Black Cat Addicted

Black Cat Addicted

A Found Conversation in Three Parts with Greek Chorus

Part I: Craving

Narrator: 88,000 deaths a year are attributed to excessive alcohol use.

Wife: Don’t understand why you insist on ways of living such a dangerous life.

Husband: I grew, day by day, more moody, more irritable, more regardless of the feelings of others.

Wife: Time after time you stay away. And I just know that you’re telling me lies.

Husband: My disease grew upon me…the fury of a demon instantly possessed me. I knew myself no longer.

Narrator: The alcoholic is frequently in the grip of a powerful craving for alcohol, a need that feels as strong as the need for food and water.

Wife: Black cat, nine lives, short days, long nights. Living on the edge. Not afraid to die.

Chorus:

The cars are crashed

The friends are lost

The case of beer is all that matters

Your next fix around the corner

Part II: Loss of Control

Narrator: Up to 40% of all hospital beds in the U.S. are being used to treat health conditions that are related to alcohol consumption.

Husband: My original self seemed to take its flight from my body…

Wife: Scheming, planning lies to get what you need…

Husband: Have we not a perpetual inclination, to the teeth of our best judgment, to violate that which is Law?

Wife: So full of promises you never keep. Better watch your step or you’re gonna die.

Husband: I could not rid myself of the phantasm of the cat. I longed to destroy it with a blow. The creature left me not a moment alone.

Wife: Black cat, nine lives, short days, long nights. Living on the edge. Not afraid to die.

Narrator: Alcohol abuse is the third leading cause of death in the U.S.

Chorus:

The children are gone

The job is, too

Arrests, court dates, jail time

This is what life is now

Part III: Physical Dependency & Tolerance

Narrator: Excessive alcohol consumption increases aggression, increasing the risk of physically assaulting another person.

Husband: Beneath the pressure of torments, the feeble remnant of the good within me succumbed.

Wife: Don’t you tell yourself that it’s okay.

Husband: My usual temper increased to hatred of all things and all mankind.

Wife: Sick and tired of all your games.

Husband: An Incarnate Night-Mare that I had no power to shake off.

Wife: Better watch your step, or you’re gonna die.

Husband: My wife, the most patient of sufferers…

Wife: Black cat, nine lives, short days, long nights. Better watch your step, or you’re gonna die.

Husband: …incumbent eternally upon my heart.

Narrator: The majority of alcoholics need outside assistance to recover from their disease.

Chorus:

Accidents and suicide attempts

Beat within an inch of life

Abandoned by family, homeless

Self-pitied and proud, endless

How does the Black Cat survive?

The nine lives will deplete someday

The losses, the sorrow, the waste…

Too late? Is it too late?

Sources:

“Black Cat” by Janet Jackson (song)

“Black Cat” by Edgar Allen Poe (short story)

Center of Disease Control
National Center for Alcoholism and Drug Dependencey

No Protection

No Protection

He stands in front of the shiny black wall, polished high and long and filled with over 50,000 etched names. He stands and stares and I pray that somehow I will know what he knows and see what he sees. That somehow I can make sense of this.

But I know that is barely possible.  Not now. Not at this age.

*

My father served our country in Vietnam. He was a poor white boy, working as a mechanic, no college deferment, and in good health.

In other words, dispensable.

He was in Vietnam from early 1966 until mid-summer 1967.  Some would say he didn’t see the worst of it.  But what is the worst? He wrote letters to his mother assuring her that he was working the radio in the office, far away from the fighting, not one of the guys on foot stumbling through the jungles, huge packs on their weary backs, entering villages to terrorize, all in the name of some elusive freedom. He was protected.  Or so he said.

My father’s name was Daniel. He grew up in a small town in Ohio, in a converted barn made into a house. Outdoor plumbing for much of his life. Chickens in a coop. A mother who doted on him and his brother David and father, a sister Karen who was like an additional arm to his mother.  My grandparents were simple people, my grandmother and Aunt Karen religious beyond reason. My grandfather a beer lover.  My Uncle David clearly in love with every hot rod in town.  He was a mechanic, too, and never got drafted.

