Daily Online Meeting of the Aggrieved

aggrieved dog

Hi, my name is Sammy Segal Beagle Block. First, please note, I do not hyphenate any of my names because I think that indicates an acceptance of a false binary when it comes to identity. I want to thank you for welcoming me here to your daily online meeting of the aggrieved.

I must admit that it wasn’t until I underwent a temporary move to Bozeman, MT that I realized that I am in fact, aggrieved. Here in Bozeman, as a dog of small stature and uncertain origin, I am subjected to daily microaggressions and triggers.

Now, any of us who are dogs know that humans feel entitled to come up and touch our fur because it is so different from their hair, which has somehow gained stature as the normative covering experience. I am thinking about seeing if I can crowdsource some funding to create a humorous video showing humans how wrong they are in all their interactions with us. I’m sure adding humor to it will mean that everyone will learn their lesson and begin to interact with all dogs in the way that I approve. I’m going to call it “If dogs did the things humans do,” but that’s for another day. Although I would like to point out that since humans tend to control the banks, it is unlikely that I will have my important social projected funded in any other way.

Here, in the land of large dogs their human owners routinely demand to know “what I am” and, because of my small stature refer to me as a “puppy.” This last remark is especially hurtful and triggering because of course, I transitioned to adult dog status and clearly prefer to be referred to as a “dog.”

The dogs who are native to Bozeman do not seem to understand my grievances. I feel that these dogs do not understand the privilege that they enjoy as large, native, non-afraid dogs. They are routinely allowed to wander off-leash and display this privilege by rushing up to me and barking in my face. This flagrant disregard of one of my many triggers can only be solved if these large dogs are willing to check their privilege, and I don’t see that happening any time soon.

Speaking of triggers, since I live near a university campus, I do not think it would be too much to ask if the following things came with trigger warnings: Magpies, construction vehicles, squirrels, cats. I understand that education is supposed to take me out of my comfort zone, but I have the right to be here without anyone ever triggering any possible bad memory from my past as an unfairly incarcerated dog.

Anyway, thanks again for accepting me in to your very large group of the aggrieved. I hope to be able to check in again soon as I have more to say. A lot more to say.

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Watching TV in Different Time Zones

HD TV on wood stand

I remember being sent an email with a list of examples of bad similes from high school papers. I felt one was unfairly included, “It was like when you’re in a different city and all the same TV shows are on, just at a different time.” Who could hate this simile?

I have always  liked this feeling of everything being just slightly off. Not so out of kilter that you can’t find your bearings, but just enough that you know you’re doing something different. There is no need to learn a new language, just a few new slang terms. No need to start from scratch, just buy a few staples.

My children, however, are not fond of this feeling. We have rented a house and are spending the month in Bozeman, Montana. The kids are excited and nervous. Happy to have more of their father’s time, excited about mountains and adventures, but missing their friends. “I just want to go home to our normal TV where everything doesn’t look fake,” says my son about the gigantic HD TV in our temporary living room.

The other day, we went to a cave and slid down a rock polished in to gorgeous stone by millions of people doing that before us.  Today, my son, feeling the need for something he knew he would love begged for a zoo day. So, off they went, the kids and their dad to Billings, about two hours away. That too is different.

Thanks to an unexpected change with one of my clients, for this month, the majority of the work time belongs to me. My husband, with no classes or students, will be editing his book, fitting his work around the kids’ schedule. For this month, he is in charge of meals, and so in charge of shopping and planning. None of this is unheard of in our house, we often take turns trading off work and childcare. He enjoys cooking, and I hate it. But, it isn’t the norm. It is slightly off kilter.

When I first moved to Chicago I translated everything in to terms with which I was familiar, Louisville terms. When talking about Chicago’s CTA, in my head I said, “TARC.” When someone mentioned “The Jewel” I translated that to, “Kroger’s.” And yes, when I was looking for a certain TV show, I translated the network to it’s Louisville station and the time from Eastern to Central in my head.

I’m not sure when I stopped making the translations in my head, but it was one sign that Chicago had become my home and now, for the most part, when I go back to Louisville, or travel elsewhere, I make the translations to Chicago terms and times. Except, I still use Louisville zip codes and phone numbers to make sure I have all the necessary digits of something.

