Ethan Couch

Ethan Couch, the teen who killed four people and injured twelve others while driving drunk, and was then sentenced to probation with "affluenza" being cited as a contributing factor, broke the terms of his probation.  He has reportedly been detained along with his mother in Mexico.

There are a number of things about this that I find troubling.  First, anyone with any sense that has ever watched an episode of  "Law and Order" should recognize "affluenza" as synonymous with "flight risk."  Further, if ever there was a child that has not yet had the opportunity to learn that actions have consequences, it would be Ethan Couch.  He has also been denied the opportunity to take personal responsibility for his own actions.  Given his most recent action (ducking out while on probation), it would seem to indicate that the only lessons he has learned thus far are ones that have simply reinforced his lack of personal responsibility.  Sadly, his mother is also culpable, as an enabler and encourager of this lack of responsibility.

In my opinion, not only did the judge who granted him probation miss the boat; she wasn't even standing on the dock.  Granting him probation not only devalued the lives of his victims, it didn't work.  Ethan obviously didn't connect his actions with serious consequences because there weren't any.  The lawyer that sold "affluenza" as a valid reason for avoiding responsibility certainly earned his presumed exorbitant fees.  He might just as well have stood in the pasture selling cow paddies like they were bars of gold.  I also wonder what the sentence might have been had this been a middle- or lower-income progeny of parents that didn't have the big bucks to pay someone to spin hay into gold.

Here's the catch: I think Ethan doesn't want to change.  Why should he?  His sense of entitlement says he doesn't need to.  His lack of personal responsibility says he doesn't want to. The lack of appropriate natural consequences proves both.

There are no winners here.  Until Ethan Couch feels the pain of the consequences of his actions, he has absolutely no incentive to change, even if he wanted to.  Ethan Couch may fit the fabricated definition of a victim of "affluenza," but my observation tells me that perhaps there is a more fitting definition:  sociopath.  I have no knowledge that he has ever been labeled as such, nor even examined by someone with the expertise to do so.  I can, however, refer to Merriam-Webster:

Simple Definition of sociopath

• : someone who behaves in a dangerous or violent way towards other people and does not feel guilty about such behaviour

Pity the man who has been denied a normal life, if you must.  But waste no time in giving him the opportunity to learn that, in the real world, actions do have consequences.  In the real world, negative consequences can be a catalyst for change, if the desire for change is there.

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The Perfect Storm

Halloween is near.  There will be a full moon, and in my part of the world, barometric pressure will be dropping.  For my colleagues still in the teaching trenches, this absolutely constitutes the perfect storm.  Any one of those elements by itself is cause for concern, but this triad is guaranteed chaos, albeit controlled chaos.

Regardless of your school's policy regarding the wearing of costumes, you will undoubtably come across at least two Elsas, several zombies, more than a few witches, and a green Hulk making a run for the trash can to throw up because he's already found and broken in to his mother's stash of Halloween goodies.

You will deal with several irate parents that fall on one side or the other of the "For crying out loud, let kids be kids for once," and "Halloween is a pagan ceremony and should not be brought into our kids' classrooms."  You needn't bother responding that you do not make school policy because said parent is already making his or her way to the principal's office where they will continue ranting.  If your school is really special, you'll have parents with placards protesting in front of your school.

You will not be able to hand out even a token piece of Halloween candy, at least in our state, as it is prohibited.  You might choose to make due with new pencils for everyone, but this is itself a rather fruitless effort as 90% of your students will pull off the erasers on top and chew on them.

If by chance you get a moment to sit at your desk, an activity frowned on by most administrators, don't plan on staying there long, as every third student will come up behind you and yell "BOO!' In an attempt to scare you into taking an unscheduled restroom break.

You will survive.  Even if you have lunchroom duty.  Even if one of your little darlings tries to "trick" you by placing a tack in your chair (veteran teachers know that checking before sitting is a given).
Even when you're asked for the 1,342, 567th time, "Guess what I'm going to be for Halloween?"
You will even survive the pumpkin-painting contest (no knives allowed).

It might behoove you to place a witch hat and a broom in your coat closet, should you be fortunate enough to to have one.  Allow a few glimpses of said objects throughout the day, simply as a matter of self-defense.

Remember that after all is said and done, there is always the possibility of midnight margaritas at Friday's choir practice,

This entry is dedicated to my colleagues still in the teaching trenches.

Saints and Sinners

Every saint has a past and every sinner has a future.  Credit that line to whoever came up with it first-it's been rolling around awhile.  I readily admit I have travelled both paths more than once.  That, however, is not my point of discussion.

My first point concerns the people that have crossed my path along the way.  I have met people on either end of the spectrum, and I have to say, the human spirit continues to amaze me.  So many leaning towards the saint side have overcome obstacles I don't think I could have endured.  Just as many nearer the sinners side are finding their way out of a morass of misguided attempts to find a better way.  I'll not name names, but many of you may recognize yourselves.

