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End of 2023 Thoughts: The Honor System of the Schoolyard Fight

I was born in the early 1970’s.   My school years were the late 70’s and 80’s.  I claim Generation X as mine.

         Although never a good thing in any generation or time, schoolyard fights do happen. I did not get into many, but I certainly witnessed a lot, and I did have occasion to participate in a few of varying moral importance. In the schoolyard fights of my youth, there were a couple of well-known patterns that we all seemed to know by childhood osmosis. The first one, of course, was that breaking one’s glasses was a really bad thing to let happen; everyone knew that. So, to prepare for a fight, threatening a fight, or to let everyone know you were willing to fight, you would take off your glasses giving them for safe keeping to a trusted person in the spectators.  There are others which I won’t bother to detail here, but if you too are of GenX, I’m sure you can think of more.

The principle I want to write about is this:  During a fight, when one kid went down in the dirt and did not get up (either by choice or not), the fight was decided and over: the end!  It was finished. The other kid had won.  The winner could take his accolades and the “spoils” of whatever the fight was about.  Now, if the winning kid had any “decent character” in him, he would try to be somewhat humble, walk away, shut the fuck up, and let that be the end of the issue entirely.  If the kid was simply a bully or of poor character, he would kick the kid in the dirt some more or jeer at him or never let that be the end of the issue. That was a fatal flaw in the schoolyard. If a winning kid was to do that, well, he may have won the fight, but his overall standing among everyone would be greatly diminished.  Everyone knew this.  This standard applied as much to girls as it did to boys, and everyone knew that too.

Growing up I was a good kid, and like I said, I did not get into many fights.  I was more likely the kid to be bullied or picked on. I was often afraid of everyone around me. I was certainly not keen to defend myself or anyone else if I could avoid it and I shunned kid dramas as much as possible.  For many reasons, I was just trying to survive and go unnoticed by the crowd.  As I reached my 20’s and well into my 30’s, I learned to fight in my own way and discovered I rather enjoyed it.  I found I had a caustic mouth and that my pen was often more powerful than any fist I could possibly make.  I could give a lashing to the best of them without touching a soul.  Frequently, I did not care about the consequences and would fight battles both for justifiable and righteous reasons and for petty and stupid reasons.  I had a lot of pent-up schoolyard angst and other issues to work through, and it came out as a willingness to verbally fight anyone willing to spar with me.  Thankfully, I have learned how dumb and unhealthy that is.

         I have spent years carefully evaluating my values and trying to figure out what exactly is important to me and what is not.  I still do NOT have it completely figured out.  Does anyone?  I still change and think and grow every single day as I am presented with new ideas and information.  I think that’s what we are supposed to do!  However, my ideas of who and what I want to be are far more well-defined than they were in the schoolyard.

         I can still be snarky and prickly. I think I have that in common with GenX folks in general especially if you buy into the Facebook groups with names like “GenX Women Are Sick of Your Shit.”   I will be damned if I will be afraid of anyone anymore.  But I have also found all the love, light, healing, and goodness in me that was always there and that is my gift and pleasure to give to all those around me. I have discovered that fighting righteous battles for those who cannot speak or fight for themselves is a fantastic use of my big mouth and my mighty pen.  I can advocate for myself and defend myself if I need to.  I can speak truth to power.  I can advocate for others. I can defend others.  I can sometimes even make people in power re-think an idea, decision, or action.  I can sometimes create a positive change for a person or a group.  I know deep inside my heart, NO ONE will harm my children if I can in anyway prevent it or at least without a reckoning from me in some way (if my children will allow that). I know now that the bullies I witness in my daily life picking on the weak no longer need to be feared.  I can stand up to them and use my talents to rally the troops of good people around me to help defend the weak in our midst. I can use my words, verbal and written, to fight some hefty battles for some awesome and important reasons. Sometimes I win.

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I have learned another huge concept as well: not everything needs to be fought over.  There are many, many things, that as my daughter would say, we should just “chuck it in the fuck it bucket.”  I have learned to “assume innocence” of people in a lot of situations.  I have learned that even if someone says or does something stupid, rude, insulting, or even hurtful, it most likely doesn’t have anything to do with me at all and wasn’t even intentional.  I have learned many times the fights I may want to engage in now are over things that in 10 minutes are not going to mean anything to anyone.  I have learned that I do not have the time or energy to fight every single battle that comes my way.  I have learned that sometimes even if I could “fight” a battle and win, that I need to ask a few questions: Should I fight this? Is it worth it? Do I really care? What is there to be gained? Is this going to matter in 10 minutes? 10 hours? 10 years?  I have learned that sometimes I am most powerful when I allow my love, light, healing, and goodness to shine through instead of whatever fight I may have in me.  I have learned that sometimes it is WAY better to wave the white flag, acquiesce to the person or situation, let the other person win, and simply walk away.  In other words, hit the dirt and stay down!

Do I have this balance down perfectly?

       Oh, HELL NO!!  Ask my husband!  Ask my children!  Ask anyone around me! I can mess this up multiple times in a single day. But I am way better at this then I was even 5 years ago.  I continue to work quite diligently at perfecting my discernment and judgement of situations to get it right much more often.  I am much happier and more peaceful within myself and with others because I have worked so hard at this and because I do get it right much more often. My relationships with those who matter most to me have improved.  I have more energy and time for the people and causes that are important to me.  I believe I am more genuinely myself than I have ever been in my life. That makes me proud of myself even if it makes me not the most popular or liked person in every room I walk into.   

         All should be well, but it isn’t.

         There is something that keeps gnawing at me.

         Something is not settled.

         What the hell is my problem now?

