. Something acts upon you; triggers you. You’re not in control. The trigger is. 

Sure, the word works in some contexts, like in a school/work environment where you might need to be extra careful about word choice: “The student was triggered by. . . “ 

But in general, I’m more a fan of straight-forward terms like ticked, pissed off, totally stressed out about. Those words aren’t as polite and are certainly less suitable for work, but they get right to the point. (Plus, I’m retired so I don’t need to watch my language as much anymore.) When you say those words, you’re not couching meaning in politeness. You’re not hiding behind courtesy. For the listener, there’s no second-guessing, rationalizing, pretending.  

(This 1/22/26 article in Psychology Today does a much better job and goes into more depth on the subject: “Why It’s Time to Stop Using the Word 'Trigger'”).

 

A few days ago, my college posted this on social media: 

On April 6, 1830, Rev. James Healy was born in Georgia to an Irish immigrant and a biracial enslaved woman. James and his siblings were sent North to be educated. James attended Holy Cross, and was in the first graduating class of 1849, of which he was valedictorian. He was ordained a priest in 1854, and named bishop of Portland, Maine in 1875, making him the first African American to become a Roman Catholic bishop.

 

A benign, bland, run-of-the-mill paragraph, right?  Something you might find next to an asterisk at the bottom of a calendar page, right?  But I read that and got pissed. Had to sit with that feeling for a few days. Get to the heart of things. What was bugging me so much?   

To help me sort things out, I read. Spent many hours going down history rabbit holes. Started with the name Reverend James Healy and found Eliza Clark, someone who, like most women, deserves a heck of a lot more space in the history books than the mostly white male authors (some sites say more than 75 percent) have traditionally allotted women in general. And like everything else, women of color always get even less. Don’t believe me? Look up gaps in wages by gender and skin color. Research maternal health studies, hospital mortality rates.  

It was this phrase that nagged the heck out of me in that social media post: “born. . . to an Irish immigrant and a biracial enslaved woman.”

Smacked me right in the face, that phrase. Dragged me way back to my years in the corporate world, and before that to college, and before that to high school and grammar school and female teachers – mainly nuns, showing nothing but deference to the men in charge who made all the money, held all the power, and pulled all the strings. All the way back to those important developmental decades when good little girls were schooled in the ways of the world. We were conditioned to stay quiet, avoid drawing attention, and listen in awe while high and mighty males exerted all the control and their word was law.

Word choice matters. Words reveal everything about who we are and what we value. And those words in that phrase? They spoke volumes about who – to historians of the past and to the folks writing these posts today -- mattered most in Reverend Healy’s life, and who got forgotten. 

“Irish immigrant.” That’s how his father was described. Holy Cross prides itself on its Irish immigrant foundations. Sure, in Georgia 1830 Irish immigrants were not exactly at the top of the social ladder. (More on that another time, perhaps.) But those words used in the context of today? They reveal volumes about the college’s legacy, history, pride. At HC, Irish immigrants = tradition, courage, smarts. 

“Biracial enslaved woman.” Healy’s mother was of African descent and likely European descent too. If we're going to give his father some specificity, shouldn't we accord his mother some as well? And if we're not, then why even bother with any detail? She was only a woman, after all. And an enslaved woman to boot. 

And about that word, 'enslaved.' I recoiled, yeah I did -- no exaggeration, when I read that word. It's the passivity of the word that got to me. No one asks to be enslaved, and yet this word stood alone.  Because I'm learning that the more I know the less I know, I did some research.  

This 12/13/23 NPR.org piece explores that word choice in more detail. Fascinating stuff: "'Slave or 'enslaved'? and why it matters."

Back to how that word is used in the initial social media post. I had to ask: "Enslaved by whom?"  

“Aah,” I initially thought. “Perhaps the Irish immigrant was her rescuer? Her knight in shining armor?”  Easy to imply, given the wording of that post, right?

In truth I knew better, but I've always been a bit of a Pollyanna.

Turns out Healy's father is the one who enslaved Healy's mother. But you wouldn't know that unless you researched, because in the above post that fact isn't important enough to get mentioned. Or maybe the truth is too awful to write, even now 200 years later. 