My second point concerns the path itself.  It would seem to be a continuum with Point A representing the saints, and Point Z representing the sinners.  Are we to be consigned to an existence that volleys us back and forth between the two points in a never-ending cosmic ball game of some sort?

I would most emphatically say indeed not.  Imagine that as you're volleying back and forth, you just happen to land out-of-bounds.  It does happen.  Should you be fortunate enough to be graced with this out-of-bounds existence, pause. Pause. Take it in.  Take it all in.  Open your eyes, your mind, and your heart.  The very air that you breathe sparkles with opportunity.  The people you find yourself in the midst of sprinkle kindness like glitter wherever they go.  Though you may at times venture off this new-found path, you have forever gained the ability to recognize those that have traveled this common road.  A connection is felt, unable to be described with mere words.  You travel in a world of silver-lined clouds full of joy, amongst people that have an infinite capacity for love and mercy.

Take a chance, if one isn't thrown to you first.  Step out-of-bounds.  It's a lovely place to be.

Second Graders Get It

One of the best times of my life teaching ( there, I've outed myself) was the semester I taught second grade in an enclosed classroom.  The enclosed classroom part is important-all of that open-concept classroom stuff is bunk.  The ambient noise distracts everyone, including the teacher.    I digress.

Our principal required each teacher to sit down with her class and develop a list of class rules that everyone agreed upon and felt they could follow.  Having taught in other capacities than a regular classroom for several years prior to this, I did some reconnaissance during the early part of the week to see what the other classes were coming up with.  I saw things like "Raise your hand to talk," "Keep your hands and feet to yourself," "Don't use the pencil sharpener if the teacher is talking," etc.

So, my little charges and I sat down to have a chat about rules.  Maurice raised his hand and said, "Don't talk while the teacher's talking."  I agreed, and said, "Yes, that would be disrespecting my right to teach and others' right to learn, wouldn't it?"  The class agreed that was so.  Serena raised her hand and said "Take care of our books and stuff."  I said,  "Yes, we would want to respect our own and others' property."  Ricky raised his hand and said,  "No fighting or cuss words."  "Yes, that would definitely be disrespectful," I responded.  We went on at this for some length, until the class had pretty much run out of rules.

I then reviewed for them all the rules they had come up with, and the one thing that all those rules had in common.  Respect.  I saw several "aha!" faces. ( Teachers live for "aha!" faces).  I then said that our class really only needed one rule and that rule was respect.  So, up on the laminated chart that said "Rules" I put the number one, and next to that I wrote the word respect.  That left a whole lot of blank space that did get some odd looks when visitors happened by.

You know what?  My second graders got it.  If  on the rare occasion they didn't get it, they didn't pitch a fit, they asked about it.  As an example:  I had called the children to the carpet for a group lesson.  One boy didn't come.  He was visibly upset.  Ricky raised his hand and said, "Miss, Tony is disrespecting you.  He didn't come to the carpet when you said to!"  I said, "Ricky, do you think Tony can hear me from his desk?"  He acknowledged that was so.  I asked if he was disturbing others.  He acknowledged that he was not.  I then said,  "Well, if he's not disrespecting my teaching, or anybody else's learning, including his own, shouldn't I respect his need for a little time to get himself together?  He'll come over when he's ready."  Incident solved.

So here's my question:  if second graders can get it, why can't we?

Hope

I am so weary of the negativity that seems to permeate our society these days.  It seems that no matter where you are or which way you turn, unless you are purposefully looking for the positive, you are bound to be bitten on the backside by the negative.  I no longer waste time wondering about those that would hide pettiness behind piety.  I have no tolerance for those that would drape patriotism over pandering politicking.  To state that racism is still an issue is beyond obvious-I want to hear practical, workable solutions.

I have stopped listening to the news stations.  I can get news from other sources.  Perhaps mine is a head-in-the-sand attitude, but I have come to believe that their sole purpose is to glorify and publicize all of the negativity going on in the world.  They may throw in a gratuitous "feel good" sound-bite at the end, but it doesn't undo the damage inflicted.  I truly feel depressed and somewhat hopeless when I do listen to the news, so as a means of self-preservation, I've banned it for myself.

I have come to believe that perhaps one of the purposes of my life is to be a conduit.  I have, over the years, been a conduit of many things: at one time, chaos; knowledge, calm; some might say wisdom, and I would hope joy and love.  Most especially, I don't want to lose what some might say is a child-like belief  and the ability to to be a conduit of that thing called hope.  I want to be a conduit of hope for others; I want people to know that you can overcome adversity, that resilience does exist.  I want people to know that if they care enough to work for it, they can effect change.  I want people to know that when you strip it all away, we're all pretty much the same, with the same basic wants and needs.  I want people to know that there is still hope for humanity as long as humanity still has hope.

