Identity Crisis

–Not one of those

when you look in the mirror

and see your mother looking back,

No.

It’s when you look in the mirror

and don’t recognize that person

at all.

This is not the person I grew up with

When My four year-old says,

“Mommy, I don’t like your hair.

I miss your Rapunzel hair.

When will it grow back?

My wedding dress,

My claddagh ring,

my favorite shirt,

my underwear

are all way to big

to even be passable as baggy.

My cheeks aren’t full like a 20 year-old’s

but sunk-in like a 60 year-old with botox.

“Mommy when are your scars going to go away?”

“These don’t go away.

They were made by a doctor’s knife.”

I’m healthy.

I’m tired.

I’m recovering.

I’m cancer-free.

But who the hell is that in the mirror?

Some thoughts about immigration

I have taught about the Immigration Period in America for several years now. I know what the push and pull factors are as to why people immigrate, and I know the various stages that they and their later generations experience after immigration. In fact, I have not only taught this, I have researched this. Last month, however, was the beginning of my first-hand experience. I mean I lived in Thailand before, but it was temporary, and I was only responsible for myself. This is a HUGE jump from that.

Exactly one hundred years ago, from the same month I immigrated, my then seventeen year-old Great-grandmother and her mother boarded the Kaiser Wilhelm der Grosse with a hundreds of other Bohemians fleeing ethnic cleansing, and took the14 day trip from Bremen, Germany to Ellis Island. She moved to Cleveland because her step-father was here, as was a very large Slovak-Catholic community. She knew eight languages, but English wasn’t one of them. One-hundred years later, I boarded a plane with my two very young daughters, and flew 26 hours to Bangkok and then moved on to Khon Kaen, because I had a teaching position at a university waiting, and friends all around –even in the same city.

I find it so interesting what Americans think of immigration, and how they truly don’t understand it. I find it interesting that they get mad that immigrants are there, that they don’t speak English, that they “take our jobs” (that one always makes me laugh), that they aren’t Christian, and that they wear their clothes and eat their food. I think so many forget that they are products of immigrants.

I had always read that immigrants are the brave risk-takers. That is who almost all of us are descendants of –brave risk-takers. What happened to that? When did we not become accepting of that, and why? It’s not easy to learn another language. Most second generation and third generations Americans don’t know more than one language. Studying 2 years in high school doesn’t count, because you don’t use it daily; you don’t dream in it; it’s not the same.

I picked Thailand because I used to be fluent in Thai. Notice, I said “used to be.” I used to have entire 3-day workshops, in Thai. But after ten years, I find myself asking students, “What the word for ‘see’ again?” No one here gets mad or frustrated with me when I can’t speak Thai. No one says, “Wait, you live and work here, why don’t you speak Thai?” In fact, if I say “hello” or some other phrase, I get praised for what I know. When I taught in America, a lot of my students, who were studying English full-time, would get bothered and harassed for not knowing English.

As far as taking jobs, I can guarantee that no Mexican fruit picker, no Chinese scientist and no Indian doctor is taking any jobs from any Americans. In fact, in the professional world, they have to jump through hoops to have the privilege of working in the U.S. On the other hand, in Asia, being a native-speaker, almost assures you of a teaching position. I don’t know any Americans who come to Asia to be doctors, scientist, or manual laborers. If they did, they would probably get that position easily too. Accountants –maybe not.

Which leads me to an even bigger point.  So many Americans want to put these big walls up.  Place military and police around our borders to stop people from coming in, and yet, they have become blind to people who are leaving.  Foreigners know about the “brain drain.”  I had never heard of it.  I thought I had this brilliant idea on how to take care of my family.  Turns out, 16 of my friends had this idea first.  They are all teachers.

