TUESDAY THOUGHTS: CHURCH MOTHER MICHELLE

Oh no. 

As much as many would like to affix a "jealous wife" caption, I beg to differ. 

This is neither "angry Black woman" nor insecure spouse, either. 
This is the classic "Church Mother". 

You know her. 

Prim. 

Proper. 

Champion of appropriate behavior--especially in public. 

She's merciful, but one mustn't take too long to get oneself together. 

One look is all one gets. 

One should take that look as a warning. Ignore it, and one would be wise not to get too close-- unless wearing industry compliant, flame-resistant clothing.

Note the stiff posture, the clenched jaw, the extended fingers and clasped hands. Observe the steely, seemingly forward look that masks a terrifying peripheral glare that would pierce one's very soul. 

Observe the rolling up of the sleeves--wait. They're three-quarter. 

She has forgotten. It's a reflex. 

This champion of righteousness, classy though she may be, has been in a fight before—fight to get people to  understand what behavior is appropriate, and what deserves a good shushing, or ass whipping.

The church mother is very interested in the principal thing, and firmly believes that everyone in her personal space should be, as well. Interruptions are prohibited. She was going to buy the tape anyway, but don't make her miss something important. 

Woe to the one who displays blatant disregard, or wanders unknowingly into her environment bearing mischief. 

The Church Mother feels that her trademark "look" should be enough. These days, it's called a "side-eye", but she championed it long ago. It has stopped all manner of ridiculousness in its tracks for centuries. 

The Church Mother expects compliance after the first admonition. She does not ascribe to repeating herself.  She has been known to chastise strangers—big and small. 

She is fearless.

"Church is on". 

That means cease and desist any and all contrariness. Stop the chit chat. 

One must immediately focus. 

"Church is on", yet there is thoughtless playing, laughing, and inattention taking place. It is an inconceivable concept to the Church Mother; it is one of the highest forms of disrespect. It is blasphemy. 

It is the absence of home-training—something that is never to be even an alleged representation of her home. It is a slap in her face, and she finds herself seconds away from slapping back.

As the impropriety continues, she becomes concerned about the negative opinions that others will have. She must act soon. 

The critical words that others will say about someone in her household further infuriates her, yet she maintains her dignified demeanor. 

Her mind is racing. Those around her would be wise to sense the storm that is brewing; the boiling-point about to be reached, but they have been carried away and have forgotten-- not only the seriousness of the occasion, but more importantly they have clearly forgotten the identity and expectations of the person with whom they must soon travel home. 

She prides herself in declaring that she "goes NOWHERE with a fool". 

Many have testimonies of being abruptly snatched by one's collar and yanked back into a pew, having one's upper arm flesh pinched, or getting popped in the mouth with the popsicle-stick portion of a church fan.
No one has ever understood how a 17-foot, leafless branch could fit into a Church Mother's pocketbook, but it is there, and she commands it like Zorro. 

She must be more discreet in some instances, though. 

She must think of the best way to end the foolishness that is flying in the face of the lessons that she KNOWS she has drilled before leaving home: 

“We have to go out. Don't let me have to say anything to you. Don't ask for anything. Don't touch anything. Wherever you act up, that's where you're gonna get it. You think I'm playing? TRY me."

Careful not to be a distraction herself, she acts. Quietly, between clenched teeth, in a manner that would astonish even the best ventriloquist, and with the speed and flow of a skilled rapper, she whispers, "You thought I was playing, didn't you? Get your narrow behind over here. Come...here...now. Get up. Excuse yourself. I don't know about your little friends, but you KNOW better. Don't open your mouth. I wish you would cry. Come sit by me, and you better not move, or I'm gonna haul off and knock the living daylights out of you. Sit here, and act like you got some sense....over there laughing and taking pictures. Didn't I tell you to leave that camera in your pocket? 

This ain't the playground! This ain't Chuck E. Cheese! You wait. When we get home, just go straight to your room and wait for me 'cause I'm gonna.... You done lost your whole mind. 

I told you. Don't embarrass me. You wait. I bet you won't act a fool in church again...

Now sit back. 

