Monday, December 7, 2009

Pearl Harbor Is Still a Teachable Moment

As December 7th comes around again, as it inevitably does every year, I take note of how many ceremonies or remembrances are held in the area where I live (New York City) to mark the occasion. Sadly, each year the number of events keeps dwindling, now mostly confined to Veterans of Foreign War or American Legion posts. What is even more alarming is that the day is not recognized in any tangible way by schools, thus taking away a very important teachable moment for our children.

Since the attacks on September 11, 2001, we have marked that day with significant ceremonies in New York, Washington D.C., Pennsylvania, and across the nation. The day was officially declared “Patriot Day” on September 4, 2002; while not an official national holiday, it is one that is observed in various ways across the country and in schools. Still, as the years go by I do hear some people complaining about too much TV coverage and wondering when we will get over it. The point is that we should never get over it because 9/11, like Pearl Harbor, should be commemorated as a day we honor those who died in an unprovoked attack on our nation.

When I was a boy, my father was very active in his local VFW in Queens, NY, eventually becoming commander of his post. I recall large Memorial Day and Veteran’s Day parades every year, my father marching along with all his buddies dressed in their uniforms. My dad was a veteran of World War II, as were many of the other men there. At the time there were also men marching in the parade who served in World War I and Korea.

I think I was five years old when I went to my first parade. Since I was small, my father put me in one of the big cars to ride with old vets who were unable to walk the parade route. As the band played patriotic songs, I looked up at the old fellows sitting there proudly with medals shining brightly on their uniforms. One man was wearing what looked like an old cavalry uniform that I saw in westerns on TV. It had bright buttons running down the front and captain's bars on the shoulders. He was so thin, the uniform sagged on his body like he was a kid playing dress-up with his father’s clothing.

The old man just stared ahead, but he held his head high and was obviously very proud to be there. I asked one of the other men about him and he said, “That’s Martin. He is a veteran of the Civil War.” I couldn’t believe it but the man continued, “He was a bugle boy and I think about as old as you are right now when he served.”

Of course, I said, “Wow.” The man continued, “He went on to fight in the Indian wars and even knew General George Armstrong Custer. As you can see, he retired a captain and that was before I was born in 1899.”

I wondered how old he was and the man said, “He’s one hundred and seven years old. Martin doesn’t talk much anymore, but I make sure he goes to everything. You see, I am his son.” The man went on to tell me how he fought in France during WWI and how his son also fought in France during WWII. It was a day I will never forget, and I think that’s the whole point: we have to experience something in order to understand and respect it. Reading about history is wonderful, but learning about it from a person who was there has a much more powerful impact.

These days war has become so political and the notion of patriotism is seen as passĂ© or perhaps negative by many people, especially some of those people who stand in front of our children’s classrooms. I do understand their reticence to discuss war and their worry about political ramifications, but if we take current politics out of the equation, as well we should when teaching about history, we are left with the story itself. What else is history but the story of what has happened?

Right now it is difficult to tell we are a nation at war. Everything is in abundance, despite the troubled economy. We can get gasoline, milk, bread, and all the other things we take for granted without any problems. My father has noted this and also recognizes that the young people of today don’t care about the war. He says that it doesn’t concern them as long as they have their iPods, their cell phones, and cable television. Dad has said that even adults act like there is no war going on. He thinks we are like a nation of ostriches, shoving our heads in the sand so we can avoid the world around us and the reality of what is happening.

Imagine today’s kids living through what kids endured during WWII? Would they be able to cope with scrap metal drives and gasoline rationing? Would they understand blackouts and air raid drills? Would they appreciate the threat to our way of life from overseas from an enemy that desired to conquer us and make German our national language?

If you ask kids about Pearl Harbor today, very few know what you are talking about. As an educator for twenty-six years, I have heard quite a few amazing things in my classrooms, but the most bizarre was when I was talking about Pearl Harbor during a lesson, and a student raised his hand and asked, “Who was she?” I didn’t connect and asked, “Who?” And he replied, “You know, who was Pearl Harbor?” I know that seems like an Abbott and Costello routine, but it is not because he, and many other students, did not know about this pivotal historical event.

Today, many students are only taught about Pearl Harbor as a date on a timeline, the event that launched the country into WWII. The attack itself is not examined, the causes for the attack are not explored, and the events that followed are not taught substantially.

I understand we are very concerned these days with reading scores and math scores on state examinations, but why are we not worried about our children’s understanding of history’s crucial moments, especially one like Pearl Harbor that launched our country into the war that defined much of the last century and still reverberates in this one.

When I was in school, veterans were always a part of the landscape. They visited our classrooms regularly when invited by teachers to impart their wisdom about past events. I remember being riveted by descriptions of battles in the European and Asian theaters of WWII. I also enjoyed hearing about what life was like in boot camps, on the battlefield, and on ships during the war. None of this was warmongering and did nothing to encourage students to go sign up for the armed forces; however, it provided a crucial human factor in understanding the nature of war and the toll it takes on soldiers and their families.

When there were major holidays like Memorial Day or Veteran’s Day, we had an assembly and the men from the local VFW would come in full uniform. They would march into the auditorium with rifles on their shoulders led by a full color guard, and then select members would go to the microphone and speak. Yes, this does make for a patriotic moment, but it also encourages students in a very public and rather powerful way to learn something that is not available in the pages of the NYS curriculum guides.

Sadly, many of the veterans from World War II are gone now or, like my father, are too disabled to make the trip into classrooms. We should extend the same courtesy though to veterans of Korea, Vietnam, Iraq, and Afghanistan. I think it is crucial for the students to see these men and women, hear their stories first-hand, and acquire an appreciation for their efforts and sacrifice in serving their country.

Pearl Harbor stands out as a defining moment in American history. Its anniversary should be marked with significant public ceremonies and corresponding activities in schools that make children aware of its importance. December 7, 1941, was not just another day, but one that President Franklin D. Roosevelt rightly noted as “a date that will live in infamy.” How sad that the day is slowly being relegated to the backburner, noted only as one line in a textbook, and not as the day that changed America and the world forever.

2, 402 service people were killed that day and almost 2,000 were wounded. Many ships were lost, and our country took a devastating blow from a powerful opponent. Students must understand what events led up to the attack, how afterwards our nation came together to set in motion all its resources to literally defeat evil, and that all those soldiers in all those graves died for a cause that quite frankly saved the world.

It is up to us to truly make the difference. We can speak to our children’s teachers and the principals in our schools. We can encourage veterans to volunteer their services to schools as well, and we can write to our elected representatives and ask that more emphasis be placed on observing this day. We owe it to all those men entombed in the USS Arizona, to every soldier who died in the war that followed the attack, and mostly we owe it to our children. They need to appreciate and understand what happened in the past to fully comprehend why we are where we are now. We must do everything we can to make certain that December 7, 1941, is indeed a day that will be forever remembered.

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

REMEMBERING THE FALL OF THE BERLIN WALL

"All in all you’re just another brick in the wall." — Pink Floyd

It is the 20th anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall, and I remember this event as if it happened yesterday; it is still so fresh in my mind. This momentous event shook the world with the sound of sledgehammers and pickaxes slamming away against concrete, wielded by young and old alike with such ferocity that it seemed they were banging away at the regime that placed it there.

Having a mother who was of German descent, I always had an interest in Germany and its history and culture. As a young boy I was fascinated by the strength of the people and its art and literature, but was bothered by the fact that at one time “Germania” was seen as the home of barbarians during Roman times. That warlike nature certainly followed the people across the centuries, right up to the modern era when the Kaiser and then Hitler made war and caused agony for millions of people.

This interest first brought me to Germany in the early 1980s, and of course that eventually meant a trip to Berlin. Now that the country is reunited, it can seem to some, especially those born since the wall came down, like it was only a bad dream, but I saw the reality of the formidable guard towers along the West German-East German border, and there was more than a goosestep in the gait of East German soldiers, their perfect uniforms and dark boots reminiscent of the Nazi era.

I recall being on the bus joking with my friends, but the truth is that when you went through that border control, it was no laughing matter. One of my friends was Jewish, and all our cockiness evaporated as the stone-faced guard looked at our passports and decided to take David into a separate room. We all waited an hour and forty minutes until the guards escorted him back to our group and we resumed our journey.

Back on the bus and heading toward West Berlin, we all breathed a sigh of relief but drove through the stark landscape knowing we would have to go through this again. I leaned over and asked David what happened in the room, and he told me they just kept him there. The guards spoke on the phone, asked him questions about New York, and basically intimidated him with the prospect of a long-term detention. I could see how shaken he was, and I felt nervous too about the rest of the trip ahead of us.

The remainder of our trip went off splendidly. We got to tour West Berlin, drink coffee in a cafĂ©, and listen to Germans speaking freely. American soldiers could be seen walking around as we came closer to Checkpoint Charlie. We had an uneventful “tour” on the Eastern side, where it was obvious how the wall had divided some neighborhoods going straight through where houses once stood.

