Our first real goal getting to Louisiana was to get our kids registered in the charter school that served our new area. Louisiana has had, shall we say, "issues" with education in the recent past, not really making the national grade. I didn't want our kids, who had been in a very, very difficult district, to become bored and slack off, especially Brett, so I'd found this charter school that had ONE slot left in the 8th grade, none for 5th, but I was betting if we showed up with both kids, they'd take both. Then we had a dilemma. How to prove residency when we'd arrived only days before, and even if we hadn't, nothing is in our name since we're living with my uncle. The solution? Get Louisiana driver's licenses! Of course, some of that residency stuff may come into play, but we made a plan that if my uncle's information would be needed, we'd contact him. So Monday, we went with the goal of registering ourselves as drivers and our kids as students!
A little back story is necessary for this tale. Prior to leaving Illinois, I had the amazing idea to amass our social security cards, birth certificates, shot records for the kids, transfer papers from their schools into one folder. Yes, I AM a genius! When amassing these documents, I noted ONCE AGAIN that we only had the hospital copy of Scott's birth certificate. I marveled at that 16 years ago when he moved down to Illinois from Wisconsin and he was going for his driver's license there. I assured him they would want the certified copy his mom had never bothered to follow through on getting. They took the hospital copy. When we got our marriage license, I told him we'd need the certified copy. They took the hospital copy. I was starting to see how people vote "early and often" in Chicago. I again said he might want to get the certified copy before we left. He assured me they'd take the hospital copy.
As a Chicagoan (and then Chicago suburbanite), I'm used to DMV facilities with long, complex lines that are set in stone, even if you've stood in the wrong one for and hour. There is a sea of humanity and every nationality teeming while waiting at Chicago DMV faciliites. There's a separate person JUST to give information and get people in the correct line. What we entered was a small room with about 20 chairs mostly filled, three people waiting on individuals, no separate lines. Unfortunately, we'd brought the kids, so we were settled in for some whining. Luckily, one of the workers called up everyone who was just doing renewals and banged out a bunch of people. Soon enough, it was our turn. I'm good with my paperwork, all is wonderful! Scott? Not so much. They didn't take the hospital copy (DUH! That felt good.). I'll fill you in on what's needed to get your information from Cook County when you're outside the state in another posting. Turns out, they didn't need ANY proof of address. None, zippo, nada! I just TOLD them where we were living, and they TOOK MY WORD for it. I really didn't know what to make of that, so I sat there blankly. With my spanking new driver's license and voter registration--btw, I'm an organ donor too--we set off for the school.
When I registered my kids for school, not only were their birth certificates, social security cards, and immunization records required, we needed two bills with our names and addresses on them, one having to be our property tax bill, and a vial of blood. Oh, just kidding on that last one, but the registration gal was eyeing up my veins. I thought Louisiana would be no different. They are. We were ALL worried about proving residence, and they basically didn't care. Birth certificates and immunizations were necessary, but again, they didn't even LOOK at my driver's license. How TRUSTING and totally disconcerting. I was right about them taking both kids, whew! The principal is super nice, told us even before we filled out paperwork the kids could get free breakfast and lunch and to get supplies as needed. That was great, because this school has uniforms, granted, only khakis and navy or hunter green polos, but still, it's an expense. Plus, it took me an hour in Walmart to find things that fit, since kids here started August 8th, and everyone had picked everything over.
As most already know, Megan missed her first week of school due to hand, foot, mouth disease her brother lovingly shared with her. They were on the waiting list for the bus, but they are now riding that every day. Brett has found a friend who, thankfully, is a Boy Scout. We're still working on Megan finding both a buddy and a Girl Scout troop.
We're still a work in progress. Next up, I muster up a little outrage at Illinois!
Thursday, September 11, 2014
Friday, September 5, 2014
Our First Weekend
When last we left the intrepid Reynolds clan, they had arrived in Louisiana, unpacked their things, looked around at each other and mused aloud, "now what?"
We started to get to know our surroundings, explore the town a little, a very little. Franklin has a population, according to their website of just shy of 8,000 people. It just got a little closer to that magical number with the addition of we four souls. It does have more than one stop light, though. Things are more compacted than I would have thought, but there are also vast spaces in between, as the main output of this town was for a long time sugar cane. They will be harvesting it soon, and apparently the sweet smell of burning sugar fills the air. Recently, with offshore drilling, petroleum and all its by products have surged to out distance sugar cane as a main export. The drilling has led to more plants, and those have led to more people, more housing, a new hospital built. I think they anticipate more of a population boom in the next few years.
