A Polish-American family from Detroit's Hamtramck, inspired by Pope John Paul’s death, decide to reconnect with their Polish roots. Below you'll find Chapter 1 of my novel.
I've been told by several agents that Americans want at least 80% of their books setting to be within the US. So, I'm putting a section of my novel out there to see if anybody is interested in reading more.
What say you?
My e mail is knych1@yahoo.com
Saturday, April 30, 2011
http://polandinspires.blogspot.com
CHAPTER ONE
On Saturday, April 9, 2005, WJR Detroit announced Pope John Paul’s death. Joe thanked God for ending his hero’s suffering as he put aside the table he’d just sanded and he headed toward St. Florian’s Church, where his godparents prayed for the Pope’s peaceful release from his failing body. He’d share their sorrow, as he’d shared most of the joys and disasters of his life.
As he neared the church he saw people streaming out of their houses, stricken, not able to bear this loss alone. Many headed toward the church. Some carried bouquets of red and white flowers. Their progress slowed as they stopped to console their neighbors.
Inside St. Florian’s, Hamtramck’s huge working-man’s church, faithful hunched over their rosaries. Stars sparkled down from the bright blue ceiling, serving as a medium between this life and the next. Priests walked from one group to another, stopping for a whispered word here, a pat on the shoulder there.
Uncle Ted and Aunt Stella knelt in their favorite pew. Joe slid in beside Stella, whose aging hand squeezed his. “Joey, thank God for taking our brave lion peaceful.”
He prayed beside them, forsaking rote prayer, he pictured the dove like Holy Ghost descending to pick up John Paul’s soul in the form of a leaf and soaring toward heaven. When he sensed from their movements his godparents were ready to leave, he genuflected and walked them past other mourners and their Muslim neighbors who had come outside their homes to console them.
He drove to the alley behind Ted’s house and as they walked by Ted slapped the palm of his hand on the garage where Joe’s workshop used to reside. “Why you left here to spend money on that space you can’t use good without your boys, I don’t know.”
“Brad and Andrew will be home this summer and they’ll need space to work. I’m paying the bill and that’s penance enough. Let it go, Ted.”
Stella clutched her sweater tight as the cold April wind whipped her hair around her face. “Stop that, you two. Tonight is about John Paul. He’s earned his peace.”
Ted slapped Joe’s back, “Come on in. She who must be obeyed has spoken.” His white head was right behind Stella’s as they entered their spotless kitchen.
Joe bounded up their steps and pealed off his down jacket. His sense of peace increased every time he walked into their home, decorated with twenty-two religious objects, all lovingly venerated. The smell of cabbage wafted towards him and he pulled out a vinyl covered chair in their forty’s-style kitchen. “Will you two be alright?”
“The Pope earned his rest but I feel like the world’s less safe without him.” Stella filled a pan with of ravioli-like golombki and mashed potatoes. “I’ll warm this up and we’ll share a bite in his name.”
"The Pope suffering so bad and then dying peaceful got me thinkin’.” Ted nodded his bald head as he spoke. “God doesn’t make it easy, even for his friends. If I want to see my Lord I got to do what he expected of me. I didn’t bring peace when we went home in ’93 and John Paul said I could do it. He saw things. Besides, Babcia’s over a hundred. I got no excuse, it’s decided. We’ll fly to Poland, see my mother and pass out our savings.”
Stella added, “And Joe, we want you along to see your father’s home and meet your grandmother. Babcia deserves to meet one of Victor’s sons before she dies.” Stella must have noted the look of disbelief on his face, “The Pope expects us to do this, you know that. You heard him.”
Did he know? The Pope visited Hamtramck September 19, 1987. Joe had called around to see if he and Ted could help out anywhere. He was told, ever so gently, it was harder to turn help down then to get it.
He’d said, “Well, my uncle and I live within walking distance, I know CPR, and there will be folks out there who don’t belong in a crowd, so if you think of an unglamorous spot you need somebody, give me a call.”
The next day an organizer asked, could they go to the shuttle area near the railroad tracks and be available when people loaded up to return to their parked cars? Some folks might need help if they’d stood too long and the fervor of the faithful might outdo all expectations, they’d said.
And they were right. Poles came from all over to Hamtramck because there he was sure to say a few words in their native tongue. Joe and Ted set out buckets of water bottles and joined in the songs. Roving musicians performed for the crowd. He watched as a man offered a performer a tip the man refused. It seemed to Joe that everybody wanted to give to everybody else at this once in a lifetime event.
All morning Aunt Stella, Joe’s mother, his sister-in-law’s and Kate made dough- nut-middles and Uncle Ted, Joe, his brothers and the children old enough to hold a basket handed them out to people who’d arrived early. A couple who’d spent their honeymoon in a sleeping bag under a street light nearby asked Stella if they could use her toilet. She ushered them inside and fed them a full breakfast. Many had shown up the day before with chairs, sleeping bags and children. They carried bread and kielbasa with them and ate politely, cleaning up and apologizing if they bumped anyone as they used Hamtramck’s receptacles.