East Berlin definitely seemed lost in another time, the grim streets and dour buildings going on for block after block. It started to rain as we made our way back to the west, and I saw East German children sitting on the steps of a building staring at the wall with blank expressions, knowing we could go through but they could not. All these years later, I can still see those kids, sitting in the rain and feeling like they symbolized everything wrong with the wall.

Back on the West German side, the tour guide was now free to speak, and he said that his family was split up by the wall. His children were stuck in the East because they moved there when they were married, never expecting that monstrosity to go up on August 13, 1961. He told of how the Stasi (East German secret police) would spy on them because they knew their parents lived in the West, and that even when Westerners went across that they were spied on too.

I left Germany that year feeling markedly different about my ancestry and life in a divided Germany. I couldn’t understand how people could live like that, and how some of them couldn’t be free. I was so disenchanted, I didn’t think I’d ever return to the country despite enjoying my time in West Germany. Large steins of beer and sizzling bratwurst aside, I felt too sad after seeing the East and avoided going to Germany again on future trips to Europe.

Then the wall fell. I watched it at home in New York and just stared at the screen as if it were a movie. How could this be happening? Without an army and without a shot being fired, the wall came tumbling down at the hands of normal citizens disgusted by years of oppression. I recalled President Reagan saying, “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall” and thinking, that will never happen in a million years, but here it was happening in a matter of two years after Reagan said that.

In the summer of 1990 I returned to Germany. As we drove through the old West German-East German border, the abandoned guard towers, while still imposing, were really just a point of interest, a blip on the radar as we made our way to Berlin unimpeded by guards and passport checks.

I was on my own this time, having lost touch with most of my college friends who made the trip the last time. I had David’s number and called him, but he was recently married and couldn’t come with me, but I quickly made new friends and, since this was their first time visiting Germany, they saw everything in a more carefree way, unencumbered by memories of a divided country.

By the time we got to Berlin, I was amazed at how everything had changed with the wall gone, and the enterprising locals had set up tables on both sides of Brandenburg Gate, hawking everything from authentic Soviet-era hats, badges, and uniforms, to “certified” chunks of the Berlin Wall mounted on plaques and frames. A good deal of the wall had come down, but a short walk brought us to a place where the wall still stood, and here old men were renting hammers and chisels so we could take home a piece of the action.

I must admit that I succumbed to this gimmick on a purely visceral level, for I could in some small way feel like I was a part of that glorious night of November 9, 1989, as I stood in Berlin with a hammer and chisel. As I chopped away at the wall where graffiti covered most of the concrete, I got a chunk off about the size of a baseball.

Another tourist a few feet away from me managed to yank a complete brick out of the wall. He rubbed his hand over it to remove the dust and debris and walked away with it very contentedly. I thought about that old Pink Floyd song, and looked down at the piece I had in my hand. Satisfied with that, I put it in my pocket and I still have it to this day, kept in a special box labeled “Berlin Wall 1990.”

As we walked around town, there was such an overwhelming euphoria and a true feeling of freedom. I passed near where I had seen those boys sitting on the steps in the rain years ago, and there were teenagers standing there holding a basketball and dressed ostensibly like American teens in jeans, sneakers, and backwards baseball caps. Freedom indeed had come to East Berlin.

I traveled to other places in Eastern Europe that summer of 1990, and I encountered much of the same excitement and saw people reveling in the sun openly, literally laughing and dancing in the streets. Buskers could be found in all the big cities like Dresden, Prague, and Budapest, and other street performers filled the squares with colorful entertainment. Also, American products were being advertised everywhere, as the move toward the West came complete with Marlboro cigarettes, Budweiser beer, and McDonald’s hamburgers.

One moment I remember very vividly occurred on Charles Bridge in Prague. On a very warm summer night, there must have been a thousand people on the bridge from end to end. The city was exploding with color and light, and the members of my group and I spoke with a number of people as we walked over the bridge above the black Vltava River. All of them expressed such happiness to be able to see us. Our presence was not only welcomed but celebrated.

One Czech fellow stopped us and asked if we were Americans. We said we were, and he talked for a long time about his new life. “Old life is bad; new life is very good. We never go back to the old life. Ever again.” I will never forget the enlightened look on his face as he said these words with a passion that came from being free after so many years of suppression.

It has been a long time since I’ve been to Germany, but all this attention to the 20th anniversary has made me long to go back again. I wonder what I will find there after all these years of freedom. I know from what I read and hear that Germany has come a long way from that time, but I wonder if anything could match the jubilation I saw in that summer of 1990.

I know I will go back someday, probably to bring my children to see the country of their ancestors. I do know as someone of German descent that I feel particularly happy when I see a map that shows the unified Germany, and I think all Americans want that country to keep moving forward away from a sometimes dark past into the bright light that only freedom can bring.

Sunday, October 25, 2009

A Salute to Soupy Sales

When I heard of the death of Soupy Sales, I felt like a page had been turned as yet another piece of my childhood was gone. In a world of Mr. Rogers and Romper Room and other bland kid stuff, Soupy really caught my attention as well as millions of other kids. His The Soupy Sales Show was truly inspirational to me, and it made me want to write sketches, perform in them, and be as funny as a six-year old could be.

While other kid shows threw entertaining stuff at you, Soupy had stuff thrown at him. Even though I knew it was coming, I couldn’t wait for that pie to hit Soupy right in the face. Only later on did I know that pie-throwing was a comedy staple that went way back but, as far as I was concerned, Soupy invented it.

I never could really sit through a Mr. Rogers episode. I know many kids did, but I never got far beyond him going into that closet and putting on the sweater. He made me want to sleep more than anything else. I also could only watch a few minutes of Romper Room or Captain Kangaroo, but give me Officer Joe Bolton and the Three Stooges, and I was glued to the television set.

As I remember Soupy Sales and his stable of characters like White Fang, Black Tooth, and the irrepressible Pookie the Lion, all I can think of is the glow I felt after seeing an episode. Besides the expected pie-in-the-face, there was a feeling that Soupy didn’t just know us kids and what we wanted; Soupy was a kid himself.

Whether Soupy was mugging it up with one of his funny expressions, singing a silly tune, or pushing his face right up near the camera, there was a surreal quality to his show that is still, I believe, unsurpassed today. In fact, judging from the television my children have watched over the years, I think Soupy inspired many of the antics I’ve seen on them, especially the talking to the camera routine, most notably on shows like Blues Clues and iCarly.

As a kid I always felt as if Soupy were talking to me, not at me. He stared at that camera and spoke sometimes in a funny voice or a silly voice. It did seem to me that I could expect the unexpected. I knew White Fang’s big paws were going to come into the frame at some point, but not knowing when or where in the show was exciting. Maybe it seems silly now to people, but I thought it was brilliant how White Fang was nothing more than arms and paws, but I thought of him as a real, big, bad doggie. Of course, I thought that because Soupy made him real.

Maybe the best part of the show, or at least the one I found funny and memorable, was how Soupy spoke to Pookie in the window in each episode. Pookie could say and do something funny or sing or whatever, and Soupy would give a deadpan look into the camera and make you believe that this was a real little crazy lion he was dealing with.

I know memory makes things seem fonder to us over the years, and I have not seen an episode of the show in probably forty years, but I can never forget it. It was an important and meaningful part of my childhood, and I think Soupy’s greatest impact on me and other kids was to free up our inner slapstick persona. We could enjoy this kind of thing freely and realize the best part of being a kid was using our imaginations to be anything we wanted to be, even a funny man in front of the camera talking to a dog’s paw.

Unfortunately, some people only recall the silly incident when Soupy told us kids to take money from our parents and send it to him. I was too little to remember the fallout, except I think he was punished and had the show taken off the air for a time. I didn’t get too far taking the money from my mother’s purse, but when I got caught and told her Soupy said to do it, she didn’t get mad; she just laughed because Mom got his humor too.

Later in his career I’d see Soupy on What’s My Line?, and he was the only reason I would watch that show. While more restrained in this venue, Soupy still got to mug for the camera as much as he could, and that made it worth watching. I recall Soupy appearing as a guest star on other shows, but unfortunately he never had the success he had with his own show, the one I remember most fondly.

All I can say is thank you, Soupy, for making each day a little brighter for the children of the 1960s. Also, thank you for letting us know that humor could be found in places no one expected, like in a window with a puppet, or the arms of an unseen mumbling dog, and mostly in the face of a comic genius who came close to the camera and straight into our hearts. Rest in peace, Soupy.

Thursday, September 24, 2009

Public Apologies as Teachable Moments

In an old 1970s song, Elton John sang, “Sorry seems to be the hardest word.” In the case of recent public meltdowns, most notably in the cases of singer Kanye West, U.S. Representative Joe Wilson (R-SC), and tennis star Serena Williams, getting the “sorry” part done doesn’t seem to be too difficult; however, one must ask the most salient question about this kind of despicable behavior that is usually followed by an apology: is it a teachable moment for our children?

