Today is Father's day
Last week we had another mass shooting racist hate crime.
I also want to stay with my journey through my teacher memories.
I actually have a way to make all three things meld here.

I left off with my move to Harrison school in 2nd grade.  My dad had taken a position as the resident director of the Evangelical Children's Home in St. Louis.  The home had originally subsidized a  small tri-level home in a residential neighborhood for our family , with plans to convert it into a neighborhood group home.  Although this was something of which I could possibly have been aware at the time,  I am pretty sure the neighbors complained about the idea of a group home being there due to the possibility of black children being place there.  I can't be entirely sure that this was the complaint, but whatever it was, it meant that the plans were scratched and that's why we moved to the big house on campus and my education got moved to Harrison School in the Normandy school district.

I tried to look up Harrison school on -line.  It is still listed, but it doesn't appear on the Normandy district website as one of it's district elementary schools, so I am not sure if it is still there.  At the time, though, it was still a mostly white working class neighborhood school.  The children's home sent most of the residents there, and although the population of the home was mixed racially, it seemed to be a mostly Caucasian group of kids at the time.

By the third grade, I had settled in with friends and teachers and felt pretty positive about things.  Living on the campus of the children's home had its challenges, but generally, at my fairly young age, I was accepted as a friend and playmate.

The school had outgrown itself a little, so my third grade class was located in a small separate building along with the Kindergarten class.  I seem to recall the it was relatively new.  It had two classroom and two restroom, but we had to go to the main building for PE and lunch.  I l0ved my teacher that year.

Mrs. Donovan was the epitome of the old fashioned school Marm.  I'm sure she had been teaching for years and she really loved the kids.

Third grade is the year we were taught cursive and multiplication tables. When we were first learning multiplication, Mrs. Donovan explained the concept and then had us each take turn guessing what the answer was staring with 1x1. We started out  strong and then, as the numbers got higher, more and ore of us faltered.  As it turned out, Mrs. Donovan asked me to run to the main building for something.In the days before intercoms, it may have been something like letting the office know who was buying lunch or who was absent. I had calculated how many people were in line to guess the next equation, and then what my number would be when I got back.  I figured out it would be 8x8 so I spent the entire trip to the office adding 8's.  Sure enough, when I returned to my seat, and my turn came, I knew that 8x8 was 64, thus impression Mrs. Donovan with my prowess at math.  I have since realized that the math part of my brain is missing, but it was ice to be good at it for a few moments.  
Third grade was my first encounter with seeing a child display separation anxiety/school refusal. I can't remember anything else about that little girl except that she was new to the school and she wailed and sobbed as soon as her mom left her side.  I remember Mrs. Donovan trying to make her feel welcome, but the little girl suddenly darted for the open window and slithered though and was gone. The interesting part for me, was that I was keenly aware of understanding her feelings...being scared of the teacher and the kids; hating new surroundings; missing her mother.  The other kids laughed at her antics, but I just remember wishing I could help her understand that it would be okay.  I had been in her position and everything would be just fine.

I know that I said I would tie  this blog into Father's day and touch on the hideous shooting.

Although third grade was uneventful,I think it was the calm before the storm that was to come to the Normandy district as more African Americans move in and race relations reached a fever pitch.

I have a lot more memories of third grade, but I think you've probably hear enough for today.  I will end by saying Happy Father's day to the man who taught me tolerance and led me into a life of service.

Here is of my Kindergarten class.  I'll dig up some more for next time

More on teachers and a lot on learning

I left off with first grade.  I started second grade at Home Heights in the Riternour School district in St. Louis.  I have zero memories of the teacher I had at that school, which is odd for me.  I think it may be due to the significance of moving to a new house and a new school when we moved onto the campus of the Children's home.

We move around Christmas time.  I know this because I remember buying something for our class gift exchange.  Those were the days before political correctness and worries about liability.  Gift exchanges were a common practice and sexism was a given.  Girls had to wear skirts or dresses even in phys ed.  Boys chased girls on the playground and it was a given that every one would fall into gender roles with ease.

