Of Fears and Cutting the Proverbial Cord

            Those of you that have followed my musings on Facebook know my fear of the dentist. I call it my heart attack; can hardly get out of bed fear. When I worked construction, the knowledge that at any moment, working at the heights I was working my life could end didn’t instill any fear remotely close to my fear of the dentist. A guy once rear ended me on the Dan Ryan on my way home from work. Instead of having any type of fear, I jumped out of my truck with a tire iron in hand yelling at the idiot that I was late to pick up my son’s new bowling ball. Hmm, had he had a white lab jacket on that said Dr. Anybody, I probably would have taken a step back or stayed my happy butt in my truck.  Watching commercials about dentists even causes some type of anxiety, yep I’m pretty bad.

            I can trace the dental fear back to when I was a kid. I’ve always had soft teeth and my brother and I weren’t allowed to eat a lot of candy. It’s true, that’s why there are old pictures of us with candy in our multi colored over the knee socks….in Alabama with my granddaddy. So anyway, I had a mouthful of cavities and the dentist my mom took us to had no concept of Novocain; at least that’s my long held belief. This short elderly woman with the long white coat and Dr. Anybody written in black script across the top decided to save time, she would fill all the cavities at once. It would be faster to do it without Novocain as she wouldn’t have to wait for it to kick in. I bet you can guess, that didn’t work out too well and my mom had to drag me kicking and screaming on the next visit. Once a dentist gave me laughing gas and we had gone to my grandma’s for a bit, Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory was on and I laughed through the whole movie.  I was sick for three days once those effects wore off, not pleasant for a kid when all your friends are outside playing and you’re stuck in bed.

            As I’ve aged, the fear is still intense; intense enough that my son laughs about it. Lucky brat, I’ve always had someone else take him to the dentist so I wouldn’t pass my fears on to him. I’ve just recently, in the past couple of years, been able to take him myself; I have to have ear buds in listening to music while he’s back with the dentist. I’ve started to develop my own theory about fears and the proverbial parental cord. It seems that when my mom was alive the pervasive fear of the dentist, failure, sometimes just breathing was highly intense and finally the fear of success. Whew that’s a lot to carry on ones’ shoulders, but I did it. When my mom passed, and that proverbial cord that I had been trying to cut forever and a day was finally cut, a bit of relief washed over me. Now before you say what a bad daughter for feeling that way, understand that my mom and I had a hate dislike relationship. I’ll just say she was an excellent grandmother to my son and he was blessed to have her; some people can be the greatest person around but that doesn’t make them great parents.

            Now, once that cord was cut, I felt like I could put on my big girl bloomers and rock the world. There’s still a little problem….the darn dentist. It’s almost comical to think that a middle aged woman (Dang, middle aged? When did that happen?!!!) can let a childhood fear almost paralyze her. The upshot is I’m not the only one that has this fear as an adult. There are some stories that are worse than mine, I wish I hadn’t heard them, but they’re out there. There should be a gathering of people that endured sadistic dentists that were embedded in draconian times, I’m sure that gathering would fill a few rooms.

            I guess the next chapter of life will be me trying to let go of that fear, I’m off to an ok start. I had my front tooth pulled recently and I didn’t go into a massive panic attack. There’s a whole story behind that tooth and it died a noble, smelly death. I didn’t even bother to remember the dentists’ name because I wasn’t expecting to go back. She is good, so I guess I’m going back. That was the first time ever that I didn’t have any pain at the hands of some sadist in a white coat. I have two more teeth that have to be yanked, so while this leaves me walking around temporarily missing a front tooth, finally having a healthy mouth is on the horizon. To the teacher that laughed when I ran into a wall and cracked my dearly departed tooth, I’d like to thank you for helping to instill some of that fear. Standing in front of a nine year old, in a fake guffaw and saying how much that’s going to hurt to get fixed in front of the whole class did wonders. I say that ever so sarcastically.

