I fell off of my own wagon...twice

I just arrived here today to post something I wrote the other day. I knew I hadn't been here in a while, so I was surprised to see my last post. I wasn't surprised about the date and that it's been six months since I posted to my blog. I have had several years when I posted multiple pieces and then disappeared for a long time. Instead, I was surprised that my last post was about challenging myself to write shorter posts. Until I had read it all the way through, I didn't even remember writing that or posting it.

The irony here is that as I edited my most recent post, I was a little concerned about its length. I really do struggle to put thoughts out there that are short, sweet and to the point. I really do not do Reader's Digest! 😑

The post that will follow after this one is just over 1,000 words. It would be a good exercise for me to post pieces closer to the 500-750 word count. It would also be beneficial to those that check in now and then to read my words. Shorter pieces would be more blog-friendly.

Wish me luck. For both our sakes.

Word Challenge

I joke a lot that “I don’t do Readers’ Digest” well. If you are not familiar with “Readers’ Digest” then you won’t understand the correlation that I am trying to make. For those of you smitten with the tiny, square magazine filled with quick and easy real-life tales of s/heroism, drama and comedy, as well as the basics of health, nutrition, wellness and finances whittled down into a few pages, scattered with some witty humor and cute cartoons on several pages, you hopefully understand what I am trying to say about myself:  I may be short in stature, but my stories are usually long and detailed, not abridged and edited for quick review. I like words and I like to use a lot of them.

So I am going to challenge myself to put out some quicker, shorter bursts of musings and creativity. My goal is to write something in these next few posts that will challenge my verboseness, confining myself to many fewer words than I normally allow. I’m not even sure what I will be writing about, but we can both be assured that it will be something I know, that moves me to grab a pen in the middle of the night and scribble on the pads of paper on my nightstand, there for that “emergency,” or to tap away at this keyboard. I’m curious if I can feel just as passionate in fewer words.

My first goal was 250 words. Done.

When Protocol Defies Logic

I am a born rule-follower. I drive the speed limit on city and country roadways, often using cruise-control to ease the stress of staying within the limit. When I stand in line, I don’t approach the counter until asked to do so. I wait for the host or hostess to seat me in a restaurant. You will never find me in the express lane at the grocery store with more than the accurate number of items allowed in my hand-cart. I don’t believe in the motto “Rules were meant to be broken.” I largely believe that rules keep order and quell anarchy. I live with anxiety and for me that means that I become anxious with situations, people and things that I can not control. For me, rules are the antithesis of anxiety. Rules give me comfort…

Except when rules are just rules and serve no greater purpose. When rules and regulations degrade into accepted protocol and cease to serve the safety, convenience or learning model that they were designed to protect, help or educate, they have passed their expiration date and need to either be revamped or abolished altogether. I cannot stand protocol for protocol sake.

In the wake of 9/11, many places and organizations sought to tighten their entryways and limit the flexibility and accessibility of their environments in the name of safety. Airports and airlines demanded more stringent identification documents as well as limiting and eliminating certain items and materials from passing through security checkpoints and ending up on airplanes. Similarly, many businesses, especially those run by the government, required identification and recorded knowledge of people entering and leaving their buildings.

I wouldn’t argue the relevance of these rules and protocols in serving a greater good to know who is “in the building” at any given time, and therefore being able to track who is affected by activities within the building, as well as who might be responsible if something goes wrong. Unfortunately, when the protocol is established without a plan for execution that covers all the bases, then the protocol is simply protocol for protocol sake, and does nothing to actually enhance the security it is trying to elevate.

In 2002 I was still working in undergraduate admissions at Framingham State (College) University. At a mini-fair hosted by Holliston High School in Holliston, MA, admissions counselors were not allowed in the building until they showed a picture ID and gave their name to the guidance staff member seated at the front door of the school. Then and now, I would not argue the decision to ask adult strangers entering a high school to show identification and write their names in a log book. What concerned me was the relevance of that ID and name on that day. The high school did not have a list of names of the college representatives who were expected to show up that day. They had no way of knowing that the person showing the ID was the counselor assigned to that school, or if that counselor indeed did work for that college. The protocol lacked a key element:  it didn’t have anything to balance the check it was making.

Recently I encountered a similar protocol quandary. My seventeen year old daughter applied for and got a job with Panera Bread. As part of a condition to be employed, Miranda was asked to get a Work Permit.  We were told that the work permit needed to come from her home school district. We live in Sturbridge but Miranda does not attend Tantasqua Regional High School. Several times over the phone and in person we were asked by representatives at the high school and the superintendent’s office, “Does she go to school here?” When I answered, “No” I was then asked, “Does she live in the district?” To which my answer was, “Yes, we live in Sturbridge.”