Unfold your arms. 

Fix your face. 

Did you hear me? I 

said sit back...Hmph...Say something. I dare you."

On the other hand, maybe she was just sitting there with nothing negative on her mind at all. 

Too bad we didn't see these photos first. 

There's nothing  church mothery, jealous, insecure, bitchy, childish, or annoyed about this elegant lady. Nothing at all. 

Surprise. 

These images are from the same event, and on the same day. No death ray glare here...

Unfortunately there's nothing particularly scandalous about a pleasant, even tempered, intelligent Black woman. 

Why would we want someone to act out, or debase themselves simply for our amusement, or to fit some ignorant stereotype? 

We could all take a lesson from her. 

A picture may be worth a thousand words, but unfortunately the real truth of the context of the picture, and the words written or spoken, don't always apply.

SATURDAY THOUGHTS: REMINISCING: OH, HOWARD...

I was fooled by December this past Thursday. It was a beautiful, warm, but drizzly day. It was December, still, and I should have known better. Although I didn't abandon my big coat, I probably should have remembered my own mantra about night air and how we really don't get along that well.  

I found out Thursday night, as I waited for a taxi, that the beloved statesman, President Nelson Mandela, passed away. 

(It's funny how we respond to the death of a stranger as if the deceased was a close family member.) 

I immediately thought back to my college days. I remembered learning about Artistes du Monde Contra Apartheid, and seeing the artists' powerful, thought provoking and educational posters. I even remembered classmate Michael Brown's beautiful mural in the student lounge being whitewashed, but to this day I don't know why it happened. 

It was at Howard that I first heard the names, Mandela, and Tutu.  I heard other names for the first time, too, like, Frances Cress Welsing, Romare Bearden, Lois Mailou Jones, Eugenia Collier, Jacob Lawrence, and E. Ethelbert Miller.

My laptop, TV, and the internet acquired such importance as I nursed myself all day yesterday. 

Between games, articles, movies, online shopping, music, social networking sites, and chatting, one can be completely occupied as the hours pass. 

 The internet is definitely one's window to the outside world between trips to and from the bathroom, bedroom, and kitchen. 

The hum of the dehumidifier, and the smell of Lysol and Clorox in the air reminded me never to underestimate the weather again, but I was enjoying my trip back in time.

I'd searched for an old scrapbook and found photos I hadn't seen in ages. 

Among them were the pictures documenting Nelson and Winnie Mandela's visit to the State Department. My Dad gave them to me when I was about 30 years old.  

They reminded made me of the late Tritobia Benjamin and Jeff Donaldson's Art history lectures, and lessons about political art. Suddenly I was back on Howard University's campus-- in a seat in a classroom on the second floor of the Fine Arts Building. 

I was thinking about professors like E.H Sorrells Adewale, Mike Auld, Raymond Dobard, Alfred Smith, the late Ed Love and Lucille Malkia Roberts who encouraged us to find our passions,read everything we could get into our hands, think critically, and be more aware of the important goings on in our world. Ceramicist, Winnie Owens Hart's piece "The  Last Time I Saw Egypt, It Was In Africa" only solidified the role of Art as a  expositor of truth and a slayer of misinformation.

As I browsed photo albums, I also found a picture of a young, thinner, healthier me. 

The photo was taken on the roof of the Fine Arts Building by my classmate, Barry Wilson. 

We all had the privilege of learning from the very witty photographer and photojournalist, Jarvis Grant. 

I think Barry named his mock album cover assignment, "Monotone Rebel". 

Despite the pose, I was anything but rebellious back then. 

I was a diehard Larry Graham, Brother's Johnson, and Prince fan, and wished I could play that bass, but it was a nice prop. The other reason I got the "job" was that I was able to fit the fatigues our classmate, painter Horace Salmon allowed Barry to borrow for the shoot. ) 

Between the scrapbook, albums, Mandela retrospectives, and Antenna TV, and thoughts of Howard U., I  almost forgot how badly I was feeling.

I sank under the covers once more, after refreshing my tea cup, and propped up my laptop. 