South Carolina and Joe

There are really no words that can truly express the tragedy that recently occurred in South Carolina at the hands of one young man.  Travesty.  Cold-blooded murder.  The chill that I feel down to my bones and the knot I have in my gut have not gone away.  While I grieve for those mercilessly slain, I also can't get Joe out of my mind.

As a public school teacher of 30+ years, most of those spent teaching those who marched to the beat of a different drummer, I'd seen it all.  I'd been cussed at, spat on, slugged, dodged a desk or two, been bitten, found myself knee-deep in the middle of a riot-you name it, I'd been there.  I stayed because I believed I made a difference.  I never gave up on the worst of the worst-in fact, when they let me, I'd put an arm around them and welcome them.

Then I met Joe.  He was about eleven when I met him.  I wasn't afraid, but I did feel immediately ill-at-ease. Later that week, I had a chance to review Joe's file.  I learned that his dad died drunk when he rolled his truck; that his mother was killed when he was an infant in a drug deal gone bad.  He'd gone through withdrawal as a baby.  He was currently in the custody of his paternal grandmother, an already overburdened woman ill-equipped to deal with him.  To the best of our ability and to the extent of our limited resources we tried to get help for Joe.  Medical, psychological, psychiatric, social services-you name it.  As is the way of many inner-city children, Joe was with us only for about two months.

I thought of Joe occasionally over the years, and when I did, I thought of him in terms I had never applied to another child:  "This boy is beyond repair."

One day about six years later, I read about Joe in the newspaper.  He had beaten his girlfriend until she was dead.

I don't know what the answers to children like Joe are.  I know there were clear signs that problems were there, and I know that many people and entities tried to address them.  And I know it wasn't enough.  What haunts me still is the tiny small seed that was planted in me by Joe-the fear that for some very, very few, perhaps there just isn't enough.

Second Chances

Having been the beneficiary of many, I believe in second chances.  What a different world we would live in were it not for second chances.  Were it not for the divine gift of second chances, I would have been stone cold dead years ago.

I often think of Easter as symbolic of second chances.  There is the dark morass of crucifixion, followed by a sunrise of hope on Easter morning.  That is the Easter everyone talks about.  There is, I believe, a second kind of Easter that some people are fortunate enough to experience, a personal one, a resurrection of the soul.  These are people whose lives have been transformed by love.  God, in his magnificent omnipotence, takes a broken life and replaces it with a spirit of renewal.

Margery Williams' well-loved children's book, The Velveteen Rabbit, poignantly illustrates the renewal that comes through love. 

“Real isn't how you are made,' said the Skin Horse. 'It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.'

'Does it hurt?' asked the Rabbit.

'Sometimes,' said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. 'When you are Real you don't mind being hurt.'

'Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,' he asked, 'or bit by bit?'

'It doesn't happen all at once,' said the Skin Horse. 'You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand.” 

Love brings the kind of renewal that effects changes.  Easter's message of hope and renewal ensures that there will be new life, one that promises to be profound, yet not without some pain as one progresses.  This, then, is a second chance at having a new life.  Those that have been graced with second chances, as Ms. Williams so sweetly illustrates, " become Real."

Doing the Limbo

When I was a kid, the Limbo was a funny song that had a ridiculous dance to go with it.  Adults and children both would bend backwards, hands not touching the ground, and try to skim under an ever-lowering pole without touching it.  Funny to listen to, to look at, to do.  As I grew older, I was taught that limbo was a sort of holding cell between heaven and hell, a place where one bided one's time until somebody, usually God, made a decision as to where you were to land.

These days, I think of limbo as a space of frustration, having gone through one doorway but not yet entered another.  It's been said it's hell in the hallway, and that I do believe.

Limbo is a state of suspended animation sitting on a foundation of powerlessness.  There is nothing that can be done at the present time to alter one's position in the quagmire of the unknown.  I suppose that, then, is the crux of it.  I want to take charge, make something happen or not happen.  I'm a pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps kind of girl.  I get things done.  I get results.  Limbo puts the kibosh on all of that.

There's the rub, dearies.  Reality dawns.  You've never really been in charge.  All of that business may have served you well in the past, but the idea of truly being in charge of anything has been an illusionary safety net.

When limbo knocks you on your backside, you hit the ground hard.  Taking inventory of what is and is not, the realization that faith and a nickel is about all you've got in your pocket, and a nickel doesn't buy you much of anything, peace of mind in particular.

Holding fast to that faith, you know that you will be able to deal with what comes, whatever that might be.  It's still hell in the hallway, but perhaps it's not quite as dusty and dingy there as you first perceived.  It's certainly not as lonely.  The Light still shines.