So why are so many teachers fleeing to Asia and the Middle-East for jobs? Well, you can live on what you make. As a single mother, and as a highly-evaluated teacher with 20 years experience, I still qualified for government assistance. It’s understood that teachers certainly don’t get into to the field for the money. They don’t expect to drive BMWs, or eat steak everyday. They do expect, and should expect to be able to feed their families and own a car. They shouldn’t have to make a choice between paying for that used car or buying groceries. I’ve had friends with higher qualifications than me, working part time so they could stay in the system, because if they got out of the system, they would have to make those choices. When you need daycare until a child is 12, and 50% of your income goes to that, how do you survive? By the way, contrary to popular belief, it is most often not the single mother’s fault she is a single mother. She is the responsible one trying to take care of her kids and doing what she has to do. Just a reminder there.

But also, in the rest of the world, teachers are highly-respected. I don’t know how or when teachers became the bad guys in America in the past few decades, and specifically in the past year, but that alone is not worth the very little pay you receive. Yes, there are bad teachers. There are bad EVERYTHING. People often forget that. There are bad doctors, engineers, mothers, politicians. There are amazing teachers too. If you close your eyes right now, you can think of that one teacher who just really changed your life. Maybe they showed you something you didn’t think was possible, maybe they explained things in a way you could finally understand, maybe the prompted an epiphany, maybe they inspired you to do something you hadn’t even thought of. You know right now who that teacher is. In fact, you might have more than one. What other profession has that effect on people –that is why the rest of the world respects them so much, as they would their own parents. Oh, wait, we have a problem with that too. Ahh, now I see the connection.

But as for immigrants not “Becoming American,” eating our food, dressing the same, and all of that, many first-generations do. And to a much greater extent than an American would. If I want to find an American here, all I have to do is go to the nearest KFC. They are the ones who ordered mashed potatoes with their chicken. I won’t find them at the corner noodle stand. If I go to their house, I might find soy sauce, but probably not fish sauce. Their eggs will be in the refrigerator with the bread, and the rice cooker will be put away in a cupboard to be used once in a while. (I say this because in Asia, people leave their eggs out, they don’t often eat bread, and the rice cooker is always out and on). And yet the host country residents are usually very interested in what we are eating, how we made it, and can they try.

Nor will I find foreigners wearing silk on Tuesday, denim on Friday, or padded bras on any day. Children will wear uniforms, but foreign children are not expected to have uniform hair cuts like the nationals. In fact, there are a lot of “rules” we just don’t have to follow. There are other “rules” we have to be constantly aware of, so I guess it balances out.

And then Christmas comes around, and you think, “What do you mean I have to work on Christmas?” Christmas is not a holiday in a Buddhist country, just like Eid and Chinese New Years are not holidays in our country. It was a process for our forefathers to create our holidays, and an even bigger process for our mass media outlets to blow them completely out of proportion. America is made up of Eastern Europeans, who, as a culture, think 3 Kings Day is just as important as Christmas, and people from the UK who like Boxing day even more than Christmas. How did those two days get left out? And then when you think that there are more Irish in America than in Ireland, why do they not know that Saint Patrick’s day is quiet saints day that involves going to church and having dinner with your family, not drinking green beer at 5am?

I think the biggest difference is communication. Yes, the world is becoming more globalized and therefore much smaller. But also, with the internet, skype, and cell phones, we can talk to our loved ones anytime. There are no letters that take weeks anymore, there are no final good-byes. My great-grandmother got to go back and visit her home village 62 years after she immigrated. Who was even left? The whole world is becoming Western. Maybe it’s not so bad to try to hold on to your culture a bit before the KFCs take over the world. And maybe it’s not so bad if I try to have the most American house in Khon Kaen.

Turning the Corner

Just one street away

are the biggest,

most expensive,

most extravagant

houses in the city.

 

Just one street away

every house has at least two cars,

every refrigerator is filled with food,

every bed has soft sheets,

every closet has clothes bought for and by

the person who wears them.

 

Just one street away,

couples are out to dinner,

children are at soccer practice or dance class,

teenagers are buying trendy trivialities

because it’s their past time.

 

Just one street away,

yards are filled with toys and climbers

that could put a city park to shame,

but you never see the children on them,

because they are at their soccer practices or dance classes.

 

Just one street away,

families are coming home from vacation,

families are going on vacation;

no one worries if they have enough gas

to get to the grocery store.