Though the fact that she was enslaved is. You'd almost think, like I initially did, that  he was some sort of white savior. But the truth is absolutely the opposite. He was as predatory as any other enslaver of the time. He liked her looks so he bought her.  He was more than twice her age; old enough to be her father. She was only 16 when he impregnated her. And there’s a lot more horrible stuff too. But let's sanitize all that and wish Reverend Healy a happy birthday. . . 

I'd rather ignore Healy, or at most give him a polite nod, and instead shower attention on his mother, Eliza Clark. 

April 6, 1830 was her first birth day, but not her last. She had nine more live births over the next twenty years. Though she had no choice as far as sharing her DNA, she's helped populate a nation. 

Her body and her soul are inextricably linked to the history of my college, to other institutions as well, and to thriving families all over New England and throughout the United States. It's because of her that so many others have had and will continue to have opportunities to live more fully and freely than she could likely have ever imagined. She deserved better. In my opinion she deserves more than what life on this earth gave her, and what history has given her so far. 

More later. 

 

In search of that "shimmering go-between"

 In “Why Write?” (Paris Review 6/6/22), Elisa Gabbert explores the words and writing histories of some of our greatest authors, and the compulsions that drive them to put pen to paper, fingertips to keys, deeper meaning out to the universe’s collective conscious. Quoting Joan Didion, William Faulkner, Franz Kafka and other notables, she deep dives into how their motivations mesh with why she shares her words and ideas with the world. 

The article is rich with ideas that I think Gabbert could easily expand every couple of paragraphs into books. So, what I do is explore further. Like a mom encountering a stubborn shoelace knot, I attempt to untangle. I tug at her sentences and create space for deeper thoughts with scribbled phrases, circled sections, arrows, exclamation points. I thread some ideas through others, attempt to create connections and systems. My goal is understanding. Perhaps the act of arranging these words in some sort of straight line will enlighten me, or at least give me some direction on what to do with my own mostly  inept scrawls. 

When I come back to this inked up mess later, and I’m sure I will, I’ll curse my illegible handwriting, wonder why on earth I needed to circle three times a phrase more innocuous than uplifting, chide myself for attempting to reduce to simple terms a complexity that requires deeper thought and understanding than I will likely ever possess. 

Even as I write this, I see how clumsy my words are compared to her own, and yet I continue. Like Gabbert, I find that the process of writing, frustrating as it always is, primes me for more, because each inadequate phrase I write spurs me on, pinches me into a more alive present. As I write I wake into an understanding that that yearning to express myself is a sign that there’s something bigger than me out there, just out of reach and as essential to my life as breath.  Like the author, I find that “staring at my laptop screen makes me better at thinking. Even thinking about writing makes me better at thinking.” Thoughts flash to words to action to, one day hopefully, self-actualization. My hopes, my humanity to the goddess’s ear. 

And so, I write this today and do so mainly because of one word that woke me up last night from a sleep that was already thin to begin with. Since the death of my mother sleep doesn’t come as easily as it once did. I accept this as a natural part of processing love and loss, but it’s likely that this nocturnal pattern shift will warrant more literary exploration at a future date. For now, I want to focus on the word that startled me into consciousness and kept me tossing and turning the rest of the night. 

Shimmer. That’s it. I wrote all of this because of one word – shimmer, which shows up abundantly in the first section of Gabbert’s piece.

Gabbert opens her article with some words of Joan Didion, who said she needed to express herself in fiction because of pictures that wouldn’t leave her brain. Didion wrote “entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means . . . images that shimmer around the edges. . .  What is going on in these pictures in my mind?”

Per Gabbert, Nabokov used similar terminology: “Literature was born on the day when a boy came crying wolf, wolf and there was no wolf behind him. . . Between the wolf in the tall grass and the wolf in the tall story, there is a shimmering go-between.”

I know this brief refraction of light and color, heaven and earth, expansiveness, possibility. I don’t pretend by writing this to even dare to put myself even proximate to the impeccable stylings of the inestimable Didion and Nabakov. Talk about laughable, even thinking of going there. But, like an eagle homing in on its tiny prey from its calculated orbit far above the trees, I grab for shimmer because I know that tremulous mix when the corporeal and the luminous meet and I want to understand it more. I knew a person who shimmered. I witnessed this with my own eyes. It was several years ago, in that saddest of sad places, a hospice. More later. 