Late in life, my parents would purchase a beautiful old farm house in the country. It had a wide front porch and was painted white with green shutters. Every room had floorboards that creaked. Part of the character, my mother would say. My father would die there with us by his side, on a sunny Sunday afternoon in June, long shadows growing on the lawn, the brain cancer finishing its job.

Caused by Agent Orange? Probably. No protection when you’re there when the planes drop the deadly gel on all the vegetation in order to flush out the enemy. The enemy that is so hard to find. The one my father Daniel searched for far from the protection of some radio office.

He was always one to try to protect us from the truth of his war – the one he fought until the day he died.  He had no use for the Vietnam Veterans Memorial.  He said he had already seen enough, and he’d prefer to forget.

Although he couldn’t.

My father was always so contained.  Unlike his cousin Ted who also served. Ted was a sniper during the war, and spent a good part of his adult life drinking himself into oblivion in his small apartment. My dad would state things simply when I asked the hard questions, like Why is war so hard to get over? Why was Uncle Ted so sad?

The response that stuck with me: “Renee, Vietnam took part of my soul. It took all of your Uncle Ted’s.” 

Where do the soul’s go?

When I was in college, I heard this statement from Jean-Paul Sartre: “When the rich wage war, it’s the poor who die.”

I thought of my dad. My uncle. The names of the men who were on a wall in Washington D.C.  Were they the poor pawns in a rich man’s game?

A wall with names of men my dad knew.  Names he never mentioned.

*

It took my dad nearly ten years after his return to get his act together and marry my mother. They met at the Veteran’s Administration where she worked the front desk. She saw Vets all day long.  But she said there was something in my dad’s eyes that caught her attention.

Maybe that piece of his soul that was still left?  The only lucky one?

They married in 1976, and I came along in 1977.

In 1980, my beloved Uncle Dave died from testicular cancer. He was just 33. I was too young to really know him, but the reaction of the family for years afterward was a testament to the love they felt. They never forgot. They brought him up constantly – how caring and beautiful and funny he was.  And it wasn’t hyperbole, from what I can tell.

My brother David, born in 1982, was named for him.

And so it goes.

My mother often said that she didn’t know which was harder on my dad: Vietnam or the loss of Dave.

It would make me cry.  And I only knew both from the stories of others.

*

My parents were good at shielding us as much as they could from the realities of what my dad suffered.  He was a victim of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, as many Vets are. He saw it as a badge of shame – that he couldn’t be man enough some how. No amount of assistance or therapy seemed to take that away.

But even with their so-called protection, we knew.  We knew when to lie silently in our rooms because dad needed the house quiet.  We knew that sometimes he heard things we didn’t hear.  We knew that even if he was “well” for a long time, anything could change at any time.

We were on high alert.

When I got to go away to college, it was a major relief.  I was also the first one in the family to attend.

A lot was riding on me.

*

It was good to get a degree, but I left college ready for marriage to a wonderful man I met there, and we started a family.  Ryan is a joy to our family, as is Emilia who followed.  My parents embraced being grandparents wholeheartedly.  Family always meant the most to them.

My father in particular seemed….better.  Maybe it was just time as a healer.

But maybe it was the growing tumor in his brain that helped balance him out some way. The headaches had been there for a long time, so he didn’t get much warning.

*

And now, three years after my father’s farewell to us, I stand with my son Ryan at the Vietnam Wall. He is a junior in high school who has set his sights on joining the military – a life choice I am not happy about.  He tells me, This isn’t the time of Vietnam and War is different now.

How? Just how his war “different”?

We stand at the wall together, and I can see him reflected in the black marble. I can see the shape of his face is exactly like my dad’s, and for a moment he is wearing the same fatigues my father wore, reflected there like a mirror.  I feel a stream of tears trickle unexpectedly down my cheek.  Will one day I look into Ryan’s eyes and see a piece missing?  Will his future children be affected by the grinding pain that never goes away, the pain of putting your life on the line, killing in order to not be killed?  Or even worse – killing from a distance, like some exotic video game? ‘

What does this do to a person, the “war that isn’t war”?

Ryan turns to me, and there is no missing piece.  Instead he, too, has tears in his eyes.  As we walk away he calmly says, “I get it, mom.”