On Sunday, my uncle took us to his church. We thought our church was small! For my church friends who may see this, it's about 1/3 the size of PCOP. Fifty-two people were in attendance, the board told me, last week. We met some very nice people there, but when they heard we were from "IllinoiS" just south of Chicago, women fanned themselves and men said "whoo-ee" and shook their heads. I'm not sure if that means we're marked with an unholy sign or seen has having gotten out with our lives. In any event, they were quite nice, but the kids missed not having a fellowship time afterwards. One thing I found amusing was that the pastor kept encouraging us to hug certain individuals' necks. Aren't shoulders or arms just as good? Isn't really hugging a neck kind of dangerous? I'll have to figure that one out, because there were a number of people who were in need of this specific hugging.
Next, the tale of Monday brings registering the kids for school! And the DMV!
We started to get to know our surroundings, explore the town a little, a very little. Franklin has a population, according to their website of just shy of 8,000 people. It just got a little closer to that magical number with the addition of we four souls. It does have more than one stop light, though. Things are more compacted than I would have thought, but there are also vast spaces in between, as the main output of this town was for a long time sugar cane. They will be harvesting it soon, and apparently the sweet smell of burning sugar fills the air. Recently, with offshore drilling, petroleum and all its by products have surged to out distance sugar cane as a main export. The drilling has led to more plants, and those have led to more people, more housing, a new hospital built. I think they anticipate more of a population boom in the next few years.
On Sunday, my uncle took us to his church. We thought our church was small! For my church friends who may see this, it's about 1/3 the size of PCOP. Fifty-two people were in attendance, the board told me, last week. We met some very nice people there, but when they heard we were from "IllinoiS" just south of Chicago, women fanned themselves and men said "whoo-ee" and shook their heads. I'm not sure if that means we're marked with an unholy sign or seen has having gotten out with our lives. In any event, they were quite nice, but the kids missed not having a fellowship time afterwards. One thing I found amusing was that the pastor kept encouraging us to hug certain individuals' necks. Aren't shoulders or arms just as good? Isn't really hugging a neck kind of dangerous? I'll have to figure that one out, because there were a number of people who were in need of this specific hugging.
Next, the tale of Monday brings registering the kids for school! And the DMV!
Thursday, September 4, 2014
Day 3!
The final leg of our Louisiana Invasion Tour was fairly uneventful. Another lovely morning spent gathering our things and sweeping clean the breakfast offerings before walking the pooch in the green area, then saying farewell to Jackson, MS.
For some reason on this trip, we saw inordinate amounts of tire leavings on the highway. I mean I dodged large chunks many, many times on the way down. Just tonight, my very learned uncle who used to be CFO of a construction company said it's because they try to buy cheaper tires, which are retreads, since the new can cost $800-$1000 PER TIRE. In the hot weather, if tires aren't adequately inflated, they blow out. Interesting. Yes, this is what we talk about over dinner. You're jealous, I know.
Scott did do a fist pump out the window as we crossed into Louisiana, and I felt the same, but I wasn't rolling down the window, because it was 97 degrees, y'all (See what I did there? I'm TURNING!). The only real mishap was that about 45 minutes after we stopped for lunch, Megan and I both HAD to go to the bathroom. I mean HAD to. This undeniable urge hit while we were on this 50 mile long bridge, ok, maybe only 3 miles, but it FELT like 50. Even when we got off the bridge, there wasn't an exit for another five miles. The first one I saw, I drove off, hoping Scott saw me, because both Megan and I were to the point of tears. We stopped, leapt out of the car, I saw our Jeep pull in next to me, and I threw my car keys in the Jeep's general direction, then turning and running into the convenience store/gas station, hot on Megan's heels, with Coco keening in the distance. Scott said I almost hit the windshield.
After that, our phone GPS faithfully led us to the correct address, and we arrived in Franklin, LA, mostly unscathed. We unloaded all our crap, and are still trying to get settled. We've already had some adventures and mysteries that will be forthcoming. Stay along for the ride!
For some reason on this trip, we saw inordinate amounts of tire leavings on the highway. I mean I dodged large chunks many, many times on the way down. Just tonight, my very learned uncle who used to be CFO of a construction company said it's because they try to buy cheaper tires, which are retreads, since the new can cost $800-$1000 PER TIRE. In the hot weather, if tires aren't adequately inflated, they blow out. Interesting. Yes, this is what we talk about over dinner. You're jealous, I know.
Scott did do a fist pump out the window as we crossed into Louisiana, and I felt the same, but I wasn't rolling down the window, because it was 97 degrees, y'all (See what I did there? I'm TURNING!). The only real mishap was that about 45 minutes after we stopped for lunch, Megan and I both HAD to go to the bathroom. I mean HAD to. This undeniable urge hit while we were on this 50 mile long bridge, ok, maybe only 3 miles, but it FELT like 50. Even when we got off the bridge, there wasn't an exit for another five miles. The first one I saw, I drove off, hoping Scott saw me, because both Megan and I were to the point of tears. We stopped, leapt out of the car, I saw our Jeep pull in next to me, and I threw my car keys in the Jeep's general direction, then turning and running into the convenience store/gas station, hot on Megan's heels, with Coco keening in the distance. Scott said I almost hit the windshield.