            I taught my son to have no fear of anything, not sure if that’s good or bad since he believes he’s invincible. What he should fear is mom knocking the hot mess out of him when he decides he thinks he wants to be grown at my expense, other than that, nope no fears. For those of you that have little kids, don’t laugh about their fears, they’re real. When parents make fun of their kids’ fears, especially like my mom did, I think that is a form of bullying. My generation and my parents’ generation come from a long line of bullying. We’re now in times when it’s ok to have fears and to be nurtured through those fears. That’s how you make the fears go away. So many health issues can be caused because of tooth problems. In my case, because of the fear they wouldn’t know if I had a heart attack because of bad teeth or out of fear of the dentist. Either way, I’m not trying to go in that direction. I think I just earned another pair of big girl bloomers J ~ Just my two cents

Four Word Epitaph

            Somewhere, in our educational journeys, we have been asked to write our own obituary. You can always think of what you would like to be said about you until you actually have to sit down and really think about it.  I still have mine from my days at Columbia College; it took me a week to write it. I was the first one that thought I was going to have fun with it and be goofy about it. Then we were given the guidelines that we would have to adhere to as we wrote what would be the last words written about us. I got serious with a quickness, with a side of snarky of course. I thought if you really know me, there won’t ever be last words about me. I know, I know, slightly presumptuous. At the “ripe old” age of 19, I was being asked what I would want people to remember me for. That became a sobering thought and something that was really hard to put into words.

            I wasn’t a mom yet, so loving mother was out. I couldn’t stand my parents, so loving daughter was out. I thought my best friend was an idiot (some things don’t change I guess), so thoughtful friend was out and I thought my brother was the dumbest piece of *oops* walking the planet.  I guess that just completely wiped out compassionate, dang. So thus began my journey to find some humanizing quality I could write about. I think that’s why it took me a week. I told my instructor I didn’t want to write the “typical black obituary”, not sure if that was the right thing to say. My instructor was famed WFLD TV journalist the late great Les Brownlee. Oh yea, he was black. I thought the guy was going to fall out of his chair. After calmly, but firmly ripping me a new butthole, he told me I had the potential to be one of the greatest black writers to come out of Columbia. Note, I didn’t say Chicago, neither did he. His next statement was that I should promptly explain what on this green earth I meant by that statement. I had two days to conjure up some explanation that may or may not be acceptable.

            It didn’t take long for me to figure out what to say and have some proof to show my instructor. I had an obituary from a relative and one from a friend who was white. I pointed out that in an obituary for a black person it always says “so and so” accepted Christ at an early age, survived by a relative from whatever city. In the obituary of a white person it never says if or when they accepted Christ, no one cares. No one cares where the relatives are located, it’s not like people are going over to find them. I explained I wanted to be somewhere in the middle, not so mainstream on either side. My instructor bought what I was selling and I was off the hook for a minute. I almost humanized myself and wrote a pretty good obituary.

            Well over twenty years later, I am a mom, I have written both my brothers’ and my moms’ obituaries and yes they were both written in that “typical” fashion. Some of my views are still the same, I still can’t stand my parents and my brother didn’t smarten up much before we lost him. The world of journalism lost Les Brownlee a few years ago, but the lessons he taught are still with me. When faced with constraints you’d be surprised what you can produce and that definitely made me step up my writing game. Somewhere in my writing there has to be truth, I don’t live in the world of make believe, besides, I have no imagination. Without having much of an imagination, I think I could still be quite creative. I would change the whole “write your own obituary” to Four Word Epitaph. The writer can come up with four words to describe themselves; the catch is they have to have an explanation. So here, I present to you my four word epitaph with explanations.

            Mom: In June 1993, this skinny little kid with smelly feet was born. That little bundle of parental dependency has become a young college man of parental dependency with smelly feet. Having such a lovely bundle pushed through the nether parts of her has allowed Carla to earn the “mom” moniker. Being a mom allowed Carla to humble herself and open her heart…well at least to her son.

            Brash: Carla definitely and some say defiantly raced through life heedless of the consequences. For some strange reason, Carla felt she was oblivious to rules and managed to find ways around everything. In the Carla wording, she could tear down a person without thinking twice, at the same time a Carla word could make a person feel like a thousand bucks. If Carla didn’t like what you said or did, she wouldn’t come right out and say it, but you would sure read about it later.