A work permit does not come from the high school that the students attends. It is granted by the school district in which the student lives. So it really doesn’t matter if the student goes to school there. The initial first question should be, “Does s/he live in the school district?”

Furthermore, there is a place on the work permit for a parent to sign their permission for the child to work. Why isn’t the work permit solely between the parent and the child and the employer? Why does the school system even need to be a part of the work permit process? If someone else should be knowledgeable of a student working, taking hours away from their studies, then why isn’t the work permit signed off on at the school the student attends?

When the process was complete, a complete stranger in the Tantasqua/Union 61 School District gave Miranda permission to work, without knowing anything about Miranda as a student or a person. What exactly did Tantasqua give her permission to do that I or her father could not have given on our own? I would encourage the necessity of a work permit if it came from the town administrator’s office, as knowledge of the young residents of town who are impacting the community, commerce and their own educations and family lives. In rare circumstances I’m sure there are situations of students being taken advantage of by either their families or the employer, and there should be a checks and balances system to protect minors.

Rules, regulations, protocols, guidelines – it doesn’t matter what you call them as long as you follow them – seems to be the philosophy of some ordinances. If these directives are to achieve what they are designed to achieve then they need to be vetted for inaccuracies, redundancies and ineffective steps that delay, harm, negate or completely avoid the intended result. Give me a rule that makes sense and I will follow it to a “T.” But unfortunately if you give me a rule that has me running around in circles to achieve nothing better than wasting my time, then I will have to declare foul and label myself a rebel. Or at least label myself confused and frustrated. 

Are You in the Choir?

 It’s a very simple question:  who really listens when we speak up?

Is it the white guy in your neighborhood who calls all black men he meets “Brother” and attempts to shake hands with a hand-clasp while he leans in for the shoulder bump? Is it the woman that followed my teenage girls around American Eagle, pretending to fold clothes after everything my daughters touched, or didn’t touch at all? Is it my husband’s former boss who refused to give him an advance during a very difficult financial year, but gave an advance seven out of twelve months in the same year to the white salesman in the company that was the #2 to my husband’s #1 status? Or is it the husband and wife who don’t have any close black friends, in fact nearly no black friends at all, that showed up to the Black Lives Matter rally held in my town?

I’d like to believe that all of them are listening. I’d like to tell myself that the more we speak up, the more people will take notice. I want to believe that the people that are in need of the eye-opening information are the ones pricking up their ears, pausing as if E.F. Hutton were about to speak, and taking note of the necessary information to rid themselves of stereotypes and assumed beliefs. My heart wants to believe that they will recognize themselves in the ignorance they see on television, stop to question it, and make a concerted effort to change.

Unfortunately, I am either too cynical or too much of a realist to believe any of that. I believe that the people who are listening are the ones that have the “least” to learn. The people that are taking notes, questioning themselves and those around them, and putting themselves in vulnerable places to have to admit their own ignorance publicly, are more than likely to be the people who already have spent time learning about other cultures and races and trying to live a life of tolerance, acceptance and less judgement.

This doesn’t meant that these people don’t have anything to learn. Most of them do. Their hearts may already be in the right place, but their experiences leave them neglectful of the certainty upon which to take a stand and be heard alongside of us. They aren’t ignorant in the negative sense of the word, they just don’t know.

They don’t know what is offensive. They don’t know what micro-aggressions are. They don’t know what it feels like to be afraid in a group of your peers simply because your skin color is different. They don’t know the challenges of biting your lip in certain circumstances and knowing when it is time to speak up. They don’t know about being on the receiving end of hatred and disgust. They just don’t know.

So we welcome them to our fights. We applaud them for standing up. We thank them for cheering us on. We compliment them for their honesty. We encourage them to not sit back down. We pray that they will bring more like-minded enforcements.

Like any process, the dialogue of change that develops into actions of dissection, examination, possible destruction and the reconstruction of something better, takes time, effort and patience. It also takes people willing to be a part of that process. That means people willing to do the preaching and people willing to sit in the congregation and be healed. There are plenty of us willing to stand up and be heard. There are also plenty of people willing to walk in the door, take a seat and be show the light. It can happen in one day, or it may take several. Some people will walk back out the door and never come back. Most will come back, hoping to find a greater understanding and more answers to the many questions that arose from the first time they sat down. It’s okay if you don’t get it the first time. It’s okay if it doesn’t feel “natural.” It’s okay if it feels hard and vulnerable. All good change requires moments of uncomfortableness when the mind and body are getting used to something different. The key is to not give up. The power is in believing…

Believe that the world can be a better place for everyone.

