Friend Me

A couple of weeks ago, here’s what I posted:

“Going to write a blog on Facebook etiquette. Suggestions of what to include?”

Here’s what was posted back:

1)    Use punctuation/ no crazy capitalization

2)    No politics

3)    No posting about standing in line at Target

4)    Be wary that once it’s out there, it’s OUT THERE (oops, broke rule #1 already)

5)    “Thank you notes” (no idea what this person meant)

6)    No pics of your meal

While I respect my friends' opinions, I had a hidden agenda I didn't reveal.  And they were honestly responding.

(Thanks, Fernando.  Looks yummy.)

In terms of these thoughts, I think things like... 

1) Someone believing that George Bush was a good president can always be hidden. 

2) Meal pics can only be considered somewhat fascinating b/c, at least in our family, we merely eat the same things over and over and over.  What someone else eats always looks Fresh & Inventive. 

3) In terms of the Target line, I’m interested. I even want to know what’s in your cart.  Or, are you carrying a basket?  Anything Snoopy in the dollar section?

In order to get real reactions, I failed to write what motivated the question in the first place. 

I had just reached out to a childhood friend who had failed to return the reaching.  It hurt.

I know.  Had I, instead, posted: Why doesn’t someone respond when an old friend reaches out, here may have been some of the replies:

1)    People have LIVES.  If you haven’t HEARD FROM SOMEONE IN 20 YEARS, there’s a REASON. 

2)    It’s the same old thing on FB, once you find out how many kids someone has and if they’ve battled any diseases, you go back to being fine without them.

But, here’s the knee-jerk reasons I came up with for being ignored:

1)    This person never liked [me]

2)    [My] memories of the friendship are f-ed up

3)    [I’m] pathetic for even giving a shit

4)    Via my home page, this person realizes I’m gay, and while it’s trendy to accept me, gays still freak her out or, worse, she thinks I had a crush on her. (No, sorry).

A few days after incessantly checking to see if she’d finally responded (never), I changed my list of reasons she didn’t.  Be aware, I'm pained--

1)    She’s an asshole

2)    She’s a huge asshole

3)    Her asshole has an infection that’s reached her bloodstream

4)    She’s dying of Assholitus

If I were Queen of the World, this would be my only rule to Facebook Etiquette…

If someone reaches out, reach back.  The world’s a fucking scary place.  Considering all the problems inherent in something seemingly stupid like Facebook, life is somehow less lonely when you’re at least cyberly connected to people you loved or once did.  For God’s sake, just friend me, then hide me.  Tell your real friends what a loser I am.  I’ll never know.  What would it hurt?

After a week of angsting, I read one of those life-quotes people like to post. 

“Be kind.  People are fighting a battle you know nothing about.” 

Who knows the reasons people don't reach back.  Or merely why she didn't.

She could be fighting many battles, for all I know.  After all, I haven't talked to her in 20 years.

It's not an easy topic

            The whole Trayvon Martin tragedy underscores the fact that we can’t hide behind “Well we have the fist black president” thing.  Sadly, I, too, needed the Trayvon Martin/ George Zimmerman reminder that racism is still a horrible reality.  

            I, too, hid behind, “Look how much progress we made!  The first black president!”  What an awesome day that was when Barack Obama put his hand on the bible and swore to defend the constitution.  Truly.  Even thinking about it is amazing. 

            It meant racism was over, right?

            Uh, guess not.  And it’s not just racism that isn’t over.  It’s homophobia. It’s anti-semitism.   It's ageism.  It’s children still being programmed to turn to the man in the room to make a decision.  Because he’s the man. 

               Each year I have Hispanic students tease classmates who have darker shades of brown skin.  The first time it happened in my classroom I found it completely absurd.  Since it pretty much happens every year, at one time or another, the absurdity has unfortunately become commonplace.  When it happens, I get so frustrated because I feel like my students need to “unlearn” bigotry.  My job is to teach them.  Not to unteach them.    

            Something weird happened in the early 1990’s.  I was working at a coffee shop when this new girl was hired. Let’s call her Anja. 