Given the sex divide, politically incorrect Christmas gift exchanges were generally separated by gender.  Since  I was new to the class, my mom bought gender neutral school supplies as a gift, just in case it was a random exchange.  Turns out it wasn't,,  Girls gift and boys gifts were piled on separate tables.  We all drew a number and gifts were selected (from the appropriate tables, of course) in numerical order.  My number was high, so I had to wait while the bigger and flashier gifts left the tables first.  I was less interested in getting a good gift than I was worried about someone having to receive pencils and notebooks when they selected my gift.

The girl (naturally) who picked mine was as gracious and appreciative as a second grader could be.  She thanked my and said  that was always happy to get new supplies for school.  I'm sure she cried all the way home.  I had to choose from the last two or three small packages left on the table.  Good things often come in small packages.  I got a really cool Liddle Kiddle  (remember those?) bracelet with a tiny little doll inside a tiny little locket.  Wish  still had that.  It's probably worth a fortune on ebay!

My teacher that year was Mrs. Feeney.  I don't think I could have been more fortunate in being assigned to her class.  There was a Japanese student in her class who was also new that year.  He spoke no English when he first arrive in her classroom, but Mrs. Feeney was so excited to have him in her class, that he was able to communicate and flourished by the time I got to the class in December.  She was excited to have me there, too, although I was a lot less interesting than Kazu!

She made Kazu into an opportunity to teach us all about Japan. We learned how to sing Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer in Japanese, and made a Japanese Christmas tree from newspaper. Kazu painted our names in Japanese figures for each of us (very inaccurate translation, I'm sure).  We always sung Happy Birthday to each child in Japanese and had Japanese bean cakes for snacks.

I don't remember if Kazu stayed at that school for more than just that year (or even for more than that semester), but Mrs. Feeney made his stay in her class something significant and wonderful for him and for everyone in the class.

Thanks, Mrs Feeney, for making my own transition to a new school, a welcoming , nurturing magical experience.

Teachers

Thanks to my mom, who meticulously filled out my baby book and my school year journal, I jnow exactly who all of my teachers were throughout elementary school!

I was not so thoughtful.  I shoved items of interest between blank pages with every intention of going back to fill out each entry for each year.  I could have answered each question;  Who was my teacher? Who were my friends?  What did I like to eat for lunch, or What was my favorite subject?  Now that my son is a sophomore in college, it sees to be a missed opportunity.  Not that I think he will be all that disappointed anyway.  Considering how sentimental I am, I managed to raise a wildly pragmatic kid.  I blame his father.

I do have memories of my various teachers.  Accuracy is not guaranteed, but the memories are there.  I did not attend preschool except for the occasional stays at the daycare at the YWCA (I think it was the Y, anyway.  Remember accuracy is debatable here), so I did not have a consistent teacher until Kindergarten.  My Kindergarten teacher was Mrs. Freeman who I remember as a heavy set lady who was  little scary to me.  I'm sure she was perfectly lovely, but this was my first foray into academia and it was scary in general.

I had to ride the bus, and in the days when children weren't taught to read until first grade, we relied on strips of color coded construction paper to get us to the right bus after school.  I recall some man asking me where I lived in order to verify that our colored strips were accurate.  My strip was green, and my mom had drilled into my head that I was to get on the green bus.  When I dutifully gave the man my address, he took my green strip and said something vaguely disparaging about my mother being mistaken about which bus I should take to get home.  .  I think he gave me different colored strip of paper, but I still boarded the green bus.  I never doubted that my mom was correct, and sure enough I made it back to the stop in front of our little ranch house.  My mom must have seen the incorrect color strip, because I told her the story and what the man had said.  I recall, her expression and understood that my mom was none too pleased with the backhanded insult to her intelligence. I, however, never once doubted that my mom was way smarter than some random color strip checker!

After Kindergarten, who moved to St. Louis requiring a transfer to a new school.  My teacher was Mrs. Burney.   I have a clear memory of looking at a page of a Humpty Dumpty magazine as my om read it to me.  I thought "How on earth do you get words out of those strange squiggles?"  I'm sure I knew the alphabet, but did not translate that those squiggles were letters..  (Just as a brief digression; I love Humpty Dumpty magazine.  I was very excited every time it came.  One arrive on the same day that my mother returned from the hosital with my new infant brother.  When my sister got home from school that day, I ran to greet her saying "We got a new Humpty Dumpty magazine...and Mom came home from the hospital.  I am going to sick to the idea that I was saving the best news for last...)