After that, our phone GPS faithfully led us to the correct address, and we arrived in Franklin, LA, mostly unscathed. We unloaded all our crap, and are still trying to get settled. We've already had some adventures and mysteries that will be forthcoming. Stay along for the ride!
Day 2!
I know, I'm behind, story of my life.
I forgot to mention in day 1 that we all showered, despite the late hour, because, nitwits that we are, we had the gas shut off a day early. Yes, we apparently cannot read a calendar. After the day we'd had, it was a glorious shower, at least from my perspective. Day 2 was far easier than day 1. First, we left at a respectable 10am, and the time prior was relaxed, spent invading the breakfast area, replenishing road supplies, and checking Brett's temperature. At this point, we were thinking just a nasty cold still. We also made a reservation for Jackson, MS, because we knew with sick kid, we couldn't make it all the way to Louisiana in one day. I was actually outvoted in this respect, as my reasoning was "he's asleep anyway, MUSH!" The rest of the family--possibly including the dog too--threatened to leave me on the side of the road if I continued in this vein of thought.
It's a straight (and kinda boring) shot from Blytheville, Arkansas to Jackson, Mississippi. I like when there are directions to follow, but this was all one road. Blah. I will say, there was an interesting stop in the middle of nowhere. Some of us needed bathroom breaks, so in we trooped. It was a weird little spot. Half of it was a makeshift diner, and even though it was only 1ish, nothing was cooked, no smells of previous cooked items, no people in the few seats. Okaaaay. The other half was devoted to a register, two freestanding racks, and three cooler cases. The racks held your basic minor health remedies and snacks. They did not, however, have MY road food--Twizzlers. Don't judge, they're the perfect road food, no crumbs, nothing melting, gives you a sugar rush, and they're fun to play with. Oh, MUST be the long ones, no nips or bites or whatever the little ones are. Fine. Except they had a massive knife display. I mean big ones, skinny ones, jagged edged ones, pink ones, blue ones (would a knife be an appropriate baby shower gift in Arkansas?). Brett was, of course, begging for one. Um, no. On to get my caffeine rush. I'm not picky, but my faves for the road are non-carbonated. I like either iced tea that isn't Brisk or the Starbucks stuff in bottles. NEITHER! They had neither! One and one half of the cold area was taken over by BEER. They only had water, pop, and energy drinks (foul stuff). I'm not going to say there's a lesson learned there, but think of things what you will.
Once we got into Mississippi, things perked up. I think I counted eight colleges/universities according to signs on the road in Mississippi. I'm calling that the state of education from now on! We stayed at a lovely Holiday Inn Express right off the highway. Very new, very quiet, even with a dog, nice pool, friendly people, and immediately adjacent to Waffle House and Whataburger. That night for dinner, we decided to partake of local BBQ, however, and found The Hickory Pit. It was GREAT! Megan and I shared ribs (wet), and Scott had a pulled pork sammie. I was relieved they had unsweetened tea. However, we found out later there is apparently some Hershey pie thing they are known for, and we missed out! Guess we'll have to go back sometime. Brett was still feeling crappy, so we brought him home a chocolate chip waffle from "the House" that he didn't want to throw away, even when he could eat no more.
The next morning, Brett's fever had broken, and I encouraged him to come down for breakfast. It was there he showed us his hands, which suddenly had blisters. Dr. Google diagnosed hand, foot, mouth disease, saying it was generally no longer contagious after the fever broke. This hereby is my public apology of "I'M SORRY TO ALL THOSE IN BATHROOMS, REST STOPS, HOTELS, CONVENIENCE STORES I'M SURE MY SON CONTAMINATED. I WISH I COULD FIND 'PATIENT ZERO' AND SHAKE HIM." That felt good. In true Megan fashion that morning, she had charmed the front desk and breakfast people. There were individuals actively waiting for hot food while my daughter conned the breakfast area help into a bag for the excess of banana muffins she planned to take with her. Ugh.
Stay tuned for Day 3!
I forgot to mention in day 1 that we all showered, despite the late hour, because, nitwits that we are, we had the gas shut off a day early. Yes, we apparently cannot read a calendar. After the day we'd had, it was a glorious shower, at least from my perspective. Day 2 was far easier than day 1. First, we left at a respectable 10am, and the time prior was relaxed, spent invading the breakfast area, replenishing road supplies, and checking Brett's temperature. At this point, we were thinking just a nasty cold still. We also made a reservation for Jackson, MS, because we knew with sick kid, we couldn't make it all the way to Louisiana in one day. I was actually outvoted in this respect, as my reasoning was "he's asleep anyway, MUSH!" The rest of the family--possibly including the dog too--threatened to leave me on the side of the road if I continued in this vein of thought.