            Anja seemed nice and really cool and I liked her.  She was funny and smart and she laughed at my dumb jokes.  She appreciated some of the pranks my coworkers and I would instigate like when, in the middle of July, we’d change the shop music to Christmas music just to see if anyone would notice.  (About half.)

            Shortly after meeting her, as we were getting to know each other, Anja informed me that she was born in Germany.  I had never met anyone who was born in Germany, even though my heritage is half German and half Russian. 

            After she told me this, I had this really weird reaction to Anja.  All of a sudden, well, she? Pissed me off?  I suddenly disliked her, but I didn’t know why.  I didn’t understand my own reaction.  I stopped talking to her so much and, instead, found myself waiting for her to start conversations.  I waited for her to take control of our exchanges, which she eventually did.  But nothing she said satisfied me.  It was like I was waiting for her to say something specific. 

            Oddly, at some point, I finally realized I was waiting for an apology?  It was so strange to admit.  Why the hell did I want this from Anja?  Anja did nothing to me.  She wasn’t even alive during the Holocaust.  Also, I am not what they call a practicing Jew, although I could use some practice.  What the hell was wrong with me?  I wanted her to apologize?    

            Whatever was wrong with me, I couldn’t deny that this is exactly what I wanted from Anja.  I wanted some kind of acknowledgement that the Holocaust happened and that her ancestors may have been involved.  Was her grandfather one of the reasons my cousin had to be thrown over a fence to live with another family in order to survive?  Did one of her uncles or a great uncle, maybe, flick the switch that cued the gas?  Did one of her ancestors brutalize one of mine?

            Anja and I did become friends, but not close ones.  I never disclosed to her anything about my feelings.  Instead, I just judged myself for having them.  What may have helped, however, would have been if we could have at least talked about the atrocity that occurred in her country of origin, to my ancestors.  Maybe if we could have just acknowledged that it sucked I may have felt better.  Something.

            I feel sorry to people who are targets of racism.  I am sorry.  I’m sorry that perhaps some of my ancestors had some of their ancestors as slaves.  I’m sorry that people who have darker skin are not treated equally.  I, too, have been socialized to have inappropriate, unfair reactions to people with darker skin. 

            As in the scenario President Obama illustrated in his speech, I imagine myself in an elevator when a large, dark man enters.  Perhaps I’m alone.  Any man would make me a bit on edge.  Would I be more on edge if he was dark?  Would it have been better if he was short?

            I refuse to succumb.  I want to look at him in the eyes.  I want us both to decide to unlearn what we have learned.  I want us to define how people should behave.  I want us to live in this moment: the one that we create. I refuse to acknowledge the forces that encourage me to be afraid of you, I want to tell him, and I can only hope that you refuse to assume that I am. 

            I want the dialogue to continue.  I do think that the nation as a whole needs to formally apologize to African Americans and anyone else with dark skin for the treatment of blacks.  I’m sure there exists some time in history when such an apology may have been issued.  Whoever did this apology, whenever it was, I don’t think it was enough.  The Trayvon Martin murder brought too much pain to the surface for it to have ever been enough.  

On the cutting room floor

Chapter 2:

Making Mudpies

January, 1976

The mud in the backyard of the house isn’t all that great for digging--making mud pies, things like that.  You stir the dry ground with a stick and try hard to get some sort of creamy concoction by adding water from the faded hose into the empty margarine container with the pale-yellow, floral design.  You want the mixture to look like cake batter does when they cook cake on TV—how smooth it all is when it enters the cake pan and folds on top of itself like an accordion--no lumps.  That's the consistency you’ve been hoping to make for a long time now.  It’s 1976 (year of the bicentennial--woohoo!) as you sit in that suburban Cincinnati backyard.   Your thick, dull, brown, seven-year-old hair flies in your face (rubber bands never hold when you're little) while you stir a slice of the earth with a stick.

All you get are clumps.

Thud.  Andy’s in the backyard with Pete.  Thud.  They toss a tennis ball back and forth and catch it in their mitts.  They do this for a long time.  Mother won’t let them throw a hard ball anymore because of the two broken windows.  Mother says they’re lucky they didn’t demolish Nana's antique green, glass vase that was behind the second window that broke.  Thud.  Mother said it almost became a casualty too.  (It has air bubbles in it, but she still likes it!)  Nope, no more hardballs.  Andy’s relieved anyway; Mother has a habit of making him real nervous about breaking another window.  So, throwing a hardball isn't an option any more ever since he broke the second one (even though it was Pete who broke it, Andy took the blame.  Andy didn’t want to give Mother an excuse to be mad at Pete).  It’s all about tossing tennis balls in the backyard now.  