Mrs. Burney taught me to read.  I finally was able to decipher those squiggles.  I think I graduated from picture books to chapter books very quickly after that and have enjoyed words very much since then.   Thanks Mrs. Burney!

I want to scan some pictures from that time, but it will have to wait till I figure out how to set up my new scanner.  Pics will come next time

Cheers  to teachers and...moms

It's Mothers day, so I must do a shout out to my mom and all the phenomenal mom's I know and those I don't.  One day a year to celebrate Motherhood, is way too little.

But I wanted to write about teacher.  Actually, I have never taken a class with three of my all time favorite teachers, although I have definitely learned the most from them.  There are my mom, my sister and my brother.

 My mom was an English teacher.  I thank her for making me somewhat of a grammar geek/snob.  I also credit her for my love of books and reading.  Did you know that parents owning books-more than being read to or being provided with their own books- is highly correlated to their kids becoming readers and book lovers themselves.  We always had books around, and memories of my mom frequently include seeing her with a book.

I take back that I never had her as an actual teacher because I am pretty sure she was a substitute in one or two of my classes.  Although she knew how to teach, her real strength as a substitute was being able to manage unruly kids.  Once she was warned that the class she was subbing for had locked a previous sub in a closet.  Her first words to the class were "I heard you locked your teacher in the closet yesterday.  There will be none of that happening today.  "  I am sure that she struck terror into the most harden delinquent in the class!

Another teaching gig that I know she aced, was being a Sunday school teacher.  This easily could have become repetitive and boring, and I am sure that quite a few Sunday school teacher see an opportunity to preach dogma to bored teenager, or complete Biblically based worksheet with rowdy 10 year olds.  But my mom really liked teenagers.  She liked challenging them to think about their belief and memes in new ways.  She liked lively discussions and sometimes, even got into trouble for bringing up controversial topics or using edgy materials.  Maybe it seems as if teaching Sunday School is a not real teaching, but I guarantee that she changed more minds and influence actions just as much as anybody teaching algebra in a High School.

My brother is a High School Band teacher.  He and his wife, who is in charge of the drum line and color guard, have taken the band program in their small town, into the national spotlight with their amazing marching shows,  Here is a link to one of their brilliant performances

https://youtu.be/uDMnAWdVlEo

Even though his prowess as a teacher and his ability to visualize and create amazing  performances is a strong suit, he is even more amazing at how he interacts with students.  Just as my mom made kids be respectful and made them think, Paul holds his kids to high standard,  He believes in them and motivates them to be their best selves.  He never questions their ability or willingness to make things happen.  I have seen him in action.  He is stern and demanding without ever losing his respect or love for those kids.  and they respect and love him right back.

My sister never really wanted to be a teacher.  She is an actor from birth and by training.  When we were kids, she and I used to put on shows for our mom and dad and anyone else who may have been around.  Most of our show consisted of lip syncing to sound track albums from Disney movies.  I always thought it was so nice of Beth to let me be the lead character.  In days long before  every girl wanted to be one of the Disney Princesses, I was being Aurora and Snow White and Cinderella and Alice in Wonderland.  Poor Beth was relegated to being all the other characters.  What I didn't realize at the time, was that , by making me be the one note hapless heroines, she got to dance around as Cinderella"s animal friends, cast spells as  the fairy godmother, drink tea with the mad hatter, look into the magic mirror as Snow White's step-mother, and the turn around and be the magic mirror itself!  She was a pint-sized one woman  show!