Rep. Wilson is probably off most kids’ radar screens, but he still is a Congressman and his behavior occurred on national television. If he can interrupt the President’s address to Congress, why can’t a kid yell out something at a school assembly? Or in class? Rep. Wilson did make an apology to President Obama, but isn’t the damage already done?

Serena Williams is, as I believe all professional athletes should be, a role model for young people. She is specifically a role model for young girls who aspire to play tennis and be just like her. For her to react the way she did is inexcusable, even if she did come back the next day and submit a formal apology. What does this kind of thing actually teach kids?

Finally, a talented young fellow like Kanye West imploded at the MTV Music Awards show, grabbing the microphone from Taylor Swift who just won an award for Best Female Video. This is a show that kids do watch and, after seeing this, my 8-year old daughter, a fan of Swift, wanted to know “Why did that bad man do that to Taylor?” I’d say many of the adults watching wanted to know too. West appeared the next evening on the new The Jay Leno Show and promptly gave an apology and even almost cried. What are we to make of this kind of thing?

I think the answer is that it is obvious in these three cases that the apology is made as damage control, but in all three cases I question the sincerity of the apology. Still as adults, parents and teachers struggle to find a way to make sense of these issues and break them down into a teachable moment, and since they are indeed teachable moments, it is necessary and compelling to address them with our youngsters.

What did I say to my daughter about Kanye West? I told her that he was obviously excited about his friend Beyonce not winning the award, just as she could get upset if one of her friends didn’t win a singing contest at school. I explained that she knows it would be wrong to rush up on stage in front of all the students and claim that her friend should have won because her song was better. My daughter understood this example, but she wanted to know if she had done something “bad like that” would “sorry” be okay? I said it would be good, but it does not change the unacceptable behavior and that unacceptable behavior should have consequences.

I think the biggest problem is that kids see this kind of thing and believe “sorry” is sufficient, when most times it is not. Yes, Serena Williams was fined $10, 500 for her reprehensible behavior involving a call she disagreed with from the line judge, and she may face additional penalties, but do kids connect with that? My feeling is that consequences have to fit the crime, so to speak, and fining Ms. Williams a paltry amount of money, when she makes $500,000 for the U.S. Open alone, seems ridiculous.

And what of Rep. Wilson’s abhorrent behavior? For yelling “You Lie” as the President of the United States was speaking to a joint session of Congress, he is getting just a slap on the wrist. The House voted to “formally disapprove” of Wilson’s rant, but what this resolution does is nothing but symbolic. Republicans are calling the measure partisan politics, but do they think he should just walk away from this with no reprimand? How is that for an example for our children? Sadly, it is not.

In all these cases the people who did something inappropriate basically got away with it. In fact, in some odd way, these things probably will enhance their careers. Extremists will no doubt now want to support Wilson even more, and West earns some kind of street credibility as a guy who stands up for what he thinks is right. As for Ms. Williams, she was only defending herself against a bad call. No harm, no foul, right?

Obviously, this kind of thing will continue to happen. If Wilson were sanctioned more seriously, perhaps taking away his ability to vote on key issues for a time; if Williams were seriously punished, say banning her from the Australian Open to make her really feel it in the pocketbook; and, if West were forced to give a sizable amount of money to a charity of Taylor Swift’s choice, maybe we could say that the apology was more than just words. In this case it is just an easy way out, a quick fix, and kids are very smart and know that.

I think that each time something like this happens, that teachers can address it and use it in a lesson on right and wrong. There also should be an extremely careful plan to highlight the proper way to do what people like West, Wilson, and Williams were doing. Students need to understand the true art of discourse: we can debate an issue intelligently, coming down on different sides, but always respecting the other point of view as we proceed.

In the end it’s all about making sure that our children learn to perceive that doing things the right way really does matter and, more importantly, that people put on pedestals are sometimes not always worthy of being looked up to. It is our job as parents and teachers to make certain we are there when their heroes fall in order to, not just to pick up the pieces, but to make clear to them that “sorry” isn’t just a word to say. They must also know that some kind of appropriate and positive action to prove the sorrow must take place. In this way we can make every effort to show our children the right way to handle these challenges and to live their lives in the best possible way.

Saturday, September 12, 2009

Revisiting 9/11 Forevermore

Every year on this day, we are all New Yorkers.
-President Barack Obama

Suddenly, without warning I am here again, spiraling through the clouds and heavy rain, hovering over what they now call “The Pit” where once stood the buildings known as The Twin Towers. I see that since last year some progress has been made, but it seems incredulous that after all this time that things aren’t farther along than they are. How can this be?

I gain some control and can focus better through the raindrops; the people who have come to honor me and those like me are nowhere near where it all happened. They are removed and on the edge of things in a small park. I come every year because I desire it, and somehow when I want things they happen. I still don’t understand how it works, and I sometimes cannot believe I am even dead. I know I am but I still can’t accept it I guess.

The people who have come here are so valiant, standing in the rain with umbrellas and all sorts of raingear covering them. There are children holding flowers, mothers holding photographs, fathers holding signs with names on them and messages. There are wives who cry in the rain and with the rain and in spite of the rain, because their tears are endless as the seas and there is no eight years ago or today, but only a tomorrow without their beloved ones.

I see politicians whom I wish I could not see because these same people did nothing to protect and save me and my brethren. Why are they here now except to capitalize on some political points they can gain. Why can’t they let this day be pure grief and leave those people who are truly suffering alone with others like them?

Of course, the cameras are there and the news people who pretend this didn’t happen during the rest of the year, but they too are using the moment to their advantage, for ratings and whatever reason people without hearts do things. How dare they insult the intelligence and dignity of these good people with their cameras and phony expressions of sorrow?

I still have trouble dealing with that day, accepting that day, and going on with my, well, my existence after death. I am told by others like me that everyone is different after death. Some accept it freely, and those are the lucky ones. Others do not accept it or even do not believe they are dead. I am in this category. I still see myself at my desk, checking e-mail when the first plane hit, and I haven’t been able to reconcile things.

Once the initial impact was over and I had shaken the plaster and part of the cubicle wall off my body, I picked myself up off the floor and did what I always had done when something big happened. I called my wife. People were screaming all around me, smoke was pouring up from the point of impact, and debris hung in the air like confetti on New Year’s Eve. I dialed her number and spoke to her. She already knew because she was ironing clothes and watching TV. I said everything was going to be okay. I told her I was getting out of there and would be home as soon as possible, and that was the last time I spoke to her.

I had no idea about terrorists as I hung up the phone. I knew something terrible had happened from the way the building shook. Maybe an earthquake. Maybe a bomb like back in ‘93. I didn’t know what the hell happened but I was getting out of there, or so I thought. I remember grabbing my jacket and running to the exit door, but the black sulfurous smoke came pouring out as I opened it.

I was spinning and turning and then I remember nothing but the flash of neon light, and then I felt like I was falling forever, way beyond the edge of the building and through time and space and I kept thinking about those e-mails I hadn’t answered, about calling my wife back, and finding a way to get out and on the E train home to Queens.

So all this time has passed for people but nothing has really passed at all, for the dead or their living friends, lovers, and family. What happens seems like it just happened to me, in fact it keeps happening and then I am someplace else, with other victims and then I am free of all that and roaming the earth. Searching. I want to find my body, cram myself back inside it no matter how damaged it is, and find a way to hobble home. I think that my wife will accept me no matter how I look; my children will shower my battered face with tears, and my parents will love me as they always have no matter what.

I have been searching and am amazed at how time means nothing and everything. I can think I want to be someplace and I am there instantly. I have marveled at things I never saw in life, but I am humbled by people all over the world who have mourned me and others like me who died on 9/11. I am also revolted by those who celebrated the fall of the Twin Towers like it was a victory on a playing field. How shameful are these people? Well, wait until it’s their turn to die. They’ll see how it is.

I know the people responsible for what happened are not all caught yet. I’ve been there in Afghanistan and have seen our brave men and women fighting the good fight, but it’s not over. I know many people just want it to be over, but it is never over. All of you ridiculous people who bemoan water-boarding and all this other stuff, I have news for you: there are hundreds and thousands more of people just like those guys who caused the fall of the towers. They’re waiting to strike again anywhere and anytime, and you’re worried about their rights and care nothing about all those souls lost that day.

Let me tell you something. All you have to do is flood Afghanistan with soldiers, all the ones from that other war that is over anyway in Iraq. I’ve been there too and have seen the courageous soldiers fighting, but we need them over in Afghanistan now. All of them and more. We need to flood that country and occupy every area of it, push across the border into Pakistan whether or not anyone likes it, and crush these people now. If we do not, more buildings will fall and people will die and it will never end. Trust me, it never ends.

So I am here again. I thought about the day and I was here. This is how it works for me now. I flutter down through the rain, looking for my wife amongst the many. I hear the people crying, I see their tears mingling with the raindrops, but this does nothing to dilute their pain and suffering. They are reading the names on a platform. So many names and faces to go with them. I am one of those faces and I do not fade away with the years; none of us do.