I checked my Twitter account, and a new follower suggested I follow veteran Washington, DC radio announcer, Alvin Jones. I recalled how Jones would faithfully play the music of local bands on his show. One band was called "Backlash". 

Jones helped to promote a beautiful melody called "Soft and Easy", penned by Howard University alum, and photographer Ronald Beverly. 

I used to love hearing the song play on the radio. The first seven notes were lovely all by themselves. Perhaps I was a little biased, because I was actually a lead singer in the band for a little while. 

A few engagements began cropping up as a result of the gracious airplay, and a very shy me was being dragged out of her comfort zone. The band was a nice opportunity because I always regretted not singing much while in college (except at our annual, impromptu Kwaanza parties. Roslyn Bright, Paula Ballard, Claudia Gibson and I would sing in the painting studio where the parties took place. Anyone could come and play and it was always nice to see students from all three floors gathered). 

I remembered the day I auditioned for Howard's Gospel Choir. I remember singing several hymns for the great Arphelius Paul Gatling. I was so excited when I found out I'd earned a place in the choir, but I didn't want to ask my parents for the money to pay for the choir robe.  I still kick myself for that. 

Years later, when I told my late mother why I never sang in Howard's choir, she shook her head.  

I told her I'd thought about the fact that my big sister and I were in college at the same time.  Back then, my tuition was $882.50 a semester. That was a lot of money to me, and I just thought it would be selfish to ask for another penny for anything other than books or Art supplies. She said, "I can't believe you didn't tell me. You could have had that robe." 

I suppose fate smiled on me years after graduation and made up for the singing I didn't do when I was a student. I had the opportunity to be a pit singer and create artwork for several of the late Mike Malone's productions at Crampton Auditorium and Ira Aldridge theater, and I still enjoy being a member of Howard alum, and founding member of Howard's Gospel Choir, Richard Smallwood's group, Vision.

Backlash Band was fun, though. I found myself in nightclubs for the first time.  I'd never understood the club hype. I wasn't a fan of noise, loud-talking, cigarette smoke, or drunken people. My church upbringing naturally frowned on clubbing, (although all-weekend-long house parties seemed to be perfectly okay with the saints and their friends. Go figure.) 

One evening, the late comedian, Wildman Steve was the MC at a club called"Triples". I loved comedy, and had heard Pigmeat Markham, Moms Mabley and Sandy Baron recordings at home, but I wasn't in any way ready for the rather racy, albeit funny "Wildman". I thought I'd be polite and catch his act before the band was scheduled to go on, so I took what I thought was an inconspicuous seat in the back of the club. When I thought I was quietly excusing myself, (I probably put up the church finger, I don't know), he spotted me, and the improvisation commenced. Suddenly, the lady who dared to walk out (who wasn't really walking out) became a part of his act. He heckled me unmercifully, to the delight of the club patrons, and I, and my mortified self, hurried for the door to find the band. 

To everyone, it was harmless comedy. It was a little more than a very sensitive me could handle, though. (It's really not easy being so very green.) 

When the band took the stage, I was still a bit shaken up. I sang, but I also told the audience that, perhaps, certain situations were not for me. I remember being chastised by one of the band members. "Never, ever do that on stage! Just sing!"
I think that's when I decided I wasn't quite ready for show biz, and wondered if I ever would be. 

As I propped pillows for the umpteenth time, yesterday evening, I became more curious about the band of which I'd been a part. What had become of them? I wondered if any of the music was online. The internet is notoriously wonderful about resurrecting the past. As I searched, I remembered how I fell in love with singing in a recording studio (even though hearing my own voice is always a little creepy to me). I remembered how much fun it was to contribute to the background noise on a fun, funk song titled, "Hang With The Gang".

I recall being summoned to the third floor of the Fine Arts building and learning that Ronald, who played trombone in HU's Jazz Ensemble, could also play piano very well. (The only time I'd traveled to the third floor was to attend a wonderfully informative 8:00 AM, mandatory, freshman class titled, "Blacks In The Arts", facilitated by professors Lorraine Faxio, Sandra Bowie, and Frank Smith.)  

He handed me a piece of paper on which he'd written the lyrics, and told me to just sing what I felt. 