It's a straight (and kinda boring) shot from Blytheville, Arkansas to Jackson, Mississippi. I like when there are directions to follow, but this was all one road. Blah. I will say, there was an interesting stop in the middle of nowhere. Some of us needed bathroom breaks, so in we trooped. It was a weird little spot. Half of it was a makeshift diner, and even though it was only 1ish, nothing was cooked, no smells of previous cooked items, no people in the few seats. Okaaaay. The other half was devoted to a register, two freestanding racks, and three cooler cases. The racks held your basic minor health remedies and snacks. They did not, however, have MY road food--Twizzlers. Don't judge, they're the perfect road food, no crumbs, nothing melting, gives you a sugar rush, and they're fun to play with. Oh, MUST be the long ones, no nips or bites or whatever the little ones are. Fine. Except they had a massive knife display. I mean big ones, skinny ones, jagged edged ones, pink ones, blue ones (would a knife be an appropriate baby shower gift in Arkansas?). Brett was, of course, begging for one. Um, no. On to get my caffeine rush. I'm not picky, but my faves for the road are non-carbonated. I like either iced tea that isn't Brisk or the Starbucks stuff in bottles. NEITHER! They had neither! One and one half of the cold area was taken over by BEER. They only had water, pop, and energy drinks (foul stuff). I'm not going to say there's a lesson learned there, but think of things what you will.
Once we got into Mississippi, things perked up. I think I counted eight colleges/universities according to signs on the road in Mississippi. I'm calling that the state of education from now on! We stayed at a lovely Holiday Inn Express right off the highway. Very new, very quiet, even with a dog, nice pool, friendly people, and immediately adjacent to Waffle House and Whataburger. That night for dinner, we decided to partake of local BBQ, however, and found The Hickory Pit. It was GREAT! Megan and I shared ribs (wet), and Scott had a pulled pork sammie. I was relieved they had unsweetened tea. However, we found out later there is apparently some Hershey pie thing they are known for, and we missed out! Guess we'll have to go back sometime. Brett was still feeling crappy, so we brought him home a chocolate chip waffle from "the House" that he didn't want to throw away, even when he could eat no more.
The next morning, Brett's fever had broken, and I encouraged him to come down for breakfast. It was there he showed us his hands, which suddenly had blisters. Dr. Google diagnosed hand, foot, mouth disease, saying it was generally no longer contagious after the fever broke. This hereby is my public apology of "I'M SORRY TO ALL THOSE IN BATHROOMS, REST STOPS, HOTELS, CONVENIENCE STORES I'M SURE MY SON CONTAMINATED. I WISH I COULD FIND 'PATIENT ZERO' AND SHAKE HIM." That felt good. In true Megan fashion that morning, she had charmed the front desk and breakfast people. There were individuals actively waiting for hot food while my daughter conned the breakfast area help into a bag for the excess of banana muffins she planned to take with her. Ugh.
Stay tuned for Day 3!
Monday, September 1, 2014
On the Road. . . with my Family
We all had a difficult time saying goodbye to our home, packing up what little we could, and moving 1100 miles south. Immediately prior to the move, we tried to sell off some of our big items to try and fund the move. Side note, I LOATHE people who inquire about items, say they want to meet, set up a time, then don't show, don't contact again. They deserve to be roasted in the fires of hell. By me personally. Packing day, Scott did a great job of putting as much into the backs of the cars as possible, like a giant game of Tetris. Rear view mirrors, be damned! Brett decided to add sickness to our mix, with lounging on the couch complaining of headache, stomachache, and sporting a slight fever. We'd decided if we got out by 11am, we'd call it a win. It wasn't a win, but we were on the road by 2pm, and the rain had stopped, which was a bonus.
Coco was feeling anxious too. I don't know how to illustrate that I knew my dog had anxiety, but I knew he did. Whenever we stopped, he would cry and whine piteously when, in turn, so he wasn't left in the car, we'd go into bathrooms or to get things to eat. He was worse than the kids. Brett was delightfully silent, as he slept nearly the whole way. His illness was a bit of a blessing, as when we got to the hotel, he still wanted to sleep, so he stayed in the room with Coco when we went out for breakfast in the a.m.
Apparently, I don't take my kids to hotels enough, because both thought they had to use hand towels to dry themselves after showers. I don't know what their issues were, but I was too tired to argue. Housekeeping was probably more confused than I was.
Ask yourself when was the last time you drove for seven hours. Were you in your 20s or 30s? I bet you weren't in your 40s, because, as I discovered, in your 40s, seven hours of driving makes your back, your HANDS, your joints, all cry. And your eyes burn and sting if you're driving after dark in the south, because there are HUGE sections of road, miles and miles and miles where nothing is lit, and I mean nothing. Given all that, Scott and I decided we would stretch "day 2" into "day 2 and day 3" so we would be more likely to arrive with our family intact and not featured on the news. Day 1 ended in Blytheville, Arkansas, and we pushed that check out envelope to the laaaaaaaast minute, deciding to stop in Jacksonville, Mississippi for our next stay. It saved us a few hours less of "are we almost to the hotel yet" having banned Megan from asking if we were there yet.