 

Just one street away,

someone has a doctor’s appointment,

someone has a dentist’s appointment,

and everyone has perfect teeth.

 

Just one street away,

a mother goes to a cafe for a little “me time”

because she has enough money in her pocket

for a cup of coffee.

 

 

On my street,

a father gets laid-off

while his wife is pregnant with their second child

because all of the factories

are stopping their second and third shifts.

The mother will get no ice-cream in the middle of the night,

no flowers in the hospital

or even the chance to buy an outfit or a toy for the new baby

–to which everyone comforts her by saying,

“It’s ok, the baby won’t notice or understand.”

 

On my street,

Dinner table discussions revolve around

how to make a box of cereal, some milk, three eggs, two potatoes

and a zucchini last four more days until the food stamps kick in again,

or what they should spend their last seven dollars on

since they need dish soap, toilet paper, gas for the car and shampoo

–don’t even think about light bulbs or batteries for the smoke detector until payday.

 

On my street,

the utility companies come around and turn off

everyone who’s even a little late,

because if they have to come out for one or two,

it’s just more efficient that way;

and then many go without electricity for days

until they can pay twice the bill (on payday)

to get it turned back on,

in the meantime trying to salvage food in a cooler,

and taking the kids to the library

because it’s either air-conditioned or heated

—depending on the season

–and it’s free.

 

On my street, many people have degrees,

but they have to dumb-down their resumes

because they are often over-qualified for available jobs,

and they have learned to lie about already having insurance,

because employers don’t want to pay for that,

but even if they do have insurance,

they can’t afford to use it.

 

On my street, mothers walk their children

in second-hand strollers,

wearing second hand clothes,

suffering from a broken tooth they can’t fix

because the check engine light has been on in the car

for three months,

and they don’t have the money to get it fixed,

and they watch the other mothers

sipping lattes in the cafes

remembering when that was them once,

and holding on to the hope

that maybe one day

they can have the money in their pocket again

for a cup of coffee.

Caller ID

I know who you are.

I know what you’re calling for.

I won’t answer the phone.

because I got nothin’.

You want money?

Get in line.

My pockets are empty

until the 15th

and most of that is already accounted for.

 

Yes, I know you’d like

your paper edited today

because you just finished it

and it’s due tomorrow morning,

But I have a lot of stuff to grade

you know, for work.

My friend needs a resume,

My editor keeps calling

Oh and these two little girls

who are always running around me?

They need my attention once in a while.

You want my mind?

Get in line

But for now,

I think it needs

a worry-free vacation

–it’s never had one.

 

I know who you are

and I know why you’re calling.

I’m not answering

because I”m tired of explaining to you

–and the others

that the cancer

and my psychopathic ex

sucked every sexual impulse

out of me.

You want my body?

Get in line.

If I ever get the slightest inclination back,

I might call you.

 

I know you prayed for me

while I was sick

It was important to you

and I appreciate it so much.

In fact, it probably worked

but I don’t think I need

organized religion –again.

I’m not anti-God

I’m just anti-pigeon-holing.

My spirit is a little freer than that.

You want my soul?

Get in line.

But I gotta tell you,

I”m all tapped out.

My Life Sentence…

About a week ago, I was handed a life sentence.  Not a death sentence, I’m not going to die.  But I do have a prison, my body, that will forever change me.  I got diagnosed with cancer.  I’m 41, and my health has been my primary focus for most of my life.  I was a vegetarian for 14 years, a vegan for most of that.  I read labels religiously, nothing processed, no chemicals, no fast food –for 11 years, no soda for as long, I’m a yoga/qi gong instructor, I take my vitamins, and all I keep thinking is why was I so obsessive about all this?  It didn’t matter.  The doctors kept telling me it wasn’t my fault, but really, it doesn’t make you feel any better about it.

 

I was sick for like the whole month of August. –sick enough to ask Osa to come help me take care of the girls, and he did.  And then I got better.  I thought I was fine.  Then I found a lump on my neck below my right ear.  At first, it was like a little marble that rolled around, but in a week it quickly grew to the size of a teaspoon.  I went to the doctor and he sent me for a CATscan.  He thought it might be an infected lymph node and sent me an ENT specialist who did a biopsy right in his office.  All of these tests seemed inconclusive enough, that he wanted to do what’s called an open biopsy.  By this time another little marble lump had appeared more to the back of my neck.