Subbing: The good, the bad, the this is so frustrating sometimes

To start the day, the sub stood at the door, welcoming each student into the classroom. Some returned her good morning or nodded. Many ignored her. This was a typical teen thing, she knew. 

Most were taller than her. But height wasn’t all she noticed. It was the micro flashes that entranced her. The memories of students past returned with certain sights -- the curve of a cheek, shape of a nose, distance between eyes, set of a jaw. As the students arrived, her head tabbed through decades of memories of this student, that smile, names, stories, singsong voices, wheedling, laughing, joking. While she didn’t always love the nuts and bolts of the job back then, remembering the kids almost always made her smile.  

Before she could introduce herself, the whole school announcement came on that anyone who wanted to say "Pledge of Allegiance" could now stand. It took her a few seconds to locate the flag at the front of the room. It was the size of a sheet of paper, much smaller than what once hung in the classrooms of her previous life. No students stood and no one joined her as she recited the Pledge. A group at the back chatted so loudly she could barely hear the words coming over the loudspeaker though she stood directly below it. 

Her head brought her to other times and places. There was the assembly in the school auditorium after 9/11. Eight hundred elementary kids and  75 teachers reciting the Pledge. Not a dry eye in the place. Everyone stood. Not a voice out of sync. Then they all sang “The Star Spangled Banner," "America the Beautiful,”  and “Proud to Be An American.” That was a  brutal time. 

Then May 2013, two weeks after the Boston Marathon bombing, at the starting line of the Providence Marathon. Snipers on the rooftops and German shepherds walking among the runners, sniffing for explosives. There was not one runner who wasn’t wearing something blue and gold in honor of the Boston Marathon victims and survivors. 

Everyone removed their caps. This was the most moving thing to her that cool spring morning so many years ago. Not that the Pledge was loud and strong, and you could hear the anger and feel the resolve. It was the cap removal. It’s a rare marathoner who removes their cap during the Pledge, even if they’re standing tall with their hands over their hearts and saying the words. But that morning, with guns and soldiers all around, and the horror of the deaths and maiming at Boston so close in memory and time, runners went to the trouble of thinking outside of themselves and their race and showed they weren’t just going through the motions. That was gutting. 

All this came to her in one fell swoop, layer upon layer, as she took the podium at the front of the classroom and looked out upon the expectant faces awaiting her next words. 

“Before I introduce myself and give you your assignments, I want to talk a bit about – no- I need to tell you why I say the Pledge.” 

She took a deep breath, wondering how to compress all she wanted to say. She suspected most of them wouldn’t care about her words. She was a stranger to them, and they’d likely never see her again. Just the fact that they were sitting quietly and waiting so patiently was a tiny bit of a miracle.

She clasped her hands which were shaking out of rage, not fear. They wouldn’t understand 9/11. They were babies in 2014 and lived thousands of miles from Boston so probably didn’t even know about that bombing. How to explain to them how important these words were to her and to so many others? And then there was the fact that she no longer respected many of the voters and most of the politicians in her own country and was appalled at how ready and willing so many were to give up everything the Pledge stood for, to give up their Constitutional rights. 

How to put all that aside and be a teacher in a moment like this? 

She asked if in a few years some of them would be joining the military. Some of the students nodded. 

“Over the course of my career a lot of my students have fought in wars for our country. Maybe one day you will too. When I say the Pledge, I say it for them. I thank them and I remember them. I honor them.” This was just a small bit of a huge story. But any teacher who’s had any success knows you only have a brief window in which to grab and hold a kid’s attention. Briefer if you’re subbing. 

“One of my kids nearly died. And he’s the one I especially keep in mind.” This was true. She wanted to tell them more about that student’s struggles with relearning to walk, dealing with the guilt of surviving when his friends didn’t,  and how he would still serve his country if given the opportunity, but the restless shuffling, the yawns told her the window of opportunity was closing, so she stopped there. 

After taking attendance, she circulated among the students. As a sub, this wasn’t expected of her. Her main job was to record who was present and keep the kids safe. But she was a teacher at heart and thought if she could help, she would help. The world was a terrible place right now, maybe being a positive presence here in this classroom was one way she could make a difference. 

Some students were focused on their assignments, dutifully reading their coursework and typing up responses. Others nodded off. She stopped at each table to say hello and offer help. “I haven’t taken biology in forty years so I don’t remember much, but I’ll do what I can.” 