         I think I may have finally figured out what keeps nagging at me.

       Here is the crux of the issue now:

         When I wave my white flag and choose to give up and go down in the dirt, or I have truly lost a fight, why has it now become acceptable, for the “winner” to keep going with damaging, hurtful, painful, humiliating kicks to the ribs??  Why is that okay??  Why isn’t the person who does that considered to have a fatal flaw and be seen as diminished by everyone else?

         More importantly, what does the winner think I’m going to do or should do then, especially if it was by choice that I hit the dirt and stayed down??

         While reflecting on 2023 and discussing this with my husband, I came up with numerous examples of situations of this.  Some examples were insignificant and almost silly and some very significant with lasting consequences to some important relationships both for myself and for others around me.  I made a list of some of the times over the year when I found myself in a situation in which I had lost, or I had really tried to wave my white flag or lay in the dirt and let the other person have the win only to find myself being kicked a few more times.  The longer my husband and I talked, the more startled by the number of examples I could write down.

         One of the first examples happened to me at the very beginning of 2023.  I had gone to my credit union to cash a Christmas check made out to both my husband and me.  My husband had signed the check but because I was depositing it into my single account rather than a joint account the clerk was questioning whether she could do that without my husband present.  The clerk was new, and we didn’t know each other.  I was in a hurry but I’ve never had a problem doing this before.  This was annoying.  I became  frustrated.  She got frustrated. We debated and disagreed back-and-forth for a few minutes.  Eventually she became so frustrated, she ended up throwing her pen in the air and walking away to get someone else to help me.  The next clerk who came to help me deposited the check without any further discussion or issue. No big deal:  end of story.

         A couple weeks later, I went back to the credit union to cash my paycheck and purposely avoided that clerk by waiting in line until another clerk was available and going to that window instead of hers.  I just didn’t feel like seeing her or talking to her.  I just wanted to cash my check and be on my merry way.  While doing my business with the next clerk, the first clerk came over and confronted me about why I did not come to her window and let her help me. I said something like, “I just didn’t want to.” This answer was not sufficient for her. She kept asking me why I did not go to her window. I gave a couple vague half answers until I finally, literally raised my hands palm sides outward in a gesture of submission and said, “Really, it’s no big deal.  Just let it go. It’s fine. It’s all good. Just let it go.”  I was aggressively waving my white flag. I was eating mouthfuls of dirt. Please, lady, you won. Please, just walk away.  Nope!   She had to kick me a few more times.

         She kept demanding that I explain why I waited to go to another clerk.  She then brought up the previous interaction and made a comment suggesting that I had been trying to do something illegal by depositing the check into my account.  At that, I put my pen down, figuratively took my glasses off, looked her dead in the eye, and told her she needed to page her manager immediately because we were going to have a significant discussion which may or may not result in me walking out with the entire sum of all my accounts in cash and the termination of my 30-year account at that credit union.  The situation deteriorated loudly becoming quite the spectacle from there.  

         The manager did show up.  I did not terminate my account or leave with all my cash.  I was issued an apology. The clerk ended up in tears. 

         Why in the hell was that necessary?? I did not want any sort of confrontation with the clerk. I did not want to fight with her. I did not want to discuss the previous situation with her.  I told her it was no big deal and to let it go.  In my mind, she had won the situation.  If I had been left alone, I’m sure the next time I went into the credit union I would have gone to her window without a second thought and moved on with my life.  Why did she have to keep kicking me??  I experience this nonsense frequently and I see it around me constantly.

         Here is an example from someone I know:  A young woman took a new job she was very excited to get. She started the job with great enthusiasm and vigor.  It was newly created position in a large department of a huge corporation.  She is a very young woman fresh out of university and newly licensed in her field.  This was her very first job as a licensed individual.  Perhaps it was unwise of her to take her very first licensed job in a newly created position, but the employer said she could do it and had assured her there would be plenty of time, mentorship, and guidance to help her.  Within a few months, it became clear that the corporation had not thought through what they desired of this newly created position and was not prepared to give the time, mentorship, or guidance that the young woman needed to develop her skills in her field. Even worse, she was being expected to handle sensitive professional situations that a twenty-year veteran would have struggled to navigate. The corporation became increasingly critical of the young woman, and she increasingly hated her job. After hours of discussions, many tears, many feelings of failure and disappointment, the young woman decided to wave her white flag and go down in the dirt: she resigned her position.  She felt defeated.  She felt like a failure, even though she was not.  Worse yet, she was now without a much-needed job.

The big corporation then proceeded to report the young woman to her professional licensing board for possible inability to perform her professional skills safely.  Allegedly, this corporation reports all professionals to their licensing board if they do not complete their first probationary year of orientation. WHAT?!?!

         That sounds like kicking someone when they are down in the dirt to me.  Why is that necessary?  Who does that serve?  The corporation has won; it no longer had to deal with a difficult situation that it created!  The corporation no longer needed to figure out a new position that it had poorly planned prior to hiring someone and it no longer had to figure out what to do with an employee they hired but was not prepared to invest the appropriate time, orientation, and mentorship.  So, shut the fuck up, walk away, and let that be the end of the situation entirely.

         The young woman had to hire an attorney and pay a lot of money she certainly did not have to answer the charges alleged against her with her licensing board.  In the end, every single charge was completely dismissed as unfounded!  What a waste of everyone’s time, energy, and money!  All the corporation did was cause excruciating pain, humiliation, and fear to a young new professional woman.  Why isn’t the corporation viewed by everyone as having a fatal flaw and its reputation diminished???  But, it is not.

