Cynthia Pittmann, PhD is a writer based in Puerto Rico who motivates people to write and live a creative connected life through sharing her own stories, poems, and photography.
"The meaning of life is not to find your gift, the purpose of life is to give it away." ~Pablo Picasso
Life is a surprise. It's full of forgetting and remembering but when you forget, you don't remember. Okay. Take that thought slowly. It is only when you remember that you realize that you forgot something. It's like that with most lost memories...they come rushing through your mind after some triggering moment. It is also possible to remember factual events, but still forget the accompanying feelings that those events entailed. So I ask myself: Do you remember if you don't feel the experience again? Lately, my memory is inundated with past experiences that come upon me, suddenly. And too, I'm aware of the feelings of another time. They sweep through my mind alive with the fragrant and bittersweet breeze...
Morning Memory
White lace flower curtain
Growing round and close.
Late morning heat, cooled,
Again the earth breathes sky.
Brushed by the damp and
Dead leaves, I walk.
Head-wind determined...
Old fears dry and peel off.
Oh memory wind, oh friend
I open the door to your
everything and all -in
this once-was breeze
Heavy stuck leaf-prints
Evaporate and crumble
Soil-rich with promise-
Newness yet to come.
Cynthia Pittmann
2009
~~~~~
What causes this upsurge of memory? It could be a certain age, or having time to reflect? Perhaps it is a combination of turbulence and slow thought all in the context of a relationship? I am a mother who has a daughter- and "we get along" my daughter would say. Lately, when the breeze of her life blows through mine, I remember what it was like to live many years ago. I don't mean that I experience what she experiences (though that happens too) I mean that I remember myself as a teenager. I think back on my own high school years and I remember what it felt like to be devoted, absorbed and swept away by another-in the "teen way"- which is not usually accessible to my ordinary task-oriented adult self. Lately, I surprise myself with tears when I listen to the uncomplicated music of Taylor Swift. Suddenly, I remember/realize the pain of early unrequited love when I hear this song (Don't judge me!!! :-) :
Letter to Sweet-Sixteen Me
Dearest young Miss C,
Going as you are into this life with
Anger, joy, loss, and hope swirling in
A kaleidoscope of poetry and dreams, riding on
a Ferris wheel, "Carousel" and "Brigadoon"
"June is busting out all over..." but
Michigan winters are cold...
Spring arrives early in Ohio...
It's a trip all night to reach down and
find a muse alive in the apple blossoms...
A wild but careful you, an
overfilled-lilac-purple-budding-in-vase you,
set on the mantle and likely to fall.
Oh, I would catch you if I could.
Still wild horses will buck and break that
country-roads-take-me-home innocence.
Should I tell you the secrets of your future?
The crystal ball has gone smoky.
You must have your time...uncomplicated
Drama with Romeo while you play Juliet or
A Christmas Pixi who sits on Santa
Claus's lap beaming over-bright
smiles into the camera.
Hey there, Cynthia (on the far left), how are you doing? It's been a long time; and, it's so nice to see you, again!
Post Script:
Thank you, blogger friends, for taking this trip down memory lane with me. I know we stayed up all night talking but the sun is rising and I feel renewed! xxoo
(Note: Sections of this post are updated from 2009)
I carefully scanned the pavement looking for signs of Mom left on the driveway.
Coming back from Michigan, I again thought of the life that was made for me there, and all that has changed because I left home at seventeen (and didn't look back). The years of separation and absence have provided an unbroken memory that continues to be alive in me. Though the events and relationships are long gone, they exist completely intact in my memory. I continue to feel close to people I have not seen for three decades. My unbridled affection is surprising because I'm essentially a stranger who has unexpectedly popped up from the haze of the 1970's.
Bill is a friend from Huron High School. He is connected to the fall season the same way apple cider, orange pumpkins, and leaves caught in the wind or crunching under our feet are connected. He was a football player and champion wrestler who celebrated with us after the games with pizza (and sometimes beer) in Flatrock. I was a drum major, flag captain, clarinetist, all around band member and team supporter. He was protective of my sisters and me, and I believe he had a special deal with our father, Richard, to guard our honor; however, an unforeseen event wedged a terrible break in our friendship and we could no longer be friends.