Believe that all people are created equal.

Believe that we are stronger together than divided.

Believe that our racial and ethnic differences add more beauty to this world than any one race or culture could produce on its own.

Believe that we are all brothers and sisters and each of us deserves the support of that human family to not only survive, but to thrive.

If you have stepped inside, please take a seat. And thank you for coming. If you have already declared yourself as a member, congratulations for returning, and not giving up. If you aren’t sure what to say or do, don’t worry. We will guide you.

A church is a very quiet place without its choir. We need you.

Take Back the Flag

I shared a sentiment with my husband, Ed, from our 16 year old, very socially conscious daughter. She came to me one day before the 2020 election and said, “I know it’s horrible of me to say this, but when I see the American flag I can’t help but think that the person waving it is a Trump supporter and probably racist. It doesn’t matter if it’s a flag hung outside someone’s house, or if it’s a bumper sticker on their car. It makes me think they are probably right-wing extremists.”

That’s a pretty strong, judgmental assessment from a person who isn’t old enough to drink alcohol legally, or vote in an election, and who still doesn’t have her driver’s license. Yet, as we stood there discussing it, I couldn’t fault her for her way of thinking. I had to admit to her that I also have that same sinking feeling when I see someone waving a flag and it isn’t Memorial Day, the Fourth of July, or Veterans’ Day. Somewhere along the way, the American flag became synonymous with extremism, racism, intolerance, and inevitably - violence.

So why has the flag become such a sore spot for so many Americans? Is it because Colin Kaepernick took a knee during the National Anthem to exert his right to peacefully protest over police brutality and racial inequality in the United States? Is it because loyal Trump supporters drove through town with large flags waving in the breeze on the backs of their pick-up trucks? Or is because the flag - altered into various shades of blue without the red and white - was used with the slogan “Back the Blue,’ for a movement in direct opposition to the Black Lives Matter movement?

It is all of these things and so much more. It is in the everyday analysis of life, as we see more Republicans than Democrats, more right than left, more white than black, more southern than north-eastern, more conservative than liberal, waving the flag and calling for justice. But the justice they call for is largely for themselves, and not the larger communities around them that help make us this melting pot of a country that we call The United States of America. That isn’t to mean that all white, conservative Republicans won’t fight for their alternative neighbor, or that they wish ill upon them. Nor does it assume that those people are ignorant, close-minded or racist. Yet, unfortunately experience has shown us that a large majority of out-spoken people that fall into these “more” categories are people that are willing to wave the flag in the name of keeping things the same, ignoring the problems of today, trying to keep immigrants out and they help to enforce the hand of the police because the police aren’t killing their people at the same rate as they are killing minorities.

It would be easy to think that when we see a flag that it is in the hands of someone that doesn’t understand the struggle of underrepresented people. It would be easy to believe that it is being heralded for the glory of violence to retain control and oppressive acts, laws and guidance. It would be simple for many to assume that a flag being flown outside of someone’s house, or posted on their truck, is in support of tyrannical leaders and up-rising individuals. It would be wrong to do so.

I told Ed what Miranda said, and that I found myself not only agreeing with her, but sadly recognizing the fear it instills in me when I see someone proudly displaying a flag. His response was profound and inspiring. He simply said, “The flag is for all of us. Don’t let them take it away from you. It doesn’t stand for those things. Remind people what the flag is really all about. Make it yours, too.”

His comment reminded me how proud I was in the third grade to be selected to read my Flag Day paper at the all-school assembly. I thought about the fact that I stand during the National Anthem. Even in my own house, if I hear the song played during a football game, I stand. I respect Colin’s right to kneel, yet I am adamant about standing myself. Every time I was in my children’s elementary school during the morning announcements, I stopped and recited the Pledge of Allegiance. For years, I kept a tiny plastic flag in a wicker basket on the counter in my kitchen. I am a flag waver in my own way.

So I’m taking back the flag. I’m taking it back for myself and for Miranda and for anyone else that feels its symbolism has been weaponized against them. I’m taking it back to stand with my friends down the street that are neither Trump fans nor right-wing extremists, and definitely not racist, yet they proudly have a flag in front of their house. I’m taking back the flag for freedom of speech, justice, and unity. I’m taking back the flag and taking a stand because the flag is for all Americans.

Reasons vs. Excuses

Fine lines around my eyes and mouth put up a great fight against the alpha hydroxy acid in my moisturizer. Fine Lines in Fiskdale, Massachusetts builds quality wood furniture, made to order. And fine lines exist between two similar things that ultimately show themselves to be different just by teetering to one side of that familiar line.