I learned and liked Ronald's song, and consented to record it. It was my first recording experience, I think. I'm not sure where my vinyl is, and until I stumbled on the Backlash Band's website, I hadn't heard the tracks in about 30 years. 

At first, I hesitated at the thought of listening, but I donned my headphones anyway after the download completed.
It was quite therapeutic listening to my 19 or 20 year-old self. It was a bit of a lesson, too. 

I heard that young woman sing:

"Raised by my elder's affection
Guided in the right direction
Unaware of what the future would bring to pass
Time moves on; the years roll by
Taking advantage of every step I try
Looking ahead, but never seeing an end in sight... "

What did that very naive young woman know? Could she even imagine what was ahead? But she sang just the same. I wondered, as I listened, if the fears and insecurities are still hanging around today, but in a different form. (She sure didn't seem to mind singing soprano, that's for sure.) A few things we still do share, though. We hate feeling yucky, we enjoy reminiscing, we agree that 1978 to 1982 were life-changing. and, after all these years, we still just like to sing and paint. Today, though, I think I'll give the singing a rest.
If you'd like to hear the band, here's a link.

Backlash

SUNDAY THOUGHTS: BIRTHDAY WEEKEND

Phenomenal pianist and composer, Monsieur Alexandre Bugnon...Drummer extraordinaire, Charles "Poogie" Bell...The versatile, Vincent Henry...Beast on bass, Carl Carter...wow...just WOW! I REALLY appreciate good, live music (LOVE piano!!!!)...and don't get me started on safe, drama-free, stress-free environments...Whew!

I can't play NOTHIN' but the radio; ASK me what key ANY of the songs are played in! I have NO idea! But I'm honored to be on the playground, just the same...wow...Thank You, God for every opportunity; for every open door.


It occurred to me that when it comes to the caliber of musicians I've been blessed to work with, I am completely spoiled ROTTEN!
  
Alex Bugnon's Annual Thanksgiving Weekend concerts conclude tonight at Georgetown's historic, live music venue/ restaurant, "Blues Alley"
It has been such an honor, and lots of fun to work with such gracious, delightful gentlemen whose musicianship is phenomenal. 
When you're a fan, you just expect to keep on purchasing music as it's produced, and concert tickets when favorite artists come to town. Clapping and singing from your seat is a treat in and of itself. You never think you'll end up on stage...with permission...by invitation...and holding a live mike...It's kind of how I STILL feel about being a member of "Vision".
Friends in the audience are always nice, too. You may not be able to see them, but the saints have a VERY distinctive way of letting you know they're in the building: "You bettah play that!..."Saaaaang, Va-nes-SUH!" lolol....That just cracks me up! I'm so grateful today. This has been one of the best birthday weekends ever. It's nice when the calendar lands my birthday on Thanksgiving Day. It only happens every once in a while...Fifty-three has begun quite nicely...: )

P.S. Every once in a while, when you don't recognize the number on the caller ID, answer the phone anyway. There may be a lovely opportunity (or, perhaps, a magnificent French accent) at the other end of the line.

THURSDAY THOUGHTS: BEFORE ONE CHRISTMAS

Hindsight really is 20/20. 

On Monday and Tuesday, I would not have been able to convince anyone that I wasn't getting illegal collagen injections from a quack, back-alley plastic surgeon. 

Was it really a toothpaste allergy? (I did try the super whitening sample for an entire week on the cruise.

How did I ignore the tingling? Did I think it was supposed to do that?) 

I did kind of overdo it Monday afternoon with the baking soda and peroxide, and it wasn't good 'ol, tried and true Arm and Hammer, either) 

Cosmetics? Was it the lipstick? Didn't I remember the unusual stinging when I applied the gloss last week? 

Was it the peanuts I roasted? 

Was it the costume jewelry? 

Have I been eating right? Am I skipping vitamins? 

I was grasping for straws.  

I threw away lipsticks and glosses, my toothbrush, and was glad to find some hydrocortisone cream. 

It wasn't pretty...not at all. 

Then I took to the internet and scared myself to death reading about my symptoms, looking at images, and ruling out the myriad of things that could be ailing me.