Thud.  They throw the ball with such seriousness--their faces tight, as if what they’re doing is real important.  Thud.  Sometimes they talk while they toss--about girls, about school, about kids they hate, baseball.  Sometimes they talk so much and with such enthusiasm, they talk over each other, try to out-loud the other, out-fast-talk the other, and eventually out-gross-out the other.  Sometimes they don’t talk at all and all you hear are the thuds.

During their time in the backyard, they transform into professional baseball players.  You must sell concessions: “Get your ice-cold chocolate cake HE ERE!  Get your ice-cold chocolate cake!  Come for your ice-cold chocolate cake while I eternally try to get all the lumps out!  Meanwhile, it’s icy-cold, clumpy cake!  Get your ice-cold cake!”

(not me.)

Sometimes, when Pete doesn’t show, you get to toss. You and Andy transform into famous athletes.  You can be anybody, not just baseball players.  The only rule is that if he chooses a tennis player, you have to be a tennis player.  If he chooses a baseball player, likewise.  That’s the only rule: you have to stay in the same sport.  You always choose the same ones over and over and over again.  In baseball, he’s Johnny Bench, you’re Pete Rose.  Tennis: he’s John McEnroe, you’re Jimmy Connors.  Football: he’s Terry Bradshaw, you’re O.J. Simpson.

These are good people!  Admirable!  Role models. 

While you play, the fans stare at you.  They root, they cheer.  If you’re in trouble during a game, you go to the side of the yard and listen to the pathetic looking tree with half-eaten apples.  This pretend-manager gives you pointers.  You look down real serious.  You listen.  You nod.  You consult like this when you’re way behind.

On Saturdays, when Andy has a game, you bring your mitt.  It’s different from when kids bring their mitts to professional games: when a kid who brings a mitt to a professional game, it's because the kid is trying to catch a ball--keep a souvenir.  That’s not what you try for at Andy’s game.  You don’t need any souvenir. (Plus, no use in catching a hardball to keep when you’re not even allowed to throw them at home: thanks, Pete!) 

No, the reason you bring your mitt to Andy’s game is completely different: you bring your mitt hoping upon hope that one day you’ll need it.  One day, Andy's baseball team might just happen to be one player short and instead of calling off the whole thing—the whole game—there’ll be some really big reason why they can’t call off the whole thing, and Andy’s coach will look into the bleachers, desperate, as he searches for some way to solve this problem.  Luckily, he’ll just happen to see you with your mitt, t-shirt, and gym shoes, ready to play!  He’ll nod you on. He’ll put you in the outfield and maybe you’ll catch the third out! Time to bat--there are two outs, bottom of the ninth, you’re up, and you know the rest. Pretty soon you’re on the cover of the local newspaper, Sports Illustrated, even People.

For your television interview, you jaunt down a lush backyard in springtime with Barbara Walters. The two of you skip happily through a field of fresh daffodils.  During a pause in the interview, you stop to pick up a flower and hand it to her.  As you do, she asks when it was you knew you were so gifted.  "Let's talk about you, Barbara," you say.  “Did you ever consider speech therapy?”

Thus the reason for the mitt.   So far, you haven’t had much luck, but bring it anyway.  The coach never seems to notice you at all, much less consider you a sub.  One time a kid came late, but the coach just planned on playing without him.

Since you go to the trouble of bringing it (the mitt), there’s a lot of time to toss a ball up in the air and catch it.  When Dad comes, sometimes he tosses with you, on the side of the ball field.  Sometimes, he looks right at you when you toss.  Sometimes he mysteriously smiles your way and you smile back.  Like Mom, you’re not sure if he’s looking at you or past you.  But sometimes you and Dad share a Moment.  Most of the time, though, he looks to see what’s going on in Andy’s game.  It’s okay.   