I finally see my wife and children standing there under two big umbrellas. My son and daughter are so big now. She brought them this time after not bringing them before. It’s not like I haven’t seen them; I visit the house now and then to watch over them. It hurts me so that I cannot hold them, cannot brush the tears from their eyes, but I am there with them and kiss their foreheads as they sleep in bed, and I try to spoon my wife as she sleeps, still clinging to her side with the rest of the empty bed seemingly waiting for me. Well, Honey, I am there. Always.

The ceremony is over now and the people are walking down toward The Pit to a small pool, throwing in flowers of love and memory. The grieving is extraordinary, the comfort is in the process and I can see my children each drop a flower in the pool, followed by my wife. She sobs as she drops the flower, says a few words I can’t understand from where I am, but I do know what she has said. There was so much unsaid between us when I died, but I know it all by heart now anyway, for it has been revealed to me through her prayers.

Things end rather quickly and I am moving upward again, toward the rain and grey clouds, and I look down at The Pit one last time, knowing I’ll be back. This time of year next year, and the year after that, until the end of time. We on this side will never forget and we need you on that side to always remember. We are all energy now, floating together above the mourners and we intermingle, allowing each other’s thoughts to be heard.

There are thousands of us joined for a moment in time, and then just like that we shoot out in all directions, heading to all corners of the earth, parting ways but not company. We are all part of a club we never wanted to join, but we are members for eternity. I don’t even know where I am going, but I am still searching and hoping to find a way to accept.

Whatever happens I’ll be back. We’ll all be back because we have no choice. So, remember us not just this one day a year, but all 365 days of it. Please build these towers to show the world, and get them built faster and higher and do it for us. Get Bin Laden and any other person who would ever harm innocents, and show the world justice and remind them of our legacy. Do it for us all and never forget us. Never forget us because all we can do is remember and wait.

Friday, September 11, 2009

Obama’s Back to School Message: Give Him an “A” for Effort

With all the controversy swirling around Mr. Obama’s Back to School Message, anyone who watched or listened to the speech must have been thinking “What’s the big deal?” In truth, there was no “big deal” at all in the speech, just a solid reminder to kids about the importance of taking their studies seriously and staying in school. Coming from the President of the United States, maybe that message will be taken a little more seriously by those kids and their parents.

He started talking of universal truths about going back to school: kids will be nervous, some wish it were still summer, seniors everywhere are rejoicing they got this far. But he quickly changed gears and talking about things he has said before about education, including “responsibility” for everyone involved in the process: parents, teachers, and government. What was also important was the focus on the student. He said that all the responsibility in the world by other people won’t matter “Unless you show up to those schools; pay attention to those teachers; listen to your parents, grandparents and other adults; and put in the hard work it takes to succeed.”

As an educator, I was happy to hear this. Too many times it seems people have been passing the buck. It’s everyone’s fault that schools are failing and kids are dropping out of school. Yes, all those people bear responsibility, but I welcomed hearing the President remind kids that this is their job too, that they must pull their weight in order for the process to work.

Over the years I’ve heard students talk cavalierly about what will happen after high school. They will say things about getting great jobs, making lots of money, and having big houses and fancy cars. Many times this comes from students with the lowest averages who seem to have no grasp on reality. Mr. Obama apparently understands this when he went on to say, “You can’t drop out of school and just drop into a good job. You’ve got to work for it and train for it and learn for it.”

I loved this comment, but then he followed it up with something even stronger when he said:

And this isn’t just important for your own life
and your own future. What you make of your
education will decide nothing less than the future
of this country. What you’re learning in school
today will determine whether we as a nation can
meet our greatest challenges in the future.

To use an old clichĂ©, this sounded like music to my ears, and it plays upon President Kennedy’s old but wonderful call not to ask what your country can do for you but what you can do for your country. Instead of bemoaning all the countries whose kids do better in science and math, Mr. Obama is telling them that they have a stake in this not just for their own careers but collectively, as citizens of our nation, and that they have a vested interest in making the grade and going beyond because that will secure our way of life for future generations.

Mr. Obama also addressed students who may not have the perfect life at home. As a teacher, I have heard many horror stories over the years that I don’t need to repeat here, but I often wondered how kids got their homework done or studied for a test in that kind of environment. Yet, truthfully, often those students defiantly found a way and gave in some of the best papers and scored highest on tests.

Mr. Obama gave some insight from his own life on the subject: “I get it. I know what that’s like. My father left my family when I was two years old, and I was raised by a single mother who struggled at times to pay the bills and wasn’t always able to give us things the other kids had.” He let those kids identify with him, then masterfully brought it around and back to them.

He told them “That’s no excuse for talking back to your teacher, or cutting class, or dropping out of school. That’s no excuse for not trying.” This echoes what I and many other teachers have said to students one-on-one and in a class setting over the years. We educators must be thankful for him having said it, as our President and as a man who is respected by kids who will listen and hopefully follow the advice he is dispensing.

All the critics who were against this speech must have, I can only hope, thought differently after hearing it. When Mr. Obama told the students to set goals, he gave realistic examples and yet also set the bar higher too. The goal could be doing homework, reading, or paying attention in class, but the bottom line is the idea of striving toward something. For many kids this is like an adult starting a diet. That person shouldn’t fast for days and get him or herself sick, but take baby steps of cutting portions or skipping sweets. Mr. Obama let kids know that they can set goals and then, after reaching them, strive for something higher.

I think many people from both parties probably welcomed when Mr. Obama said that when they give up on themselves they give up on their country. Again moving back to the idea of something greater than the individual, Mr. Obama reminded students of something crucial about the USA. He said, “The story of America isn’t about people who quit when things got tough. It’s about people who kept going, who tried harder, who loved their country too much to do anything less than their best.” This is not only good common sense educationally speaking, but it is downright patriotic and this quotation should be posted in classrooms around the nation.

When the President of the United States tells kids “I expect you to get serious this year. I expect you to put your best effort into everything you do. I expect great things from each of you,” I think it sets the tone for a great school year. Will kids fail this year? Inevitably. Will students drop out of school? Of course they will. I do believe though that Mr. Obama has set the bar high, but not too out of reach, in order for many students to believe they can achieve something more than they have done in the past.

As educators often do, I like to grade performances and public speakers, so I am giving Mr. Obama an “A” for effort for this speech, especially considering all the negativity that preceded it. He spoke passionately and eloquently, and he indeed provides one of the most important things the students (and their parents) of this country need: a fine role model in the highest office of the land.

Of course, now it is all in the hands of those whom he addressed. It is also up to educators and parents to make this teachable moment into something more. We can ask questions and require written responses, we can have students set goals, post them in their classrooms or rooms at home, and get them as motivated as we can. More importantly, we can remind students in our classes and children in our families that it’s not just the President who expects more from them, but we do too. Giving as much guidance, assistance, and love as we can, think of the possibilities.

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

Some New School Year Ideas for Parents

If you are like me, you are a parent who is anticipating the new school year just as anxiously, or perhaps even more anxiously, than your child is. This is perfectly normal as we gather new school supplies and make certain all the new clothes fit, and that the backpack, lunch box, and pencil case are ready for that first morning. You probably are also making sure (for the smaller ones) that the camera is charged and there is room on the card to take enough photographs.

No matter what the ages of your children (parents whose kids are going off to college tell me they have similar anxieties), there are ways to make it easier for both them and for yourself. Besides being a parent, I have been an educator for the last 26 years, including being an elementary and high school teacher and a school principal. I have seen most of what can be seen, and experienced it from both sides of the equation.

The first thing is to take deep breaths and think positive thoughts. Emitting any negative vibrations can affect your child, and believe it or not teachers will pick up on them too if you walk in the room that way. Being extremely positive is an excellent way to go about life anyway, so exuberantly tell your child that this is going to be a great day, a great year, and a wonderful time in his or her life. Say it and mean it.

You may be in a situation where you know the teacher your child is getting. As an administrator, I always tried to keep this under wraps until the first day of school. The kids would come in, be directed to a room, walk in and be surprised. This may seem unfair, but it is actually not. If you think your child is getting Mr. Mean Teacher all summer, what good is that going to do you or your child? Conversely, if you think you are getting Miss Sweetheart, imagine how disappointed you and your child will be if on that first day you find out that she took a new job or that the principal shifted her at the last minute to a different grade.

If you do know who the teacher will be, make every effort to be positive about this person no matter who she or he is. Even if your child has heard negative things about that teacher from siblings or friends, tell the child that you have met the teacher and found him/her to be very nice. This is probably the primary hurdle the first day of school brings, and we can do so much as parents to soften the blow.

Once the day comes, make a special breakfast and get your child off to school early. With the little ones I know this is difficult, but kids don’t need to see Mommy or Daddy upset because of running late. Remember, all of our own phobias, anxieties, and memories about school come into play here. We must be careful never to let children see these things, or to tell them war stories of when we went to school. Save that for when they are out of college and in the workforce. You can have a good laugh about it then.