More tomorrow!
Coco was feeling anxious too. I don't know how to illustrate that I knew my dog had anxiety, but I knew he did. Whenever we stopped, he would cry and whine piteously when, in turn, so he wasn't left in the car, we'd go into bathrooms or to get things to eat. He was worse than the kids. Brett was delightfully silent, as he slept nearly the whole way. His illness was a bit of a blessing, as when we got to the hotel, he still wanted to sleep, so he stayed in the room with Coco when we went out for breakfast in the a.m.
Apparently, I don't take my kids to hotels enough, because both thought they had to use hand towels to dry themselves after showers. I don't know what their issues were, but I was too tired to argue. Housekeeping was probably more confused than I was.
Ask yourself when was the last time you drove for seven hours. Were you in your 20s or 30s? I bet you weren't in your 40s, because, as I discovered, in your 40s, seven hours of driving makes your back, your HANDS, your joints, all cry. And your eyes burn and sting if you're driving after dark in the south, because there are HUGE sections of road, miles and miles and miles where nothing is lit, and I mean nothing. Given all that, Scott and I decided we would stretch "day 2" into "day 2 and day 3" so we would be more likely to arrive with our family intact and not featured on the news. Day 1 ended in Blytheville, Arkansas, and we pushed that check out envelope to the laaaaaaaast minute, deciding to stop in Jacksonville, Mississippi for our next stay. It saved us a few hours less of "are we almost to the hotel yet" having banned Megan from asking if we were there yet.
More tomorrow!
Sunday, August 17, 2014
NOLA July, 2008
I spent the month of July, 2008 in the city of New Orleans. My purpose there was to work. At the time, I was involved in a project for a company that made library and textbook management software. In the Recovery School District of New Orleans, they had (they said) over 300,000 books to be entered into the system and subsequently barcoded at about 12 different sites. This wasn't unusual, especially for large school districts, but what was different was that schools were closing and merging, even while we were there. Another difference is that normally there would be people like me to lead the project, then temps were hired who did the actual barcoding. In this case, some bright bulb decided HIGH SCHOOL STUDENTS could do this job just as well! Oh, and we're picking them up on a bus, so the day will start about an hour and a half late, end another hour and a half early, and if we have to switch schools when we're done with one, that will be another hour wait, but it was very important we finish on schedule. It wasn't pretty. Did I mention the vast majority of the schools weren't air conditioned? In July. In NEW ORLEANS?!
In retrospect, it's probably good the workers were high school kids. None of the schools we went to had done any organizing, even though they were told to by the district, and these kids had to search for, then heft huge piles of textbooks from various rooms to a holding area in order to get accurate counts and get everything encoded. These boys, 16, 17, and 18, were all Black. They had strong backs and youthful faces, and I teased them about being able to tell their football coach they'd done weight training for a month. They were getting paid $9/hour, good money for their ages. There were girls too, but over the course of the month, I found most of the people whom I worked well with were the boys, so most became "my" team members.
I still remember these boys. Kaelaun, whom we all fought over, because he was so particular about his work, with the cinnamon colored dreds, sinewy muscles of a young man in his prime with incongruous freckles sprinkled across his nose. Edward, with the beautiful green eyes, who at 16 had come out as gay, a difficult thing in the Black community, but was still a terrible flirt with the girls. Duane, whom I had to keep a watchful eye on, or he'd find a stack of books to hide behind and fall asleep. And Jamal. Oh, Jamal was my favorite. Other team members at my level didn't want him, because he wasn't quiet. He was twitchy, energetic, always rapping a little softly to himself. Unlike the other boys, he dressed for this hot and dirty work in khakis and polo shirts, because his girlfriend was on the project too, and he had a round head, like Charlie Brown. His movements made me think of my own son, who was 8 at the time. I let Jamal bring in an mp3 player, but I told him if it got too loud, or work didn't get done, he'd be forced to listen to MY ipod the next day, and I had country, opera, bagpipe music, no rap, though. He always followed my rules. If I needed something, I asked him, and he did it, no complaints. One day, he was assigned to another team, and the next day, he asked with a hurt look why I didn't want him. I had to reassure him it was an error. From then on, every morning when we assigned teams, he would announce he was on "Miss Donna's" team and stand next to me, hands on my shoulders, already a head taller than my 5'5" at 16.