Mom doesn’t like it--your mitt.  She never really says this, but it’s easy to tell.  Sometimes she fixes your hair while you sit in the stands next to her.  She un-wrinkles your t-shirt and sometimes licks her finger to try to dab out a spot in your jeans, or worse, your face.  She puts her arms around you real tight. Her hugging so tight makes it hard to catch the ball in your mitt, much less throw it; she holds your arms to your side so that you can’t move and you end up suffocating both the mitt and the ball.  The ball suffocates and dies inside the mitt, despite your attempts to let it breathe.  You wonder if Mother realizes this.  You wonder if she realizes she’s killing something.  

Jack

We tend to make the dead into heroes they never were.  And, largely, our dog Jack was a pain in the ass.  He was constantly barking for us to feed him: we joked that he had Prader-willi syndrome: a bizarre human illness that manifests itself in never feeling full.  It must be a horrible disease to truly have: parents end up padlocking cabinets and refrigerators from children who suffer from this.  If Jack had paws that gripped, we’d have had to do the same thing.

Allegedly, I enabled Jack.  Whenever he barked, as the story goes, I fed him.  This is a bit of an exaggeration, though not much of one.  When he was small, I would get up twice in the middle of the night (yes twice) to feed him because I’d convinced myself that he had “low blood sugar.”  I concluded this based on nothing.  I felt he told me this with his expressive eyes.  One day Diane turned to me and said, “He has you so fooled.”  From then on, I only woke ONCE in the middle of the night, probably something I didn’t need to do either.  I guess I remained a fool/ enabler.

Part of this was because he was hard to resist.  We forced his cuteness on people, making them admit things like he was “the cutest dog [they’d] ever seen.”  He was always so happy that he made other people happy.  His tail would wag so fast that I would wonder: 1) how it was that anything could be so happy, and 2) what was there to be so happy about?  I remember being sent home early from work on 9/11.  Who was the only thing smiling that day?  Jack.  I guess he was just glad to see me.

He wasn’t just cute, he was a true hero.  And we knew this during his life, not after his death.  This is because on an average morning in 2008, with two leashless and hungry pitbulls facing Diane, Jack leapt in front of her to sacrifice himself and protect his pack, in this case a pack of one: Diane.

I can still hear Diane’s scream as I reached for my other shoe in the closet on that morning.  Without successfully grabbing it, I ran outside and instinctively scooped Jack up in my hands.  Because of the one shoe, I awkwardly ran to my neighbor’s house who rushed us to the emergency animal hospital.

In sacrificing himself, the pitbulls had peeled Jack’s skin like the outside of an orange.  His condition was touch-and-go, but one month and thousands of dollars later, Jack was back home and, almost, as good as new.

But Jack wasn’t as good as new even before the attack: he was a medical lemon. His file at the Marina Del Rey vet’s office was—quite literally—the thickest one they had.  (The vet said it wasn’t right when the file weighs more than the patient).

Always smiling (truly) and hungry, Jack developed every affliction that yorkies are known to get, and then some.  As a baby, he had major surgery on his liver because of his liver shunt.  He was on special food for his entire life.  He developed an enlarged heart, joint problems, cataracts, skin allergies, various benign tumors, and had to have his system flushed from having eaten grapes (our fault: not inherited).  Oh, he was also born with double teeth.  While under sedation for the liver, the doctor plucked out a row at no cost to us.  In the end, what made his life unbearable was a collapsed trachea.  The specialist said it was the worst she’d ever seen.   By the end of his life, we were spending at least $100 a month on his nine different medications and he had to get a semi-annual echocardiogram which was no fun to pay for either.   In tallying up his bill, it seems he owes us just over $34,000.  (Yes, this is a guess).

Here’s a little bit about our guy that almost made him worth the money: Jack loved to lick, especially our feet.  He loved to protect his family.  As noted before, he loved to eat.  I envied his (and most dogs’) easy happiness.  He added fun and love to our family.