"I look like a duck", I lamented to my daughter as she walked away to keep me from seeing the look on her face. No. That would be an insult to ducks everywhere. I apologize to my fine-feathered friends. 

She laughed. I didn't blame her. If my top lip didn't feel as if a paperweight had been surgically attached, I would have laughed, too. 

I was talking like Mushmouth. 

Singing would be out of the question, I imagined. 

As I drifted off in a Benadryl-induced sleep on Monday, I told myself I might have to sit out the event on Tuesday night. 

I missed rehearsal Monday night. 

The Benadryl knocked me out. 

I woke up at 3 in the morning. 

My phone displayed all of the calls I'd missed as I slept.  

"I think I may be able to pull it off if I "eat" the microphone" I told myself as I drifted back to sleep. 

When I woke up on Tuesday morning, I looked as if I'd sparred with a heavyweight, but my daughter reassured me that I looked a lot better than I did the day before. She's an honest young woman, so I believed her. Her words saved me a hesitant trip to the mirror, but I could see my lips just fine without it.

 

I profusely thanked God for ice, Benadryl, and water. When she finally reached me by phone, my friend Darlene suggested cold compresses and lots of liquids. "You've got to flush it out" she advised. I found a Huskies ice pack in the freezer, and wrapped it in paper towels and rested it on my lips, but it obscured my entire face. It occurred to me that I needed to do that in moderation, too. "No sense exchanging the gross swelling for frostbite", I thought....

As I felt my face ballooning, I think I repented for everything I'd ever done wrong in my entire life. I think I got saved all over again, too...."If my lips have harmed anyone in any way, I am truly, truly sorry, Lord. I need my lips, dear, sweet, Jesus. These lips right here? These lips right here are not, NOT television camera-ready. They're not breakfast, lunch, or dinner ready either. Can you help a sistah out?" 

I was mad at the devil, but he wasn't the one who told me to put a hunk of no-name baking soda in my mouth, chase it with generic, undiluted hydrogen peroxide, and brush vigorously.

Rhonda picked me up around 2:30, and we headed to The Howard Theater for a 3PM soundcheck. I'd decided that I would just hide myself up on a riser...way in the back... behind a Christmas tree or something. 
When we got there, it occurred to me to ask, "What song are we singing?" When they all said "Angels! Didn't you know? That's what we rehearsed last night!", I waited for someone to shout "April Fool!" 

That didn't happen. 

I had convinced myself we would be singing something from the "Rejoice" CD since it was a Christmas program we were taping. 

ANGELS? Oh, dear Lord! Okay...Where's my little Maurette? Is Maurette coming? I was going to have to be in full view and there was no way I could dodge cameras. Maurette wasn't going to be there, so I would be singing her verse, too...Myriam, a friend and one of the production staff came over to me and immediately started moving hair out of my face. "I want to see your face!" she scolded...As the tech handed me my microphone, he said, "You seem a bit overwhelmed. Relax. It'll be okay". 

Everyone kept assuring me that the swelling wasn't as bad as I thought. Makeup artist Fred Sanders did a wonderful, delicate job on most of my face--but I decided I'd tackle my slowly deflating lips myself.

(It's funny. As I age, the allergies my Mom had, seem to be visiting me. 

I have to get rid of jewelry that has even a trace of nickel. 

I guess the next thing I’ll be doing is using dye/ perfume free products, and tossing out lots of makeup.  I will enter the world of Almay, and all other things hypoallergenic, I suppose, but I have to applaud Cover Girl for the collaboration with Olay--and some old school castor oil saved the day, too...lol

There was a lot of "hurry up and wait" that night, but as I look back I'm thankful for all of the delays, and lineup changes. Iyanla sensed how tired we were as we waited backstage, smiled, and said “Fix your face, Beloved”. It was the equivalent to being told, “Stand up straight”. 

By the time we did take the stage, thanks to the Benadryl, I was looking a little closer to human--but I did eat that mike just the same---just in case.