That’s the thing about travel and transition, you never know which changes will hold. You never really know when you’re making a transition. You never really know what will become your new time zone. This is why I’ve ever moved my kids ever so slightly out of their time zone, out of their comfort zone. I want them to slowly learn to appreciate that things don’t always have to be exactly the same. I want them to know that they’re capable of transition and change.

So, for now, we are here in Bozeman, watching a giant TV, in a different time zone.

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Change of Address

Like most people, I don’t spend a lot of time at the post office. Years ago, when I ran a small hotel in the middle of nowhere, I went there weekly to mail a package of paperwork to the owner’s accountant. I’m sure today the manager sends everything electronically. I loved my weekly visits to the Desert Hot Springs post office. Once, I taught a woman there how to address an envelope. She was probably 45, or maybe 70, it’s very hard to tell in the dessert. She had simply never learned how to address an envelope and didn’t know where everything went.

For the most part though, I liked seeing the clerks because they were the same people every week. I met a lot of great people in the desert, but I met different ones every week. The postal clerks were my constant. I think they were both old, the man had a shockingly white beard, as though it had been bleached by the desert sun. Although even after six months they didn’t seem to remember me from week to week, I remembered them, which was enough for me.

Last week, while preparing for another western adventure I went to my local post office to mail a package of paperwork. There was an old man painstakingly filling out a card. He was so slow and so careful that a few people broke post office protocol and moved in front of him in line while he was filling out the card at the counter.

When he finally finished and unbent, I could tell he wasn’t really that old, it was just the bending and slow writing that had made him seem that way. He was probably 65 or so. He approached the counter and got my favorite clerk. A middle aged woman with the remarkable Filipino talent of being simultaneously generous and kind and absolutely terrifying and intimidating.

When the man handed her his card her face broke out in a huge smile, “Look at you, you’re moving to the fancy buildings downtown, nice! No more shoveling for you mister.” The man looked pleased and explained, “I love it here, I’ve been here a long time, but I married a woman who wants to live in the city.”

“You got married?” She exclaimed, “Congratulations! Oh, you’re going to love it, so nice and clean, no shoveling or yard work, you go enjoy yourself.”

I thought about how often in life we have these big moments that we somehow think everyone will notice, but they don’t. “Well, I’m pregnant,” you, barely six weeks along, whisper to the teen at the checkout lane bagging your ice cream and saltines, and she, lost in her own big news, her own life, doesn’t even bat an eye.

“Now is this just for you, or is it a family change?” The postal clerk asks.
“Well, my wife is moving too, but she has her own last name.” He answers
“Ok,” she says, “let her fill out her own.”
“Thanks,” he answers and turns around to leave, so much younger than the man bent over the form a few minutes before.”

“Congratulations!” She calls out after him.
“Thanks, honey.” He answers, smiling as he walks out the door.

I approach the counter and deliver my package. I imagine myself saying, “In case you’re wondering, I’m mailing this for my husband, we’re going to Montana for a month.” I want to bask in her smile, her approval of life marching on and new adventures happening. Alternately, I want to thank her for making the man feel special, for giving him that rare moment to know this change was for the best. I want to ask her if she noticed how much better he looked when he left than when he came in.

But, I don’t. I move through and leave her to the next customer and think of all the changes we all have still to come.

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Motherless Sons

This weekend, as I was packing my son for camp I got a phone call. My friend’s mother had died.

Like most parents I spent the first few months of my children’s lives simply trying to keep them alive. Even after those months with impossibly small and fragile beings were over, I thought constantly, possibly incessantly, about what would happen if they died. As they have gotten older I have found myself thinking less about their deaths and more about my own.

When I was pregnant with my first child I remember telling a friend that for me one of the hardest parts of the experience was that I was fully giving in to the circle of life. I had created a life, which meant I had once been created, which meant that one day I would cease to be.

Sometimes in the middle of explaining something to my children or teaching them a skill the thought hits me, I am teaching them this because I am preparing them for the day when I’m no longer around.

But I am still not sure that I fully believe it. I’m not sure that I believe I will ever be able to separate enough from them to leave them alone on this Earth. As horrible as it is, when I hear a story about a severely depressed or mentally ill mother who kills her child and herself, I understand it on a deep level. If it is too difficult to be in this world, how much more difficult would it be to leave a child alone in it?