Just a few highlights we’ll always remember…

• The day we got him I lay the floor and he jumped all over me.  He was like a black cotton ball.  
• Taking him to a 5-star hotel in San Diego and seeing him prance around like he owned the place
• The day Jack found (and luxuriated in) our neighbor’s 10-pound bag of dogfood (jack crapped and vomited for days thereafter).
• Seeing him fall asleep with a stuffed animal lodged in his mouth.
• Taking him to work with me at a Santa Monica office and having Kevin Nealon pet him.  
• Joking that Jack was in love with his female vet only to have her literally comment, “I think he’s flirting with me!” to which Diane and I cracked up.  
• Coming up with millions of nicknames for him.  We used to keep a list and there are too many to remember: Bob Crane the fat hen & Crazy licker pup are two that pop in my mind.  His lifelong nickname, though, was simply “Pie.”  We called him Pie just as much as we called him Jack.  
• Having him escape a closed-in area while Diane was working with a client.  The client didn’t just get to see Jack run through the house, the client got to see Jack run through the house with a pair of my underpants in his mouth…
• Jack’s instinctual love and protection of Bryan.

The day we got Jack from the horrible lemon breeder, he was six-weeks old.  The lady with large glasses had bathed him before we came, so she handed him to me wrapped in a towel.  “We’ll take good care of him,” I promised, presuming that she’d care.

Instead, I should have directed my comment to him.   “We’ll take good care of you, Jack,” I should have told him.  And, if he could speak he’d have promised the same thing to us.

Despite not having this exchange, this is exactly what happened: we took care of Jack just as much as he took care of us.  What a dog.    

Look back at those pics... he really was the cutest dog ever.  Am I right or am I right?...

An Unlikely Tour Guide

Dear Visitor to Planet Earth:

I’m happy the Big Black Woman in the Sky assigned me as your tour guide, even if by default.  Unfortunately for you, Julie from Love Boat was NoWheretobeFound  (NWtbF or MIA) (Perhaps somewhere around Seattle…).  She would definitely have had an element of Perkiness (and pleasantry) that I don’t.

The next choice for Alien Ambassador was Oprah, who could have eloquently clued you in on many a’ life lesson, but she’s busy realizing she should never have given up her talk show and started a dumb network.  Turns out, this realization is taking her quite the while (QTW)! 

Third in line to tour you around our Endangered Lands was Gene Wilder, but he just wanted to introduce you to all kinds of candy and this might have given you the Misimpression that everything in these parts is Sweet, (aka it ain’t).  Additionally, he had a hair appointment. 

Because every other human being on the face of the Earth (FOTE) was asked to chaperone you and all declined, my version of God then turned to me.  I felt bad for you and didn’t want you to return back to your planet without any kernels of earth knowledge… souvenirs per se-- 

Today I thought I’d indoctrinate you to what we on Earth like refer to as a little thing called an Amusement Park.   Just to prepare you, it will basically be an overpriced, overcrowded space where parents walk their children around on pseudo leashes masked as backpacks, and even if you get there right when “the park” opens, the bathrooms will (somehow) already be filthy.  

This is the Big Picture, as it were.   The rest are merely details. 

I ain’t no Oprah, but today as we go around, I’d like to share with you my own little Bits o’  Wisdom about life here on Earth.    

First things first: no matter where you go on the planet, someone is always sweeping something.  Either sweeping or vacuuming or waxing supermarket floors or blowing f-ing leaves near a door you need to enter.  These are all, largely, Interchangeable Occurrences (except the leaf blower adds a Loudness Factor that makes it particularly enticing). 

Currently, as you can see, this person with the oversized, rectangular broom is half-assedly pushing a glorious mixture of garbage, dirt, and water right near my feet, with no acknowledgement or concern that I would prefer that this blend of shit and debris not decorate my shoes, no matter how unlovely they might be.

Because Mr. and Mrs. Slow Family (who didn’t feel like lingering in the Costco aisle today) insist on, instead, lingering smack dab in the middle of Amusement Park Way, there’s no real room to escape the unpleasantry of the large, dirty broom pushing the trash near our feet.  Odds are you will not end up not getting crap on your any of your three shoes, but the worry of It All, and the Lack of Space, and the Unmaneuverability around the Costco Bunch, is just the beginning of the Amusement in the Park. 

Another Fun Fact regarding the Beauty of the AP (we humans like acronyms) is its unnerving similarity to that DMV place I was telling you about.  

