Spray Bottle

Wednesday, July 17 2013- Jacmel Haiti

To relieve just a moment of this ungodly heat, I travel

 with a spray bottle filled with  water.  I like to squirt my neck, front and back. It’s caught the attention of the women in our Empowerment Group. So around 11, each morning, I roam the room and offer a quick spray.  No words are spoke as we have a language barrier.  But my intent is greatly understood. Some of the women want me to spray them on the back of their necks.  Some want it on the crown of their head.  Others tighten their eyes and take is square in the face.  Though it is only a moment of relief, it feels great as we share this universal need to be comforted.

Wanting Just A Little Bit of Privacy- Haiti

Using the Bathroom: A Desperate Act

Jacmel, Haiti

Tuesday, July 23,2013- there is only one bathroom in our Wellness Center and it is 
in deplorable condition.  It is only cleaned every third day.  The toilet does not flush.  
And it is in an enclosed room with no windows.  So the smell is hot and offensive. 
Most days I do not even go near the room.  But some days I just have to go.  Today is 
one of those unfortunate days.

The big metal door pushes in to the small, dark, smelly room.  The concrete floor has 
swelled enough that it is now impossible to close the door completely. It takes all of 
my effort to drag that door to just a crack of an opening. I want privacy but I also 
need some light. As I am struggling to push the door shut, I see Magdelena, the 
neighborhood's lost soul, approaching me.  She acknowledges me with a wave and 
heads towards me.  Now all hope of any privacy during this dreadful ordeal is lost. 
Magdelena has no boundaries and no need or skills to be discrete.

“No, no, no”, I shout to her through the crack in the door.  “Stay away.  Go away”!  
My voice is now just a little panicked.

But she ignores my request and now I can feel her breathe on my face.  She stands 
there, staring at me. And I realize that I have to surrender as I really have to go.  But 
then, just then, her thin, long fingers slither through the opening.  With all of her 
might she struggles, to pull the door even tighter as she attempts in vain to offer me 
just a bit more privacy,

I Can't Do The Math

I Can’t Do The Math

Springfield High School
Springfield, PA
Spring 2004

The No Child Left Behind Act mandated yearly testing for all students. This mandate drove everyone nuts.  I hated these tests.  They were forced, they were artificial and they were implemented for political reason, not educational reasons. For these reasons, I loathed them.  But that didn’t matter because I was the principal and I had to oversee the administration of these tests whether I liked them or not.

I was not alone in my loathing of these tests.  The teachers hated them as well and complained mercilessly from the minute I announced the testing schedule until the moment the damn tests were securely packed and sent back to the evil administrator at the state department of education.

The students hated them too.  But they were so uninvested in these tests that they saw it as four long days of daydreaming and going through the motion of filling in random circles on a scan sheet.  The only bright side for them was a four-day holiday from homework.

The superintendent did his best to put pressure on us, the principal, to put press on the teachers to put pressure on the students to do as well as possible.  Test scores were published in the local papers and parents and realtors compared scores amongst districts.  And a statewide unhealthy competition re-enforced everyone’s testing anxiety.

I had spent a lot of time with the students, doing my best to emphasis why it was for the greater good to do well on these worthless tests.  I attempted to appeal to their sense of community obligation to do well so that our school received a favorable score that would improve our ratings with colleges around the country. I indicated there would be a remediation class for those who did not make AYP (Annual Yearly Progress) and that was met with distain.

When the testing date rolled around, I had every aspect of the testing administration in place.  Everyone understood that we didn’t have to like it but we had to do it. I was getting the cooperation I had expected and was satisfied that people understood and were complying with this major annoyance.

One classroom teacher called to the office, asking for some assistance.  So one of the assistant principals went up to the second floor to see what was needed.  After ten minutes, the other assistant principal was called for back up.  Now, I was getting annoyed in anticipation of a problem.  And if some kids were misbehaving on this date, I was going to kick their asses.

My two assistant principals knew my level of anxiety so when one of them called me and asked me to come to the classroom, he spoke very gently to me, “Hey Doc, we have a little problem with Joe and he’s asking for you.  If you don’t mind, could you come on up.  We need you.”

I went down the hallway and started up the stairwell when I heard deep, deep sobbing.  It’s Joe, one of our more difficult students, sitting on the steps with his head in his hands. He can barely speak but when he sees me, he blurts out, “How many fucking times do I have to show people how fucking stupid I am.  I can’t do the fucking math.”

 I sit beside him, rub his back, and tell him to calm down.  He continued, “I’m really sorry.  I can do the English and I’ll try really hard on that but I can’t do the fucking math.  How many times do I have to show people that I’m fucking stupid.”

I apologized to Joe.  And I was filled with sorrow for him. He was embarrassed about his anger, his crying, and his poor behavior. And he apologized to me. “I know these tests are really important to you.  And I was really going to try but I can’t fucking do the math. I promise you, I will do great on the reading and writing.”

I sent Joe home for the rest of the day because he was worn out from all of his anger. And I was worn out from pushing the wrong agenda on my students.