Silver Wings -- short story

Silver Wings

Silver wings shining in the sunlight…

“It’s a great opportunity.”

“But it’s so far away.”

“Just for two years.  I’ll be back.”

“Will you?”

            They were sitting on the deck of the local microbrewery. She took a long sip of her summer ale draft, staring directly at him, not even blinking.

“Of course. How long do you think an American can actually stay in South Korea?”

“Why would an American want to go there at all?”

            With that she gathered her bag, took a final sip of beer, kissed him on the cheek.

“I’ll call you later.”

Roaring engines headed somewhere in flight…

            “So why did you call?”

            “I felt like things got left a little weird.”

            “Ha!  Really?”

            “Look, we’ve been together for a long time.  But it isn’t like we’re planning on getting married. This teaching thing is something I want to try before getting married anyway.  So I really don’t get the big deal.”

            “You’re right.  No big deal.  You should do it.”

            He clicked on the red End Call button and picked the platinum diamond ring up between his fingers and rolled it around.

They’re taking you away leaving me lonely…

            Trying to explain this to his older sister was torture. She had helped him choose the ring just last week.

            “I just don’t get it.  Why didn’t you just ask her?”

            “I wanted to.  But she was so sure, so excited. And then, well, she told me it is something to do before getting married.  Just felt I didn’t have the right.”

            “The right?”

            “To take that away.”

            “Listen – she’s an idiot to choose fuckin’ South Korea over you.  And she’s over thirty, for God’s sake.  Time to stop living the fantasy life and see what’s in front of her.”

            “She likes what she does. She wants to expand…”

            “Stop defending her already.  I don’t get it. You need to man up and set her straight.  That should help her ‘expand’.”

            The server brought their food to the table.  He changed the subject.

Silver wings slowly fading out of sight.

            The ring feels like it’s burning a hole in his pocket as they have their last dinner together.  She is leaving tomorrow.  She’s animated and slurping plenty of wine but not eating much.  She is anticipatory.  He is nervous and defeated all at once. When they kiss goodnight at her door, he tries hard to make the words come but they seem to have permanently lost their way to his mouth.

“Don’t leave me,” I cry

Don’t take that airplane ride…

That night he had a dream – several dreams, in fact.  In nearly every one of them a movie scene played out.  He runs to the airport with the ring and doesn’t even need to beg her to stay.  She knows the minute he arrives, and runs to his arms. This repeats itself over and over.  Each time he wakes slowly and comes to the desperate realization that it isn’t real.  Finally, he has a terrible dream where she’s kidnapped by North Korea and tortured, and needs him to be her savior. Wasn’t that a 30 Rock episode?  Anyway, the nightmare leaves him permanently awake. He gets up and shuffles around the apartment.  In a drawer he finds a card she gave him for his last birthday.  The cover is muted gold, bronze, and silver with geese in flight.  Not exactly the most romantic image he realized. Inside was different, however.  There she had signed it: “I will always only want you and only you.”

He stared at the words for a long time. Had that changed?  And if so, when?  She hadn’t said that to him for a long time.  It was a little endearment she had used over and over.  It marked their relationship.  “You and only you…”

            The words written in purple ink and the dreams gave him a new resolve.  Tomorrow he would try again.

But you locked me out of your mind

Left me standing here behind…

            Her flight should be leaving about now.  He’s on the airport grounds, in the cell lot, staring at the ring.  He had come there thinking he’d run into the airport and stop her, sweep her off her feet, like in the dream. Yet he sits, knowing he’s missed his chance, kicking himself for not manning up like my sister told him to do.  He

peers out the window, thinking somehow he’ll see her plane, see her waving goodbye out the window.  He jumps sky high when his phone rings.

            “There has been a slight delay, so I thought I’d give you a quick call because I don’t know when we will be able to talk again.  How are you?”

            She’s contrite, he notices, has a little give in her voice. He decides to use it to his advantage.

            “Truth?”

            “Truth.”

            “Torn up. Not sure what to do with myself. Missing you already. Wanting you to stay.”