Along Jos Campau Ave, 50,000 people made the air reverberate with laughter, songs and greetings. Having a relative living in Hamtramck was a badge of honor and even people who weren’t, were proud to be Polish.
Then finally, the crowd reverently called out, “Juznad jezdza, (He’s coming),” just as they must have in Jerusalem when Jesus passed by.
The faithful watched in thrilled reverence as the Pope-mobile approached. Joe perched a twin on each shoulder and when Sarah hollered, “I can’t see God, I can’t see God,” Ted scooped her up and held her in front of him. Joe couldn’t see much, but the electrical current of the crowd buoyed him up as bodies pressed around him in waves.
John Paul blessed his roaring fans all the way to Farmer Jack’s Market and into the parking lot, where he spoke to the crowd.
They weren’t near enough to hear John Paul’s voice, but word came back he’d said, “People who work, each is a human being, not a mere instrument of production.” The crowd murmured their acknowledgement and Joe saw tears rise in Ted’s eyes.
John Paul said, “Immigrants found here in Detroit, a great hospitality.” The ensuing roar might have knocked them over, if they hadn’t been so tightly packed.
While John Paul blessed the crowd, and before the motorcade got word there was a bomb threat, Ted and Joe handed the children to the women and headed toward the shuttle to be in place when people began to board. Almost there, they overtook a woman struggling on legs so swollen she could hardly place her feet. Ted got on one side and Joe on the other to ease her load. She’d instructed her family to look for her near the shuttle so they eased her onto a bench, where Ted joined her, winded. Seven people were there already, talking with the bus driver as Joe fetched water. He’d bent over to help the woman drink when suddenly one of the women speaking to the driver cried out, “It’s him, Matka Boska. Look, he’s here!”
A police car led the Pope-mobile away from the crowd, out and around, because of a bomb threat. They had spotted him and stood transfixed when his Pope-mobil slowed to cross the tracks and John Paul saw them waiting there.
The woman peeked from behind her fingers. “After all I’ve survived, and now, this joy I can die happy,” she said.
The Pope touched his driver’s arm and they stopped just before the tracks. An arm waved, John Paul needed something. Joe sprinted to his side.
John Paul leaned forward, “Who are you? What are you all doing here?”
“Holy Father, I’m Joe Winowski, a volunteer. I’m helping a woman whose legs have swollen from standing too long. I teach accounting and I’m a carpenter on the side.” He babbled, not sure what kind of answer was expected.
“Our Lord was good to widows. He was a carpenter and a teacher too. You follow His example, my son.”
“I call on Him when the young resist reason. I work in His name, Holy Father.”
“Yes, yes, our young are our hope. Example speaks to them. I pray for you to keep heart, it is not an easy thing but it is precious to Our Lord.”
Joe blessed himself then turned to indicate the solidly built man with the wide open face who now stood directly behind him, “Let me present Tadeusz Winowski, a man who resembles you so closely he could pose as you when your arm tires.” He backed up and left a startled Ted to face his Pope.
John Paul’s hand shook as he bent down to look Ted over closely. ”Yes, yes I see the possibility. What languages do you speak?”
Ted recovered himself enough to answer, “I speak Polish, Russian, German and English, Holy Father. If you need me, I stand ready.”
“Oh, Beloved Brother, I bless you, and I pray for your continued good health but you must not tempt me, for even a Pope tires.” John Paul’s laugh rumbled through the air and the lines of fatigue lifted from his face.
The lead police car had doubled back, but the Pope didn’t look away. “Where do you come from?” he asked Ted.
Ted described the farm near Tarnow where his mother and extended family live.
“Farm life is hard, but it allows man his dignity. Have you returned home?”
Ted said, “In ‘46 my wife and I returned to rebuild our burnt out farm house. Our six year old son died of typhus. In my grief I tried to rally opposition to Communism and caused trouble for my family. My wife and I fled into Austria as enforcers came for us. I can only send dollars till now, but I pray each day I’ll live to return.”
“Do not despair. Communist resolve will break, Our Lord wills it. Jesus intends you to reunite with your family and bring peace to their hearts. I see it. Pray each day and your time will come. Never lose heart. Through us He accomplishes all things.” Then he turned to the woman and the others and lifted his hand. The Papal ring flashed as he blessed all those who stood nearby.
They responded by making a Sign of the Cross simultaneously.
Then the Pope signaled his driver to go on.
The witnesses to that special moment laughed and cried and gave each other a group hug as the rest of the crowd descended upon them.
The woman on the bench said she felt better already. “If my legs burst like overcooked sausage, seeing the Pope so close and being blessed by him, makes the sorrows of my life less hard.”
Afterwards, whenever Ted told the story of what happened after the police received a bomb threat he added, “If Karol Wojtyla achieves sainthood, you can know he earned it. All that running around for our Risen Christ, that’s not easy.”
###
Ted had continued in good health, while John Paul visibly deteriorated—and now John Paul was dead, Ted was quoting him and telling Joe not only was he going to Poland, but somehow, the poor-old-dead-pope expected it of him. Joe turned his hands back and forth beneath the table, not sure how to react.