During the first week, teachers and administrators are under tremendous pressure just like you are. If you can do something nice for that teacher, even a warm smile or enthusiastic “good morning” will brighten the day. This is not a time to tell the teacher all about Mary’s issues from last year. Make an effort to be seen by the teacher, and even the principal if possible, but make it only a quick “hello” situation. If people other than you will be picking up your child, make sure they are seen as well during that first week or so. Most teachers are fiercely protective of their students and will remember faces, which is a wonderful thing.

Once the first day is over, talk to your child about how it went. Show a real interest in everything that is said, look over all the books, and cover them that night if it is required. Try doing this together to show how much you care about things happening in school. I know it is sometimes difficult, but this enthusiasm has to continue throughout the year. Remember, if your child perceives negativity on your part about school or the teacher, this will become apparent in the classroom. You don’t want that to happen.

After the first week or so, there is usually a Back to School Night of some kind. This is a chance to meet and greet. You will probably sit at your child’s desk, get to hear the teacher speak about his/her program, and in general get a very good idea about what the year will look like. You may be nervous about this moment, and your child will be too.

Believe it or not, the teacher will also be extremely nervous. Having gone through these evenings many times as a teacher and administrator, I can tell you that for a teacher this is worse than a command performance before the Queen of England. The teacher wants to communicate so much to you and probably has one session to do it, because in most schools sessions are rotated so parents with children in other grades can meet all the teachers.

As the session begins, be prepared to take notes. Listen carefully and jot down any questions you may have. You might think of more later as you’re driving home. Usually there is no time that night to ask these questions or to have a one-on-one talk with the teacher, so don’t press for this or expect it. Luckily, these days most teachers have an email address and it is very simple to send those questions politely. If there is a major issue, then it is time to make an appointment.

If not, you can wait until the end of September or beginning of October to see what progress your child is making. If no major issues come up by then, it may be wise to make an appointment anyway. Teachers really do appreciate getting to meet parents. I know after I used to sit down to talk with a parent, I understood my student so much better, and I could see the child in the parent. This is a symbiotic moment good for both parties, and it is better for you to do this before the first report card appointment that will be coming a month or so later.

These are just some ideas to get the school year started right for you and your child. Communication is the key to successful school years for parents, teachers, and administrators. Also, a we're-all-in-this-together attitude makes for a much more pleasant, positive, and ultimately rewarding experience for everyone throughout the school year. Remember to go in shining a positive glow, and your child will appreciate it as will the teacher. That way everyone is off to a great start to a great year.

Saturday, September 5, 2009

Obama’s Back to School Message

President Obama’s planned message to all school children in grades Pre-K-12 is to be delivered next week as students all over the country return to school, but there has been a good deal of controversy regarding it. At the center of the debate is a writing assignment included in the preparatory materials distributed to teachers by the Department of Education asking students to “Write letters to themselves about what they can do to help the president.”

This was obviously taken the wrong way be some parents and Republicans who felt that this is part of a bigger attempt to fill students with liberal messages and to promote the president’s agenda, including the health care initiative. After the public outcry hit the media, the assignment was changed by the Department of Education, no doubt with a good deal of input from the President, to read: “Write letters to themselves about how they can achieve their short-term and long-term educational goals.”

White House Spokesman Tommy Vietor said, “We changed it to clarify the language so the intent is clear.” Okay, we might say, that sounds right, but if we examine the two different directions they do seem to have nothing in common. If the original direction was written in that spirit, whoever wrote it certainly did a poor job. For a student to “help” a President is far different than for him or her to think about a way to “achieve” in school now or in the future.

Is there something inherently wrong about a President addressing students on their way back to school? I think not. In fact, I like the idea that Mr. Obama values education and is willing to take the time to let kids know it. We certainly need more positive messages about school, staying in school, and accomplishing something more significant than reaching the next level of a video game.

What has some Republicans and some parents spooked about this message? Well, politically speaking, the President would be woefully wrong to turn the back to school message to kids into a political speech. I am anxious to see the text of the address, which will be released on Monday, but until then I think everyone would do well to not get overly excited. Again, I must emphasize that it is necessary and compelling in these times for students to get a positive message about school. A message coming from the President carries weight and kids, who obviously admire and respect Mr. Obama, are going to be more open to his call for taking their studies more seriously.

Also, I am not at all offended by the original text asking “what they can do to help the president.” As an educator over the years, I have often used “write a letter to the president” as an assignment, especially in middle school and high school. Imagine a child’s excitement as he or she sits down to write a personal message to the most important person in the United States and the leader of the Free World. I recall that grammar and punctuation mistakes occurred much less frequently in such assignments, at least in my classes.

I do think too that a call to “help” the President is not an effort to promote an agenda, but rather have students show good citizenship. Whether the President is Republican or Democrat, is it not the goal of good citizens to want to assist this man, share their ideas, and engage in true discourse rather than biased attacks?

This reminds me of something President Kennedy said long ago: “Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country.” I believe this is in essence in that same spirit, pushing children to become good students, caring people, and outstanding citizens. In this way I believe there is nothing wrong with the original text, but the new text does ask students to focus more on themselves and their goals. In this way we must hope this gets them to contemplate where they are and where they are going, and that can be a good thing too.

So I anxiously await the address to school children by the President next week. Until then, I think we should all be comforted to know that Mr. Obama cares about our schools, cares about our kids, and wants to encourage good educational practices. As an American and as a parent, I couldn’t ask for anything more.

Friday, August 28, 2009

BACK TO SCHOOL BLUES

Since around the middle of July I started seeing Back to School signs in the stores, and my daughter sort of cringed every time I pointed to one and reminded her about the inevitable. It seems kind of cruel on my part, and it reminds me of that old Staples commercial. Some of you may remember it: a father happily throws all the school supplies in the shopping cart as his kids look very sad while Andy Williams sings “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year.” Oddly enough, I know my daughter is going back to school in about a week and I don’t feel all that happy.

I remember my own childhood summers as blissful times. My parents had a beach house in a place called Breezy Point, and it was so close to the city and yet seemed to be a zillion miles away. It was this safe little enclave where people didn’t lock doors, children ran barefoot all summer long, and the smell of barbecues filled the air every evening from June until September.

I can recall looking at the calendar on the wall in the kitchen as my Mom worked around the room, and I kept smiling and she’d ask why, and it was because “July” was in big letters at the top and that meant two months of no school. I was even happy when the page was turned to August, but like every kid I dreaded when Mom turned it again, and I saw September splashed across the top. The funny thing was Mom never seemed happy about us going back to school, and I always appreciated that.

My daughter now faces a similar situation. After a summer of freedom, she has no desire to return to school. I hate to see her go back because she has been such a great companion. Now 8 years old, she is in a place where she can help us with the baby (8 months old) and also do little chores around the house. She also fancies herself a writer and has been writing “books” all summer. These books involve little girls, most of whom resemble all her friends, but the names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Sometimes I hear calls for an extended school day and school year, and this usually comes from politicians who wish to appease their constituents who are working parents. They want to see the day go from 7am until 6pm or sometimes even later. They would also like to see the school year extend until the end of August, effectively meaning twelve months of school. They jabber about competing with other nations like Japan or South Korea, but what they are really saying is that schools should provide year round childcare.

I am not looking at this just as a parent but as someone who has been an educator for the last 26 years. I have taught in elementary, middle, and high schools as well in a college setting. For ten years I was a school principal for grades N-8. I have no doubt that many people are well intentioned, but I also know that this call for more school denies the basic needs of children to have unstructured time, to be away from the classroom, and basically have a chance to be kids.

I do advocate academic work during the summer. This is a golden opportunity for parents or older siblings to work with children on math, reading, and other things. This summer my daughter and I have done numerous projects involving science activities and art. These are wonderful times that we share and she will always remember. I also make her practice her times table and read every day from grade appropriate books. The mind is like a muscle and, if unused, it becomes pretty ineffectual. This keeps me involved in her education and shows her I do care about what she is learning.

If parents are unable to do this during the summer, there are programs (half and full day) in which children can keep sharp, but these classes are usually given in a different place than the school the kids attend all year, and this is important because the students need a change of pace. We may be guilty of underestimating just how much children need and deserve a break from routine, but it is a fact and we must accept and understand it.

As an educator I know too that, if I am doing my job right, that I will go home exhausted every day. Good teaching involves so much energy and depletes the person mentally and physically. This is why that after ten months of school, most teachers have put in more than twelve months worth of work and deserve that summer vacation that the rest of the adult world seems to resent so much.

As both my daughter and I face her going back to school, I think we have pretty much accepted that it must happen. There is always that trepidation about the first day, the new students in different classes, and the new teachers who have come in since last year. Usually after the first week she will be okay, back with her friends and getting into the routine, but the memories of summer will linger at least until we start getting ready for Halloween.