            Silence

            He decides it’s time.  He’ll make the leap. Then run into the airport and find her.  It feels right for the first time.  But she breaks the silence before he has a chance.

            “Well, guess there isn’t much else to say.  I’m going to get going.”

            “Or you could stay and we could get married…”

            “What?”

            “You could stay…”  He hears noise, obviously a loudspeaker, in the background.  Yet, he can sense her hesitation.  Maybe sis was right.  This is the moment. She will see what is real. 

            “Hey, they’re calling my flight. I’m so nervous! I’ve gotta run. Are you going to be alright?”

            “Uh, yes.  I’ll be fine.  I’ll be just fine.”

Silver wings slowly fading out of sight.

#

Lyrics to "Silver Wings" copyright Merle Haggard

Merle and Jewel sing “Silver Wings”

The E-mail Teachers Despise

I received one yesterday.

It reads something like this:  "Reggie will be out of school all next week. Be sure he has his work today before he leaves your class."

GGGRRRRRR.

Now, if you are not a teacher you may be thinking, What's the big deal? What are teachers going to complain about now??? Well, I have a few very important "deals" to share and yes, I have a complaint loud and clear.  Before I do my venting, let me clarify that this has been a growing issue with me over the years.  My disgust with this e-mail can no longer be contained.  I really do let out a scream when I see one.

The Number One Reason I Despise This E-mail
It suggests that I, Reggie's teacher, am totally irrelevant to his education.  All I have to do is "provide the work" and wallah! Reggie can magically do it, without any prior instruction or guidance.  I am particularly grinded by the fact that very often this directive comes from other educators who I feel should know better.  After all, they of all people should understand our importance to the education of the children in our building -- right?  Why this persistent support of "sending work home" as if what we do in the classroom doesn't matter?  I can understand when parents ask -- they think they are doing a good thing keeping up with their child's education.  But in reality, it is a slap in the face to the teacher who works hard to help his or her child gain mastery.

The Number Two Reason I Despise This E-mail
It makes the assumption that education is a straight line and that every teacher has lessons planned weeks in advance, in perfect pacing and sequence, and knows exactly what will be taught next week when Reggie goes on a cruise or to a funeral or Disney World because it's the off season.  There is no understanding that teachers teach DAILY.  We are constantly adjusting our plans to make them work for the children because, surprise! we do care if they learn.  Teaching is not an exact science, as some would have you believe. It is an art.  Ask an artist what he are painting next week, or a songwriter what song she will write.  They will be hard-pressed to tell you.  Same goes for a teacher.  I have a slight idea of where we are headed, but sometimes even up until a half an hour before the kids walk through the door I am still fine-tuning the lesson and preparing last minute handouts. This is the life and reality of a teacher.  The e-mail indicates otherwise.

The Number Three Reason I Despise This E-mail
Even if I do provide work, the kid never does it.  And in this case, it is truly never.  Kids who are routinely taken out of school for said vacations and other dalliances of import soon learn that all they have to say is, "I didn't understand it."  OF COURSE you didn't understand it.  That's why I am here!  That's my job. What I am paid to do.  Degreed, tested, and licensed to be sure you understand it.  Sorry kid, it wasn't my stupid idea to hand you something you haven't been taught.  I've had to do it because the E-MAIL directed me to.  If I fail to provide you the work, I can be called unprofessional or worse.  I can be marked down on my evaluation for not communicating with your family.   So I purposely gave you work you cannot do, and now you are behind because Carnival had a family discount. I will do my level best to get you caught up now, two weeks later.

Let me share one of my early experiences with the e-mail to shed a little additional light on how I came to feel the way I do.

In my first year teaching I had a student I'll call Willie.  During the first open house before school even started, Willie's mom announced to me that he would talk all through my class -- which he did -- with her blessing.  From his constant conversation, I learned that he was treated pretty much like an adult in the family, although he was just a sixth-grader.

Well, later that school year his mom decided to marry her boyfriend, and needed Willie to give her away.  This involved taking a cruise -- couldn't just have the wedding locally even though it was in the middle of the school year.  I dutifully gave Willie all his work to do on the wedding cruise for a week.  Naturally, I saw none of it when he returned.  Soon afterward, his mother blasted me on the telephone about not giving him credit for all the work he did while away.  She said she spent hours with him in their cabin getting the work done.  I had to inform her he never turned it in. When I asked him about it, he said he had lost it.  I never heard from mom again, and a few months later I heard she was already getting divorced.