First notice the 3-hours-long-line filled with hot people (not in the cute sense) stretched around the corner, waiting for the 23-second ride.  Next, cast your gaze on the employee in charge of helping people in and out of the roller coaster cars.  Notice how she’s in absolutely no hurry At All (ANHAA).  See how she chats with the little children and fixes her hair and checks her phone.  Watch how she converses with the Maintenance Guy (these rides could break at any moment: fyi, they are life-threatening, to add to the Happiness of it All) and kindly finishes her conversation, adding a coy smile before she trudges over, carefully, to get the next group of people to enter the potential last ride of their lives.  Yes, she could go through this line in half the time if she’d only wait to apply her lipstick until after the shift.  Thing is, she worries about the risks of melanoma and convinces herself the gloss (in addition to being lovely) is ample protection. 

Let’s saunter over to the Snack Shack, Shall we?  Yes, the hot dog is $8.00 and, indeed, the drink is 5 more (yes, the small).  We here in the P.E. (Planet Earth) have a little phenom called “HA!  YOU”RE TRAPPED!” aka (HYT).  This injustice is most visible in places like parks of amusement, airports, stores in hotels, and small pharmacies.   When you go to pay for your LOI (largely overpriced item) the sales clerk isn’t even kind enough to share that knowing glance that the both of you know that you are LBRO.  Largely Being Ripped Off!  You see, to acknowledge the injustice would mean that the salesclerk realizes that he or she is participating in it, and that is just too much honesty on Earth (TMHOE). 

What are you doing?  You want to go home?  But there’s so much more to show you!  This is the Happiest Place on Earth.  If you’re not happy here, I have no f-ing idea what to show you.  Also, don’t leave before going on a ride!  Yes—the one over there.  How does it work?. You stand on it, they saunter over to strap you in, and it goes 73 miles in the air and flips you over and over until your stomach plummets back down sans your body (a little thing we like to call gravity). 

Wait!  Don’t fly away!  Come back!  Don’t just climb back on that Spaceship!  Get back on the horse.  Don’t leave me here!  I’m coming with you—what’s it like there, anyway--WAIT_____________

Are they really FRIENDS?

Are these really friends, these WWF associates who beat you shamelessly time and time again, only to keep challenging you to further wording duels with merely one goal in mind: to cement your level of embarrassment?  Aren’t these truly (by definition) enemies (a real word, by the way), these alleged wordsmiths, and (come on!) shouldn’t it rather be called the WWE(nemies), instead of F?  Am I a masochist for continually agreeing to lose AGAIN?  (Hit me some more!)

The challenge I choose to embrace is not whether or not I can successfully place my Z in a triple-word square or whether I can find a use for a J at the end of an existing word and use it to begin my new word.  Nor do I choose to define myself by how many successive games I am miraculously able to lose! (Lookout Guinness!)

(does this lady just casually walk in for a manicure to places that accept walk-ins?)

…the real challenge I find is how to incorporate these pseudo/bizzaro words that WWF has blessed as acceptable into real life—namely, mine. 

In the next week, I hope to use the following “words”...

1.     QI means… apparently it’s a variant of “chi.”  It doesn’t even have it’s own definition!  Instead, the online dictionary only defines it’s “variant,” CHI. Definition of CHI: vital energy that is held to animate the body internally and is of central importance in some Eastern systems of medical treatment (as acupuncture) and of exercise or self-defense (as tai chi) Variants of CHI chi or ch'i also qi Origin of CHI Ch (Beijing) qì, literally, air, breath.  First Known Use: 1850. 

How I plan to use it: don’t mess with my QI.  OR, Can I get a grilled QI sandwich? Or, my brother’s fraternity was called Theta-Qi.

2.     Definition of AG (adjective) : of or relating to agriculture <ag schools> First Known Use of AG circa 1918

How I plan to use it: “Because I have a blue thumb, and the 99cent store plant my student got me died the same day she gave it to me (after it had been transPLANTED to my care), I would never pursue AG study.