         Let me give you another personal example.  I used to drive an old and rather dilapidated van.  One of my headlights had gone out and I had the bulb replaced.  I was driving home the following evening and was pulled over by the police.  Two officers approached my van; one officer was obviously a new cop and the other was the veteran cop instructing him.  The veteran cop came to my window and informed me that I was not speeding and had not made any traffic violations. He said the reason I had been stopped was because my headlight was not working.  I was surprised and informed the officer that I had literally replaced it yesterday.  The younger officer went to the front of the van and gave the hood of the van a good thump and the light turned on.  He and I both started to laugh.  Clearly, my old decrepit headlight had a faulty wire somewhere in it of which I had been unaware.  It was obvious I had not been purposefully driving around with a burned-out headlight.  The older cop remained stoic, asked for my required paperwork which I gave him, and went back to his squad car.  When the veteran officer returned, he informed me that he was giving me a written warning about the headlight and that “I better get that fixed right away” to which I agreed with him.  The younger cop was still at the front of my van pleasantly smiling at me and making funny comments about how hitting the hood of my van had “fixed my problem for the night.”  I received a written warning which seemed a bit unnecessary to me, but I did not argue or complain, and I remained pleasant and polite.  However, the older cop could not let that be the end of the situation.  After he gave me my written warning, he proceeded to give me a lengthy and condescending lecture about the illegal nature of a very small ornament I had hanging from my rearview mirror and how he “could give” me a ticket for that and the headlight.

         Really?  Why was that necessary?  You have “won” the situation.  You are the person with the power and control.  I am not “fighting” you.  I am not arguing with you.  I am being completely cooperative and pleasant with you.  If you really want to give me a citation for either of those two issues, then do so and leave me alone.  Do you really believe it is necessary to jeer at me now and threaten me? 

  I looked toward the younger officer at the front of the van.  He no longer was smiling. In fact, he no longer would even look at me or his partner.  He was looking directly at the ground and continued to look at the ground until they left. At least in this situation, I am confident that veteran cop’s overall standing in the “schoolyard” of the police station was diminished in the mind of at least one fellow officer. 

         What is going on in these situations? Has everyone forgotten this basic honor system?  If someone goes down in the dirt, you won.  Take your accolades, shut the fuck up, walk away, and let the situation end.  Did this honor system ever even exist outside of childhood fancy?  I don’t know.

         I truly want my life to be one that is filled with love, light, healing, and goodness that is shared freely and liberally with all the people around me as much as I can possibly give. I believe that is the only thing of me that will last beyond my final breath.

This is a fundamental truth and value for my life.

         However, when I am in the dirt, I have waved my white flag, I have said I am sorry, you have won the fight, but you still decide to come at me and give me additional blasting, painful, humiliating blows to the ribs, how do you think I may be inclined to respond?   

         Well, let me tell you:

         Unfortunately, most of the time, all my love, light, healing, and goodness goes right out my ears.  This may very well be my fatal flaw.  Admittedly, I may need to work on this.

         If you have won but do not have the good character to take your win, your spoils, be a little humble, shut the fuck up, let the situation go, and walk away, then I am going to dig deep into that little girl, alone, afraid, tired, ignored and more intelligent than most of the assholes with which I am dealing. I am going to rise out of that suffocating filthy dirt to a mighty height, stature, and volume. I will unfurl my razor-sharp talons that I have hidden and protected with marigolds, sage, lavender, sweetgrass, cedar, mint, dog hair, countless books, to-do lists, dirt, leaves, basil, impatiens, scraps of yarn and thread, and crumbs from good toast with peanut butter and homemade jam.  I will take off my glasses, look you dead in the eye, and sink every one of those talons squarely and deeply into your fucking chest—–and I promise you, you will see it coming.

         Then, I will walk away, and I won’t look back.

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Addendum:

         The first several people who read this blog before it was posted online wanted to discuss further the implications of this phenomenon.  We had discussions about how this came to be and what society or an individual could do about it.   Those were very interesting discussions.  Perhaps I will write more about those things sometime.  But, for now, these are my thoughts and all I have to say on the matter.

Training My Whole Life

For both semesters in 7th grade, I had to take the obligatory Physical Education (PE) class.  Seventh grade PE was only one of the academic and social landmines that my classmates and I had to survive before moving on to the eighth grade.  In 8th grade, one could go about his/her life without the worry of PE as the requirement was met the previous year.

I am not going to waste anyone’s time regurgitating all of the research and literature that is published on all of the very reasonable logic why children hate PE class.  If a person is really interested, do a Google search.  I assure you; the research is there.  Instead, I am going to tell you my story of PE and my conclusions about it.

Seventh grade was a difficult year for me, and I’m sure, for many of my peers. In my school district, all of the elementary schools ended at sixth grade and everyone moved to the “junior high” for 7th and 8th grade.  It was the first year in which I rode the school bus.  Until then, I walked to the neighborhood elementary school through the grassy and wooded fields between my house and school.  Seventh grade was the first time that I moved from classroom to classroom for each subject.  I had a different teacher for each class requiring that I figure out the temperaments of several different adults.  It was the first time I had ever had a male teacher.  It was the first year class material became challenging for me.  Three quarters of my 7th grade class were students from other schools that I had never met before.  And, I had to get glasses and I started my period.

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This new concept and “class” for PE was new to me.  In elementary school, we played games in the gym or outside for PE and recess.  PE was indistinguishable from recess.  We didn’t change our clothes to play because play and physical activity were so  integrated into everything we did that there was no reason to change clothes.  Now, all of a sudden, physical activity was “education” and a class requiring one to change clothes in a locker room.  What!?  Take my clothes off of my scary, changing, unpredictable body in front of others–girls I had only recently met!  Even as a 7th grader, I thought this was crazy.  But, that is exactly what I had to do.  To make matters even more horrifying, gym was co-ed and taught by a man.