Midway through were assigned to John McDonogh High School, known as John Mac to the neighborhood, where I had to fight with security to the point of calling the school district to be allowed to bring my much-needed scissors into the school. I guess I should have known it was a tough school then, but honestly, it looked like every other neighborhood in NOLA, some empty houses with FEMA symbols on the outsides, some renovated, some getting worked on, people on porches. There was a luncheonette a block away I walked to for air one sunny day at lunch time. I walked in, and all the student workers on my team were there. I started to walk back to the school, and Jamal appeared, suddenly desiring to walk back with me. We talked of things we had in common, grandmothers who'd helped raise us, fathers who were absent, scholarships that were needed to get to college, and he was simply good company. It wasn't until later that day, when I returned to my hotel, where the staff had taken to asking where I'd been that day, did I realize I was in one of the roughest schools in existence.
I think about Jamal a lot, as I watch my son inch closer and closer to Jamal's age then. I wonder if he ever got to LSU, how long he and his girlfriend lasted, if he kept the promise he made to me to always use protection and not have a baby until after he finished college (I liked him THAT much, I felt compelled to have that discussion). Mostly, these days, I wonder if he's still alive. I realize, when I talk to my son, that I don't have to have the kinds of conversations Jamal's grandmother had with him at 13. I don't have to tell my son that even twilight hours aren't safe to skateboard to the store for the contraband energy drinks he likes so much. I don't have to tell him he is immediately under suspicion because of the color of his skin. I also don't have to worry when he goes to the pool with his friends or plays outside with Nerf guns, pretending to be zombies, that some police officer or neighborhood do-gooder might see the plastic gun that spews only soft arrows as a threat to life and limb and lay him on the ground in a pool of his own blood. Those aren't conversations I have to have, simply because my son is white. They're conversations no one should have to have, and it needs to end. I wish I could know if Jamal is safe today, but really, there's only a 50/50 shot, and that saddens me to no end.
In retrospect, it's probably good the workers were high school kids. None of the schools we went to had done any organizing, even though they were told to by the district, and these kids had to search for, then heft huge piles of textbooks from various rooms to a holding area in order to get accurate counts and get everything encoded. These boys, 16, 17, and 18, were all Black. They had strong backs and youthful faces, and I teased them about being able to tell their football coach they'd done weight training for a month. They were getting paid $9/hour, good money for their ages. There were girls too, but over the course of the month, I found most of the people whom I worked well with were the boys, so most became "my" team members.
I still remember these boys. Kaelaun, whom we all fought over, because he was so particular about his work, with the cinnamon colored dreds, sinewy muscles of a young man in his prime with incongruous freckles sprinkled across his nose. Edward, with the beautiful green eyes, who at 16 had come out as gay, a difficult thing in the Black community, but was still a terrible flirt with the girls. Duane, whom I had to keep a watchful eye on, or he'd find a stack of books to hide behind and fall asleep. And Jamal. Oh, Jamal was my favorite. Other team members at my level didn't want him, because he wasn't quiet. He was twitchy, energetic, always rapping a little softly to himself. Unlike the other boys, he dressed for this hot and dirty work in khakis and polo shirts, because his girlfriend was on the project too, and he had a round head, like Charlie Brown. His movements made me think of my own son, who was 8 at the time. I let Jamal bring in an mp3 player, but I told him if it got too loud, or work didn't get done, he'd be forced to listen to MY ipod the next day, and I had country, opera, bagpipe music, no rap, though. He always followed my rules. If I needed something, I asked him, and he did it, no complaints. One day, he was assigned to another team, and the next day, he asked with a hurt look why I didn't want him. I had to reassure him it was an error. From then on, every morning when we assigned teams, he would announce he was on "Miss Donna's" team and stand next to me, hands on my shoulders, already a head taller than my 5'5" at 16.
Midway through were assigned to John McDonogh High School, known as John Mac to the neighborhood, where I had to fight with security to the point of calling the school district to be allowed to bring my much-needed scissors into the school. I guess I should have known it was a tough school then, but honestly, it looked like every other neighborhood in NOLA, some empty houses with FEMA symbols on the outsides, some renovated, some getting worked on, people on porches. There was a luncheonette a block away I walked to for air one sunny day at lunch time. I walked in, and all the student workers on my team were there. I started to walk back to the school, and Jamal appeared, suddenly desiring to walk back with me. We talked of things we had in common, grandmothers who'd helped raise us, fathers who were absent, scholarships that were needed to get to college, and he was simply good company. It wasn't until later that day, when I returned to my hotel, where the staff had taken to asking where I'd been that day, did I realize I was in one of the roughest schools in existence.