It was my sixteenth birthday party and all of my family, friends, and their friends were there. The house was open, and traffic flowed in teen party fashion. People were drinking, smoking, and talking too loud. My sister came up in a car with her boyfriend. She had disappeared for many months, running off with her older boyfriend in the middle of the night, packing her clothes in large black plastic garbage bags and storing them behind the evergreen bushes that lined the front porch. Her arrival to my party was tense and unexpected. My father was quietly ignoring this turn of events. The couple was arguing in the car, perhaps about coming in the house or leaving before there was trouble. The discussion became physical and one of my cousins ran into the house yelling, "He's beating her up and she's in labor!" My father sprung into fierce action; he ran outside, grabbed the man and pulled him out of the car. My sister started screaming for everything to stop. However, it was too late and a fight became the main event. Yelling party goers crowded around shouting, "Fight!" Bill tried to break the two men apart, but it was impossible. They rolled into the field next door and it started to get bloody. Mom went into action, picked up a two by four board, and slammed it down just when they flipped over. She nearly knocked Dad unconscious, and it was all he could do to maintain awareness. I was appalled at her mistake! "She almost killed Dad", I thought. Mom came running back with a hammer, and I blocked her by grabbing her hand, "Don't you dare!" I was ready to get physical. Suddenly, lights were flashing, and people scattered. The police broke up the fight, and began taking reports from witnesses. "Who started it?" was the critical question. When Bill was asked he reported what he had seen, and so Dad was taken off to jail. Later, Bill stood as a witness for my sister's boyfriend, and that is why we could no longer be friends. It was as if he disappeared. He was completely removed from all interactions with us, all contact. My father felt he was disloyal to our family because he told the police exactly what he had seen, and in Bill's version, Dad was the angry aggressor. My sister went to the hospital, had my nephew, and decided to stay with her boyfriend because children need a father. Mom went to the hospital to be with her, and later helped her get settled but Dad remained stoically detached. He felt betrayed by family, friends, and society. A father is supposed to defend his child, isn't he?
The farm is well cared for now, with the exception of the circle driveway, which somehow seems appropriate. I stood looking down the drive for several minutes trying to find some remnant of my mother, a darkened area, a bit of the chalk that outlined her body but all that remained was broken cement. I feel sorry I challenged her when she was "defending" Dad. She wasn't ever a bystander, patiently waiting and helpless. She was a powerful participant- abet with a poor aim. She continued to be brave, running out to try to help her partner, Christine, after she was shot by our neighbor, Brooks. I wish she had stayed inside and waited for the police to arrive. I wish she were still alive. I wish we had just celebrated her birthday on Halloween, instead of her being murdered at fifty five years old. Dad made peace with my sister and she escaped the domestic abuse situation. (He died when he was forty-nine.) Dad never knew about Mom's lifestyle changes.
I don't know if Bill remembers this story; we didn't talk about it. As a matter of fact, I didn't even know that he was "Apple Charlie" -or rather that was the name his father used. My cousin, Tammy, was just taking me to an apple orchard and a place to see a pumpkin patch. (Living in the tropics makes me yearn for signs of seasons sometimes.) We drove up to Apple Charlies, I got out and started taking lots of poor quality photographs with my cell phone, then I started chatting with one of the workers, "So who is Apple Charlie? What's his last name? What's his first name? I mean, people don't call him, Apple, right?" I was just bothering a stranger with questions when I discovered that this was Bill Grover's place. I had forgotten his family owned an apple orchard. I wondered if he wanted to see me again. I decided to be bold, and when I saw him heading into his house, I called out, "Bill! Hey, Bill!" I'm glad I did. I feel as though a new bookend has been placed on that past disturbing phase of my life. When I left, he said, "Thanks for stopping by and looking me up." Bill's okay. I'm okay. Life goes on.
Life is a surprise. It's full of forgetting and remembering but when you forget, you don't remember. Okay. Take that thought slowly. It is only when you remember that you realize that you forgot something. It's like that with most lost memories...they come rushing through your mind after some triggering moment. It is also possible to remember factual events, but still forget the accompanying feelings that those events entailed. So I ask myself: Do you remember if you don't feel the experience again? Lately, my memory is inundated with past experiences that come upon me, suddenly. And too, I'm aware of the feelings of another time. They sweep through my mind alive with the fragrant and bittersweet breeze...
Morning Memory
White lace flower curtain Growing round and close. Late morning heat, cooled, Again the earth breathes sky.
Brushed by the damp and Dead leaves, I walk. Head-wind determined... Old fears dry and peel off.
Oh memory wind, oh friend I open the door to your everything and all -in this once-was breeze
Heavy stuck leaf-prints Evaporate and crumble Soil-rich with promise- Newness yet to come.
(Cynthia Pittmann)
~~~~~ What causes this upsurge of memory? It could be a certain age, or having time to reflect? Perhaps it is a combination of turbulence and slow thought all in the context of a relationship? I am a mother who has a daughter- and "we get along" my daughter would say. Lately, when the breeze of her life blows through mine, I remember what it was like to live many years ago. I don't mean that I experience what she experiences (though that happens too) I mean that I remember myself as a teenager. I think back on my own high school years and I remember what it felt like to be devoted, absorbed and swept away by another-in the "teen way"- which is not usually accessible to my ordinary task-oriented adult self. Lately, I surprise myself with tears when I listen to the uncomplicated music of Taylor Swift. Suddenly, I remember/realize the pain of early unrequited love when I hear this song (Don't judge me!!! :-) :
~~~~~~
Letter to Sweet Sixteen
Dearest young Miss C, Going as you are into this life of love... Anger, joy, loss, and hope all swirling around you Kaleidoscope of poetry and dreams Your mind a Ferris Wheel , a Carousel "June is busting out all over..."
You discover Spring arrives early in Ohio...and It's a trip -all night-to reach down to find spring... Alive in the apple blossoms... Alive in your favorite songs...
A wild and careful you- an overfilled fragrant vase- Set on the mantle, likely to fall. Oh, would I catch you?