I think many parents probably feel the same as I do now, but even those who may be happy to see kids go back to school must realize the benefits of a summer vacation. Kids get to feel a little freedom, stay up a little later, and sleep a little later too. They get to run barefoot through the grass, drink ice cold lemonade, and lay on their backs and watch the clouds go by. They need this time to run, play, swim, and scream their little heads off. The importance of unstructured time is crucial because, despite the seemingly haphazard schedule, students are actually learning vital skills to cope with the individuality and responsibility that will be required in later years.

So parents and children, we all know about the back to school blues, but enjoy these last few days of summer. Watch the sun rise or the sun set, cook a few marshmallows over that lingering fire, take deep breaths of the summer air, and listen to the soothing refrain of the crickets in the night. Enjoy being with your kids and, maybe, just maybe, be a kid again yourself if only for a little while.

Copyright ĂŁ Victor Lana 2009

Monday, August 17, 2009

TOWN HALL MEETING ETIQUETTE

I don’t know about you, but these explosive town hall meetings regarding President Obama’s healthcare initiative are pretty scary events. It seems like people are coming to these events ready to do battle, sort of like if Yankees and Mets fans were attending the same party. I don’t think there is any hope for intelligent discourse in these matters because everyone is going in with some kind of anger for the other side.

I was watching one such meeting the other night with Senator Arlen Specter (D-PA) playing referee to two of his constituents. I thought Specter did a decent job, but maybe it would have been better for him to put on a black and white stripped jersey and stand in the middle of a ring with these two guys. He could get Nancy Pelosi to walk around holding big numbers to signify what round they were in (I’m sure old Nancy would do it for the good of the country and maybe a few complimentary visits to get some Botox treatments). I think this might make for a more enjoyable evening for all.

Many people who like Obama, and I am one of them, say that this is just an attempt to smear this president. All these people are so angry that Obama won that now they are venting in these meetings like lunatics or maybe stockbrokers ordering hotdogs out on Wall Street. Perhaps fringe lunatics like Barney the Dinosaur and Elmo from Sesame Street are stoking the fires of hate (I have always had my suspicions about that Barney character), or it could be a plot from Al Qaeda to disrupt America in order for us to implode with anger and hatred.

I don’t know if I buy that. I think in general people do not know how to behave in public. Have you ever seen people in McDonald’s or Wendy’s when there is a long line? The eye-rolling and the wise comments are worse than any segment of The Factor with good old Bill O’Reilly. Similar behavior can be found in the bank, the mall, and any public swimming pool. In general I think Americans are not very good in public, which signifies a problem since we are the “public” whom guys like Obama, Pelosi, and company serve.

I was wondering if we could have some kind of rules for these town hall affairs, a sort of etiquette that would make clear how to behave. It could be distributed as a list prior to entrance to the meetings, preferably by Dick Cheney wearing his hunting gear and sporting a rifle over his shoulder.

The list should include the following:

1. When someone else is talking, yell louder than that person in order to be heard.
2. When stepping up to the microphone, make sure your gloves are laced and your mouthpiece is securely between your teeth.
3. Listening to the other side is never an option.
4. Whenever the word “healthcare” is used, boo and hiss loudly.
5. Bring posters of Obama dressed as the Grinch who stole Medicare.
6. Let your Congressman or woman know you like them as much as the guy in the public pool who stays in there for four hours and then leaves without using the restroom.
7. Old folks should rattle their canes and walkers as loudly as possible when the politician begins speaking.
8. Finally, everyone should dress as the cast of M*A*S*H, set up a still, and drink martinis as they listen to their fearless leaders. Throwing darts at the likeness of Obama is an option after the third round.

Well, I don’t know if any rules or etiquette will help these folks. They are venting in a way that seems to signify nothing and everything. Should we put a great deal of emphasis on this or let it simmer down and die out like a fire started by Sarah Palin in the Alaskan wilderness?

One thing is for certain: these town hall meetings have given lots of people some fifteen seconds of infamy. What happens next is anyone’s guess, but I think the road to healthcare reform is going to be about as easy to follow as the Yellow Brick Road. There will be some lions and tigers and bears, oh my yes, and a witch or two along the way to spoil the party, but in the end we just might reach that Emerald City of Healthcare Reform. Mr. Obama may turn out to be a Wizard of MD, or maybe a little dog will pull down the curtain and reveal him to be just a guy like the rest of us, treading water and hoping not to get sick.

Wednesday, August 5, 2009

Obama's Beer Summit: Where Everybody Knows Your Game

Benjamin Franklin once said that beer is proof that God loves us. If we think about the recent White House meeting between President Obama, Harvard Prof. Henry Gates, and Cambridge police officer Sgt. James Crowley, it seems clear enough that Obama thinks beer is a good drink to have a conversation over, but I wonder what message something like this sends to everybody and if it is a positive one.

We know that beer is the fuel of sports here in the United States, mostly because the beverage companies sponsor all sorts of sporting events. If you look around at the sights in any major league ballpark, chances are you’re going to see a sign advertising beer. Beer is ubiquitous at games in all sports, as a beverage that is quaffed with snacks while watching the event, as well as an advertised product.

While I have nothing against old Ben Franklin, or beer for that matter, I wonder if everybody in the world feels the same way. Certain religions call for their members to abstain from alcohol; many other people must refrain from drinking for health reasons. Besides those considerations, the biggest segment of the population that concerns me are the young people who are not yet allowed to legally drink. Did they really need a presidential meeting to occur over beer, solidifying an already subliminal imagery of something that is cool?

I think Obama meant well when he set-up this meeting, but let’s make no mistake that there was a great deal of calculation here. How does a man who seems aloof and above the common folk send a message that he is just one of us? Well, he doesn’t go up to Cambridge and have a snifter of cognac in one of the university lounges, that’s for sure. Gates and Crowley were all business in their suits and ties, but Obama rolled up his sleeves, grabbed a few snacks from the bowl on the table, and presto-change-o he becomes a man of the people, drinking a beer after work with the guys like the rest of us working stiffs.

If you study the picture that was in the newspaper carefully, the one where the three men (and Vice President Joe Biden who drank a non-alcoholic beer) clink their glasses, it reminded me of that old great show Cheers. Everybody definitely knows their names, and they are just hanging out, shooting the breeze on a warm summer’s evening, looking to all the world like best buds. Of course, there is the thing that is festering beneath all this that started the mess in the first place: America’s view of race and the perception that racism is practiced by some members of police forces in our country.

Sgt. Crowley arrested Prof. Gates after getting a call about a break-in at the professor’s home. One would think that as soon as Prof. Gates provided his ID to the officer that the story would have been over, but the officer ended up arresting Gates for disorderly conduct. People all over the world jumped on this story like John Wayne onto a speeding horse, mostly because of so many past events involving police and people of color. This incident, while lacking the inflammatory aspects of a Rodney King or an Amaduo Diallo situation, clicked in the collective consciousness of those who wonder if this is just another case of a white cop abusing power with an innocent black citizen.

Still, we have dead cops whose families will tell you differently, or a paralyzed cop like NYPD’s Steven McDonald whose life was forever altered by a black perpetrator. Yes, we have stark images on both sides, but seemingly no answers to the burning questions, with certainly none being provided after the “beer summit” ended.

General Colin Powell made an interesting comment on this case. Powell, a native New Yorker who no doubt had plenty of opportunities to observe the NYPD in action, said that his mother told him that you always have to listen to a police officer. This reminded me of exactly what my father, a retired NYPD cop, told me when I was a teenager. “No matter what,” he said, “you always obey the police officer.” It seems to me that this was good advice and good parenting in both cases.

Now, back to the beer itself. Did it send a wrong message to America’s youth? Should it have been over cups of expensive coffee, or perhaps soda, or even bottled water? Since each of those drinks also have detractors, I guess probably not. The truth is though that we have the old saying “in vino veritas” that sort of makes me wonder if Obama was onto something here. He wanted to loosen these guys up a little bit, get them to be open to the other’s feelings, and relax while all those cameras on the South Lawn were poked in their direction.

This “beer summit” is now history, and whatever it means in the grand scheme of things may not be decided for many years, but it reminded me of another president who allowed alcohol at meetings in the White House. His name was Andrew Jackson and apparently guests got so rowdy and drunk on his watch that major damage was caused, things were thrown out windows, and there were wild parties late into the night. Of course, that would be less like Cheers and more like Animal House, with “double secret probation” always being a possibility. Maybe next time, Mr. President, you should tap a keg.

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

2009 METS: BACK TO THE FUTURE

I am writing this book about being a Mets fan, and this is not for the average baseball lover but mostly for the true Mets fan: the real, honest to goodness bleeding orange and blue fan. I have been one of them all my life, and there are many of us out there. The book touches upon the big years of 1969, 1973, and 1986, but they are really years that are only part of the bigger picture. For the most part, being a Met and being a fan of the Mets is about losing, and the happiness that went along with just rooting for the home team and loving them, no matter what the final score and how bad the team looked in the standings.