            Honest: It is said, if you don’t want to know the truth don’t talk to Carla. She was known to tell you about yourself whether you wanted to hear it or not. She lived her life teaching her son that being honest will get you places, always tell the truth. Carla was unapologetic about her willingness to hold a grudge. If you crossed her anytime in her life, you best believe she’s turning over in her grave thinking about it and waiting at the pearly gates to make sure your book of deeds has the truth and is spelled correctly.

            Leader: Carla led the way with anything she did. She led the way when she worked as a carpenter and a single mom. She led the way in education by earning her MBA and showing her son that anything can be accomplished. Carla was an early adopter with pretty much everything in technology and watched and complained when others started following her. I can guarantee you right now Carla is leading the way to the pearly gates because the rest of the people are trying to catch up to her before those books of deeds are opened.

            That about sums up my epitaph; of course lying in a box, we won’t be able to control what someone may or may not say, but if we could…..talk about the liberty we could take with other people. Ok, that wasn’t nice, but it sure would be fun. Of course this is all tongue and cheek, but to a certain extent it really describes me…for now. Think about your four words, would your friends agree with them? Heck would you even care if they agreed? Oh no, here comes the brash part of me…I could care less what people would think. Unless your persona is of glass, no one will see what’s really inside. Put out your four words~ Just my two cents

           

Before Puberty Struck- C.L. Anderson

                                                              

            Remember those days when as children our only cares were can we go out and play with our friends? Can we go to the beach tomorrow? Can anyone spend the night? Man, I miss those days. I remember when I was in the first head start program that was offered in this state, that’s where I got my first concussion. I remember my mom trying to get me in school when I was four because I was already reading; she was told I had to be five by a certain date. Woot, woot, thank goodness for January birthdays! Those days I was living in the town of East Chicago Heights. We didn’t know we were poor in that town, we just knew life was good.

            The one constant in those days were the friends I had at school. We started kindergarten together and graduated eighth grade together.  Something I didn’t realize until I was much older is the fact that a lot of people still have some type of relationship with the people they started grade school with. These were the friendships that were formed before the quirkiness of hormones kick in, before puberty struck. Your personalities and beliefs are carved out of the same institutional stone and you come to the realization that you really haven’t changed that much from when your tiny little feet walked through that kindergarten door and the collective tiny voices first learned the pledge together.

            It seems no matter what other people we all meet later in life, those that started grade school together still have a bond. By the time you hit that huge high school hallway and meet other people, hormones have kicked in full gear and puberty has started reshaping that nice little demeanor you used to have. No longer are you protected by the small groups you’ve known since you were five. You’ve entered a cesspool of personalities that have converged in a new world where everyone struggles for some type of attention. Life just started to really suck. In my case, I saw people I hadn’t seen since I was ten and boy were they different. I went to a different high school than my grade school friends. A lot of them got to stay together in high school, I had one person go to the same school; and that person ended up transferring out.

            Fast forward through life and look at the life you’ve led. You may keep in touch with the people you went to high school with, but sometimes you get hit with a dose of reality; they’re still the same way they were when you all walked the same crowded halls. By this time in your life, you may have reconnected with your grade school buddies. A light bulb goes off over your head, there’s something about returning to where you started, even if it’s only in the realm of your mind. There’s a familiarity that is very comfortable. The conversations are all about catching up and pictures of the kids. Reconnecting with the pre-pubescent part of your life also puts a lot of things you had at the back of your mind in better perspective.

            Think about this; are you more likely to react to bad news about your high school classmates or grade school classmates? For me I would honestly have to say anything relating to my grade school classmates would resonate stronger. I guess because we are a group of people that have known each other at face value, prior to putting on our individual masks we wore to get through high school. We are at the age to where we are experiencing losses in our lives that we never thought of when we were younger. When you come from a small school and you hear bad news from your classmates, it will hit you a little harder. Coming from a small school affords you the chance to have a second family and when part of that family goes through issues, it is felt by all.