 

The morning of the out-patient, 30 minute, open biopsy, I couldn’t find the little one again.  My surgeon didn’t want to leave a big scar on my neck, but he said he just didn’t have a good feeling about it all, and wanted to do the big lump.  Well, it turned into a four-hour surgery removing four tumors and a tonsil.  Yes, I’m probably the only person in the world with one tonsil.  They were all cancerous.  I have about a 3-inch scar on my neck with no stitches, it was all cauterized.

 

It took me a while to recover from that surgery.  My throat and mouth hurt a lot, but I could talk mostly.  It hurt to eat or swallow anything for about 8 days.  Then I could at least eat soft things, baby food, popsicles, ice cream.  My mom made me really good baby food –especially the mashed spaghetti!

 

It’s been 12 days since the surgery and 10 days since the sentence.  Today I ate soft vegetables and tofu, and pancakes for breakfast, so swallowing is almost restored, though I’m still on pain-killers.  But food feels good.

 

Friday, I went for a PETscan and another CTscan to see if there is anymore cancer or tumors in me.  There could possibly be another surgery if they find more tumors, but my surgeon is pretty confident that he removed everything that “looked suspicious,” as he said.  I had to lay still and not move for about 2 hours, and the technicians told me to think about my “happy place.”  All I could think of was cuddling on the couch with Rumi and Raine.  That really told me a lot.

 

Monday is the big day.  I have my set-up for my radiation and chemo therapies and I find out about the results of the PETscan.  They will make a mask for my face to protect it from the radiation, and I will be told everything to expect.  I will have to go everyday for 7 weeks, but other than that, I don’t really know the process yet.  If all goes well, it should start the week before or the week of Thanksgiving.

 

Before any of this can start, I have to go to the dentist because if I have any cavities or bad teeth they have to be taken care of before the radiation starts.  But I couldn’t go to the dentist until I could open my mouth, so that appointment is Monday also.

 

The things I do know about the future, the real sentence so to speak is, I will lose my hair—probably right in time for Christmas.  I will have dry mouth for the rest of my life because radiation will affect my salivary glands.  BUT, by doing all this, this type of cancer should never return, and I can see my little girls grow up.

Toys

Halfway home from work, I looked at the clock in my car.  It screamed “4:45!”  I was never going to make in time.  Was he going to be pissed?  Maybe he wouldn’t even wait.  Fuck!  I tried to get out of the office faster, but all these new employees decided that was the time to bombard me with questions.

“I really have to go!”  I finally told them.  “I have an important appointment.”  To which they all apologized as I literally ran out the door.  Of course I wasn’t going to tell them it was an appointment with “Jack.”  But then I never divulged my social life outside at work.  That only caused problems.  You tell them one bad thing, and it’s the only thing people remember, and then dwell on.  Anyway, Jack was different.  He held on to his own mysteries and only divulged small pieces of them like little pieces of chocolate that I was always honored to receive.

He was a writer.  So amazing with words.  And even though I’m well-read, and well-educated, Jack would often use words I would have to look up when he wasn’t looking.  He always picked the most precise words.  I loved waking up to his little gift of words to start my morning, and talking to all hours of the night.  Even on a work night, I didn’t want to stop or tell him I should sleep.

My job was so full of pressure, and asserting myself at home was just tiring.  There was no reason to exude confidence, when I could just let the power be usurped.  It felt good to not have all that responsibility and just relax into a complete lack of power struggle.  I certainly couldn’t do that with someone I didn’t trust.  But he loves me.  He shows me all the time.  I could feel a smile coming over my face just thinking about his words, telling me how beautiful and perfect I am, telling me how much he loved and desired me.  Maybe he had told other women that in the past, but he told me I was the one who was everything he had been waiting for.