I would. And yet, wild horses will break that "country roads take me home" innocence. Should I tell you many dreams will fall away? No, I can't.
You get to have your time...uncomplicated Romeo and Juliet. Wasn't it Robert Kincaid who said, "The old dreams were good dreams; they didn't work out, but I'm glad I had them."
In love, welcome and goodbye.
(Cynthia Pittmann)
~~~~~ I remember watching this music video many times with my daughter. From my adult me's perspective, it was "cute," even charming. But then one day, my concentration focused in and I left behind all of the story detail analysis of the anachronisms.(Romeo and Juliet were younger than that...they couldn't really be together...that period costume, it comes from a later date...) I didn't have to hear, "Oh, Mom, stop talking. You're ruining the video!" because I was there, too. My teen-self came forward and asserted herself, "Let me be. Let me live."
~~~~~~
~~~~~~
Hey there, Cynthia (on the far left), how are you doing? It's been a long time; and, it's so nice to see you, again!
Post Script:
Thank you, blogger friends, for taking this trip down memory lane with me. I know we stayed up all night talking but the sun is rising and I feel renewed! xxoo
has honored me with this colorful and dynamic award. What a charming acknowledgement of my efforts here at OWL blog. Thank you, friend!
Here is a description of the award
This award recognizes the following attributes:
1) The Blogger manifests exemplary attitude, respecting the nuances that pervades amongst different cultures and beliefs.
2) The Blog contents inspire; strives to encourage and offers solutions.
3) There is a clear purpose at the Blog; one that fosters a better understanding on Social, Political, Economic, the Arts, Culture, Sciences and Beliefs.
4)The Blog is refreshing and creative
5) The Blogger promotes friendship and positive thinking
Wow! What a compliment! Here are my responsibilities:
The Bloggers who receive this award will need to perform the following steps:
1) Create a post with a mention and link to the blogger who presented the Noblesse Oblige Award to you. 2) The award conditions must be displayed in the post. 3) Write a short article about what your blog has thus far achieved preferably citing one or more older post to support: 4) The blogger must present the Noblesse Oblige Award to blogs in concurrence with the award conditions. 5) The blogger must display the award at any location on their blog.
Oasis Writing Link; A Short Historyof Beginning at an Ending
Oasis Writing Link started almost by itself; I had been thinking about starting a blog after I read the book Julie and Julia by Julie Powell; briefly, it's a book about a woman who started a blog and how it evolved into a book (now it is a film staring Meryl Streep that is scheduled to be released this August!) when a work friend told me I should just type in blogger.com and see what it was all about. She said it was quite simple. (Julie has a current blog where you can comment!)
Without clear intention, I decided to fill out a request for a blog. Many of you know that Oasis Writing Link has the acronym OWL which points to my mother, Susan Pittmann, a Halloween baby, who loved that she was born on the witch's day. She was murdered in 1992 by our neighbor, Mr. Brooks. (James Elwood Brooks); I have written about the circumstances surrounding this hate crime. OWL blog is a tribute to my mother's life.
Recently, my sister, Linda found this photo of Brooks; it appears to be the mysterious missing photo taken by Christine Puckett, my mother's murdered partner, just before they were both shot. I heard that Brooks hit Christine with a shovel before he went into his house to get the murder weapon. I understand that Chris was trying to document his aggression so that the police would take precautionary-preventive action (at least take his weapons away!!!) How shocking to see his blurred angry face just before he shot my mother and Christine. (I saw these photographs for the first time just one hour ago.) From the photo angle, Christine must have been lying on the ground while she quickly took the shot. I remember Mom saying that they needed to prove that he was behaving aggressively because the police wouldn't act on Brook's verbal threats. They said they needed evidence to document his irrational condition. Sadly, it is on this day, cinco de mayo, that they both were shot and killed.
I also have two other new photographs most likely taken just before this one:
Mr. Brooks -as we used to call him as children- is quite angry here, and shouting in the first mini photo. In the second, he is reaching into his car to get the shovel to strike Christine. The larger blurred photo is when he lifted the shovel and moments after, it must have struck Christine. Then he returned to his house, lifted the rifle and shot Christine from his kitchen door. When she fell, he selected the loaded double barrel shotgun, which was along side the door and walked over to her bleeding body. My mother was on the phone talking to a 911 operator (I heard the tape); she said: "My worker's been shot!" They asked for information and likely tried to keep her there but she left the phone dangling and ran out to Christine. By that time, Brooks was again out in our yard with the shotgun, they had some words. Probably, mom tried to calm him down but he just lifted the gun and shot mom at close range. She died rapidly as the blood poured from her aorta just below her heart and into the soil. Brooks then walked over to Christine and shot her again. This is what I think happened; it's what I can piece together from the various stories, hints and facts that I know. Great sorrow swept into many people's lives on that day. Mom had five children, seven grandchildren, many unofficially adopted children and grandchildren, many friends and relatives.
Mom and Christine's deaths were like a dry wind that left a shadow of ash on all of those members of society who passively permit anger and aggression towards those who chose to love someone of the same sex. (For more information about the impact of this crime, you can go to this documentary film website and read about the Pittmann Puckett Story.)