They were mostly polite. She thanked them for putting up with her, a phrase she often used years ago in her own classroom.  Some understood that this was a bit of joke and they smiled. She got that feeling again that she often got when she subbed, that maybe the world wasn’t such an awful place after all. Maybe this generation would help make things better. That was one of the things she loved about teaching. There was always hope. 

Three students sat together at a small table at the front of room, directly across from the teacher’s desk which had a comfy leather chair the teacher was looking forward to relaxing in. Three times during the first third of the 90-minute class the sub asked these kids to quiet down and to put on their headsets so their classmates’ learning wouldn’t be disturbed by the videos they were playing. 

“They’re always like this miss,” one of the students sitting near them said. 

The sub approached the table a fourth time and asked them to please be considerate of their classmates.

The kids ignored her and kept talking loudly while their music blared. 

She folded her arms and waited. “Please,” she said again, rooting herself to the spot next to their seats. 

This annoyed the students, the fact that she wasn’t leaving.

“Who do you think you are?” that was the loudest kid, the one playing the music. He had about a foot and a hundred pounds on her. The two others laughed along with him.  They were big too. 

Something familiar rose up in the sub, a flame of anger rooted in memories from years past when other students in other classrooms had responded so similarly. Rather than take his bait the sub turned, and, without another word in his direction, called the office. A few minutes later a young woman with a walkie talkie arrived. 

She did not come up to the sub and introduce herself.  Instead, she walked over to the students. Surprised at this snub, this lack of recognition of her presence in the room, the sub walked over as well. She pointed. “That’s the one who asked me who I thought I was.” 

The walkie talkie woman nodded. The boy spread out both his arms and yelled loud enough for the classroom next door to hear. 

“What? I didn’t do anything. She’s lying.”  

His friends nodded. 

“Yup.” 

“Yeah. She totally is.”

The walkie talkie woman put a finger to her lips. “Stop it,” she said. 

The sub watched, fascinated and disgusted. Fascinated because she’d seen this same scenario play out so many times, thousands of miles away at another school. Funny in a way, how certain types of poor behavior transcended state lines.  The disgust came from seeing that some kinds of admin ineptitude crossed state lines too. 

The walkie talkie woman said nothing else. She left as swiftly as she’d arrived. The three students continued their jabbering, louder now. This scenario -- the noisy students hijacking class, the ineffective response from admin, the students' rudeness to admin on top of the rudeness to the teacher, the return to noise once the admin departed, all of this was too familiar. 

“Unbelievable. She barely acknowledged my existence. She didn’t even introduce herself.  Wouldn’t have even known the truth of what happened if I hadn’t said something. She wasn’t even going to talk with me,” the sub thought, as she moved to the back of the room, as far from the noise as she could get without leaving the classroom. 

In her retirement, she had something now that she hadn’t back during her full-time days, the free will to choose to not teach under these circumstances. 

She perched herself on a student stool that was nowhere as comfortable as the teacher's lovely leather desk chair, next to a group that was working quietly. It was time to put some distance, mental and physical, between herself and this chaos. 

For the rest of the class, she refrained from circulating and helping students. As a sub, she wasn’t required to anyhow, and now she was done with any extra effort. Instead, she continued reading the novel she always brought with her to sub jobs, something she usually only turned to during lunch and planning periods.

During the remaining classes, she talked with the students a little but mainly kept her distance except for a long conversation with a junior eager to chat about child psychology, which she hoped to study in college. Together they talked about Erikson, Piaget, and a few other really cool psychologists and their theories. She discussed World War II with a student who was reading a book on the subject. His family emigrated to the US a couple of decades back, after losing many family members to that conflict. Reading about the war, particularly the fighting in Europe was one way he was able to connect with his family's history. 

She talked with some kids about the different languages they spoke and told them the joke that goes like this: What do you call someone who speaks three languages? Trilingual. Someone who speaks two languages?  Bilingual. Someone who speaks only one language?  An American. 

She enjoyed chatting with some athletes about their aspirations in track and field, and got tips on strengthening her leg muscles. She learned about some fancy online shopping sites from a few of the more fashionable kiddos. 

All in all, except for the bumpy start, it wasn’t a bad day to be a sub. She got in some reading too, but only little. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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