3.     Op is short for optical art and also... abbr operation; operative; operator, operation, opus.

My near-future use: “I’m having an awesome op today!”  I hope the listener understands my intended meaning: I’m scheduled for a hysterectomy.  You see, to me, never having my period again would be awesome!  What an OPportunity!"
"

4.     Gan is passed tense of GIN, which is short for begin. 

My use: “It wasn’t long after my WWE’s game GAN that I GAN to lose.”

5.     Jane: Slang chiefly US a girl or woman.

My intended use: “Did she have a John or a Jane?”

There are more weird words I’ve discovered in the week and a half I’ve GIN to play WWE.  There’s lee and jo and da and ed and ne and zig and zag (not zigzag.  These are separate).

I’m too lazy to look them all up now because this jane OPts to GIN her AG so I don’t ‘sturb my QI.
 

I also don’t want to look them up now because it’s about that time to return to my newest addiction…  

ABA: Addiction, Bullying, and Abuse: Who's To Blame

A couple of months ago, a colleague of mine walked passed the little autistic boy at our school, “Ben.”  She saw what was going on—that he was being bullied.  She watched how NonAutistic kids, Normal Kids, Kids with Power, circled around him and pointed and laughed and mocked him.  She made it her business.  She intervened.  Here’s what she did: she talked to…

1)   the students who tormented him

2)   the young man in charge of the after-school program

3)  our principal

4)  Ben’s teacher

Weeks later, Ben’s face got bloodied and bruised from bullying during that same after-school program.  She said she felt like Joe Paterno.  What if Ben’d been killed?  No, not dramatic: shit like this happens.

Before all this, I had jumped on the “Joe Must Go” bandwagon.  F-him.  He KNEW about it?  Then I learned of my colleague’s experience and it somehow made sense to me that Joe Paterno must have (mistakenly) trusted that after having talked to his Supervisor, some sort of investigation must have Happened, and it must have been determined that everything was OKAY.  Joe Paterno must have trusted that People in Power took the Responsibility they were Supposed to.  These people get Big Bucks for taking Responsibility.  (They even get big bucks when they don’t.)

My colleague/friend had also mistakenly trusted that things would Work Themselves Out after having relayed information to so many people, including the Head of our School.  They didn’t.  While Blatant Bullying of Ben has (apparently) ceased, just yesterday the Biggest Bully of them all (a little sociopathic twerp) stole Ben’s ball and kicked it over the fence.  I stuck my head in AGAIN.  I told the young man in charge of the program that it was time to kick out the Biggest Bully of Them All because he didn’t deserve the opportunity to get to play freely on the yard.  I have no idea what will happen.  I’m not the Young Man’s Supervisor.  I’m just trying to Intervene. 

I’m embarrassed to admit, that I also jumped on the Fire Everyone at Miramonte! Bandwagon, initially. Somebody had to know Something!  F them all!  Shame on them!  But after all I see going on right before my eyes at my own school, I realize how possible it is that some teachers did express concerns about the Pedophile to their supervisor.  After having done so, teachers must have trusted that People in Power took the Responsibility they were supposed to and Investigated Properly.

What are we teachers expected to do?  Should we bypass our Supervisors and call the police?  I’m tempted to call them for the bullying episodes.  But I’m not in charge and I don’t get the big bucks that go along with it, either.   What’s happening is that people who should be taking responsibility, often aren’t.  It’s easier not to.  It’s easier to live life, I guess, wrongly hoping that things will Work Themselves Out.

The other night at a school function for my son, my partner and I were saddened to notice that a mother of one of the kids in his class was drunk off her ass.  We felt it necessary to talk to people at the school—a responsible teacher who would tell the principal.  Was the drunk mom driving her kid home?  After having talking to a Teacher we Trust, we let go of the situation.  What were we supposed to do, call the police?

It was sad, though, to think of the little girl in our son’s class.  She needs someone to Intervene too.  She needs someone to take Responsibility.  I had flashes of the children of alcoholics I know.  Sadly, who knows when and if such an intervention will take place for my son’s classmate.  Her probable childhood experience also flashes through my mind.  

Whitney Houston And (probably) many of her doctors who perhaps Freely wrote many a prescription for this notable Addict,  as well as the Bullies at my school and their Parents, and Those in Charge at Places of Education, and Alcoholic Parents are largely the ones not taking Responsibility for all of the Sh*t that’s going on.  Taking Responsibility is hard but Must be Done.  