            Before puberty strikes should be called “life at face value” Those that have known you during those times saw you being the best and worst of yourself. You struggled learning the same things in classes. You shared grade school crushes together and, in my case, we got our first taste of wine together. Yep, only in a private school can you expect an adult to legally contribute to the delinquency of a minor and put it under the guise of the Bible. Hey, that wine was pretty good!

            Even though I hate the school I went to, I do have to admit, that was definitely my foundation to rest my butt on and the cornerstone to model my life from. In that crappy environment, I learned my values. I learned to treat others the way I wanted to be treated. I learned that any one of my grade school friends are a phone call or an email away and we can pick up a conversation like we were still together. Now, that’s not saying I don’t appreciate the people I’ve gotten the pleasure to know since grade school, it’s been a fun ride for sure. I’m just saying that there’s always time to reflect on those that knew you before puberty struck. ~Just my two cents

            

Reflect

                                                             

I'm going to start this blog with a warning... Some of you may feel your toes have been stepped on, stop reading now. For those that get sensitive when any talk of religion is mentioned, stop reading. Those that feel you are above everyone else and are free to judge all, stop reading now.

            Now unto the subject in my brain. I, along with presumably millions of others, watched the Home Going service of Whitney Houston. At the same time as the services, I was streaming my son’s track meet wondering which would end first. It was a long day for sure. While watching the service, I found it quite interesting that Don Lemmon from CNN had to constantly tell Piers Morgan that this is the way a service is in a black Baptist church. Actually, it was more like he was constantly explaining it to the world. I didn’t grow up in a Baptist setting, but I’m one that enjoys good music in a church. I can do without the preaching, I did learn how to read the Bible after all. I grew up Lutheran where you are in and out of church in one hour. You used to be able to drop your film off at Fotomat and return after service to pick it up. Ahhh, the good ‘ol days. The fact that Whitney’s service was 3 ½ hours didn’t matter to me, listening to people forget the words to their own songs didn’t matter. What got me was the ignorance of a lot of comments during and after the services on the social sites.

            As I said, I grew up in the Lutheran church and my mom was raised Catholic. What this meant for me was, we were at our own church first, and then headed to the city to go to church with my grandma. It made for a long boring Sunday to say the least. The music is tired, one religion appears to want complete control over mind, body and soul; the other (my church) made it super clear you knew there was a pecking order and you knew  what bills in the church  needed to be paid. They collected money at all services, coffee hour and from the kids in Sunday school. I remember going to my paternal grandma’s church and being scared out of my mind when a lady started jumping and shouting, my first taste of a Baptist church; quite a contrast from dour, somber and boring to celebration and jubilation to say the least.

            What got me the most were the people that were complaining that there shouldn’t have been hand clapping or laughter because it was a funeral. Hint: a homegoing is a celebration of going to meet your God and no longer dealing with earthly pain. Well, once that was explained several times, people complained because it was basically a state church service with honors and the flags flew at half staff. I’m guessing the governor of New Jersey is a big Whitney Houston fan, maybe a bit over the top but it was only during her service. For the naysayers, I truly doubt that it was meant as a slight to our military. Our military is the BEST by far and no one wants to disrespect our men and women, however, if our flags were to fly half staff for every soldier lost (as some suggested during the service) we would be in a perpetual state of mourning. Our flag flies high proudly waving because of our men and women in the military. One day of flying half staff (in one state only) for someone as beloved as Whitney shouldn’t have made a difference.

            The next wave of naysayers came from a few people I know and went to school with and this is where some of you need to step back and reflect. No matter what a person has done, we all deserve to have a Christian burial with dignity. To suggest Whitney didn’t deserve the praise and adoration during her service because she allegedly had issues relating to drugs and alcohol, shows how judgmental and forgetful some have become. I do remember quite a few special deliveries to some of you. I remember when we ALL were doing a little dirt back in the day. I remember the guys that beat their girlfriends, teachers being inappropriate with students, teachers flirting with each other, blah blah blah. Some of you have that past looking in your face every day, yet you feel the need to judge someone else for what they may have done. I remember myself getting so bad, that I didn’t even remember my locker combo, so I used my best friend’s locker all the time. I remember choir concerts when a little speed went a long way for several of us. Go figure, somehow some of you feel you can judge someone else. The comments divided down the racial line with a quickness and that’s sad. I guess the really sad part is some of you haven’t really changed at all.