May we all learn to love and accept difference in each other.
The DUST BOWL - natural disaster cause by the violation of our earth, unknowingly caused by the belief that we can dominate nature, and force it to change.
I want to call attention to these blogs that strive to bring understanding and empathy into this world; these blogs uphold a positive faith in our ability to act by the force of love to create a better world.
Self-importance is our greatest enemy. Think about it - what weakens us is feeling offended by the deeds and misdeeds of our fellowmen. Our self-importance requires that we spend most of our lives offended by someone.
Do you remember in the movie, "La Bamba" when Ritchie's mother, Connie Valenzuela gets offended because the band does not allow her son to play solo at an evening garage performance? Ricki jumps in the car where his whole family is waiting and she asks, "What did they mean ...not letting you play, Ritchie?" He says, "Don't worry, I'll get them to listen." Connie is angry, though, and she says, "My Grandfather was a full blooded Yaqui Indian..."
I aways smile when I think of that pride. What is it? Mother's pride? Family pride? Some part of me knows that it does not really matter how you came into this world and which group of people you belong to...but another part can relate to that indignant mother! Respect! It's like Aretha Franklin R-E-S-P-E-C-T!
(Photo Yaqui People C1910 Mexico)
I'm thinking about confidence and balancing our needs with the needs of others....of knowing that you can make a difference in your own life and in the lives of others....of putting yourself out in the world. I think many of us are born with a introverted character, we have to learn to express our needs. Others are born with an extroverted tendency and may overlook the needs of others. Neither is necessarily better because we have to learn balance, either way. I know some people who keep giving until they harm themselves...and others who tightly hold on to what they have -but the universe or chance creates hardship and loss anyway. Perhaps, teaching generosity to some children is difficult in some way but so is teaching children to stand up for themselves and be noticed.
Many years ago, when my daughter was singing at a small theatre for a school function, I watched her get pushed away from the microphone by a more aggressive singing partner. (I have it on film so it's clear in my memory.) The other girl's parents had the shame of their daughter's public behavior to deal with but the girl who pushed was the one who was heard the most. I kept thinking that my daughter should have moved back toward the microphone and tried to sing again instead of staying in the background. I always wonder what is the right guidance to give in those situations. I didn't want my daughter to grow up into an aggressive personality but I did want her to know how to stand up for herself. She's turned out fine but I still wonder how to handle pushy people in the world.
As a shy child, I had to learn how to stand up for myself. My mother frequently commented about my own sensitive ways. She used to say, "I worry about you. You need to toughen up!" I think I must have gotten much bolder in my teen years but I remember feeling the need of support before I could try something new. I waited for friends to say, "Hey, you can do it!" I think you miss a lot of opportunities when you need to wait for someone else to discover your talents and encourage you to move ahead. Sometimes even people you love just don't want you to excel too much . Why is that? I'm naive a bit- when someone tells me it's control and jealousy, I don't want to believe it. Usually, I just look away and try not to notice. I think maybe my daughter does that too. It's a strategy. I don't know if it's the best one.
What do you think about confidence and self-importance? Sometimes when it comes to my children, I'm like Ritchie's mother, Connie Valenzuela. Do you remember when she was imagining for her son and she looked up into the sky while visualizing, "Ricky Vallenzuela and his Flying Guitar?" She's dreaming big for her child...her cause...
I fell into a hole yesterday. I'm exaggerating, really, it was just a broken place in the sidewalk but I had a flash of insight, which is why I' m writing about it here. The fall was accompanied by one of those deja vu (familiar and unpleasant) experiences where an event seems to be repeated but the second time it happens, you realize that your reaction is completely different. The first time I fell into a hole occurred after moving into a new house in Puerto Rico when I was ready to return to my morning jogging/walking routine. Early one day, I was following my bliss and turned down a quiet tropical side street.
I noticed a large Victorian house to my right that was set in the middle of a lush green yard filled with slightly overgrown but cultivated plants. (It looked like this photo of a sub-tropical Victorian home in Springfield, Georgia.) My mind, still thinking about the possible residents of this romantic looking early 20th century home, was jarred by the view of a new condominium building project. Reflecting about the possible demolition of the entire area, I was suddenly almost knee deep in a small hole. While the sensation of a burning pain started to shock my system, I realized that the accident happened because someone did not replace a cover. The metal oval cutout, which looked like a miniature manhole cover, was suppose to fit in the sidewalk. It was part of the local water meter system. As I painfully replaced the metal piece over the gaping hole, I became increasingly angry. While limping home, I indignantly, thought of the irresponsible person who left the cover off. "How dare they just leave a trap for someone to fall in! In the states, the water company would be sued or someone would be held accountable for this irresponsible slovenly work." Of course later, I realized that sometimes people who are not employed by the government, take off the water covers to tamper with the meter readings. I also discovered that heavy rain damages the cement and frequently the covers do not fit properly. Consequently, a foot trap could be made even though the water gage seems to be safe and covered.