I am not going to make it!  DAMN!  I really will be the one he is waiting for if I don’t get home in time.  I hate letting anyone down.  And I will be so disappointed if he’s not there.  Nights without him seem so dark and quiet.  I wonder around looking for something to occupy me and sleep early waiting for the next day that he will enter.

He sent me all this obscure music that I fell in love with, I don’t know if because I felt it was such a beautiful gift or if it was because I actually really like it.  I made a CD collection and put it on my iPod, just so that it would provide me the soundtrack of my days.

Finally!  Pulled into the driveway, a little faster than anyone really should, left my bag –I’ll get it later.  Ran in the house, went to the bathroom so I wouldn’t have to pee when I was with him, checked my hair and face, ran a brush through my hair, put on some lipstick.  Ok, just the way he likes me.  Went back into the living room, opened my laptop.

“There you are, Alyssa!”  he said.

“I know.  I was late.  Work was crazy!”  I began to apologize.

“It’s alright.  You’re here now.”  He smiled.

“Yeah but I hate missing any minute with you!”  I said.  He smiled at me again.

Then he laughed.  “We have our whole future together.  What’s a few little minutes?”

“That’s true.”  I smiled and laughed back.

“I know what you need, you understand my needs.  We have quite a future, don’t we?”  He said.  “You’re blushing!”  He caught me.

“When can we actually meet?”  I asked him.  “I want to feel you so bad!”

“Hold on a second, please…Ok, I’m back.  A train ticket from me to you is just $69.  I can be there anytime you purchase one.  I see an interesting irony in that number.”  He laughed.

As we continued talking, I secretly worked on booking the seat.

“You know, I could wait all day to talk to someone who is intelligent, beautiful and knows herself the way you do.”  He said.  I blushed again.  I tried to look normal on the cam, so he couldn’t see what I was doing, or how happy I was about it.

“I think, my lovely dear, you have charmed me into loving you!”  I blushed again.  I had the two screens open at the same time.  I even got out my credit card, without him seeing.

“It’s done.  I bought it.  You’ll be here Thursday at 8:30 pm.  You’ll be here!  WOW!  In just a few days.  That’s….78 hours, and 42 minutes!  WOW!  I’m so excited!”

“You never cease to surprise me!”  He laugh again, at what I thought was my over zealousness, but really, it was because he had had this exact conversation before.  This was the eighth time he was able to convince someone to send for him this summer.  Not only would he get laid, he’d win that $500 bet with Mark.  Hell, maybe he’d even get to see that movie everyone’s been talking about.

Man Up!

There’s a double standard that is both blatant and hidden.  What’s amazing is that it is still exists.  I was flipping stations the other day and I saw an ad for movie called, “Freshman Father.”  A boy being responsible for the baby he produced seems to be such a rare event it needs to be documented.   How many freshman mothers are there?  Any movies that aren’t negative about it?  Men get praised by society for being responsible, for women it just seems expected.  Being a single mother comes with a stigma –bad choice of men, irresponsible, etc.  Being a single father is a badge of pride, “look what I can do!” (most likely, with a lot of help from his own mother).

It’s understood, that given the same circumstances, women make less money than men, but the burden of responsibility and finances somehow always seems to fall more heavily on the women, especially in a separated situation.  Who is responsible for doctors, medicines, shoes, school fees, lunches?  Who is most likely going to fall below the poverty level?

What’s even more interesting is how this has become so accepted in American life that no one complains or argues.  It’s just how it is.  My friend asked her lawyer why she had to pay the full expenses for her divorce when she was not at fault and didn’t even want the divorce in the first place.  The lawyer replied, “because you are the responsible one.”  And then added, “I see it all the time.”

There is this epidemic of American men thinking they can just walk away.  “I don’t want to be married anymore, here –it’s all your problem now.”  They would say to their wives if they had the guts to actually talk to them.  No apologies, no regrets, no conscience.  Their children may go so long without seeing them that they don’t even know them.  Often, these fathers not only don’t own up to their financial responsibilities, but also don’t even wonder what their own children look like, or how they are doing.