            Some people do the same things a public figure does, some survive their own destructiveness and some don’t. It’s safe to say that we don’t know what goes on behind closed doors, but we would like to think not only do we know what’s going on; we have every right to criticize what goes on. Look in the mirror do you like the reflection you see? Does anyone know the positive things that Whitney Houston has done or is everyone so caught up in the negative and the hype it’s creating. Think about this, if you had the means to accomplish anything you wanted, would you give back to your old neighborhood, would you give back to the school you went to? I have several classmates that are doing quite well; they did dirt back in the day. They don’t even give this area a second look; we’re to the point now that we don’t hear about anyone unless it’s an obituary.

            The manner in which one’s life is celebrated shouldn’t be looked at as a negative thing. We celebrate births, we celebrate graduations and heck some of you celebrate just getting your butt out of bed. The manner of celebration isn’t one for someone to say what should or should not be. There should be no need for a news anchor to explain the why’s of how a service is conducted. Reflect back on your own life, have you made that much of an impact on anyone? The issue of black and white shouldn’t have really mattered, but of course it did. Once again it shows that even in this time, we still don’t embrace our differences.

            I don’t care what Whitney Houston did or didn’t do, it wasn’t my life to control. I enjoyed her music, I enjoyed seeing her in concert and I loved the fact that a woman whose skin tone looked like mine was able to grace the cover of magazines when I was younger. It’s interesting to read all the criticisms about how she lived her life; did anyone notice her life was centered within the church? Can you say that about your life? I know I can’t. I love the Lord, no doubt, but put me in a church and it will probably crumble. I loved my Army uniform when I wore it, but that doesn’t mean I’d be willing to put it back on. I still enjoy a drink once in awhile, but getting drunk isn’t fun anymore. People change; they grow and have vastly different experiences. Personally, I’d rather be remembered with great music, hand clapping and shouting; they can leave out the sermon. Hell, I’m just hoping to be remembered. By the way, the track meet ended first.  Reflect on that one. ~Just my two cents

You Know You Have Short Arm Syndrome When….

Everyone loves to hear good news. We see it all over our social networks, we hear it in phone calls, well those that still like to talk on the phone; and those that are moms all bragged when their kids used the big potty. We gush over the simplest of things, literally everything. What happens when the good news becomes bragging? Bragging is ok, even though some get a little too carried away with it. I guess we all have to blow our own horn every now and then. I must admit, some of you blow your horn a little too much and need to learn to push that inner mute button.

            Think about athletes, some are naturally good and others have to work hard just to be in the same sentence as the good ones. Everyone likes a good success story, why not, it’s good news. If Derrick Rose wasn’t from Englewood in Chicago would he be as a big a story? He’s a great athlete, but think about it…he came into the league early because of a testing scandal which was quickly forgotten when his talent quickly outshined the university he came from. Never mind the fact that you can’t understand a darn thing that comes out of his mouth, the guy just wins. Remember the young man from Richards High School that was arrested before graduation but didn’t lose his scholarship? I didn’t think so. The bottom line is, no one is slapping themselves on the back taking credit for either of these young men no one stepping into their light or shade.

            So what is this short arm syndrome, does everyone have it? Short answer (no pun intended) no not everyone has it, but I’ll be darned if some don’t learn to get it quickly. All of us are born with a natural ability to excel at something; whether or not we develop it is up to us and sometimes environment. My talent has always been writing and basketball; I didn’t fully develop either talent. I had the best teachers in journalism at Columbia College and I had a future hall of fame basketball coach in high school. I got bored, plain and simple. Now, having the talent came with a weird price, as long as I was good, my parents (who divorced when I was 10) were always there slapping themselves on the back. My dad still does to this day. Interestingly enough, they never saw me play or read anything I wrote. I think their arms got cut off because they sure had short arm syndrome. Get it now? Ahh, I bet you do!