Another confession, sometimes, when I was younger, I was told that I had my head in the clouds and this was supported by incidental facts. Once while driving on the scenic panoramic route on California's coastal highway 1, I was so captivated and excited by the view that I nearly drove off the cliff! Talk about entering the moment! Yesterday, I fell into a little hole, a broken place in the sidewalk, really, and I did not get injured.
Thinking now, I remember that I had sprained my ankle exactly twice in my life, and I had to be rushed to the emergency room. The first incident happened because I was riding on the butterfly handlebars of a new pink Schwinn bike that my younger brother was steering. (I was twelve.) I was thrilled with the fun loving ride until my foot got caught in the spokes of the front wheel. The second time, was when I was sitting on the wheel cover of the tractor my father was driving and, again, my foot got caught in the wheel. It was a much bigger wheel this time and considerably more frightening! (I was still twelve.) In both incidents, I remember the face of the driver, my brother and my dad, looking pained and guilty. I confess, I felt seriously sorry for myself both times.
Yesterday's incident repeatedly returns to my mind because of my difference in thought. Immediately after falling, I thought, "Watch more carefully, next time. You have to notice where you are placing your foot." (Of course, I didn't feel pain for long this time either.) What am I saying here? First, another story...
When I moved to Puerto Rico, my department director patiently listened to my complaints about the rule breaking Puerto Rican population. I am a bit ashamed to admit to it now but it bothered me that people would park their cars everywhere and sometimes even block my car from leaving because of double parking. People would park on the sidewalks and if there was space enough, they would park in the middle lane between parking spaces; worse yet, after the first transgressor, cars would line up there, too, creating a middle lane behind the legally parked vehicles. My director patiently listened to my frustration and explanation about being late to class because I was trapped and say, "Yes, this is a small island." I was supposed to infer that people didn't have a choice but to break the rules. Since then, I've learned that these rule are flexible and subject to interpretation by the drivers. Basically, if you're willing to get a possible but rarely given ticket, it's acceptable to break the law because there is no where to legally park. After all, whose fault is it?
Yesterday, I fell in a hole and I realized my orientation had changed. I no longer took it for granted that people would do their duty and repair what is broken. I accepted that I needed to look out for myself in this life. I know I can't prevent every incident from occurring but I noticed that I have accepted responsibility for my own well being. Before I fell yesterday, I didn't even know that I expected others to look out for me or that I would nurse resentment about other people's shortcomings. I realized that thinking and focusing on someone's behavior (rather than my own) resulted in my victimization. It is only because of being so completely immersed in another culture that I can see my own cultural beliefs about how life is suppose to function. This statement about belief is not to say that everyone in my home culture would think exactly the way I do (or did that is.) Also, I am not saying that the Puerto Rican culture is a behavioral model to emulate. I am just saying that when you are pressured to think about what you take for granted, some valuable insight can be gained.
Now dear Blogger friends, here is Cher before all of her cosmetic improvements (-sorry Cher but it's okay to show your age a little bit) singing the romantic classic, What a Difference a Day Makes, which is the song I kept hearing while drafting this reflection. What does that lyric have to do with what I'm thinking about? Maybe my mind made the simple adjustment I'm recommending to you, just change the word "day" to "place" and I think we almost have a thematic fit. ;-)
With everyone here at home returning to school, I've started to think about how people impact each other's lives, particularly those in the teacher's role. I've seen many movies that pay tribute to a special teacher, or read books that explain how this teacher/student relationship influenced them in their lives. Personally, I've been a teacher/professor, tutor, counselor or some type of student advisor for most of my adult life and so I've had the opportunity to observe this situation. I've decided that though the movie teacher (hyped) type does exist in some way, those stories that strike me as the most authentic are the ones that feature real people who give every appearance of being ordinary. I think that it is usually unlikely to find a Jamie Escalante (Edward James Olmos), the physics and math teacher of Stand and Deliver, or an East Harlem violin teacher like Roberta Guaspari (Meryl Streep) of Music of the Heart, or even a more realistic and ambivalent teacher like, Glenn Holland (Richard Dreyfuss) of Mr. Holland's Opus. I think the more common situation is that a teacher makes a difference in a person's life (or vice versa) but neither of them quite realize it's significance at the time. Upon reflection, I've noticed that people who have made an impact on my life really didn't notice or know about the "event". Sometimes teachers will never know what a difference they make. Why? We're not prescient fortune tellers (usually?!) so we don't know for sure what will be applied later on in life. Accepting this insight creates a positive kind of faith that our everyday interactions with each other are important.
A Story About An Ordinary Teacher...
Most of the time we think there has to be a special relationship between the teacher and student for a profound impact to be felt but this is not always the case. A teacher can influence a child without it being readily apparent or particularly special to the student at the time the relationship occurs. To illustrate what I mean, let us consider the tweed-jacket-with-patched-elbows-wearing Mr. Grant Smart. He was an English teacher at Huron High school who made a great difference in my life even though I wouldn't say we had a special relationship. As an understated quiet person, he was interesting because he seemed so unpretentious, thoughtful and open to students. He was evenhanded and though I would have liked him to take more time with me, I don't think he was especially interested in my life. He had many students who would demand his attention and sometimes I was shy. Because he was a favorite teacher of a few students that I admired up close but still couldn't call friends, I was brought into his sphere of influence though I remained on the social skirts of this group.