I think about Jamal a lot, as I watch my son inch closer and closer to Jamal's age then. I wonder if he ever got to LSU, how long he and his girlfriend lasted, if he kept the promise he made to me to always use protection and not have a baby until after he finished college (I liked him THAT much, I felt compelled to have that discussion). Mostly, these days, I wonder if he's still alive. I realize, when I talk to my son, that I don't have to have the kinds of conversations Jamal's grandmother had with him at 13. I don't have to tell my son that even twilight hours aren't safe to skateboard to the store for the contraband energy drinks he likes so much. I don't have to tell him he is immediately under suspicion because of the color of his skin. I also don't have to worry when he goes to the pool with his friends or plays outside with Nerf guns, pretending to be zombies, that some police officer or neighborhood do-gooder might see the plastic gun that spews only soft arrows as a threat to life and limb and lay him on the ground in a pool of his own blood. Those aren't conversations I have to have, simply because my son is white. They're conversations no one should have to have, and it needs to end. I wish I could know if Jamal is safe today, but really, there's only a 50/50 shot, and that saddens me to no end.
Thursday, July 17, 2014
My Mom, the Advocate
In honor of the 13th year of my mom's passing this week, this one's for her.
My mom and I didn't have a lot. She was blindsided by my dad's request for a divorce when I was 5ish, before I started kindergarten. Little did she know he'd actually disappear, leaving her to shoulder the burden of running a household and raising a child alone, with no assistance whatsoever. My childhood memories include a lot of staying at other people's houses, staying with my grandparents, wanting her to come to school events, when there really wasn't the time in the day, but she'd try her best to make the time.
One thing my mom was, far and away, was my advocate when I went to school. She trusted and respected my grade school teachers, but she didn't take their word as gold, and she always, without fail, stood up for me if she thought it was in my best interest. I've tried to model my own dealings with my kids' teachers after hers. Yes, this meant being a "squeaky wheel" when administrators expected her to be quiet and do what they wanted. There was definitely a reason I was known BY NAME ON SIGHT by not only my teachers but the principal, the secretaries, just about everyone. My mom had a way of making people listen and follow her directions.
Probably the biggest throw down of my academic career I remember was when I was in 5th grade. I was in the only split class, which meant a class of 4th graders with only six 5th graders in the room. There was some selling competition, I think candy, but maybe I'm wrong. What I do remember is the other two 5th grade classes were getting to go to Great America with their proceeds. The six 5th graders in the split class had to go to some play with the 4th graders. My bffs then were in the other 5th grade classes, of course. My mom, when she found the arrangements out very early on, asked the teacher if we six girls couldn't go with the other 5th grader classes instead of the 4th grade trip. She was told no. She asked the principal if there couldn't be an exception made. She was told no. She devised a plan.
My mom volunteered to be one of the three parents to chaperone the 4th grade trip. She then told me she was taking me out of school the day of the Great America trip, and we would go be with the other classes on our own. I had the BEST day, hanging with my friends, going on rides, generally having a blast. While I hadn't told anyone, someone, somewhere must have squealed like a pig, because when I returned to school the next day, the teacher, in open class, asked where I had been the previous day. I told her I was absent. She again asked me where I had been. Since I'm my mother's daughter, I asked why she hadn't asked the two other people who had been absent where THEY were yesterday. She replied that she KNEW where I was, with a smug smile on her face. I then asked, if she knew where I was, why was she wasting class time with questioning me. Yes, I was newly turned 11 during this exchange, and she persisted in doing it in open class, thinking I'd back down. Had she MET me?
It was at this point she sent me to the principal's office because I was misbehaving. I think it was probably so she wouldn't flat out smack me, as I'm sure she had the desire to. I walked into the principal's office with my slip of paper saying I'd misbehaved, first time ever, and the secretary did a double take. I insisted she call my mom. She actually did. A short conversation ensued, after which my mom asked to speak to the secretary. I learned later my mom told the secretary to make sure the principal didn't go anywhere, to get that woman who is my daughter's teacher down to his office, and we were having a meeting once she arrived from work. The secretary started to brush her off, and my mother told her not to make her repeat herself. They had a meeting, alright.
My mom, I could tell, had been working on her piece on the way over. She told them she had tried to go the nice route, but people were snotty and rigid, so she made a decision about her own child that didn't affect anything, because I'd done all my homework, there were no tests that day, and truly, I'd been teaching myself with this split class nonsense where the teacher came in and checked with us less than an hour a day. She tossed around words like "prerogative", phrases like "parental vs. educator influence" and then the magic one "school superintendent". See, in 1st grade, the superintendent had been our principal, and my mom had gone to bat for me over something else--maybe I'll tell that one tomorrow--and he told my mom after it was all settled he respected the heck out of her involvement for the sake of her kid, and when he was moving into his new position told her if she ever needed anything, give him a call.
Everyone was sent to their neutral corners, but not before my mom told my teacher that if she heard one syllable about her treating me in a mean or different way, she'd be back. And she was, because she'd been one of the three parents to volunteer for the other trip the following week. If my teacher's eyes were lasers, my mom would have been a pile of ash in the first five minutes, but they weren't, and the day went along as planned.