Reasons and excuses are two sides of the same coin. They explain why something “is,” offering a cause and effect analysis as well as the relationship between two or several things. Reasons and excuses give us answers. They provide knowledge, insight and depth of understanding. They also provide an “out,” a stepping away from responsibility and not addressing the reality of the situation at hand. Reasons and excuses don’t just give us an answer to our query, they provide the foundation upon which we will either accept the status quo, pursue more information, or distance ourselves from the situation that has presented itself.

There is a reason that using pot holders to remove a boiling pot of water from the stove is a good kitchen habit and also a potentially life-saving safety practice. There is a reason why I need to get at least seven and half hours of sleep every night. There is a reason the Patriots practice several days during the week before their one game on Thursday, Sunday or Monday. Most people would find it difficult to argue the reasons that these activities make sense and are deemed necessary.

Excuses, on the other hand, look like reasons, but they play out much differently. If I arrive late to a doctor’s appointment because there was traffic, that very well could be a valid reason. If I arrive late to all of my doctor’s appointments, with or without traffic, that “reason” has developed the very distinct odor of an excuse. The reason why I am late, repetitively, to doctor’s appointments is because I don’t plan properly and I walked out the door too late to arrive at the scheduled time. The reason is poor planning. The excuse is traffic, or my kids weren’t cooperating, or I forgot something and had to turn around. Or any other litany of things. But in the end, they are all excuses, not reasons, for my tardiness.

That last sentence is telling. Right in that sentence you will find the changing characteristic as to what separates reasons from excuses:  the word “but.” It inevitably precedes excuses and negates the honesty of the reason. A good friend once told me, “Anything after the ‘but’ is bullshit.” “I left on time but then there was an accident on the MA Pike.” “I know I should have practiced my free-throws yesterday, but it was cold outside and I was tired.” “I always use pot holders to take something off the stove, but this one time I thought it would be OK…”

 Reasons follow factual presentation. They unearth the challenge within, simplifying the solution and laying to rest any confusion. Reasons don’t always resolve a conflict, although they often quell the anxiety that plagues a person in search of understanding. A reason establishes a set of understandable and acceptable boundaries and expectations. Reasons are not easily arguable. We all know a time when someone has exclaimed, “Stop making excuses!” No one ever demands, “Stop determining reasons!” 

Excuses are usually easily seen and sniffed out. They bare the resemblance to a reason, but they lack the immediacy, importance and luster of a reason. Instead, excuses are dulled with a thin varnish of untruth and they are ablaze with irresponsibility. Excuses scream, “It’s not my fault!” all the while attempting to point blame at someone else. Excuses rarely make the person we are disappointing feel respected or appreciated. Excuses in place of reasons are vague and dishonest at best. At their core they are cover-ups for the cowardice within that refuses to accept accountability for not having behaved in a polite, efficient, sensitive or culpable manner.

In their essence, the goal of each act is determined in its origin. With reason we find intellect, motive, analysis, and rationale. A reason is an “intellectual faculty that adopts actions to ends.” Excuse literally means to attempt to clear from blame.

Most of us undoubtedly want more reasons in our lives, and fewer excuses, regardless of whether we are offering them or receiving them. Our conscious is lighter when we can honestly assess and offer a reason. Ironically, by avoiding the responsibility that a reason places upon us, our excuse weighs us down with the prolonged uncertainty of trust breeding with doubt.

Draw another line – the fine kind in the sand – and make the coin flip more to the reason side and less to the excuse side. Don’t leave it to chance. Place that coin down on the table and decide to search for, evaluate and deliver more reason into your life. Take one instance at a time and let the excuses fall away. Ironically, you can reserve them for the truly excusable things in life, like burping or farting in front of other people. But don’t blame the dog. That’s one excuse that is too easily sniffed out.

 January 7, 2021

 No matter how much we try to prepare ourselves for death, it will always sneak up on us, catch us by surprise and steal our breath away along with our peace and our fortitude. There will always be that moment that feels like life itself is unfair, leaving us staring at the text on our phone in our hand wondering how the life we are still living just changed in a second.

Two hours ago I was still trying to pack away the last of the Christmas decorations and put out the few winter decorations we have, dividing the snowmen and the penguins between the few flat surfaces we have that can accommodate candles and figurines. Two hours ago I was feeling proud of the fact that I hadn’t fallen off the stepstool after dusting the shelves over the fireplace. Two hours ago I didn’t know that a little boy I knew over forty years ago would leave me in tears at the news of his death.