            I’ve had the pleasure of seeing a lot of talented young people over the years and I’ve seen a lot short arm syndrome. I’ve seen young people cursed out by people that are supposed to be mentoring the mind, not just the athlete, but somehow that got lost in translation when the site of the media was fast approaching. I’ve seen young people yelled at and told they owe what they’ve become to not themselves, but a staff of people that only show support when you win. I’ve seen athletes get hurt and left on the field by coaches only to have the coach act like a best friend when success once again knocks on the door. I could write a book on the non ethical treatment of athletes and coaches with overblown egos.  I’ve seen a coach that was so ego driven; she felt she could coach from Las Vegas. She was so good, it didn’t matter that while she was proving she wasn’t the great bowler she claimed, the young lives she had been entrusted with were in the care of someone who had an alternative agenda in a hotel room. Oh, but it was due to her coaching that these young people had talent. Her arms were a little short as well.

            Now, there’s a flip side to all of this. There is another version of short arm syndrome; it’s as funny as it is crappy. It’s the side where someone succeeds even though they didn’t have the help of someone in the position to do so. Success in spite of…… oh yea, that’s the best type of success. It’s this type of success that brings about the very shortest of short arm syndrome. The person so much wants to be able to slap themselves on the back for your success but ouch, like the Temptations say, “I can’t get next to you”. You’re stuck in the background watching to see what happens while hoping someone else will give you that call for the big time. Now you’re banking on two, interesting, is that arm sore yet? I’m going to go out on a limb and say many of you have experienced short arm syndrome, how’s that working out for ya?

            While you’re sitting on the sidelines humming Rose Royce’s “I want to get next to you”, watching the success of others, remember, everyone has a talent. You can help cultivate it or step out of the way. They are talented because of themselves so stop allowing your arm to only reach the surface of your back. Think silently to yourself “Hmm, it wouldn’t be a syndro(me) if it didn’t have me in it”. ~ Just my two cents

How High Is Your Ladder?

Now that we’ve all settled in to the New Year and hopefully stopped writing 2011 on everything, sit back and think. If you were a ladder, how high would you go? Would your height depend on others? Some of you are afraid of heights, some like me, have no problem going up but coming down can pose problems. So now I’m a ladder and I’m an infinity ladder at that. I would like to think metaphorically that I will have a hard time coming down, but a little dose of reality tends to peak in every now and then.

            If I were dependent upon others to help be the rungs of my ladder, I know I’d be in serious trouble. Networking is all the buzz, social ladder and other colorful words to describe the ascension to somewhere higher we’re all trying to reach. Take a look at your social media sites, now look at your friends lists. Would you depend on the people in your list if you were job hunting? I’ve worked with people that will help you put the knife in one side of your body, then help you pull it out the other….hoping you don’t leave too much of a mess. These same people have later called asking if I had any job leads. Seriously!!!

            While climbing my ladder, I did it knowing one day the rungs could come apart as I got closer to the top. When it happened, I wasn’t shocked; I needed a break at the time. What I was shocked by was the number of calls from people looking for work. The same that never spoke up on the worksite now wanted something from me.  My ladder has turned into a full grate, I’m easy to find all over the internet. In my mind, I’m a social media expert, a Smartphone aficionado, lover of Android platform. So what does this all mean????

            My ladder may be a full grate that’s infinity; however I’m not the ladder. I’m the leader, that’s right the leader. See, for me trying to climb a ladder created the rungs for other people to walk and each rung they walked up pushed me down. Damn when you hit bottom, you have to realize you allowed it to happen. That took a while to sink in. I’ve had to quiet the noise on my social page and pick and choose where I post. Cultivating yourself takes great effort and the noise you allow to permeate your networks can make you or break you. It’s not hard to pick which site to post to, my social list is pretty different from site to site. Since a lot of you follow me from site to site, you figure out the differences in my postings.