I have yet to have need for such a throw down over my kids, and I hope the day never comes. But there are those times when I've had to remind some teachers and administrators that they need to relax a bit, the kids aren't leaving 3rd grade and heading for Harvard, and I've also had to remind them that my kids are individuals, and I won't do anything to quash that, even if it would make class time easier for them. I do know, though, deep inside, I've got the ability and the genetics to Mama Bear out if the need should arise.
My mom and I didn't have a lot. She was blindsided by my dad's request for a divorce when I was 5ish, before I started kindergarten. Little did she know he'd actually disappear, leaving her to shoulder the burden of running a household and raising a child alone, with no assistance whatsoever. My childhood memories include a lot of staying at other people's houses, staying with my grandparents, wanting her to come to school events, when there really wasn't the time in the day, but she'd try her best to make the time.
One thing my mom was, far and away, was my advocate when I went to school. She trusted and respected my grade school teachers, but she didn't take their word as gold, and she always, without fail, stood up for me if she thought it was in my best interest. I've tried to model my own dealings with my kids' teachers after hers. Yes, this meant being a "squeaky wheel" when administrators expected her to be quiet and do what they wanted. There was definitely a reason I was known BY NAME ON SIGHT by not only my teachers but the principal, the secretaries, just about everyone. My mom had a way of making people listen and follow her directions.
Probably the biggest throw down of my academic career I remember was when I was in 5th grade. I was in the only split class, which meant a class of 4th graders with only six 5th graders in the room. There was some selling competition, I think candy, but maybe I'm wrong. What I do remember is the other two 5th grade classes were getting to go to Great America with their proceeds. The six 5th graders in the split class had to go to some play with the 4th graders. My bffs then were in the other 5th grade classes, of course. My mom, when she found the arrangements out very early on, asked the teacher if we six girls couldn't go with the other 5th grader classes instead of the 4th grade trip. She was told no. She asked the principal if there couldn't be an exception made. She was told no. She devised a plan.
My mom volunteered to be one of the three parents to chaperone the 4th grade trip. She then told me she was taking me out of school the day of the Great America trip, and we would go be with the other classes on our own. I had the BEST day, hanging with my friends, going on rides, generally having a blast. While I hadn't told anyone, someone, somewhere must have squealed like a pig, because when I returned to school the next day, the teacher, in open class, asked where I had been the previous day. I told her I was absent. She again asked me where I had been. Since I'm my mother's daughter, I asked why she hadn't asked the two other people who had been absent where THEY were yesterday. She replied that she KNEW where I was, with a smug smile on her face. I then asked, if she knew where I was, why was she wasting class time with questioning me. Yes, I was newly turned 11 during this exchange, and she persisted in doing it in open class, thinking I'd back down. Had she MET me?
It was at this point she sent me to the principal's office because I was misbehaving. I think it was probably so she wouldn't flat out smack me, as I'm sure she had the desire to. I walked into the principal's office with my slip of paper saying I'd misbehaved, first time ever, and the secretary did a double take. I insisted she call my mom. She actually did. A short conversation ensued, after which my mom asked to speak to the secretary. I learned later my mom told the secretary to make sure the principal didn't go anywhere, to get that woman who is my daughter's teacher down to his office, and we were having a meeting once she arrived from work. The secretary started to brush her off, and my mother told her not to make her repeat herself. They had a meeting, alright.
My mom, I could tell, had been working on her piece on the way over. She told them she had tried to go the nice route, but people were snotty and rigid, so she made a decision about her own child that didn't affect anything, because I'd done all my homework, there were no tests that day, and truly, I'd been teaching myself with this split class nonsense where the teacher came in and checked with us less than an hour a day. She tossed around words like "prerogative", phrases like "parental vs. educator influence" and then the magic one "school superintendent". See, in 1st grade, the superintendent had been our principal, and my mom had gone to bat for me over something else--maybe I'll tell that one tomorrow--and he told my mom after it was all settled he respected the heck out of her involvement for the sake of her kid, and when he was moving into his new position told her if she ever needed anything, give him a call.
Everyone was sent to their neutral corners, but not before my mom told my teacher that if she heard one syllable about her treating me in a mean or different way, she'd be back. And she was, because she'd been one of the three parents to volunteer for the other trip the following week. If my teacher's eyes were lasers, my mom would have been a pile of ash in the first five minutes, but they weren't, and the day went along as planned.
I have yet to have need for such a throw down over my kids, and I hope the day never comes. But there are those times when I've had to remind some teachers and administrators that they need to relax a bit, the kids aren't leaving 3rd grade and heading for Harvard, and I've also had to remind them that my kids are individuals, and I won't do anything to quash that, even if it would make class time easier for them. I do know, though, deep inside, I've got the ability and the genetics to Mama Bear out if the need should arise.
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