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     But, I was a compliant, uncomplaining child who had learned early on in life to shut-up and do as I was told.  So, that is what I did, as best I could.  I hated every day of it.  After the locker room horror, we did 15 minutes of calisthenics in tidy rows. Of course, the teacher did not do these exercises with us, not even once to demonstrate. He would pick one of his favorite boy students to stand in front of the class and lead us through the routine calisthenics.  Again, I identified the hypocrisy and stupidity of this.

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     Besides being boring and no fun, I could not do the same number of push-ups or leg jumps as the boy in the front.  But, I did my best and I did gradually get better even at  the most difficult skills for me.  After calisthenics, we were divided into teams to play whatever game was on the “education curriculum” for that quarter.

     I had played community youth softball and was actually a pretty decent player.  I had spent my childhood playing games, ice skating on the river, building snow forts, sledding, riding bikes with my friends, building tree forts, swimming almost every single day of the summer, working in my mother’s garden, mowing grass, and a million other outdoor shenanigans.  The only time I really ever stopped was to read and even that was done outdoors as often as possible.  But, now, my physical “education” was being judged and graded.  I was not as strong as some in the class.  I was not as coordinated with this new body of mine as some in the class.  I didn’t know the “official” rules to many of the games we played. I was bewildered and overwhelmed with ALL of the school changes.  Instead of PE being an outlet for the hours of pent-up energy from sitting in so many classes all day long and a relief and enjoyment for all of this new stress in life, PE was just another stressor and another opportunity for my shortcomings to be pointed out.

     However, I was a generally hopeful child.  I was resilient and adaptable.  I got used to the hour-long bus ride to and from school that included obnoxious high school kids and a driver who I am certain had an early form of dementia.  I got used to the many teachers.  Although there were some real assholes in the bunch, there were some real gems too.  (I’m looking at you Mrs. Bibbee, Mr. Montana, Mr. Fowler—all wonderful diamonds showing me respect and, more importantly, a trust and expectation that I was capable and smart).  I got used to the locker room and figured out how to change without feeling too exposed.  And, eventually, I began to figure out how to manage my classes and even be successful.  Things got better.

     So, when it was announced after Christmas break that we would be playing floor hockey, I thought it would be fun and was excited to try.  The rules were easy to learn and it seemed to me that speed and a little hip action made the game one in which a girl could excel.  010

     I loved it!!  It was a fun game and I really felt like I contributed positively to my team.  We were starting to get to know each other and we felt friendlier with the kids we had only just met that year.  I remember laughing a lot while playing that game and I even remember talking about it at home. I looked forward to playing so much that I even undertook the calisthenics with new vigor in my excitement to get to the game as quickly as possible.  I played hard, got sweaty, ran around, laughed, made some friends, and even scored a couple of really awesome point shots!  Things were looking up!

Then I got my report card.

B+   in PE

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And, how the hell did the “girl with her period every single week,” and therefore did not “dress for gym” at least once a week get an A??

     Was her A based on her extracurricular sports participation at school?  Was the difference based on her better coordination than mine?  Was the difference her ability to do more push-ups than me, when she chose to do so?  Was the difference that she was prettier, less awkward, more cute, and outgoing?

     I did ask the teacher and was given some bullshit answer that I don’t even remember today.  I got through that year of PE and enjoyed 8th grade without it.  However, the whole ordeal was to be repeated in 9th grade when we moved to the high school and had yet another whole year of PE with yet another male teacher.  I got a B and B+ that year too with no explanation as to why.

    But, the pretty little things with the cute boobies, bubbly personalities, weekly menses, and no two working brain cells all got A’s.  (Yes, I’m looking at you Mr. Beaumont).

     PE and the gym itself became things to be avoided at all costs.  No, my dear friend, I will not join the swim team.  No, I will not play community softball anymore.  No, I will not try new activities for the fear of being judged again as barely acceptable.  Sigh………

     This stupid fear continued into college when the last of my three required PE credits was procrastinated all the way to my senior year.  I had to get that final credit or I would not graduate. Of course, the options of classes were limited.  The only open PE class that fit my crazy schedule of nursing clinical hours was aerobics.  Yep. Aerobics.  Yeah. Aerobics_LivingPages

     Again, I am resilient and adaptable.  How bad could this be?  This is college, right?  There are plenty of much larger issues with which I was trying to cope than a PE class.  I attended every class, exercised, learned the routines as best as I could; although, I never understood the tragedy if I went right when everyone else went left.  Wasn’t the point that I was exercising?  I was actually toning up and lost about 50 pounds.  Then, midway through the semester, I was hospitalized for over two weeks and it took another two weeks before I could go back to class.  My life fell apart and many people told me there was no way I could ever make up all that work and still graduate on time.  Of course my absence was excused, but there was so much material to learn and hours of clinicals to make up.

      The PE teacher said I could make up each class I missed by attending an additional hour of aerobics class.  So, even though I had pages upon pages of textbooks to read, several enormous term papers to write, and several hours of missed hospital experience to make up, there I was attending the regular aerobics class and then staying for the next one to make up for the ones I had missed.

     I really got in shape with some nicely defined muscles and lost another 25 pounds. I thought that was excellent evidence of my attendance, work, and participation.

     I received an A–

     That’s right.  The bitch gave me an A–.

     When questioned as to why I received an A–, I was told it was based on my overall participation.  I pointed out to her my obvious weight loss and even pulled up my sleeve to show off my new-found muscles.  A–.  End of story.