One year, he was convinced by a group of seniors to have a poetry class elective. As as a tenth grader, I wasn't allowed to attend. However, often I would sit with the students and participate in the class. When spring fever hit the school, he was willing to conduct his class outside on the grass. We had a portable record player which continuously played John Denver's Sunshine on my Shoulders. I remember his bearded face and his expression, which sort of looked like a pained, "Sunshine on my Shoulders makes me unhappy" statement. He was tired of the repetitious drone, though he endured the song over and over again to our adolescent delight. I was enchanted by the novelty of an outdoor class listening to John Denver under the sun, and it inspired me to write poetry.
One time, I went with my sister and some students to Mr. Smart's little crowded house in the country to pick up some school supplies. A hushed word was passed around by those who knew that Mrs. Smart was suffering from some kind of mental disorder where she spoke incessantly and 'didn't always make sense'. We made our way into the kitchen where Mr. Smart offered us Mr. Snow's Clam Chowder from a can, touting it to be the best clam chowder in the world. We timidly ate a little of the soup with oyster crackers. While eating, I realized that his wife was 'too nervous' to cook or even heat up the soup. She was hovering around the table excitedly trying to assist and he asked her several times to quiet down. Part of her 'problem' (as we talked about it later) was that she collected boxes of random stuff which filled the house. It made the living space exceedingly small. We all tried to be unobtrusive in the tightly packed space and especially polite so that Mr. Smart wouldn't feel embarrassed. At the time, I admired that he took care of her instead of abandoning her to some institutional system. Now I think he needed some support to cope, and maybe some medical help to improve her condition. However, his decision to 'go it alone' was understandable because we didn't really trust psychologists at the time. We left his house in subdued awe knowing that life can bring great personal challenges.
I took an independent study course with Mr. Smart and read John Steinbeck's, The Grapes of Wrath. I received a B+ in an easy A one credit course because I was so despondent about the subject matter, I couldn't get through the material fast enough. (I also read Cannery Row and Of Mice and Men). I tried to understand the character's hopelessness but I didn't like their life perspective. I became determined not to be like those hopeless (or filled with false hope) fictional people when it came to my own life. Though I received a lower grade than I had hoped, I accepted my B+ as the proper compensation for my less than optimum effort-and for this necessary life lesson.
*** You may remember, To Sir With Love (1967), a teacher-hero movie based on the true story of Mark Thackeray (Sidney Poitier), which some say is overly fictionalized. In the narrative, a British Guyanese teacher (who really is an engineer) is forced to take a teaching job at a London working class inner city school because of racial prejudice. (You may have to overlook a few scenes that are explicitly gender biased; though it may not bother everyone.) What makes the movie so satisfying is that both the teacher and students finally realize how important he was in their development as self-respecting adults.---And the fact that he joins in the school dance. (How cute is that?)
***
Bolster Your Spirits :-)
If you are interested and/or a teacher, read Frank McCourt's, Teacher Man for a realistic and often funny look at the teaching life. Also, as an antidote to John Steinbeck's harsh realism, try his Journal of a Novel (1969), which is a daily record of his creation process during the writing of East of Eden. Just picturing him sitting at his carefully made table, 8am-3pm every day, worrying over sharpened pencils, and taking spontaneous walks out in the open air makes me cheer up the disappointed adolescent-Steinbeck-reader who still haunts me.
As a teacher, parent, and shared participant in world life, these thoughts make me realizes that change is sometimes difficult and slow but it can happen-maybe not in movie time but can happen, nonetheless. It's good to make the effort to help and not be so worried about immediate results. After all, we don't measure life wisdom the same way we measure academic test results.
The movie photo is part of a group; more To Sir With Love movie photos can be accessed at the school dance photo stream link I provided within this text.
Okay, I admit it. I 've been infatuated with California for most of my life...it might have started with this song. When I was a teenager, I was determined. I had to get there someway, somehow.
I drove 'across the country' when I was seventeen, destination California. California beaches, the ocean, Beach Blanket Bingo, for crying out loud! I was California crazy until finally, I was stationed in San Diego. I was 18 ...I stayed 23 years, got married, and had two children before moving on with my young family to another location. Okay, I like California...maybe love... I like how people generally accept differences there. I felt more relaxed about my weird self.
See, when I was growing up, my father called me "weird" but only in the nicest "hippy-ish" meaning of the word. My mother was okay about my curious nature but a little worried about my sanity- and lack of money sense; in a nutshell, my lack of practicality. What to do? What do you do with a daughter, who seems so liberal, artsy, carefree in a conservative world?
Now, I have a daughter of my own and we had a discussion today. We often have this discussion. "Mom, I can't believe that you don't want me to wear a bikini. It's silly." I respond, "I just want you to strike the right note, dear. I want you to be safe." Please! I mean, I can hear myself. What is my problem? Sure, I let her wear the bikini. "Just put a cover-up on at least over part of it," I tell her. I can't help myself. Seriously, I don't even have to say anything. She knows. I guard my face, gentle my expression but she stiffens. "Mom, it's just a bathing suit and I'm going to the beach!" "How many boys will be there?" I can't help myself. I know she can't answer that question. How would she know? It's a public beach. I just want her to be safe. Please, there I go again!