Thanks But No Thanks

Haiti Family Initiative
Wellness Program
Jacmel, Haiti
Summer 2013


Friday, August 2, 2013- one of the young doctors joins me this morning as I wander across the street to feed my old lady friend.  I usually bring her a banana and juice in the morning then, around noon, I bring her a bowl of rice, beans and sardines.  The woman acknowledges me now.  She smiles and thanks me in her meek, native Creole every day.

The doctor stays for a short period of time and then quickly leaves. So I spent a few minutes, just sitting  with the old woman.  Although we don't understand each other, I still enjoy her company.  She smiles and hums as she eats her breakfast.  I stare in amazement that this 86 year old woman lives alone in this tiny structure. And I worry about who will feed here when I leave Haiti in two weeks.

Suddenly, a neighbor appears at the doorway. He approaches me abruptly and speaks angrily to me.  A translator intervenes and conveys this man’s disgust at the doctor for taking a photo of the woman.

I didn’t understand why the man is so angry until I notice that the old lady is sitting in a position that exposes all of her genitals.  The man is right and we were definitely wrong.  I assure him that the photo would be erased.  Then I leave because it is obvious that I am no longer welcomed here.

And when I returned at noon with a bowl of rice, I found the old lady already eating a bowl of rice, lager than what I was offering.  What a relief it is for me to receive their message of, “Thanks; but no thanks.  We will now take care of our own from now on.” 

First Kiss

FIRST KISS

I am in 7^th grade and my cousin invited me to her house for the weekend.  We are going to a boy/girl party, my first boy-girl party.  I am nervous. I don’t know anyone and I don’t know what to expect.  I am slightly afraid to go.

There are cigarettes offered but I don’t want to try that.  I am afraid to smoke.  So I make up some lame excuse that works. I am left alone.

Then a game of “spin the bottle” starts up. And I am afraid of that too. But I have already said “no” to cigarettes. So I don’t feel comfortable saying no to this activity as well.  I don’t want to seem like a complete dork. So I join the girls’ side of the circle. And hold my breathe with each spin.

Each time the bottle stops, we screech in nervousness and laughter.  Heartless, judgment comments about the boy or girl are made without edit. Our thoughtlessness camouflages our own lack of confidence and our glaring insecurities.

The bottle finally points to me and I have to kiss the boy with the long, blonde bangs. My heart races widely.  There is a roar of laughter and I take the position of a sprinter, ready to make a quick dash to the center of the circle.

Someone shouts, “you have to kiss’.  And the boy starts to move towards me.  I leap up and we meet in the middle. We kiss and it is quick, hard and unpleasant.  Our teeth click together.  But it is now over.  My first kiss.  I have finally crossed that line. I can now go back to my friends at school on Monday and show off a little.

“Oh yea, I’ve kissed boys before,” I can now brag with some confidence.  I am one step closer to the world of adulthood.

Easter Morning

EASTER MORNING
Long Beach Island, NJ
1976

Easter is yet another holiday that does not hold my interest but today I go to the Sunrise Mass on the beach with my family. I come poorly prepared as it is still freezing this early in the morning.  So I am slightly miserable and insufferable until I see the horizon turn pink. The sunrise is beautiful.  The priest stops the Mass for just a moment at the first hint of the sun peaking up from the horizon. We all watch in silence and without a que from anyone, everyone claps in unison, as the sun becomes a complete circle.

Pool Side Conversations

POOLSIDE CONVERSATION
@ a hotel in Jamaica

I spend the afternoon in the pool with a bunch of young republicans from the mid-west. They are curious as to they I am here by myself and then somehow, the conversation turns to politics.

“Hey guys, we have a liberal here”, one of them loudly announce to the group. For two long hours I hear what was wrong with all of my well intended but misguided thinking. They call and forth to each other to see if these evangelical republicans have been successful in converted me to their way of thinking. As one man fails, another man slides over to the edge of the pool and fills me with one defensive, intolerable statement against immigrants, welfare recipients, healthcare, Muslims, Mexicans, minimum wage earners and job opportunities.

One man told me he thought a family could live on $15/hour.  I reminded him that the minimum wage was $7.50/hour.

“Well, then don’t take that job.  Those people should only take a job that pays $15 an hour”, he says dismissively.

I explained to another man why the Affordable Care Act is so important to me. He has never been without a job and good healthcare.  He pays $800 a month for a family of four and is outraged at this high premium.  I tell him that I pay that for myself and my prior policy didn’t cover chemo or radiation.  I tell him that I had made the decision to forgo treatment if I had cancer  because I couldn’t afford to go through all of my money for treatment. It finally sinks in, just a little bit, that not all benefactors of Obama care are welfare queens.

“OK, that’s wrong, OK, that needs to be fixed.”  But he still wants to throw out the ACA.  “It’s just wrong,” he states adamantly. He offers no alternative.

Finally the wives tell them to shut up. One woman shouts, “Leave her along. Oh my God, you’re a broken record. Let up on her, will you.”  She apologizes to me.

I tell her I hear this all the time from my Republican friends.  I don’t tell her that I just ignore then and hope that I never feel a need to convert people to my side.