I was not surprised.

My final word on this: if the kid has to be out of school for something important, then train the child to do what it takes to catch up when he or she returns. Do not put the teacher through the gyrations of putting together work that isn't even going to be done, just to make it look good.  This teaches absolutely nothing about responsibility and actually trains the kid not to care about the work.  It will really save everyone a lot of aggravation, and will acknowledge the fact that teachers actually perform a service in the classroom -- one that can only be accessed by being there.

I Have Observed I'm Ready to Start Blogging Again

Looks like I'm back from my blogging hiatus.  School has begun in earnest and tons of time and energy is going in that direction. Yet, I felt the need to check in here.

This year I am teaching purely 7th grade. This is a big change -- the last time I taught one grade level was the 2009-10 school year.  I have intensive readers and I have got to say, I am loving it.  

In the classroom we have been spending a lot of time setting up our reader and writer's notebooks.  The writer's notebooks are decorated and covered with contact paper. The students have taken complete ownership, from my observation.

And that is what this blog is about -- observation.  This summer I taught myself to slow down and pay attention, and I'm glad to say that I am remembering what I learned this summer and am continuing to apply it.

My return to writing started today when I was driving to a yoga class. I began to make mental notes on things I observed, and then wrote them down as soon as I got to my destination.

Driving to Yoga Class Labor Day 2014

The town is quiet

A dusty white pony dips his head to graze at the fence by the side of the road

Dry palm fronds sway slightly as they lean over in the late summer heat

"God bless the broken road" plays on country radio

Royal palm tree trunks create shadow stripes along MacGregor Boulevard

I miss my turn-off to my usual parking lot

The road I'm on has a farmers stand with a sign that says "Georgia Peaches"

I realize I have found a better place to park

A shady spot

The mid-morning air hangs heavy

Now some gentle movements

For balance, clarity,

And even deeper awareness

*

This is the kind of thing I started training my students to do last Friday.

I started by asking them to make observations of the classroom, and then observation of themselves. We then proceeded into a listening observation. Each time they were expected to write specific things about what they saw and heard. The listening exercise included me playing my Tibetan singing bowl. One class got into an extended conversation afterward about lucid dreams and deja vu, all brought to mind by the sound of the bowl. It so happened that by 7th period my principal was in observing my class, and she loved it, too.

Then we moved to the poem "Observer" by Naomi Shahib Nye. This poem is about observing the world. 

I watch how others things travel
to get an idea how I might move.
A cloud sweeps by silently,
gathering other clouds.
A doodlebug curls in his effort to get there.
A horse snorts before stepping forward.
A caterpillar inches across the kitchen floor.
When I carry him outside on a leaf,
I imagine someone doing that to me.
Would I scream?

In the heart of the day
nothing moves.
No one is going anywhere
or coming back.
The blue glass on the table
lets light pass through.
Something shines
but nothing moves.
I watch that too.

We picked it apart a bit as we sat in our gathering place for the lesson, and then I sent them back to their seats to think about creatures and things from nature they have observed-- how a pet snake moves, what a butterfly does, how a tree moves in the wind. During fifth period we had some tech support people come in to fix up something on the smart board. I told the students to observe them and make some notes about what they were doing. 

I think the word for how I've been operating is "emergent."  

Finally, we got to the Marty Stuart song, "Observations of a Crow."  

We listened to the song and followed along with the lyrics. Miracle upon miracle, I did not have one complaint about it being "country."  In fact, my one student, who can do a mean moonwalk, was nearly dancing along as he sang.  We talked about all the things the crow was observing, and that in his dialogue the crow made up some words. They then had to write from the perspective of the creature or a thing--what does that creature or thing observe about the human world? What does it see as it goes through its day?  They were advised to write in first person to make this come alive.

It was a relaxing and easy lesson, and got them writing and collecting ideas in their Writers Notebooks.  The students aren't writing as specifically as they need to, but we have a beginning, a foundation to get us started.  We'll see what emerges from here.