After years of being a working actor, she succumbed to her desire to have a steady paycheck and took a teaching position at a performing arts high school in New Jersey.  Just as my mom and brother have inspired and shaped their students, my sister is creating a classroom full of thoughtful and sensitive aspiring actors.  While many of them do go on to use their skills in the field, she is really giving them the tools they need to be thoughtful and expansive human beings, by challenging their believe about themselves and the world.  Here is a like to a video of her students, nominating her for a Tony award to acting teachers.

https://youtu.be/bp0Cfi10O8g

 By the way, my very busy sister also operates her own outstanding school for actors.  Here isa link to her school's website  www.njactors.org

I am fortunate to have these amazing teachers in my life.  I do feel a tiny bit inadequate to two such decorated and well-loved teachers.  Teachers and actors love to give out awards for excellence.  Therapists aren't even able to tell anybody about any of their work, let alone make a video of their best sessions!  I'm definitely in the wrong feild if I'm looking for accolades, butthe rel unsung heroes are Moms who could never be singled out as Mother of the Year, because they are all the best mom's in the world.!

Here's to my own best mom!  I love you!

I'm back again.  I tend to come and go so frequently!

I have figured out something about myself.  I get busy.  I get behind.  I feel guilty for not keeping up,  I procrastinate.  I give myself a hard time.  I procrastinate more.  And then I figure I shouldn't be focusing on frivolous things until I get my "real work" done.  This does  not stop me from playing word games until my head explodes,or reading drivel or watching my very important TV shows.  It just keeps me from being productive in other meaningful ways.

Here is what I have been up to,in the meantime.

On the MS front:  I have "graduated" to using a walker.  My neurologist wrote me the order for it and said "You're gonna kill me, but I think it's time"  So I got one, and , what do you know...I actually get around a lot better and can last a lot longer-which is very important when you are shopping.  The next time I the neurologist , I had the walker.  I said, "I think I get around a lot better with this thing."  He responded,"God, yes!"  Not just yes or even "I think so, too," but, "God, yes!" Somehow, that was just a little disconcerting...

Amazingly, my practice has been picking up a little.  That's part of the reason I have gotten behind on paperwork.  I hate paperwork.

In order to not feel like a complete slug, I spend a great deal of tie taking open coursework classes.  I am currently taking "The Neuro-biology of Everyday Life"  through the University of Chicago.  Originally I was trying to take it more seriously; trying to pass exams and doing course projects etc and then I realized the reason I never followed through with getting a doctorate degree.  I hate that stuff!  I only want to absorb the interesting stuff.  (Just as an aside, I really did debate going back to school for a few minutes.  I even took the Miller Analogy Test and scored n the 98th percentile nationwide-I am a good test taker).  Since I hate studying and completing paperwork, but love actually learning new stuff, open coursework is the best thing.. It even beats going to seminars and conferences because it's free!  Plus I don't have to wear shoes.


Learning stuff makes me feel as if I am accomplishing something, even though I'm really not.   I watch a lot of TED talks for that very same reason.  So I'm knowledgeable, but being so doesn't really help me accomplish much.  Although, maybe that's why I aced the MAT.

So now that I feel as if I got that off my chest, maybe I can get back to the story of becoming me.

It's teacher appreciation week, so I think I will focus on amazing teachers I have had or that I know.  Watch for it!

More things I learned in college that had nothing to do with classes

I figure pretty much everyone has a  rude awakening to life when they go away to school for the first time.  You are exposed to so many new experiences and people. You are only responsible for yourself and you are beholden to no one.

Oddly, this led to my first "grown-up" feeling.  You know.  Those moments in life where you think to yourself "OMG,!  I am actually an adult!"

This is not a typical adult moment by any stretch.  I was in this dormitory talent show with two other girls who were my next-door-neighbors.  They were music majors, too.  Holly was a violinist, and Laurie was a voice major.  We teamed up to sing "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy" in three part harmony. Holly on the lead, Laurie on soprano, and I got stuck on bass but also sang all the highest notes since Laurie couldn't go as high as I could.  I didn't have her power, but I had the better range.

We were waiting our turn to perform and Holly started playing around with the microphone, pretending to fart into it after each line of the song.  I had a very clear sense of knowing I was an adult in that very un-adult-like moment.
I am not sure what it was that made me feel that "I'm an adult" feeling.  I think it was because no one was there to tell us not to act so silly.  In fact, the only person who could be called "an authority figure" was the RA who was probably all of 21 years old.  A peer, really.