As I pack my baby boy for camp, as I prepare him to test the inevitable waters and spend a few days in a strange place that does not include me, I think of my friend and another friend who lost his mother last year. Both of these men are the youngest sons of large families. Both born in unusual and difficult circumstances to strong mothers who probably weren’t entirely planning on their arrival. But their mothers adored these amazing, brilliant, talented men and how well deserved that adoration was.

Both mothers were unusually strong women and had unusually strong faith. They left their sons convinced that it was only a temporary situation, that they would be together again one day. Their mothers left them in a world knowing that they were accomplished and skilled, well loved and well situated to survive the loss.

But still, in my mothers’ heart I know, leaving these grown men, their babies was not something they ever thought they could do.

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Yes, My Kids Go to Camp

There are two categories of online mommy shaming. One consists of  the articles and comments about how mothers do not do enough for their children. They are not careful enough, do not feed organic enough food, do not breast feed long enough, watch the children closely enough, do not provide enough enrichment.

In the second category, the one I feel like I see more often, are articles about how we are all doing too much for our kids. We are watching them too closely, hovering and helicoptering, giving out too many awards, not letting them play with machetes as children in the Amazon do, caring too much instead of sitting around drinking martinis and smoking, as our parents supposedly did.

Lately an article from this second category has been showing up on my Facebook feed a lot. It’s called Ten Ways to Give Your Child a 1970s Summer. It’s pretty mild as the mommy shaming goes. But it’s been bugging me, in large part because I was a child in the 1970s, and that was not my summer.

My summer, like my kids’ summer was spent primarily at camp, first day camp, then sleep away camp. Why? Because I, like my mother before me, work for a living. The funny thing about this piece is that I know all the things she’s talking about, I too built forts and played Simon (although a quick Google check will tell you it was invented in 1978, so the author and I probably remember it primarily from the 1980s) and watched a lot of TV.

But, I went to camp most of the day, every day, most of the summer.  There weren’t a lot of different options for camp, and I hated most of them. But I went to camp. In fact, so did a lot of the people I see re-posting this. I know, because some of them went to camp with me. We did not do these things all day every day, we did them part of the day some days. We remember them because it was different than our routine, but we did have a routine.

Today, my son did not want to go to camp. He went with his dad and sister to get a donut and drop off his sister, who did want to go to camp. He played Wii and iPad while I worked. He walked with me to the drugstore. I took him to the comic book store to buy some baseball  and Pokemon cards. We went out to lunch, then his friend came over and they played Wii. They watched the World Cup, they played soccer outside. It was a lovely day, I hope one day he remembers it fondly.

But the day before he went to an insanely expensive day camp. It’s an amazing place with options and opportunities galore. He played soccer there, too, with older kids he didn’t know. He also baked bread and made stop action animation videos. Then, he went to his Little League game. On Sunday he leaves for sleep away camp and a whole new set of experiences.

Today was lovely, but if that’s all that my son did every day, it would quit being lovely. I get the idea that parents are tired of feeling like they have to measure up to a parenting ideal and be involved in every second of their children’s lives. I don’t like the guilt that gets passed out to parents. But it’s no less noxious to hand out a false notion of “the good old days” and make parents feel that trying to do something different for their children, or trying to earn money with which to clothe and house their children, is somehow cheating their kids out of a “real summer.” Honestly, the “good old days” were not that good. Think of how many screwed up adults you know over the age of 40, they grew up in the 1970s eating that damned pineapple upside down cake the author is so fond of.

Here, summer break lasts two months and two months is a long time. There is time for lazy days full of TV and fort building. There’s time for Mommy to drink a beer while her children catch fireflies (if fireflies still existed). There’s also time for summer camp.

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Love and Loss, Part Two

bunny stuffyThe Fall that my daughter was five, after recovering from the flu, she lost her lovey. It was horrible. As the Fall wore on and got worse and worse in so many ways, the loss of her beloved Cow became more and more important and more and more a symbol for my struggles as a parent and her struggles to grow up.

Now ten years old, she has had her replacement Cow for about as long, if not longer, as original Cow. Sometimes though, she and I still think about Cow. This weekend my girl and I had some unexpected mother/daughter time, and even better, some unexpected mother/daughter time where she wanted to go do something. Lately my tween is more likely to want to listen to music or watch TV. Last weekend, when faced with a whole night to ourselves she wanted to invite over friends. Suddenly, movie night is better with friends than with Mommy.