            Maybe I could have titled this “The Metaphor of a Ladder”, it would have worked. Think about yourself, how high is your ladder? Are you really a ladder or a leader? Is it possible to be both? Ahhh, good question, it’s very possible to be both; it’s hard to be functional with optimal output as both. Once you get the cobwebs cleaned out, throw away the junk and turn down the noise, you will hear something….the walking stick of a leader. How do I know I’m a damn good leader? You’re following me right now aren’t you?  Just my two cents

Do Your Memories Shape You?

           

            When you sit back and think of things that have been said, written and done throughout your life, do you ever wonder if any of that really shapes who you are now? Do you have more good or more bad memories? Have you shared instances with a person and their memories of the same event are vastly different than yours? Taking all of this through the years can lead to a severe brain strain if you let it. No one can remember everything….but I come pretty close.

            I remember being called the N word in Kindergarten in 1973, yea I’m getting old. The word just flowed from the girls’ mouth along with an explanation that her “daddy said it’s ok to say that”. Isn’t that a wonderful start of school memory? The whole “daddy” thing probably wouldn’t have been as bad if the guy didn’t happen to be the 7^th grade teacher, ouch! Interesting how things start to shape who we are and how we think. For me, that was the beginning of torture in a place I still loath today. I remember the principal of the torture chamber was nice to me once a year, that was because we shared the same birthday. Some Cappies are true demons, that was a lesson I learned. I danced upon learning of his death, cruel right? Oh well.

            I remember another student and myself putting rags in our back pockets and walking through class saying “Hey Mr. Kott-er” and getting paddled in front of the class for it. I remember running into the wall in the gym and cracking my front tooth, it hurt like hell and the teacher laughed about it. Yep the same teacher that paddled me in front of the class. No worries, he’s cool now, age and a change of environment will do that to you. I remember the kid who ate his boogers and another that never brushed his teeth. I remember the kid I had a crush on not saying anything when his older brothers threw orange peels at me.

            I think it’s quite safe to say I have a very strong memory. There were some good times in there as well. I remember being the only girl who knew how to cast a rod, yes that was part of our gym class. I remember being the pitcher on a softball team that took first place and also setting school records in track. I’m sure those have been broken, if they still have track. I remember liking the taste of the wine and hating the unleavened bread during my first communion. I always thought it was cool that a church could legally contribute to the delinquency of a minor under the guise of religion. I made sure to never miss communion.

            The point is there are many of us that were in this place together. There are more of us that have these memories of a not so positive time than there are those that say they had great times, I learned of that fact years later. One former student was on Oprah talking about what happened and I think one was writing a book. These are memories from grade school that have stuck with me as fresh as it just happened. Did these shape who I am? Would it have shaped you?

            If memories from grade school start to shape our lives, what the heck happens during the high school years? Hmmmm, for me, it got interesting. I was the private school kid that was thrown into a big fish pond. I dressed funny and didn’t speak like the kids from my former neighborhood. I went from being called the N word to being called “Oreo” “white girl” and several others. I was in a strange culture where it was ok for a white man to teach a black history class. He was cool though, he was my basketball coach. I had a Jewish teacher tell me she didn’t like blacks and I told her that was ok and proceeded to draw a gold star on her chalk board every day. Now in today’s world, I would have been in a lot of trouble. This same teacher loved my brother, go figure.

            I guess my memories have shaped who I’ve become as an adult and as a parent. I tend to be quite blunt about a lot, but I’m very honest. I choose to not go sit in somebody’s building and pay their utilities just so they can read a book I can read myself. I don’t need someone standing in judgment telling me how much of a sinner I am, heck I know that. I’ve chosen to not raise my son in a religious environment, after having it shoved down my throat as a child, I chose to let him choose his own path. Finally, my memories of school and home life have taught me that no matter what my son goes through, I will love him unconditionally. My memories make for funny stories now and that’s a good thing. It doesn’t mean I don’t carry just a small bit of “if I see that (bleep) I’m going to….” in me. It just means I understand more that ignorance is taught from childhood and those same people I have memories of will have their day.

            At the end of the day, I can put those old memories in the cellar of my mind and think about the good memories of being a parent; those are new memories being made every day! How has your memories shaped you?~ Just my two cents