Do you remember the itsy bitsy teenie weenie yellow polka dot bikini song? As a teen, I thought that song was so cute. I would dance wildly whenever I heard it! Now, when I hear , "She wore an itsy bitsy...", in my mind's eye, I see an older man leering at my daughter. I've gone mental for real.
I see Steve Harwell of the San Jose, California, Smash Mouth band enjoying my daughter in her cute bikini -and its all because of this video I've posted below. Sure, I happen to find it entertaining in a retro sort of way.(I graciously acknowledge.) It's peppy. Okay, I admit it. I can hardly keep myself from doing the swim! And I respect Steve for his hard times, and the foundation he started, and all that... but-imagine Smash Mouth dancing with your daughter!
As a mother, I'm here to say, it's not only fathers who get over-protective! I need help! Cynthia, you might as well be walking on the sun!
Do you remember the controversy over George Harrison's, "My Sweet Lord"and "He's So Fine?"George Harrison lost a lawsuit in 1976 when a judge said he "subconsciously plagiarized" his first single as a solo artist. He was ordered to pay Bright Tunes Music, who owned the copyright, $587,000. "He's so Fine" was recorded by "The Chiffons" and written my Ronald Mack who unfortunately, never got to appreciate its success because he died of cancer shortly after its release. Here's the Chiffon version of "He's So Fine":
I liked both versions and I didn't care if they were similar. I used to lie in my little bird's nest bedroom on the second story of our Michigan 1930's farm house and sleeplessly, listen to George Harrison. "My Sweet Lord" had a kind of devotional-spiritual influence on me. It suited by teenage moody musings, "They should stop bothering George...what's a Beatle to do when he's not in The Beatles anymore? Poor George. And that's such a great song, too." "He's So Fine" impacted me in another way. I remember my close friend, Jessica Simonson, who played first-row clarinet in the Huron High School band while I humbly sat in second, held up her hand and said to the band leader, "Pitt's can do it, Mr. Ludwig, "She can sing the song." And there ladies and gentlemen, the star was nearly born. We were going to recreate the Chiffon's version for a talent show featuring a bold but understated singer, me. When the night came and during the rehearsals to be more accurate, I would give my all pretending that I was confident and hoping that those brave feelings would somehow manifest. I was afraid nerves would make my voice waver and crack. The subdued but persistent, Mr. Ludwig, sitting in on electric guitar, raised the key slightly to make it fall within my strongest vocal range but I had trouble remembering which key I was singing in. So often, I had practiced with the record album (yes, they were called LP's and records) that I couldn't quite remember the new key. When we stood before the crowded auditorium complete with girl-group coordinated costumes, I knew my voice would give my nerves away. What to do? The music started, the show must go on, the backup girls, including Jessica, started singing, "Do-lang, do-lang, do-lang..." and I had to jump in at my cue,"He's so fine. Wish he were mine. That handsome boy over there. The boy with the wavy hair." I pointed to Russell, a cute, shy and smart boy that I didn't know at all. I was getting bold, now, "I don't know how I'm gonna do it but I'm gonna make him mine. He's the envy of all the girls. It's just a matter of time." Okay, there was a moment when my voice got overconfident and jumped back to The Chiffon's key, "Whoops, control, Pitts, control," I pulled myself back on key. Complete with dance steps and arm movements, we sang out, "He's so fine. Gotta be mine. Sooner or later. I hope it's not later. We gotta get together. The sooner, the better. I just can't wait. I just can't wait, to be held in his arms." And on it went...I've always had misgivings about the next verse, you know, the lyrics about being a queen and giving up my throne but I figured I didn't have to mean it to sing it. When our song ended, the students in the tightly packed gym loudly cheered. I was surprised. Didn't they hear me go off key? I guess there's something to be said in favor of gymnasium acoustics. A teacher came up to me and asked if I was going to become a professional singer. I was flattered. And that was it, just one more evening performance and my career as an imitation Chiffon ended.
Thank you tangobaby for triggering my memory with your George Harrison YouTube video posting. Also, readers, get some Puerto Rican Christmas "Feliz Navidad" spirit with her Jose Feliciano posting.
When I was sixteen, I enlisted in the Delayed Entry program in the United States Navy. I was completing high school and uncertain about how to go to college and in love with the romanticized Navy life in the movies. I played clarinet, which Grandpa Al called a "licorice stick," and heard Benny Goodman play "Little Brown Jug" along with me when I practiced-though there was a great disparity between our performances. I loved the naval uniforms and wanted to wear that 1940's looking "summer blue" skirt suit before it was discontinued. Why not go into the Navy and see the world? Grandpa who was orphaned at twelve joined with falsified papers when he was fourteen years old. He said it was the best service experience that he had ,even though his secret was discovered at sixteen and consequently, he was discharged. He preferred being stationed at the Panama Canal and being exposed to malaria carrying mosquitoes to returning to no home at all. When I was finished with my four year term of service, I would have my college already pre-paid with the GI Bill education program. The recruiter promised me choice locations, a specialized school, and a bright future in the USN. I would be challenging boundaries and living up to my mother's Annie Oakley get tough principles, "Anything you can do I can do better."