I know there are other fans in other cities who understand this kind of thing: Cubs fans in Chicago and Red Sox fans in Boston (at least before the Sox turned it all around in recent years). Losing and continually losing becomes part of the fan psyche, and the idea is that you wear the colors proudly, almost defiantly, in order to honor the team and your own emotional investment in it, despite the fact that the basement becomes an almost permanent living arrangement.

The great New York Daily News sports cartoonist Bill Gallo created a character to honor the Metsies: Basement Bertha. Good old Bertha is as ugly as Ernie Borginine and has teeth like an old pirate, but she also captured the spirit of the good old orange and blue in such a way that she was, and still is, an endearing character. No such character could be created for the Yankees and their fans because they didn’t need a rough and tumble mascot like the Mets did.

I can remember wearing my Mets hat as a kid and having people say things about them to me. “They’re a bunch of bums,” was a usual one. “They’re meatballs” said the old fat Italian guy with a Yankees cap who always sat on his stoop across from the corner deli when I was going to get my Mom a quart of milk. I just would wave at him and say, “Have a nice day,” tipping the old blue cap with the bent orange NY emblem on it.

When I told my father about these things, he said I shouldn’t let it bother me. Though Dad had grown up a Yankee fan, he switched allegiance for me as a kid, which is about the nicest thing a Dad could ever do. I can tell you one thing, if my son ever grows up and becomes a Yankee fan, I don’t think I would have the same benevolence. The truth is though that being a Met fan means having gone through more twists and turns than Mr. Pretzel, and in the end you just can’t shed that orange and blue like it didn’t mean the world to you, because it did and always will.

My mother’s father was a diehard Brooklyn Dodgers fan. He intimately understood a team being called a bunch of bums because that was the Dodgers’ nickname: “Dem Bums.” Pop talked a lot about going to Ebbets Field to see the Dodgers, taking my mother and her sisters with him and his brother Matty. Sometimes they got in, and sometimes the kids had to watch the game through a knothole in the fence. They had a name for those kids: the Knothole Gang. Ah, those were the days.

So the allegiance to the Mets, fierce, determined, and unwavering despite their losing ways, was born out of Dodger suffering. We borrowed the Dodger blue and the NY Giants orange after they left for California, and those colors were then imbued upon new hats and uniforms, and soaked into the blood of every fan who switched allegiance if, for no other reason, as to have a team to root for that was not the Yankees.

As a kid I watched the games and never expected a victory, so imagine my surprise in 1969 when the Mets became the Amazins. There can never be a fully understood response to this unbelievable victory other than emotional euphoria that bordered on hysteria. People honked horns in the streets, banged pots and pans, screamed from rooftops, set off fireworks in alleyways, and set fires in garbage cans. My grandfather noted that the revelry reminded him of when the Dodgers won in 1955, and that was even more delirious because the Dodgers had beaten the hated Yankees, which was better than when he and lots of other guys beat the Kaiser in World War One.

All of this, of course, brings us to present day Met fans and their grief and misery and still unbridled happiness. Currently, no one on the Mets has ten or more homeruns, which does indeed remind me of the glory days when Ed Kranepool led the team with 9 homers (and we thought that was a lot back then). They are making errors in the field, dropping balls, misplaying balls, and throwing them like your five year old sister tossing a softball against the fence. Yes, the old Mets are back and I’m loving every minute of it.

Of course, that is because of nostalgia and a new stadium that is conspicuously like old Ebbets Field. There is a smell in the air of days of old, and the malingering notion of pennant or wild card does not even register because you’re going out to the old ball game, you’re getting your Cracker Jacks, and rooting for the home team. Sure, it’s a shame if they don’t win, but that is not what matters anyway. We’re Mets fans, born from losing, and they may be bums and meatballs, but they are our bums and meatballs, and we love them.

So, I put out of my mind the way Omar Minaya has messed things up for the Wilpons. I forget about that huge payroll, about the minor league system that is in disarray, and the wounded warriors that have left the field and are plagued by mysterious injuries and maladies that would drive old Sherlock Homes batty trying to investigate them.

There is no rhyme or reason for the 2009 Mets, but we old Mets fans never had it so good. No matter how many years spent in the basement, no matter how many times the guys across the river win the big one, we still know how to have fun and enjoy being the blue collar team in town. The Mets are always the underdogs, as are their fans, and we wouldn’t have it any other way. We can celebrate years like 1969 and 1986, but we can also cherish the many years of bumbling and losing in between, being true fans and not summertime Benedict Arnolds becoming fair weather Yankees fans.

The 2009 Mets are reminding me of the good old days almost in every game these days. It’s really just like the old Mets theme song put it: “Bring the kiddies/bring your wife/guaranteed to have the time of your life.” So, drop that ball, Luis Castillo; throw that ball away, David Wright; throw those lollipops to the opposition, Mike Pelfrey. It’s all okay. Good old Casey Stengel is looking down on you, and he still loves you. Basement Bertha does too, and so do a whole lot of fans who remember that the old ball game is more about having heart and loving your team than about anything else.

Monday, July 13, 2009

OBAMA AND THE AUDACITY OF POPE

If things had gone differently when Pope John Paul II died, President Obama could have been meeting with a black pope. Imagine the significance of that moment: the first black American president meeting the first black Pope. Well, the fact is that Benedict was chosen over candidates of color the last time around, so we are left with this meeting between the leader of the Free World and the leader of the world’s Catholics. What good comes from such a meeting as this?

It seems like a photo opportunity for the most part, at least at first glance. The picture I saw in my local paper here in New York featured a very conservatively dressed Michelle Obama, her head covered by a black veil, standing alongside the Pope as he exchanged papers with her conservatively dressed husband. It seemed such a reverential moment, and the respect and dignity the Obamas felt for the Pontiff were quite obvious.

We get the official version of things here. Yes, they spoke about abortion, stem cell research, and the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. This is as we should expect it to be: two world leaders talking about important matters of the day but, of course, there is and has to be much more to this story.

What I would like to have heard is what was really said behind closed doors, away from the press and the cameras and Michelle, her mother, and the children. This would have been the conversation I would like to have heard.

As President of the United States, I am sure Mr. Obama, representing millions of American Catholics (including Senator Ted Kennedy, from whom he brought a personal letter for the Pope), would have talked with the Pope about the reality of American life in regards to many things. Besides big topics like abortion and stem cell research, there are many other issues pressing for Americans today.

How can our children attend Catholic schools which continue to be too expensive for average people? What can be done about a shortage of priests and other religious? Would you at least consider thinking about an option to allow priests to marry after taking their vows? Do you understand the importance of young people using condoms, not as a means of birth control, but to avoid diseases that will kill them?

The Pope would have plenty of things to talk about as well. He could have asked Mr. Obama to consider ending the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. That makes sense, but what about the wars happening right here at home? Can we condemn Iranians for killing a female protester in the streets without thinking about protesters who died right here in America at Kent State many years ago? What about our continued war on drugs? Is anything substantial being done to stop the flow of drugs in our streets?

What about the brutal attack on our children's sensibilities by all media? Sitting through an evening of American television, would the Pope not be disgusted by the ads about male sexual enhancement drugs, feminine hygiene products, and the general disdain for decency in shows depicting premarital sex and violence as regular and normal ways of life?

Yes, there must have been much to discuss on the table for these two men, but thirty minutes does not allow for much discussion beyond the pleasantries of introduction and pomp and circumstance. How much real discourse could have taken place? We know that gifts were exchanged, and that the Pope also gave Obama a lengthy printed treatise on the Vatican’s stance regarding stem cell research. This is a good start, but so much more is needed.

When these two men had a chance to sit down, one-on-one, with no cameras and no else present, what was exchanged? Obama is in dire need of direction when it comes to spirituality, and the Pope is in dire need of a lesson on the real world out there.

Hopefully, the Pope blessed Mr. Obama and will continue to pray for him as he leads this nation and the world in matters of significance regarding urgent economic, social, and political events. For his part, Mr. Obama should have offered the promise of continued and meaningful dialogue. Too often, it seems the President (and this is true for most administrations in my memory) of our country does not appreciate the importance of the man who is in charge at the Vatican.

Two remarkable men met in Rome yesterday. We can only hope that their meeting is the start of something better and not just a photo opportunity. The lives of millions, perhaps even billions, of people hang in the balance. In an increasingly violent and disturbing world, their leadership can make a difference; their joint cooperation may just be the thing we need to rise to a better level of understanding and affect real change in matters that are truly life and death issues.

Monday, July 6, 2009

The Posters on Our Walls

THE POSTERS ON OUR WALLS

Growing up in the 70s, my sister and I had numerous posters tacked up on our bedroom walls. Recently, people who were on two of those posters passed away: Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett. I haven’t thought about those long gone iconic images in years, but now it is hard for me to believe that these people are gone or that so many years have passed since those posters graced the walls of our rooms.