But, on this beautiful Sunday, she really wanted to go to the bookstore. So we set off to walk to the bookstore, lunch, ice cream, and possible mani/pedis. In between the bookstore and the ice cream store across the street we saw the guy above resting on a concrete planter. Clearly some child had dropped him out of a stroller and a thoughtful passerby had placed him where he could be found. But it seemed as though perhaps he had been there for a while.

“Maybe we should take him home and see if we can find his owner?” I suggested.
“How would you do that?” She asked.”Well, I’d put it on Facebook and Twitter and Mom Mail and maybe someone would know the person who lost it.”

She agreed, and we decided that if he was still waiting when we were done with our ice cream, we’d take him home. After ice cream we decided to cross the street for nails, but the wait was too long. It was my daughter who reminded me to cross back over and see if the bunny was still there. He was and we scooped him in to our bag, setting off for home holding hands. On the way home my daughter wondered what we would do if no one claimed him and came up with the idea of taking him to the library, since they have a display case of lost and found items.

While my son will tell me everything he is thinking and feeling in exquisite and excuciating detail, my daughter is quiet. I am never 100% sure what she is thinking or feeling and I am sometimes a little nervous about raising upsetting topics with her. If she is not thinking about something sad, do I want to be the one to put it on the table, to start the tears? So it was with some trepidation that after a few minutes of quiet walking and hand holding I asked, “Is this making you think of Cow, do you wish someone had done this for you?”

“Yes,” she answered quietly. “Me, too” I said.

When we got home, she turned on “Austin and Ally” and I went upstairs to start finding the rightful owner of Bunny. I posted the bunny on Facebook and Twitter and within minutes discovered that in fact, someone had put a missing notice on MomMail for him. In her message she said that this bunny, lost in the exact location where we found him, had been with them “since birth.” I eagerly replied and sent a photo, my mind filled with images of my daughter returning this beloved stuffie to a five year old girl. The cycle becoming complete, her hard-learned lessons about love and loss tempered after all these years with lessons about love and return and the generosity of strangers.

My first inkling that the story did not quite have the happy ending I was anticipating was when the mother wrote me back an hour later saying she wasn’t sure if this was hers, because hers was pink and had a pacifier attached. It is irrational, but her potential denial of this bunny made me angry. Did she not know what a stroke of luck she had been given? I have no doubt that if Cow turned up now, five years later, ripped to shreds and stained a different color from dirt, I would still recognize him and instantly claim him.

I assured her that on close inspection you could see the bunny had once been pink. I asked if she could pick him up today, before five so that my daughter could have a chance to return the bunny to its owner before leaving for a sleepover. It took several hours for her to write me back. In the meantime, my daughter lovingly washed the bunny so that its owner would not be shocked by the filth.

When the reply came the woman explained that Bunny belonged to her six-month-old baby who was happily cuddling the backup Bunny, that mainly, she was the one who wanted it for sentimental reasons, and could she come some time this week.

It is Tuesday, and Bunny is still keeping me company at my desk. In her emails this woman was sweet and kind and full of gratitude, but still part of me, the part of me that was angered by her initial doubt about Bunny, is disappointed with this loving mother. I know that some of my disappointment is my own ridiculousness. My own bizarre and unhealthy desire to still, five years later, find a way of fixing my daughter’s loss. Although in some ways small, my daughter’s loss of Cow was real and like all true loss, is is unfixable.

But part of it is me wanting to reach out to this mother, to warn her that five or ten years from now, when she has had a chance to see how quickly daughters change, how quickly we lose their childhood, she will be angry at herself for waiting even two hours to reclaim even a tiny, stained piece of it.

UPDATE: The mother and her perfect, pink bundle of a baby girl came by tonight (Wednesday) to claim the bunny. My daughter was excited and happy to be able to give the bunny back. The mother was genuinely grateful, she brought my daughter a box of pink Peeps (pink bunnies for a pink bunny) and wrote us a lovely thank-you note. So, we did get our happy ending after all.