Drummer, Danny McCrimmon was seated in the balcony, and snapped a few photos. I was glad that the moment was captured. I'd been a fan of Iyanla Vanzant since the "Starting Over" series, and there she was being maternally empowering and encouraging...It really was special---allergic reaction and all.

There are always lessons to learn. 

Richard offered a good one--"Stick to the tried and true". Ms. Vanzant offered a comical, but on-time one as well, that promoted patience, graciousness, and humility. I’ll never forget it.

TUESDAY THOUGHTS: IN MY DREAMS

Yesterday I dreamed my friends Troy and Jason were desperately trying to wake me. 

There was a show about to start aboard the ship, and I'd overslept....
I don't usually remember my dreams in great detail, just that I did dream something. 

Perhaps it's because I get up and start busying myself with other things, during whatever prime window of time is best for recalling the night's featured movie of the mind.

Last night, however,  I dreamed I'd left open the window nearest my bed. 

I woke up in the dream, and noticed a rotting hollow tree, that was almost the height of the building. 

Then, I saw something move toward my window. 

I thought it was a branch extended toward me, but it was a huge snake. 

I looked down, and was suddenly frightened because the snake was coiled around the tree from top to bottom. When it saw me, though, it's head retreated and hid, but I could still see the rest of its body coiled around the tree, and its tail moving in the grass. 

I was screaming at it, "I can see you!" 

I reached for a vase that had stones in the bottom of it. I emptied the rocks onto the bed and was about to start throwing them at the snake, when something told me, "Don't do THAT! Close the window!" 

I hurried and closed it, and watched the snake uncoil. 

Then I REALLY woke up, and noticed the actual tree outside my window was being shaken violently by the wind.

I started to call someone, but it's too early for phones to be ringing, and in the words of the great philosopher Tamar Braxton, "Ain't nobody got time for that." 

So, out of curiosity, I turned to the internet for a possible explanation. 

I'm not spooky, by any stretch of the imagination, and don't take stock in a lot of things, but I read Tony Crisp's interpretations at Dreamhawk.com. 

I have to say, they were quite interesting. http://dreamhawk.com/dream-dictionary/snake/

MONDAY THOUGHTS: HAIR DAYS

The 7th Annual Capital Jazz Super Cruise is over. I'm so grateful. It was such a beautiful, relaxing time.

I stepped off of the Carnival Freedom, when the ship docked in La Romana, minus a usual accessory. 

It was hot--much too hot to don anything that would add degrees to my life. 

My personal summers are a force to be reckoned with all by themselves, and the hovering warmth of a Caribbean day certainly needs no embellishment. So, I did something I very rarely do. I broke a long standing unnecessary habit.

Hair has been a bit of an accessory for me for a long time. Frankly it's easier when traveling or planning for a performance to just grab a wig, or weave up. 

I decided years ago to forgo relaxers, but rarely allowed my own hair to see the light of day, or be seen by others. I called myself protecting it. 

I love the way it feels. Thick and healthy like it was when I was a little girl. Maybe I convinced myself it was just faster and more convenient to wear someone else's hair, skip the curling irons and the like, cornrow my own hair, and go. 

I still don't remember when I stopped regularly doing my own hair. I'm sure there was some performance involved.

The other day, I guess I must have felt differently. Enough people certainly let me know I looked differently. 

"I didn't know who you were! You should do that more often. You have a different energy!" one friend told me. 

“A different energy”. 

I liked that. 

My 53rd birthday is fast approaching. I could use all the energy I can get! Who knew all I had to do was let my hair come out to play? Did I imagine a bit more of a spring in my step? Nope. It was definitely there. Free and uninhibited is a good thing.

Eight days aboard a cruise ship, being mesmerized by the seascape, surrounded by amazing music, delicious food, and talented, good friends was refreshing for me. At the Graham Central Station concert I was singing along and having a ball. I felt calm and happy. I was reminded of high school sock hops and college days when even the thought of wearing a wig was non-existent. Funny, but the wig never did make another appearance until it emerged from my suitcase yesterday. It looked a little dissed. Will I accept another friend's challenge and ditch it and others for good? Will I join my daughter and other friends and "come out of bondage"? Who knows. All I do know, as a woman of a certain age, is that is it's cool to be cool.