The Sounds of Silence at Shiloh

I fell in love with Herman Melville's poem "Shiloh: A Requiem" the second year I was teaching American literature.  I remember a wonderful discussion with my students about how the sounds created in the poem -- the repetition of f's and sh -- caused the poem to sound like one big "hush."  It was only because of the poem that I wanted to visit the Shiloh Battlefield, which lies between Memphis and Nashville.  I am not ordinarily one for visiting Civil War sites, but this one had my attention.  More than 23,000 soldiers were killed in a very short battle here in April 1862. 

This past year I discovered a story in the 8th grade textbook written by Ray Bradbury called, "The Drummer Boy of Shiloh."  

The story is short and quite intense, and includes the detail of the peach tree blossoms falling such that they looked like snow.  The peach trees were no longer present at the site, but the area was designated.  The story intensified my interest.

While there we learned about the Hornets Nest -- a battle in the woods where the bullets were so loud they sounded like hornets.  And the Bloody Pond, where both sides came to clean their wounds and quest their thirst.  The grounds are beautiful, but the loss of life on this battlefield is beyond the imagination.

Being at Shiloh is like one big hush.  The best I have to offer are pictures and Melville's beautiful words, which I read out loud on the church property while we were there.

Shiloh: A Requiem

by Herman Melville

Skimming lightly, wheeling still,

The swallows fly low

Over the field in clouded days,

the forest-field of Shiloh --

Over the field where April rain

Solaced the parched ones stretched in pain

Through the pause of night

That followed the Sunday fight

Around the church of Shiloh --

The church so lone, the log-built one,

That echoed to many a parting groan

And natural prayer

of dying foeman mingled there --

Foemen at morn, but friends at eve --

Fame or country least their care:

(What like a bullet can undeceive!)

But now they lie low,

While over them the swallows skim,

And all is hushed at Shiloh.

17,000 Books and a Bunch of Goats

I was not even aware of Carl Sandburg's home being in North Carolina until it was suggested as a destination for our day together with my cousin Doreen and her husband David.  The home is on a huge property in Flat Rock, North Carolina, tucked within the hills and simply stunning in its beauty.  

We arrived at "Connemara" around 2 p.m. and had to walk a mighty steep hill to get to the large white house, which overlooked a large pond.

Pondside

View from below

View from the house

One of the most interesting facts about this home, and the thing that makes it so fascinating, is that shortly after Sandburg died in 1967, his wife and daughters sold it to the United States as a historic site, taking only their personal effects with them.  Inside the home are the 17,000 books he owned, his record collection, and every stitch of furniture.  Below is a photo from his wife's office with the calendar still set at July 1967, the month he died.  His guitar is pictured below that, with a bust of a young Abraham Lincoln.  Sandberg did not just write poetry, but is known for his several volume biography of Lincoln, as well as fiction writing.

As the story goes, Sandburg and his wife lived in Michigan. But in the 1940's, they decided to move somewhere else because his wife Paula was deep into raising goats, and she wanted an environment more conducive to her goat-raising and breeding activities.  Carl could work anywhere, so they picked up and moved, taking every one of the 17,000 books with them.

The picture below is Sandberg's writing room. He propped his typewriter on an orange crate because he said, "If Grant could run his campaign from an orange crate, I can write about it on one."  His advise to writer, which we heard him say on an introductory video is "Just put one word down after another.  It is when you try to do two or three at a time that it gets difficult."

His wife's bedroom.  Doreen reflected in the mirror

Pathway to the goat barn

The house itself has a wonderful layout, and the grounds include gardens, a caretakers house, and several out buildings and barns.  There are many hiking trails which are definitely used, as we saw many people on the trails, even on a hot and sticky Carolina day.

Sandburg had a rock outcropping he often sat on to write.  That was probably my favorite place. 

 "It is necessary now and then for a man to go away by himself and experience loneliness; to sit on a rock in the forest and ask of himself, 'Who am I, and where have I been, and where am I going?'...If one is not careful, one allows diversions to take up one's time -- the stuff of life."

Doreen giving perspective to the outcropping

An inspiring day