You would think that maybe my realization that I was in adulthood would lead to more mature decisions.  Riiight...

I can honestly say that I was a super straight/nerdy/prudish teetotaler in high school.  I never got drunk.  Never had sex.  Didn't have any clue that there were even any drugs in the world.  I am pretty sure, in hindsight, that there was a whole world of debauchery going o around me but my friends were savvy enough to leave me out of it.  I'm not sure why they let me be their friends, given what a judgmental party-pooper I could be!

I won't say I went wild in college.  I never skipped a class , even though I never carried fewer than 16 credit hours.  The worst thing I did academically were that a dropped a class (The History of Jazz- the professor took all of the soul right out of it and left it bleeding out every ounce of interesting).and I flunked statistic the first time.  Since stats is a required course for psychology majors, I had to take it again.  The second time I took it, I found a professor who understood the math anxiety  from which every female psychology/music major suffered and geared it toward being something interesting...like what the statistics actually measure rather that just how to get the measurement numbers..  Actually, the real reason I don't like math is that you can't divide numbers by zero, and I just can't get a visual of why.  Plus, the only  useful part of math in my life is percentages, because I need to know how much a sweater costs if it's marked 30% off.


So academically at least, I remained pretty committed and made some semi-mature decisions.  I won't say I was wild in college at all, but to some degree I discovered the sex, drugs, and rock and roll aspect of life.

The very first thing I discovered was that boys were actually attracted to me (!!) I had boyfriends and dated in high school, but the friendships always happen first.  Now, the guys were pursuing me, Since I'd never seen them before, I knew it was  based purely on how I looked.  Revelation!  I was a hottie! I didn't really know how to handle that type of attention.  I made out (just kissing and groping.  I think the kids today use the term "making out" as a euphemism for intercourse)  Some of the guys were cuter than others, and I had one guy who followed my around like a puppy dog until I let him down gently bu completely ignoring him.  Telling him I wasn't interested just seemed rude.

I also discovered that college guys were not willing to date a girl who wouldn't go past that version of making out.  I had at least two guys who quit pursing me after a few weeks of dating because I wouldn't have sex.   I told one guy I didn't have "experience" and he said, "Do you think I;m stupid?".  I took me a while to figure out that he thought I was lying.  Nope, I was just naive.

The "drugs" part of my wild and crazy freshman year was actually just me getting drunk for the first time.  Remember Holly, the microphone farter?  We used her empty violin case to sneak a bottle rum into our dorm room.  I don't know how we got the rum in the first place, but were thought we were pretty ingenious to use her violin case to get it past the RA.  Just think of how much more booze we would have been able to sneak in if we used a cello case instead!

My first serious drinking experience was a rum and coke party in the dorm room.  I got drunk enough to puke it all up.  To this day I am no fan of rum and coke.  As I puked into the trash can, I just kept thinking "This is so un-ladylike".  I don't remember getting drunk again for a very long time!

The rock and roll aspect of those days was real more of a discovery of true straight-ahead jazz courtesy of my first real long-time boyfriend.  I branched out from Brahms and Tchaikovsky (my fave composers) to Phil Woods and the Toshiko Akioshi-Lew Tobackin big band.  What a rebel I was!

That's enough for this post.  Here is a picture of me from those days

More insight

I have let this blog become something that causes me anxiety.  I have decided that it is something I "should" do and that I "should" write specific thing.  It is no longer enjoyable when I put limits and expectations into the content.
So, in order for maintenance of my mental health, I am gong to write in a more spontaneous, here's- what-I'm-thinking-today kind of way. Here goes.

I have the old phone that I used in my first apartment.  It is a princess style push-button, colored that hideous 1970's burnt orange.  It weighs as much as a small Subaru.  I'm pretty sure that it was rented from the phone company, which is what they did in the olden days.  You eventually owned the phone, apparently.  Either that, or I just never returned it!  I threw that phone against the wall once after breaking up with one of my boyfriends.  I used it in at least three apartments, maybe even after grad school.  I don't know how it ended up still being a thing in my life or how it migrated to my office to become a play therapy toy. All I know is, it's still with me.  The kids love it.