By Removing the entire staff at Miramonte Elementary, our Superintendant tried to show that he was Doing Something.  For that, I don’t fault him.  What he did was Entirely Wrong, but at least he acted.  Hopefully, he will realize or remember, that the tone of a school, an organization, a family is set by those in Charge.  Us underlings Do the Best We Can.  The tail can only wag the dog so hard and for so long.  All these wrongs need to be righted by those who have the Power to do so.  

I WILL INTERVENE, WILL YOU JOIN ME?

I want to start a revolution, that’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout.  I want to start a revolution, and I’m not Tracy Chapman.  I want to start a revolution.

(not me.  although I think we play on the same team.)

This school has a “No-Tolerance” Bullying “Policy,”

That school has a “No-Tolerance” Bullying “Policy.”

This organization has a “No-Tolerance” Bullying “Policy,”

That organization has a “No-Tolerance” Bullying “Policy.”

But, there’re a few problems. 

One: it’s merely a Policy.  Think about it.

Two: An organization is only as strong as its people. It’s really only as strong as its weakest person. 

Think of the weakest person you know.  Do you want something as important as an Anti-Bullying Policy to be left in the hands of this person?  Sigh.  If you only knew who I was picturing…  

There’s something inherently wrong with leaving the task of protecting our most vulnerable to any Organization’s Policy.

What am I talkin’ ‘bout?  A revolution.

Once upon a time, THIS WEEK, there was a Little Autistic Boy.  We’ll call him Ben.  The fact that Ben happens to be utterly adorable seems unimportant, but I feel compelled to toss it in.  Anyway, turns out, Ben has been bullied at my Happy Little Elementary School for Weeks on End.  But, you ask, Don’t you have an ANTI BULLYING POLICY?  Of course.  Also, Don’t you have a Fantastic Little School?  Yes, mostly.  Aren’t many of the teachers at your school unbelievably perceptive, caring, and good at what they do?  Indeed.  Isn’t your principal pretty good?  Well… yeeeees… And what about your assistant principal?  Don’t you say she walks on water?  I do. 

What happened, you ask?

It’s a Policy run by People, remember?  Imagine an unenforced policy in the hands of the weakest person you know and, well, little Ben gets taunted continually and, oh yeah, eventually beaten up.  Kids circle around and point at him.  They mimic him.  They have no understanding or appreciation for the fact that he has autism.  The kids rally around each other: they’ve found a common enemy!  It’s 50-pound Ben!  How Cool These Kids Are!  How Powerful!  What a Fantastic Common Enemy!  Let’s HURT BEN!

Policies can work, but sometimes don’t.  Organizations can be mostly strong, but not completely. 

Bullying is personal. 

Kids need to know that someone will DO something. 

Here’s my revolution: it’s the I WILL INTERVENE Coalition.  It’s not that my SCHOOL has an anti-bullying policy, it’s that I have an anti-bullying Commitment.  And I am not weak and I am not a policy.

 

What does this mean?  This means that I will keep my eyes and ears open.  I will be a safe place for a victim to go.  I will put my nose where it might not belong.  I will make any bullying MY BUSINESS.  I will inform whoever needs to be informed of any potential bullying situation.  If those “in charge” do not handle the situation, I will report it to the police. 

If this somehow became huge, then our coalition would be monumentally more powerful than any bully or any group of bullies.  Kids also need to identify themselves as “interveners.” 

It’s easy to look away.  It’s easy to make it someone else’s problem.  It’s easy to want to assume that a situation can rectify itself and that Kids Will Be Kids.  It’s easy to just figure or hope that anti-bullying policies are working.  Maybe some are, don’t know.  You know what’s not so easy?  Seeing Ben’s beaten-up face.  Picture the most innocent-looking kid you know with his face beaten up.  Meet Ben. 

And, guess what?  Ben’s parents don’t even advocate for him!  Know why?  Kids Will Be Kids, I guess?  They’re too busy?  Didn’t notice?  Don’t care?  I HAVE NO IDEA!

If they won’t, I will.  I WILL INTERVENE.  Will you?

I want to start a revolution, will you help?