Today has been one of introspection. The happy feeling; the feeling of serenity doesn't have to end. I haven't done much other than check mail, email, and phone messages. Part of the freeing feeling was being disconnected from phones and computers. I almost forgot that today was a holiday. 

What a fitting way to spend the day--celebrating freedom of any kind. 

TUESDAY THOUGHTS: BAG LADY

I'd contemplated how I was going to maneuver all of the bags I'd accumulated. 

Between the bags from the laundry, the cleaners, Ross, 7-Eleven, CVS, and Beauty Island, I was loaded down. 

It was getting dark. 

It had been a really good day. 

I'd managed to run every errand, but I was a little tired. 

I'd only stopped to return a suit that had clearly looked better on the hanger than it did on me. 

I hadn't planned to stay, and didn't realize how long I'd browsed in the new Ross store in Rivertowne, until I saw the clock in the car. 

I thought about stopping for a pizza, but that would have been one more thing to carry. 

I wondered what kind of bag lady I looked like, as I went from the car to the door.

When you KNOW you're going to have to make several trips, but delude yourself into thinking you can consolidate and save time, you run the risk of bodily injury, or at least providing a hilarious scene for passersby.

 

Laziness has consequences. You break something, or spill something, or a bag bursts. 

I remembered something my Dad always says: "Lazy people work hard."  

I'd managed to get everything out of the car, and into the building. 

Just as I was about to drag the biggest bag up one step at a time,  there was a knock on the glass door, and I saw the badge. 

I opened the door, and without any fanfare, I had a hero/angel asking me how far up the stairs I was going. 

DC Police Officer Carter saw me. 

He handed me his pen, paperwork, and clipboard, and then scooped up the heaviest bag as if it was a feather.  

I'd added at least three bags to the already heavy bag with the intention of taking them out once I got inside, but he just grabbed the whole thing before I could say a word). 

Have you ever had a vision of yourself falling into a pitiful heap? 

I imagined myself on a Life Alert commercial, all sprawled and broken, in the stairwell, surrounded by my laundry, dry cleaning, groceries and mail. 

I imagined that, as I tried to sling the bag, Santa Claus-style, across my back, the weight of it sent me sailing backward down the stairs, unable to grab the railing. 

I saw it all in my mind. 

That's when I laughed at myself and decided, "Don't be lazy or stupid. Take as many trips as you need to get the bags upstairs". 

Turns out, I didn't have to.

Gracious, unsolicited, help really does come along when you need it. 

Chivalry and good citizenship lives! Yay!

TUESDAY THOUGHTS: SUBSTITUTE TEACHER TALES

The majority of the students, in the last class of the day, decided that there would be no reading, writing, discussion, or ANYTHING involving the novel they'd been assigned to read. 

(And a wonderful novel it was. I rather enjoyed reading a great deal of it during my lunch break.) 

They decided they'd rather show me who was really in charge. 

In the words of the great philosopher, Tamar Braxton, "They tried it".

  

If they'd only known how much I wanted to teach them the wonderful lesson their instructor had planned. It just wasn't to be, I guess. 

What ELSE was NOT going to be, was the continuation of their lousy behavior, or the planting of any seed that would make them think they would be allowed to repeat their antics, in the future, with anyone else.

In the interest of the next unsuspecting person who comes along, I just couldn't allow them to leave thinking that anything they did, or said, was okay. 

I mean, "Please take your seat" is such a simple, non-threatening request. It's not offensive in the least, is it?

A person would really like to earn his or her salary. When it comes to the final class of the day, I don't feel as if I did. 

I left the school a bit sad. 

I took their behavior personally, and that was a huge mistake. 

I must not do that again.

It's so early in the year, and some students are messing up already-- academically and behaviorally. That concerns me greatly, and I don't have a child enrolled in school any more.

There's something about the sight of a substitute teacher that activates the bladders of, and initiates chronic thirst in some students. 

Suddenly everyone has to leave the room. 

It's an emergency. 

You see more interpretive dancing than you ever imagined, coupled with pleas of "I gotta pee!" coming at you in ever-increasing volume. 