     Who cares, right?  It was difficult for me not to see the craziness of the situation especially because despite my illness and absence, I received a straight, solid A in every other class.

      Again, who cares?  I am resilient.  I am adaptable.  Let it go.

      Well, that’s what I did until the end of spring semester when the registrar called to inform me that I would not be graduating with honors because my grade point averaged ended up being a 3.4444444. The dear lady in the registrar’s office had calculated it out as far as she could in the hope that she could round up to a 3.5. The sweet lady knew I had been hospitalized, she knew my life had fallen apart, and she knew I worked my ass off using every ounce of energy and ability I had to finish my classes to graduate.  At one point in our conversation, she said, “You know, if that PE grade was an A rather than an A-, you would have the honors.”  But, the next thing she said surprised me, “I thought you would be more upset over this.”  No, my sweet lady, PE has been fucking up my grade point average since the 7th grade; I’m used to it.  I was just too tired to fight and just wanted to be done.

     Do you know what I learned in PE?

I learned how to be bullied and how to take it.

      But, sometimes it still makes me angry.  Why can’t the smart kid ever get a damn A in PE?  Are PE “teachers” so insecure about their own shortcomings that they must torture the kid who already has difficulty fitting in with everyone else?  What the fuck is the purpose of PE, anyway??

      I thought the purpose was exercise, being healthy, experiencing lots of different activities, enjoying some, and learning to make physical activity a part of one’s life.  Apparently, that is not the case.

      So, now, I’m a middle-aged woman who has birthed a bunch of kids, and put on more extra pounds than I would ever care to admit.  I could certainly use more physical activity in my life and it is solely my responsibility and fault that I don’t get more.  I do tend to enjoy the more solitary activities like walking, hiking, swimming, maybe a bike ride, and working in my garden.  Those are all good things.  I have thrown off  *most* of the shackles of fear and intimidation that all of those PE “teachers” sowed into me.  I do still think about some of these things when I attend an exercise class or use the exercise machines at the health club.  But, for the most part, my attitude now is:  If you don’t like my fat ass, then don’t look, I’m not here for you, I’m here for me.

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     This attitude was working fine for me until my young adolescent son, who is brilliant, a bit awkward with his rapidly growing body, is kind, soft-spoken, obedient, and non-confrontational brought home his report cared.  A–   in PE…….Sigh…….

      So, I ask the “teacher,” what specifically does he have to do for an A?

      Her answer shows her bias and stupidity.  She doesn’t give me any specifics and instead tells me things such as :  “He is doing great.”  “He shows up on time and ready.”  “He meets expectations.”  “He plays all the games.”  As I am trying to reconcile these glowing statements about my son and the fact that she still gave him an A–, she says, “I rarely give A’s.  A student must go above and beyond to get an A.”

       What the hell did she just say???  Doesn’t this  discouraging philosophy completely defeat the entire purpose of PE class??  Isn’t this statement alone evidence of her overall faulty thinking??

       My child is able to get an A+ in literature and science, but not in PE??imagesOR38ZA81

Nope.  This is not going to fly with me.

I think I will be getting my heart rate up this next week by battling this self-important, biased, idiotic, gym “teacher.”

I’VE BEEN TRAINING FOR THIS MY WHOLE LIFE.

Note: There are 5 bear cubs in this picture.
Note: There are 5 bear cubs in this picture.

 

 

The Building of a Cocoon: Some Unconventional Thoughts

It must be a common feeling or need that people have to build themselves a cocoon.  There are some interesting cocoon-like structures that people have built for themselves. f59193afd484a5fc6ecca73d1eb9c142cocoontreef                                             1-editorial-crosby

I like the idea of building myself a cocoon as a way of coping with those who hurt me.  A cocoon to communicate that access to me is ending and I am becoming free.

There is a delightful irony in that.  Did you catch it?

When I was a child, I would look for cocoons as I walked through the fields.

By the way, a cocoon is not the same as a chrysalis.  A chrysalis is specifically for a butterfly pupa.  A cocoon is for moths and other insects.  A cocoon can be hard or soft.  It can either be disguised or purposefully hidden.  It usually has some portion of it that is made of silk.

Bagworm Cocoon Psychidae Moth
Bagworm Cocoon
Psychidae Moth

Regardless, I used to look for them.  When I would find one, I would not disturb it and I was careful not to hurt it.  I would wait to find the tiny pieces of it left after it was broken open and the insect inside was gone.  Finding it like that would make me endlessly wonder what had left it.

It is often well-known when it is time for an organism to enter a cocoon.    It is time for me!

My cocoon can be tough or soft; it doesn’t matter to me. I want my cocoon to be both disguised and hidden.  It will only be known to those few trusted souls who will not damage it.

It will be created by my own hands of the most valuable ingredients I have: hours upon hours and years upon years of sifting, sorting, mining, and cleaning all that is inside of me.

It will be a place of choice.  A place in which I am finally free to choose.

This cocoon will not be a lonely place and it will not be a place of forced isolation.  There will be a few people there who will love and comfort me.

My cocoon will be cool, breezy, and filled with all of the things that I like. It will not be dark.  It will be translucent allowing filtered light to enter.

cocoon booksThis cocoon of mine will be a place of protection and rest, but not a place for me to change.  It will be a safe place for me to be while the outside world changes. Those who invade and steal from me will change. The cocoon will prevent the invasion of parasites which suck and steal from me.  When I leave my cocoon, the uninformed person may think that I have changed.  But, it will really be the parasites changing and withering from lack of getting what they want from me.  The more time I spend in my protective cocoon, the more the parasites will weaken.