There are two little facts that might surprise you.  In 2008, 42% of all American babies were born to single mothers.  For some women, it may be their choice, and for some children, the fathers may be very involved.  And I am not implying that marriage is the answer, but lack of commitment is becoming the norm and not the exception.  The other little tidbit is that the number one reason for the deaths of American pregnant women is their mate.  Why do so many men resort to murder as the answer for wanting to remain single?

My anthropology professor said that it takes an average of six to eight adults to raise a child.  African tribal cultures really understood this, and all aunts and uncles were called “mommy” and “daddy.”  But here in our overly independent society, very often, one parent is the only one responsible which is a huge burden to that parent and a huge disservice to their children.

What’s at stake are the children and the following generations.  Who are the role models for the little boys?  Who are the ideals for the little girls?  Who are the real fathers and not the sperm donors?

The Widow’s Morning

I can’t believe he’s dead.  There his body lay in the coffin so peaceful, a little mangled, but masked well.  I could only stare in disbelief and wonderment.  It was so fast.  One minute everything was fine, and then he was gone–just like that.
“You know, he was such a good man.” a woman whispered in my ear.  I didn’t know who she was, but I nodded.
“I’m so sorry for you and the children.”  I heard over and over.

“How are they holding up?”

“Lisa keeps thinking he’s outside mowing the lawn or working on the car,” I would reply.  “But Lily is so young, I think she may have forgotten him already.”
“It will get easier with time.”  I heard more than anything.  Did these very well-meaning people know how cliché they were?  I mean I guess there isn’t much you can say in this situation.  And I guess I didn’t know what I wanted to hear either.

He was on his way to do “research” at the library when he had the heart attack.  I wasn’t with him.  He thought he just had the flu, but he also thought he was invincible and insisted on going anyway.  He was always doing research, but never had anything to show for all those hours.

“Who’s that girl?”  I heard someone whisper to someone else.  I looked around.  I didn’t know her either.  She looked to be about 17, but with brown frizzy hair, lipstick in a completely unnatural shade of pink, and blue eye shadow put on like someone in their 60’s.  She didn’t look at me.  No direct eye contact with anyone.  She went straight to his body, cried like a child, and ran out in a scene.

Whispers flew, like wild darts across the room.  I didn’t know what I was supposed to say.  Right then, it wasn’t my job to figure things out; it was my job to cry.

“What is all this research about?”  I asked him one time.  “What is so important that you would rather spend these hours with your computer than sleeping with or talking to me.”

All he replied was, “It’s none of your business.”

No one was surprised that his teenage son didn’t come, they haven’t talked in years, but when his teenage daughter arrived, with two close friends, she wouldn’t go near the casket.  Maybe she was sad or scared.  Maybe she didn’t want to see him like that.

I was too busy getting hugs, and hand squeezes to go over and talk to her just then.  She talked and giggled with her friends in the corner.  Was she that removed from him, did she just not know how to show respect?  I watched her through the people around me who were reciting the same things I had heard a hundred times already.  All I really had to do was nod.  She still laughed and giggle and texted on her phone as if she were in a school hallway.  Then she stopped for a minute, walked directly to her father, and it looked like she spit in his face.  I couldn’t be sure.  I wasn’t that close, but then she walked past me with her friends right behind her, and nodded at me.  I wanted to tell her I would call her, we would get together sometime, but I felt confined by well-wishers.

As I looked around, I saw all my friends and family around to support me, and be here for me, and there was no one there that I knew, just to mourn him.  Most of his family or friends didn’t even come, not to mourn anyway.  It seemed proof enough for me that the thallium I put in his coffee that last week together was a good idea.  At least my girls were going to get something.

Emergency Exit

Kelly needed a quick excuse to get out of there.  She couldn’t breathe.  She couldn’t understand how balloons and crepe paper could be so stifling.  She thought it would all be ok, but she wasn’t ready after all.  She found an emergency exit door at the back of the reception hall, and the fresh air and sunlight hit her like smelling salts, waking her up and allowing her to breathe again.  The heavy bass of the music was smothered behind her. There were two people standing by the wall smoking, so she flashed a quick smile at them.