I had no idea what Matt Phaneuf looked like as a fifty-one year old father of three. I didn’t’ even know he had three kids or that he still lived in Western, MA. I didn’t know that he had an Associates Degree from Springfield Technical Community College. I did know that he had Type 1 Diabetes and he had lived with that diagnosis most of his life.

Matt was the first person I knew who was diagnosed with diabetes. He came to school in the third grade with a lunch box full of snacks that were all labeled. My mom was Room Mother that year. At home she explained to me what all the numbered snacks in his lunch box meant:  he needed to eat certain snacks at specific times of the day to help him balance the insulin that was delivered to him via shots at the nurse’s office. We had been friends since kindergarten and I don’t know if he was diagnosed in the third grade or if I was just becoming aware of the information at that time. I do remember that he was a good friend that made me smile and I felt protective of him. So much so that when another classmate made fun of his numbered snacks, I jumped in and angrily explained to her what Diabetes was and that she shouldn’t make fun of him for it.

I have three other very specific memories of Matt Phaneuf and a handful of foggy senior year memories mostly centered on drinking. (Matt was known for drinking his “OM’s.” Old Milwaukee was never my beer of choice, but Matt could pound those things like they were water.) My first Matt memory is in kindergarten or first grade. It is after gym class and we are sitting on the line at one end of the gym, waiting to be dismissed. Since classes were always filed in and out in alphabetical order, Phaneuf and Porter had a pretty good chance of being adjacent in line. I had already learned to tie my shoes. All these years later I honestly don’t remember if Matt didn’t know how to tie his shoes yet, or whether I wanted to show off that I could, but I remember tying his sneakers for him after class. First I tied mine, then I tied his. Then we filed into line and went back to our regular classroom.

My second memory takes place on the playground. It was during a colder, winter month because I specifically remember winter coats and mittens. I had managed to climb to the top of the Igloo on the far end of the playground. A lot of kids were doing it, so I followed what they did and weaved my way to the top on the outside of the Igloo and then dangled my legs down inside between the bars like the other kids. When the bell rang, some dropped through to the ground and then crawled out the sides, while others reversed their direction and descaled the outside of the igloo to the ground. Suddenly afraid of the height that I had achieved, I was unable to get down. I couldn’t move. I was stuck at the top of the Igloo.

Despite calling me to get in line, no teacher came to help me. But Matt did. He ran back, climbed inside the igloo and told me to drop. He coaxed me to the inside of the Igloo until I was hanging, arms long, hands clenched on the bars, feet dangling just a few feet above the ground. What he knew from below was what I couldn’t feel as I hung there:  the ground was not far below my hanging feet. He told me he would catch me. I trusted him and I dropped. I didn’t need him to catch me and I landed squarely on my feet, a little embarrassed that I had been “stuck” five feet off of the ground. But to a barely four foot tall second or third grader, that was a lot of space to cover.

My only strong memory from our high school years was when he let me drive his car. Matt had an old Mustang that we were all envious of. He loved that car. He took care of it and not many people were allowed to drive it. One day after school he let me drive his car to Caroline’s house. We were on Stony Hill Rd., passing the Junior High School when a squirrel ran across the road and I hit the squirrel with the left front tire. I screamed, pulled up my feet and I think I took my hands off the steering wheel. Matt didn’t get mad, although he did insist that I open my eyes and drive, as he held the steering wheel straight on the road. I never drove his car again, but I don’t think that’s because I was banned, but more because the opportunity truly never presented itself again.

I don’t believe I have seen or heard any news of Matt Phaneuf since my first or second year of college. We both went on and lived our lives. I am not on Facebook and tend to miss a lot of the hometown gossip, catch-up and connections. But to learn tonight, via a text from the only three people I still do connect with from my youth, that he passed away last month as a result of complications of diabetes, I was left with a little hole in my heart. I knew he was special to me back in elementary school, and that I had carried those memories forward with me to our friendship as teenagers, but I guess I never really knew the impact that our friendship had on me until I was faced with only looking at them as memories of a time gone by, and a person gone forever.

I know that when I am gone I would like to be remembered as a good mother, a loyal friend, a loving daughter and sister and hopefully as a writer. We all want to leave our mark on the world in some way that makes us feel proud of what we have accomplished in life. And if I am to be honest, I would like to think that we each have an opportunity to leave a lasting impression in places and upon people that we didn’t even realize we had touched. I’m fairly certain that Matt Phaneuf never knew what he meant to me. I can only say now that his George Bailey moment is unfortunately posthumous. I am fortunate to have known him and to have a place in my life, memory and heart for him. And if every time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings, there were definitely bells ringing for him on December 16, 2020.