It will actually  be a cocoon within a cocoon.  Initially, when I enter the deepest cocoon, I will be there by myself.  That will be okay.  My choice of time there will appear random.  But, it will actually have been well-planned. It will have to be well-planned because when I leave the deepest cocoon for the outer cocoon I am going to need a lot of help.

When I leave the deepest cocoon, the parasites are going to sense my presence and will attack viciously trying to get what they want.  My outermost cocoon will be strong and protective too.  Just as the parasites sense me, I will sense them.  I will know of the attacks and it will be difficult for me not to abandon my cocoon completely and let the parasites have their fill of me.  But, the longer I am in my cocoon, the stronger I will be.

The people who help me will give me lots of comfort so that I have strength to keep building.  They will comfort me so that I know this cocoon building is worth the effort.  They will comfort me so that I know that I am worth all of this work.  They will comfort me because they love me.  Love is the strongest and most protective of all the bricks I have for my cocoon.

Lastly, there is something important that I wonder:

When an insect pushes itself out of its cocoon, does it cry from the pain and effort of the ordeal that was the cocoon or does it feel something else?

I think I will cry.

Is It Really Confidential?

“It’s Confidential”      

 “Please refrain from talking about…”

“Please be sensitive to others by not discussing….”

“I really cannot answer that question.”             

“I can’t comment”

“You shouldn’t ask those sorts of questions…….you know it’s confidential”  confidential2

     Haven’t we all heard things like this?  At work, church, school, organizations with which we are involved, and probably a myriad of other places too.

     Most of the time this isn’t a big deal.  It’s not said with any malice.  It is often a statement of fact and that is the end of it.  However, there are other times when being told something is “confidential” or being told to “refrain from speaking about…” leaves one with an uncomfortable sensation in the gut.  Although I might not be able to articulate exactly what is causing my intestinal distress, I know “something” just isn’t  quite right.  But, what is it?  I have only recently started to gain headway in sorting it out.

      A recent experience in which I was told that I “should refrain from discussing…” has helped me come to some conclusions about why one situation makes me feel disgusting and ashamed and another does not.  So, please bear with me as I try to sort this out in written form.

      In one situation, statements as those above communicate a need to keep something private and are said with no shame in the declaration and no shame or embarrassment made on the person doing the asking.  The statement is just a fact; I can’t talk about it.  I have no need to judge the reason for the question or request and I know exactly who, what, and why the information is being protected and that is easily stated.  If this conversation happens in person,  I can easily look the person in the face, smile, answer honestly, and if possible or appropriate, even engage in small pleasantries with the person doing the asking.  Further, if there is any possible remedy to the situation, it is generally easily visible.  It’s simple.  No shame. No embarrassment. No coercion.  Annoyance is possible,  but even that is generally self-limited.  What does this type of situation look like?  Let me give you an example.

      I am the nurse on duty at the hospital.  I answer the phone at the nurses’ desk and  a man identifies himself as Don Jones .  He tells me that he is calling to check on his friend Bob Smith.   Don asks how Bob is doing.  I don’t have to judge the reason why Don is calling and asking because it doesn’t really matter.  I can’t tell Don anything about Bob.  But, I also have no reason to make Don feel badly that he has called to check on his friend.  In fact, I can easily try to make Don feel better by empathizing with him that he cares about his friend and that I have no reason to judge his intentions.  phone     I can simply and kindly say something like, “Oh, I’m so sorry, but I can’t tell you about Bob’s condition. [initial refusal]. The patient confidentiality rules and HIPPA laws prevent me from giving out patient information to people unless specifically authorized by the patient. [Simple, honest, reasonable, well-known reason.  There is no shaming of Bob involved.  Bob could ask the same question as many times as he wants, my answer will remain the same.].  But, I can connect you to Bob’s room and you can speak to him directly about how he is doing. Please hold. [Possible remedy to situation].

      But, let me give you another possible made-up example of the other kind of confidentiality.

      An employee at my child’s daycare has been placed on a leave of absence with no reason given to explain why.  Is he ill?  Misconduct?  Did his mother die?  What?

     Of course, the leave of absence with no explanation leads to many questions as this daycare provider was well-liked and engaged with many of the children.  So, people start asking questions—-of other parents, of other caregivers, of ancillary staff,  administration.   “Where is George? What is wrong with George?  Will George be returning?  My child is asking about George. What should I tell him/her?”

      Eventually, these questions will be asked of someone who knows something about the situation with George.  When I ask this person, he/she won’t quite look at my face.  The person may abruptly change the subject making as if I just asked who passed the malodorous flatulence thus pretending to save me from embarrassment, but rather it leaves me feeling very embarrassed.  What did I do wrong?  When I ask again regarding George, no matter what the question asked actually  is, eventually the response will be given with a blank facial expression and little eye contact  and will go something like this:  “This is a confidential matter.  I can’t talk about it.  Please refrain from discussing it any further for anyone.”

   Such an answer is given with no effort at connecting with the person asking the question, the answer lacks a full degree of reasonableness, few, if any, reasons are given, and it leaves the person asking the question baffled, embarrassed, sometimes feeling chastised or degraded, or even fearful  for asking a simple question.  It is clear that the person answering the question has judged quite harshly the reason why the question is being asked.  There is no possible remedy given.zipper mouth

     What??!!  What rules say the information cannot be shared?  Can you tell me a law?  Why??  Why am I being shamed for asking?  Why is there no empathy for the reason why the question is being asked?  Why am I being given a coercive directive about what I can ask in the future?  Why is a simple question being judged as “discussing?”  Why is it necessary to place yourself in an artificial position of greater power?  What specifically is confidential???  Why is the assumption that my intent is malicious?  Why is there no possible remedy?  Why am I being told who and about what I can talk with in the future?  The person asking walks away feeling very icky.