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What Is Private

When I was a child we did not know our teachers’ first names. A better part of the school year was spent trying to find out your teacher’s name and other personal information. If you came up with intel about a teacher’s family you could count on good lunch trades for at least a week. My kids know the first names of all of their teachers, they don’t call them by their names, but they know them. They’ve met the husbands and children of several teachers.

Part of the difference is that I live in a smaller community than I did growing up. My son’s baseball team plays his teacher’s son’s baseball team. Of course he knows his teacher has a son his age. Their art teacher lives behind us. Part of it I think is that teachers and parents are more involved with each other. If you’re going to assign homework to very young children, you become part of their family time, and need to interact with their parents. Part of it is of course, the Internet. Our school has a website, all the teachers are listed first name and last name.

But I think part of it is simply a changing notion of what privacy for a teacher is. When my daughter’s second grade teacher got married, she allowed a parent to plan a bridal shower for her during a class party. When my son’s kindergarten teacher got married, her fiancé came in and brought pizza for the class. Last week, my daughter’s fourth grade teacher not only announced her engagement, she displayed her ring to the kids.

In our little town we’ve had two cases where the public and private lives of educators have become mixed with painful results. In one case, a popular school principal had his contract “not renewed” perhaps in part because of things he said on Twitter. No one knows for sure if that’s the reason, because although the principal helped launch a very public campaign to keep his job, the school board can not reveal private personnel issues.

In another school, a kindergarten teacher not only shared the news of her pregnancy, she also shared the ultrasound and the news that the father was a fourth grade teacher at the school, apparently, the school community already knew he was married to someone else. The kindergarten teacher was fired, her partner placed on leave.

When I first heard the story I assumed she had been fired for sharing the ultrasound with her class. I thought  sharing an ultrasound with a kindergarten class was a horrible mix of the private and public. I thought it showed such bad judgement that it was probably something worth being fired over. But, I wasn’t sure.

I have a friend who is a kindergarten teacher and writes a great blog for early childhood educators (Look at My Happy Rainbow). Matt and I are about the same age. When he got married recently he did not mention to his class that he was engaged or planning a wedding. I asked Matt to ask his readers what they thought of sharing an ultrasound photo with a kindergarten class. We were both surprised to see that a lot of kindergarten teachers had already done so, and even more thought there was nothing weird or overly private about it. “They can see your pregnant,” said one as though being able to see that someone is pregnant is the same as seeing their medical information.

There is a generation of teachers who does not believe that an ultrasound is private information.

There are people who think that it’s wrong to discuss the fired teacher, her partner and their affair. They believe that publicly discussing the situation prevents the teachers from moving on and getting a chance to start fresh at a new school.

I get their point, but I think that it’s better for these discussions to happen in the open. It’s unreasonable to think that two teachers having an affair isn’t going to be talked about, and if I were one of the teachers I’d rather people do so honestly and openly. Personally, I’ve been very happy to see that no one I’ve heard talking about it is out shopping for scarlet cloth from which to make a letter A. People seem to be able to separate a teacher’s love life from his teaching ability. That gives me faith in my community.

Because the affair was discussed publicly, I learned the disturbing news of the uneven treatment of the teachers. How is it that one teacher (female) is fired and the other (male) placed on leave? Shouldn’t that tidbit be discussed? Shouldn’t parents in the school district want an answer to that question? Mainly though I think there’s a huge disconnect between showing a photograph of the inside of your body to five year olds and then asking people not to discuss it.

I like that my kids recognize their teachers as people. I don’t mind that they’ve met their families and played with their babies. I don’t mind that they’ve shared in their happy news about weddings (although I would prefer that the teachers not glorify weddings with in-class bridal showers and ring displays, but that’s not really a privacy issue).

I do not want to go back to a time when teachers were not allowed to have or exhibit their private lives. I think when people say, “I don’t care what consenting adults do but they should keep it to themselves” that’s usually a lie. Usually it means, “I don’t want to see gay people kiss.” Usually it means, “If I don’t approve of your sex life I don’t want to hear about it.” I do not want teachers gay, straight, married, or single to go back in to the closet about their lives.

But today I briefly looked at a middle school behavior handbook. There was passage on sexting. Middle schoolers are being warned about the dangers of sexting. Clearly, issues of privacy are central to our children’s lives. It can not be good that there is an entire generation of teachers who do not think of an ultrasound as private information.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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