My sister was a normal teenage girl for that time. Michael Jackson’s poster was one of a number of posters she had that included images of David Cassidy by himself and with his Partridge Family, Bobby Sherman, Donny Osmond, Davey Jones and the Monkees, and Mr. Jackson. Even then I thought Jackson’s poster stood out: he had a sparkle in his eye, a tilt to his head, and a bright glow about him that made him out dazzle all the other guys on the posters in her room.

In my room there were posters of a different kind: Led Zeppelin, the Beatles, the Eagles, Pink Floyd, and Aerosmith, but in 1976 I cleared space over my bed for the famous poster of Farrah Fawcett, as no doubt did millions of other American boys who were as in love with the beaming smile, the fluffy hair, and the red bathing suit as much as I was. What is interesting is that Farrah was the first and only female to earn a spot on those walls, and I used to jokingly say goodnight to her before I went to sleep and goodbye to her in the morning on my way to school. I guess this seemed like some kind of a relationship in my teenage mind.

Now, when I go into my daughter’s room I see posters of the Jonas Brothers, Zac Efron, the Sprouse twins, Demi Lovato, Selena Gomez, and Miley Cyrus. These are the new teen and pre-teen icons, but truthfully I don’t see anything of the magic of Michael in these people. The girls, while cute, are no Farrah Fawcett, but maybe that is the whole point. These kids don’t need to out-dazzle one another because they have a ready made audience and exposure that Farrah and Michael could never have imagined.

Whenever my daughter wants to hear a song by one of her “faves” or see an image, all she has to do is put on the computer. Music videos, like those that built Michael into a star during the early glory days of MTV, are just a click away. She can check out all these songs without opening her little purse. She can also print images of these stars and post them in her room next to the large posters she gets from inside magazines.

Can you imagine Michael having that kind of exposure in his day? Or, for that matter, a group like the Beatles or someone like Elvis. If they were such mega-watt stars in the days of no technology, what would they be today? Of course, when I said that my daughter said something like, “Dad, they’d be just one of all the rest now.”

Ah, the truth out of the mouth of my pre-teen. She hit on something absolutely right: there is nothing extraordinary about any of these new stars because they are seemingly manufactured from the same mold, Disney or otherwise. Now, my opinions may reveal my age here by my lack of understanding their appeal, but I do not see how any of these people will ever be big stars twenty years from now, and maybe, come to think of it, not even ten years from now.

The new star is just a video or a song away. Miley meet Selena meet Demi meet whoever is next. One week it is Katy Perry and the next Lady Gaga and then maybe Lord Timberlake or Prince Eminem might come back for a spell. It doesn’t seem like anything substantial or even close to everlasting; perhaps, these days we cannot expect that or maybe no one wants it anymore.

People’s tastes are more fickle than ever. I remember lots of one-hit wonders in my day, but that seemed to be par for the course in the fairways to fame and misfortune. The old bands I liked are either gone or reconstituted to a point of really not being those old bands I used to go to see at Madison Square Garden or Nassau Coliseum.

Still, if you want a really great show, and one that will fill a stadium, you need an act that has some mileage like Sir Paul McCartney, who is playing soon at Citi Field here in New York in shows that sold out the stadium in less than five minutes. This is apropos since Paul, as a member of a little band called The Beatles, was part of the first concert ever held in a stadium. For those of you too young to know or remember, Paul and his mates played to a packed house at Shea Stadium back in 1965. Now, the first concert ever at Citi Field will feature Sir Paul.

No matter how wonderful the Jonas Brothers or any of these other acts are today, I don’t think any single one of them could sell out a large stadium like that. If you want to do that, you need the old boys to have top billing: McCartney can still do it, Springsteen too, and maybe Bon Jovi or the Rolling Stones if they come around again.

So, as I sat there this weekend looking at my daughter’s posters on the wall, I thought about the posters on the wall of my sister’s and my room over thirty years ago. So much has changed since then, and now Farrah is not just one of Charlie’s Angels but something much more, and Michael is somewhere between here and Alpha Centauri, no doubt dazzling the heavens with his sparkling glove and socks, singing with that ethereal voice and dancing a moonwalk as a now eternal boy-man who is and ever will be a blazing comet across the sky.

In pace requiescat, Farrah and Michael.

Thursday, January 1, 2009

Christmas Stocking Tales


The stockings were hung by the chimney with care;
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.
-Clement Clarke Moore


As I sat pensively staring out the window this Christmas morning, I was holding my week-old son in my arms and giving him a bottle. This oft-repeated act done by parents the world over for centuries in and of itself was satisfying, but I couldn’t help but drift back to my own childhood memories.

Christmas has always been about family for me, even on those Christmases when I was not able to be in New York. The tug of the power of home was always greatest at this time of year, and I suspect that this is the same for many people. Above all for me it was being able to celebrate with my parents, grandparents, sisters, aunts, uncles, and cousins as we had done every year since I was a boy. Any break in that tradition caused much angst as I scrambled to find (in those dark ages before cellular phones and e-mail) a payphone to call home.

There is a layering of Christmases past for me, sort of like an onion tree ornament that can be peeled off to reveal each year. Sometimes they coalesce and the good memories are revealed in an array of colors fanning out in my mind: the twinkling lights, the ubiquitous carols playing somewhere in another room, the clinking of plates and utensils, the hoisting of drinks and toasts made, the reverberations of laughter from grandparents and aunts and uncles now long gone but never forgotten.

Christmas has never been the same since my mother passed away in May 2006. I have tried to get into the holiday spirit as best as I can. I hang the stockings on the mantel, remembering how she did this for me as a child, and I feel a tug on my heart as I watch the lights reflecting off the vibrant reds and dark greens in the fabric, knowing Mom is with me even if she is not here.
So, as I sat giving my infant son a bottle, I counted my blessings. I sat in a warm house with a fire in the hearth. Numerous presents for my son and daughter rested under the tree waiting to be opened, and the music played softly in another room just as it always had in my youth. Just as my son finished his bottle and I prepared to hoist him onto my shoulder for a gentle patting to illicit his passing of gas, Nat King Cole’s “The Christmas Song” drifted across the room and I felt a shiver of all those who were gone being present with me, seeing my son in his infancy and knowing how truly life goes on.

I recalled my father’s father telling me of the poverty he escaped from. One of eight brothers and sisters, my grandfather lived in a tenement on the Lower East Side of Manhattan as a boy in the 1890s. There was no fireplace; there was no heating system. It was known as a “cold water flat” and they had a small coal heater in the kitchen and a stove. Strangely enough, the bathtub was also in the kitchen, which was obviously the center of family life in more ways than one. When he needed to use the toilet, he had to go all the way down the hall and hope that no one from the other five apartments on his floor was in there using it.

My grandfather slept in the same bed with this three brothers until he was old enough to get out of the house. He had to make his way in the world early on because his father died when he was in third grade, so that ended his educational journey and started him on the road to working for the rest of his life. In the summer the rooms were unbearably hot, but he and his brothers could escape the heat by going upstairs and jumping into the water tower on the roof (apparently all these buildings had them as a way to fight fires in those days). The roof was also a place to play games, including one in which they released rats caught in the traps each night. My grandfather laughed as he recalled he and his brothers emptying at least ten traps each day into the street below from the rooftop. Pity the person walking by at the time.

Christmas was a bleak time in the tenement. They never had a tree in the apartment, but the brothers would each hang an old sock on one of the bedposts in hopes of getting something from Santa Claus. They believed in celebrating the religious aspect of the day, and my grandfather said the night before Christmas always involved the whole family going to visit his grandmother’s apartment in Brooklyn. Even though the famed Brooklyn Bridge was new in those days, the family preferred walking across the East River to get to Williamsburg, since each year the river froze over so solidly that it was a safe and fast path to Norna’s house. They would all go to Mass that morning and then have a modest dinner with Norna in the afternoon. Meat was rarely available, but fish and polenta were to be had and bowls of tapioca pudding for dessert.

When he returned to the apartment every year after the trip back across the frozen river, my grandfather would run into his room to check the tattered stocking that he had hung from the bedpost. Somehow Santa found a way to put a peppermint stick in the sock, and sometimes a ball or new pair of socks. Believe it or not, my grandfather thought he was blessed to get these gifts and smiled in his old age as he recalled the happiness of getting anything in those austere times.

My grandfather never felt deprived about his Christmases past and, like I feel now, he seemed to think wistfully of those days and wished he could revisit them once again. As I sat there this morning, I felt amazed at how far our family had come from those times. My parents had raised us well in a comfortable home, providing us with opportunities for college and graduate school. As I looked into my son’s eyes, I felt fortunate that I could provide him with everything I had and, hopefully, a good deal more.

When my daughter and wife came downstairs and the presents began to be torn open, I placed my son in his bassinet and went over to the fireplace, staring at his and my daughter’s brimming stockings. I touched mine and it too was filled very well, but at the top a solitary candy cane glistened in the Christmas lights. I understood my grandfather’s happiness and felt blessed in so many more ways than I could ever be able to count at that moment.

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good 2009!