       And most importantly, who or what is the intention of the protection???

    To me, I think the biggest differences between the two situations are the motives for refusal to answer and the clarity (or lack of clarity) of who and what is supposedly being protected.  The more I am unable to figure out these two points and the ‘ickier’ the pit of my stomach feels, the more sure I am that the reason I am being told something is confidential or should not be talked about is as malodorous as post-baked-bean flatulence.  And, as such, what might have been asked as a simple and innocent question now becomes something I really want to know.  Now, there are so many more important questions to ask:  Why don’t you want me to know?  Why can’t you give me a rule/law/policy regarding why you can’t answer?  Why won’t you look at me?  Why do you have to puff yourself up into an air of authority which may or may not be real?  Why is there no possible remedy?  Why can’t you tell me exactly who and what is being protected?  What makes you think you can tell me who I can talk with in the future and about what topics??

    For me, the conclusion is:  You are protecting yourself because you are doing something wrong.  Period.  That’s my metric.  If you give me no other ruler to use, then you measure out a devious,  dishonest , and potentially dangerous person.  I now have become the witness to an injustice, until proven otherwise, and I will not remain silent.   Now, the only remedy I see as acceptable is the full light of day on the situation.

light

* All names and situations are fictional. 

“Begin with the End in Mind”

 Hello!

This may seem like a morbid post with which to begin, but really, it isn’t.  Honest.

In his book, “Seven Habits of Highly Effective People,” Stephen Covey states that Habit #2 is: “Begin with the end in mind.” He says this can help guide a person’s actions in a similar way that a mission statement might guide a company or organization.  I took the concept to its farthest outlying implication.  The farthest outlying “end” is, of course, death. So, the implication became, what kind of death do I want?endingI’m familiar with death.  As an RN, I sometimes care for patients as they near death and I have had a front-row observational seat to many, many different ways different people have experienced death.  I believe it is an honor for me to be present with others–both patients and their families–through the death and dying process.  Some people approach death with grace and beauty and others fight an ugly losing battle with it.  Sometimes my job becomes trying to help people reach some sort of truce with death.  Sometimes I am successful and other times I am not.  Regardless, over the years, I have made a vision of my own of what I want my “end” to be.

This is it:

I stepped out of the shower and immediately knew that everyone was correct:  I shouldn’t have even tried to take a shower by myself.  I’m just too sick.  I sat on the edge of the bathtub breathing slowly trying not to faint.  Finally, the light-headedness began to pass and I opened my eyes and saw myself in the mirror.  I looked old.

“I am old,”  I said out loud to myself.

I turned eighty on my last birthday and no one thought I would live that long after I was diagnosed with malignant skin cancer two years ago.  I hadn’t really believed I would live to be eighty either, but I did and now I can’t even take a shower by myself. 

I was tired of fighting cancer.  I looked at the lesions on my arms and neck which seemed to grow uglier every day.  I was glad I was dying from something  caused from outside of me.  I had always expected to die from something bad from within—-ovarian or breast cancer, stroke, heart attack—-you know, the big ones. But, no, I had the small consolation of being condemned to death by a disease caused by the sun.  I was okay with that.  At least I didn’t have to believe I was dying because of some “toxic waste” or “badness” that I had always believed resided deep inside the core of who I am. 

I took one last deep breath and put on the flannel nightgown with the pink flowers that Greg had given me for my last birthday.  What a good man he has always been.  Even at eighty years old, he was still telling me how beautiful I am despite the wrinkles and the cancer lesions.  Instead of just smiling like I have for years when he says nice things like that to me, I had kissed him and said a simple, “thank you.”  He was surprised I responded this way to his compliment and I jokingly told him, “Even I have a few surprises left, you know!”

Next, I wrapped the big cotton, fluffy, soft white robe around me that Judah had given me years and years ago.  He has always known the meaning of a soft touch and he was good at expressing that softness even with his gifts.  I staggered out of the bathroom and into the arms of Olivia and Joseph and into a scolding from Olivia. 

“Oh Mom!  You know you should let us help you!  You are too weak to be doing such things on your own!”

The two helped me to the living room where the children had moved my bed months ago.  I refused to get a hospital bed.  Even though the children were annoyed by this decision, Greg had quietly and assertively supported my decision.  He knew what I always wanted. 

Joseph guided me to the side of the bed and helped me to lie down.  Olivia fussed with the pillows and blankets making sure they were neat and straight.  I smiled to myself thinking that is exactly the sort of thing I would have done fifty years earlier.  I could hear Nicholas and Teresa in the kitchen laughing and teasing each other.  Nicholas always knew how to push people’s buttons, but at least Teresa seemed to enjoy it and would give it back to him a bit.  Olivia went to hush them, but I held her arm and whispered, “It has been noisy and loud in this house for years, why change it now?”  She smiled and rolled her eyes and I tried to laugh at her. 

I was tired and hurting and she knew it.  Within a few minutes Greg slowly came up the stairs bringing with him the injection of morphine which would ease the pain to the background again.  He was the only person I allowed to give me the shot.  He knew it was more than just an injection of medicine and so did I.  We knew it was my expression of my total trust in him—-something which had taken years to develop.  So now, with so much open and gone from us due to age and cancer and children thinking they know best, it was one of the few ways that trust was expressed between us.  I rolled slightly so he could inject the medicine into my hip and just before he put the needle in, I said, as I always do now, “Don’t poke herself with that needle!”needle2“Oh!!  For heaven’s sake!!  It’s been fifty years since I did that and you are still teasing me about it!” But, when I looked at his face, I could see he was laughing too.