Pacing back and forth, she tried to decide what to do.  Could she go back in there or should she just stay outside in the bright sunlight?  She could see Joey coming out of the back doors.  He shielded his eyes from the sun to look around the parking lot.  As soon as his eyes spotted her, he walked briskly in her direction.

He looked so good dressed up like that.  They had never been to anything formal like this before.  Mostly he wore t-shirts and jeans, but he looked really nice in his dark suit.  His hair was combed and he was shaved nicely.  He could have been going to work in an office.  The idea of it almost made her laugh out loud.

“Hi, Joey.”  She said almost shyly.

“Hey babe.  Whadda doin’ out here?”  He asked.

“It was just so hot and crowded in there, I couldn’t breathe.  I barely know anybody, so I came out for some air.”

Yeah, it’s not my kind of scene either, but we should get back before anyone asks for us.”  Joey said grabbing her hand.

“You go ahead, I’ll be there in a minute or two.  Cover for me.”  She smiled.

He turned around and headed back.  One of his friends handed him a can of beer on the way in, and they started laughing.

She liked the way her dress sounded like cellophane when she walked.  She liked feeling like Cinderella.  But walking in those shoes in the gravel parking lot was hard.  Her ankle kept twisting if she stepped wrong, so she walked up to the sidewalk and pretended like she was a model.  Cars honked as she passed, and she waved like a princess out on a stroll.

She had almost forgotten that she had tucked the money her mother had given her inside her bra since her dress didn’t have any pockets.

She saw a taxi parked across the street at the bowling alley, so she walked in to find the driver.  She found a man sitting at the food counter drinking a Coke.

“Sir, is that your taxi?”  She asked pointing towards the door.

“Yes.  Why?”

“Well, I was just thinking that the freshest air is by the ocean.  How much would it cost to have you drive me there?”

“That’s at least 130 miles away.  It would take over 2 hours.  I’d have to charge you about $250.”

“Ok, then, I’m ready to go,” she said pulling a few bills out of her bra.

He got up and grabbed his hat off of the counter just as she realized she didn’t have to hold the bouquet anymore.

Maybe she would call Joey later.

Reading, Writing, and ‘Rithmatic

I heard two interesting statistics in separate stories the other day on CNN.  Eighty percent of all of the schools in the country are making big cuts in their staffing for the next school year because of financial problems.  And America has 5113 nuclear weapons.  Where are our priorities?  The government throws all of this money into bombs that can destroy the earth many times over –because obviously one or two are not enough.  Would anyone even be around to press the button on number 5113?

But the bigger question is why we are so quick to cut our education system that is already so poorly funded as it is.  It’s not as if we are Singapore, Hong Kong, or Korea, and we are on top.  We are above Indonesia and Iran, but is that the best we can do?

We never have to vote on war levies or military levies.  We have no choice over what or how much comes out of our income for that, and yet, in an economic depression, we are asked if we can pay more for schools.  Why is it even a question?  Who set the system up this way?

Cutting 10% of the education staff including teachers and administrators (like what is happening in Cleveland, Ohio) hurts everyone.  The teachers are out of jobs, and collecting unemployment and any other assistance they may qualify for.  Their spouses and families, most likely will not have health care.  The teachers who still have jobs, have much more work for that same pay (of course raises are frozen).  And students who are already spilling out of rooms, are even more packed in, meaning a lot less personal attention.  The graduation rate in Cleveland is at 33% percent right now.  How is cutting staff a solution for anything?

There is an experimental charter school in Washington Heights, NYC that has been proving the theory that paying teachers more can make a better school.  They believe that one fabulous teacher is worth more than all the technology and low student numbers you can provide.  So far they are right.  They pay their teachers a starting salary of $125,000 with bonuses.  They work longer days, and have many more responsibilities than an average inner-city, but they are the best of the best.  Eight teachers were finally picked out of 600 resumes.  If you are regarded as part of a dream team, you will rise up to the bar.  We haven’t been able to see the long-term effects yet, but I heard the waiting list for this public school is very long.

So, dear government, could we reassess our priorities, please?  Let’s shift some money around, and focus on our primary education system, because at the risk of sounding cliché, it really is our future.