I had all the high school credits I needed to graduate except for a one credit government class that was only offered in the second semester. Consequently, I was stuck taking an 8am class five days a week. I left all my "unnecessary" classes behind to the shock and displeasure of my teachers. I announced to Mr. Ludwig that no more would I be co-student leader of the Huron High School band, Mark could take it over. No more drama, choir or advanced literature classes, the school counselor said I didn't need them if I was going into the Navy. Unhappily, my teacher for all of these classes, Mr. Fawsett, would have to do without his mezzo-soprano who could sing the lower parts and dutifully act as a replacement for the usually absent boys. I was finished with high school and all of its rules!
While waiting to graduate and to earn some money, I took an all night waitressing job working at Pierre's Fine Foods on Middlebelt Road near the Detroit-Metro airport. Sometimes customers would come in either on their way or coming back from somewhere exciting- maybe New York, San Francisco, or New Orleans. I thought soon that will be me; I'll be off on a great adventure of my own. I started at 10pm and after getting off at 7am, I would ride a 350 Honda motorcycle into school each morning. While carrying my black helmet under my arm, I'd breathlessly join the class and discuss the Constitution or participate in a mock-dramatic debate taking place in the House of Representatives or Senate. I was confident and admired; the teacher would excuse me when I was late, "She works all night and is finished with school -but for a technicality." I became the moderator and deciding vote in the debates. I would graduate soon and had plans to drive across the United States for two months on a great highway adventure- which I did with my sister.
I was a "reader" and had many places I wanted to see with my own eyes. I had hoped that the Navy would provide me the chance to see Europe but for now I was determined to see what I could. Yes, my mother and father allowed me to go. I was encouraged to be independent and strong, to fearlessly take on the great challenges of life. Many times during the trip, I felt out of my safely zone but I developed an independence that strengthened my will and made me completely unfit for the USN! Enter boot camp hell, Naval Training Center, Orlando, Florida! Join the many who must obey, or else! "Drop and give me fifty! What are you doing here? Women don't belong in the Navy-especially, pretty ones- unless you're a prostitute? Are you here to cause trouble?" I had joined the tense 1970's transition Navy that was forced to include women in all non-traditional specialities. The actual WWII WAVES had been disbanded but the name lived on among service members, "Join the Navy and ride the WAVES."
Okay, from the earlier portrayal you might think that this Airman Recruit trainee could handle the pressure, but readers, I was in drama. I was pretending a lot! The final pressure that sent me to the cumulative climatic moment was a letter I received from my mother announcing the celebration of her official divorce from my father, "I'm a free woman now," she wrote. My sentimental romantic self was bruised already; I had discovered that life in the Navy was not romantic and further, I was unwelcome. It wasn't like the movies; there were no adventurous antics behind the commander's back, not to my knowledge. I fell into a depression, became chronically ill and failed the General Orders exam. I tearfully stood outside the official door standing at parade rest waiting for the evaluation committee to determine my penalty. The deciding board had asked me, "What kind of grades did you get in high school? What happened here? Why did you fail this exam?" I was sick and ashamed...my pride gone. "Do you want to stay in the Navy?" I said yes but they looked doubtful. What would happen now? Would I go home and bring shame upon my family? My family... where would that location be? Where would I live? I did not want to choose my father or mother's place of residence. I needed to stay in the Navy. I needed to go to college. Maybe the Navy did not really want me but I had to get through this period. I thought and cried until I was sure I wanted to stay. They called me in, "Airman Recruit, we've decided to give you a chance because you have done fine up to this point; however, you will be Set Back For One Week. Do not repeat this offense again." Set back for one week? The sentence repeated itself over and over in my head. I was almost finished and now I have to continue here? I returned to the barracks and shamefully collected up my possessions. "At least I wasn't kicked out," I thought as I moved down the ladder of my Naval career.
The Navy Rudder's memory book says, "The training is diligently planned and administered in order to develop in every trainee the strength of character, loyalty and patriotism necessary to prepare him to defend his country, its ideals and people, against any aggressor." I don't know about that preparation. I do know that when we marched across the graduation field and the Master of Arms said, "Eyes right," and we saluted toward the commander who sat in front of the bleachers that were filled with proud family members, mine included, that I was thoroughly humbled and relieved to be leaving. I was going on to "A" School Training in Lakehearst, New Jersey where the Hindenburg Zeppelin blew up killing 35 privileged people who were out experiencing a novelty voyage that ended badly. I had orders to Aircrew Survival Equipment School, better known as the Navy Parachute Rigger's school , which had just opened up to women and where I knew I had to succeed. Why didn't I just go to college right after high school? I felt I had no options. I was determined to make it through, though most of the service members did not want me for the Navy, I would continue. I needed to go through this experience and I would, without movie romance, if necessary.
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