My sister has something similar that she uses as a prop with teenage theater students.  Her phone is even older than mine.  It is a standard black rotary model.  Although my touch tone push buttons are fodder for ridicule, her rotary dial poses an epic challenge.  Her students are unsure of how to make the dial turn, doing things like just punching the hole over the number or tying to open the phone like a combination lock.

My sister and I may seem to be in highly disparate professions.  (Psychotherapist vs actor and acting instructor/coach), but we are always surprised at how many similarities there are in how we go about reaching our goals.  (That particular situation will likely end up in future blogs.)  But today, I want to share my favorite phone story.

This is a sad,  nostalgic story, in that current and future generations will never have the opportunity to experience the joy and satisfaction of slamming the receiver into the the cradle after an angry conversation with your mother.  Caller ID has rendered the ability to crank call your arch enemy, asking him things like  if he has Prince Albert in a can (better go let him out) or if his refrigerator is running (better go catch it), or my personal fave, "This is the Jefferson City sewage company, and we've had just about enough outta you!"

And this story, concerning old fashioned phones, would never have occurred in the modern days of cell phones and text messages.

My sister had a job as a tour guide at the Missouri state Capitol building.  Most days she provided guided tours, pointing out the rotunda whisper gallery acoustics and the beautiful Thomas Hart Benton paintings.  Or she was assigned to the Governor's mansion where she could point out interesting architectural details.  But on this particular day, she was assigned to Loman's landing.   It was an infrequently visited tourist sight with two building's.  I guess it was pretty boring
I also guess that's why she called me.  She had too much time to think about stuff.

Our house had two phones.  One on the kitchen wall, and one on my Dad's desk, in his office upstairs. If you picked up the receiver of one phone, you could listen in to the conversation occurring on the other.  My brother went through a period where he liked to try to listen in to our private talks.  If you didn't hear him picking up the other phone, you would be able to hear him breathing.  If you quietly said,"Paul, get off the other line.",he would yell down, I'm not on the other line". There was almost never anything interesting for him to hear, anyway

This was the days before portable phones.  The receiver was tethered to the "call box" with a curly cord that got shorter as it tangled.  Every once in a while, you had to let the receiver dangle on the cord so it could unwind itself.  But even at it longest, you only had about five feet to move before you were rudely stopped like a dog on a leash.

I was too young for a real job, but old enough to be home alone during the day.  The phone rang, and I ran to answer.  This was also the days before answering machines, so we all jumped at the sound, just like a caveman being tapped on the shoulder. The tap could just be a neighbor inviting you to his cave for dinner, or it could be a saber tooth tiger testing out the tenderness of his possible prey. You never knew who could be calling.

The phone ringing interrupted whatever very important thing I was doing; probably watching TV or eating a whole rasher of bacon or singing along to a show tune as I banged out the melody on the piano (I did this A LOT).
I answered "Hello?"
"Amy, you gotta clean out my fish bowl for me!"  She was almost out of breath in her panicked state.  "I didn't have time to do it this morning, and now Fred and Ginger are both gonna DIE if you don't!"
Did I mention she is a little dramatic.
"No"  i answered.  I was loving having the power to thwart her desires.
"Please!!!"She was begging now, with a little sob in her voice.  "Think of poor Fred and Ginger!"
"No.  I'm not cleaning your fish bowl.  Your fish will be fine if you do it when you get home".
"I don't have time tonight!  I'm going out, right after work!!!"
"Oh well, you'll have to get new fish, cause I'm not doing it"
"Fine!  Be that way!"  Slam!
I got to hear the loud clunk as she hung up on me.  Oh well> I got back to whatever very important thing I was doing.  But just as I started whatever it was, the phone rang again.  I was pretty sure it was her calling back.  Ring ring ring ring....ten, eleven, twelve times.  No answering machines in those days, remember?  What if it wasn't her?  What if it was my mom checking in?  She'll be furious.  What if it was someone trying to reach my Dad? What if it was an emergency?

I answered,  "Hello?"

"Bitch!"

Somethings never change