Reminding students of the window of time between classes, and how it is designed so perfectly for visiting the restroom, their lockers, or anywhere else in the school, just makes some students even more hostile. 

They had been counting on goofing off between classes, and being allowed to roam the halls. 

They fully expect you to give them a pass to do it. 

They cite Mr. or Miss So-and-So, who always allows them to go where they want, as if that's supposed to shame you into granting their wishes. 

You want to be liked, don't you? 

Saying "No" erases any chances of that. 

So, they threaten you with ceasing to work, as if their failure to do their assignment for the day is going to somehow make you less intelligent.

The sight of a substitute teacher erases all memory of school rules and procedures. 

All of a sudden, there's someone trying to tell YOU what to do, as if you haven't been clued in. 

Seeing a sub inspires the smart-aleck in some students, and the bully in others. 

One little boy quipped, "I think I'm gonna get somebody fired today". 

(Ooooh, if he only knew--I was there because I chose to be, not because I had to be. )

There's also an imp from the deep recesses of hell who screams, "Sub!!!", and immediately possesses the spirits of certain little darlings, and makes them believe they are suddenly in the presence of someone for whom they should show little, or no respect. Suddenly, you have no humanity. You're just an intruder who has the nerve to want to teach. 

You must be terrorized, and sent screaming out of the building never to return again. 

How dare you come to a school, and expect learning to take place.

So, before "Loud, Out-of-control Teacher" was allowed to make a rare, scary appearance, "Calm, Peace-loving Teacher" told them to gather all of their things, lined them up, and marched them ALL to the Principal's Office. 

I hated to do it. 

Classroom management had never been a weak point, but I felt a bit outnumbered and overwhelmed today. 

It was a shame, too. The day had begun so nicely. The other classes had been delightful and, for the most part, stayed on task.

On the way to the principal's office, some tried to run, hide, or go in the opposite direction, but the sense of right and wrong in them miraculously prevailed, and they joined the line. 

The Principal instructed me to march them all to the Dean of Students. 

The Dean was a man who happily reminded me of every drill sergeant in every film where there was a terrifying, no-nonsense drill sergeant character. 

He was Sgt. Emil Foley, Sgt. Nathan West, and Sgt. Vince Carter all rolled up into one. 

Suddenly, the imp that had overtaken their good sense in the classroom, released them from its grip, and we were, once again, in the presence of wide-eyed, innocent children. 

They snapped out of their delusion, remembered why they came to school, realized they'd gone too far, and contemplated that their butts were indeed, grass.

Their pitiful choruses of  "What'd I do?" and "I ain't even do nothing!" fell on unsympathetic, deaf ears.
I separated the relieved and grateful wheat from the tares, because of course, not ALL of the little darlings forgot their manners this afternoon. 

Phone numbers and names were collected, and calls were made. 

Today, after school detention was a little crowded.

The swift action of The Dean and his assistant let me know that consequences still exist. 

Foolishness ISN'T tolerated everywhere. 

Teachers ARE supported.

A classroom can have smart boards, computers, and every state-of-the art piece of equipment known to man; money can flow into a school like a river, but without order, NOTHING will be taught or learned, except how to waste extraordinary amounts of time and energy.

I was reminded, by a very wise person, that I can only control myself. 

It definitely helped the sad feeling to dissipate. 

I just hate to see anyone hurting themselves while foolishly thinking they're hurting someone else. 

I can want others to respond certain ways, but there's never a guarantee. 

I loved the novel. I suppose I wanted them to be interested in it, too. 

Another person's failure to do what's right, doesn't diminish my actions, or imply that I am somehow weak, or incompetent. 

There are a lot of willing people just itching to help others. 

Help has to be wanted, though, and the necessity of it has to be recognized.

A teacher--even a substitute teacher-- can have all of the hopes and expectations in the world, but he or she cannot force learning, or interest, or cooperation. One can only hope that good home training will prevail.

People have to want to learn, and the importance of a good education, and good manners are lessons that have to be taught--the earlier the better.

I won't give up, though. 

I really do love teaching.