Judah, who had been sitting quietly in the rocking chair, finally spoke, “Tell the story again, Momma.”

They all liked to hear the story:  the story of the fertility shots Greg had to give me every night when we were trying to conceive.  And, about the time Greg, in his nervousness, dropped the needle into the palm of his own hand.  I had insisted the medication was just too expensive to waste, so we changed the needle and he gave me the shot anyway.  They all laughed!  I heard them laughing as the morphine took its effect and I drifted off to sleep. 

When I woke a while later, the shadows had lengthened and it was quiet.  Joseph and Greg were reading on the couch by my bed.  How alike they are!  Judah remained in the rocking chair dozing.  Nicholas and Olivia were in the kitchen making soup.  Well, Olivia was making soup.  Nicholas was getting in her way teasing her.  And, my sweet Teresa was typing at the computer putting her thoughts to paper just as I have always done.  We had gotten a lot of criticism when I became pregnant with her, but she had brought immeasurable joy to all of us. 

Judah was the first to notice I was awake.  He walked to the bed and asked if he could climb in with me.  Of course!

This bed is the bed that Greg and I bought within months of getting married.  The moment I saw this bed with the light oak wood, the high-set of it, and the tall posts, I had adored it.   It was solidly built by an Amish man and I wanted it.  It was one of the first times Greg let me have what I wanted.  Over the years, that bed was my life-boat in more than one storm.  It had always been a comfort to have it as the marriage bed with my beloved Greg.  I could never count the number of times we found comfort in each other’s arms in this bed.  And, how many times there was someone else in bed with us!  For years, it had been our own children who would mysteriously appear in bed with us and later it became grandchildren.  Sometimes, one or both of our dogs would end up in bed with us!  That’s why there would be no hospital bed for me.  I had always wanted to die in this bed and Greg was going to give me that wish. bedIt was right that Judah wanted to climb in next to me even though he is a grown man with a wife and children of his own.  “He needs the touch,”  I thought to myself.  Gently, he lied down next to me.

I could hear Olivia whispering on the phone to the hospice nurse about how labored my breathing was becoming.  I cleared my throat to let her know I was awake.  I raised my eyebrows at her when she came out of the kitchen talking on the phone to let her know I did not want the breathing machine.  She already knew it.

Within a few minutes, they were all at my side. My sweet Greg sat on a chair next to me and put his hands on my forehead as he has always done, spoke sweet words to me, and pressed his face close to mine.  Judah remained next to me, but the others had joined him.  Olivia, Joseph, Judah, Nicholas, and Teresa all found a place on the bed.  I was squished, but Greg knew not to say anything—-That was the way I wanted it. 

He smiled at me and said, “You always said there was room for them all!”

However, when the most recent family dog that I brought home from the shelter tried to jump on the bed too, everyone laughed and shoo’d the poor thing back to the floor.  The dog took his place at Greg’s feet and I saw Greg reach down with one hand and pat the dog on his head. 

I looked from one person to the next thinking about the life we have had together.  I looked at my beloved Greg, tenderly touched his face with all the love that has grown in me for him through the years, and said a final, “I love you.”

I looked at each child in turn and said, “I love you.”

We all knew it was time for me to go.

I could hardly breathe and I couldn’t really feel my feet anymore. I knew it was coming, but I didn’t want this final moment to end without experiencing each sensation of it.  As I gasped for air, the only sensation I really felt was warmth and love from the people I have always loved the most. 

I think that it what they were feeling too because it was so quiet.  The late afternoon sun shown in the window and I knew it was time to go.  I took one last look at my beloved family from this body, shut my eyes, and I was gone.

Death walked in peacefully and I let him lead me from the place and people I loved to a new place waiting for me. 

Afternoon_Sun_through_the_Window

*Painting by Roger Dellar 

On being a “Blog Virgin”

Hello Everyone!

Chances are that if you are reading this it is because I invited you to check out my blog.

Honestly, this is the first time I have ever written a blog and I have no idea if it will turn out well or not.  I have been writing essays, stories, poems, and whatnot for years.  Most of what I have written has only been marginally shared with others; a speech here, a letter there, an essay or poem shared with a particular person or group based on a particular topic.  I have had many people over the years tell me things like, “you should write a book” or “you write well; people need to read what you write.”  I have no real idea if any of that feedback is accurate or not.  Further, I have lots of people tell me things like, “you are so honest” and “you just say it like it is” and that doing so is “so refreshing!”    Well, the reality is that when one agrees with me, I might be refreshing.  But, if one does not agree with me, I’m a pretty big pain in the ass.  So, my hunch is that only the people who like something I have written bother to give me feedback and that the people who think my writing is horrible simply don’t say anything.

Regardless, I have a pile of files and papers and notes written on scrap paper that I decided I better start doing something with it all.  So, I’m going to take a big risk and begin this blog in which I share some of those scribbles, ideas, essays, and general writing with all of you.  It will be you who will decide if what I have to say is worth reading or not.  But, I do have a small request of you, my readers:  Please judge me and this blog slowly and gently.   Although I think I may have some useful little nuggets to share with you or at least some funny stories, I am new at this and I am certainly not a professional writer.  Please give me time to gain some “stride” in blog writing before you dismiss me and my ideas.

And, if you must criticize me or my writing, please do so with the knowledge that my intent is not to offend but to share myself with you; the good, the bad, the ugly, the beautiful, the brilliant, the foolish,  the flawed, and the wise…..the real of me, the authentic me, the genuine me, and the me meant to be shared as fully as I can.  Hopefully, if you realize that, your criticism of me will be tempered by your compassion.