Ted added, “And don’t worry, we’ll pay everything; you don’t need a dime.”
“But you two went over in ’93 to settle things. What do you have to fix now?”
“We thought we'd never return after that, that’s right. “ Ted rushed on. “Everybody was getting old and crabby and we left them all upset. We couldn’t pass out all our dollars and we didn’t leave peaceful, so we want to go back and do it right while we’re both still able."
"We should all be dead by now,” Stella’s jaw was set, Joe saw she was determined, “but if John Paul kept going, sick as he was, we’ll find the strength to go back to that farm and set things right.”
“The Apostles slept in the garden because Jesus said he was leaving and they were scared, they didn’t know what would happen to them.” Ted’s eyes shone, “But Jesus couldn’t make it easy or they’d go running around like big shots. We have to suffer to follow Jesus and I forgot that. I thought because John Paul told me I should go it would be easy. I forgot God depends on our doing his will; he doesn’t wave a magic wand. Our love for Him helps us use all we got to make it happen, but He doesn’t make it easy.”
Stella said, “We thought if we went home it would just happen and when things didn’t go right we came home upset, like he’d let us down.”
“But when I saw that last picture of John Paul at his window, when he hit his head, I understood Jesus wants us banging our heads before we can do what He asked because it isn’t big shot me that gets things done, it’s Him, working through me. I’m our Lords servant, not some Enron blow-hard.”
Stella said, “We didn’t understand God’s Word so when we went in ’93 we made things worse. We have to give more of ourselves to make His plan move right.”
“I have to do the best I can, with the help of God. I can’t die peaceful till I do."
“But you know teachers don’t take off mid-semester and I’ve got carpentry jobs, three kids in college and Annie graduating. I’m out of the equation. Besides, Stella’s had pneumonia. What are you thinking, dragging her around a farm while it’s still cold?”
“You want me to put my money in a box and mail it? That’s not what John Paul said to me. I’m goin’ no matter what you say.”
“You two can’t go sprinkling dollars around Eastern Europe. That’s ridiculous.”
“Then we’ll wait till your classes are out for summer. It’ll be warmer then and the boys can work your shop, but we’re goin’ and we need you. I sat here, fat and free while my brother, Laszek, he suffered through war and Communism. He was beaten for my foolishness and he cared for Babcia. I have to go and we need you with us, Joe. We need you..”
Stella said, “We promised John Paul if he’ll look out for us, we’ll do our best.”
“What the--the Pope just died and you two are talking to him like he’s a saint?”
“John Paul did his best for Jesus. He’s in ‘The Communion of Saints,’ automatic. Priests don’t have to tell us. Besides, those guys say more then their prayers.” Ted said.
“And we need help if we’re going to do good, as old as we are.”
“Look, John Paul got grudge holders all over the world together.” Ted nodded his head as he spoke. “He’s the best there is, so we turn to him. I send fifty dollars a month home now and more when taxes are due, a litter of pigs die, or a niece of mine marries.”
Joe tried to cut off Ted’s recital. “And you never owned a car and you only drink one six-pack a week because you get the seventh at my house on Sunday. I know that.”
“I’m doing my best, but I can’t handle my brother alone. Laszek’s life didn’t go like it should and John Paul wants me to change things. Please, stand beside me, Joe.”
This is getting crazier by the minute, he thought.
Ted’s square jaw set. "Poland needs hard cash and it’s not just our folks. Laszek says they can hardly pay for seed, let alone buy another farm. We can help them.”
Joe’s accountant’s mind tallied Ted and Stella’s social security and retirement. If they emptied their pockets now, their care would fall on him and he couldn’t step in if their funds ran dry, not in the financial shape he was in, he couldn’t.
“But didn’t you tell me they’re sitting on rutted roads only two hours drive from Russia? Even if you doubled their 36 hectors, they couldn’t compete in today’s world. You’d deplete your savings only to prolong their suffering.”
"I’m not Scrooge McDuck openin’ his vault here," Ted banged the table and plates jumped. “but our farmers need something between them and disaster.”
“So, If we give to them and invest the rest in Polish firms they’ll have something when we’re gone,” Aunt Stella said. “You’re a teacher, you understand business."
Joe felt sick He had enough worries, why were they dumping this on him?
Ted threw his hands open, "We'll help Poland too. So, what do you think?"
“I think your heart is bigger then your wallet. How much cash are we talking?"
Ted looked away. "Well, our house is paid, we have Medicare and extra insurance, so if we keep fifty thousand, we could invest say, seven-hundred-thousand."
"Zloty or dollars? You can’t mean seven-hundred-thousand dollars?” Joe’s chair nearly flew out from under him. He grasped at the table. “Let me see your figures."
Stella unlocked a drawer, removed a ledger and opened it in front of Joe.
He pushed aside dishes to scan impossibly high numbers. How was he going to tell them they’d made a gigantic error and compounded it over the years?
Then Ted reached over and turned back to cash out prices he’d gotten in 1993. Joe jerked back when he saw the value of stocks in Chrysler, General Motors and Ford, listed in Ted’s neat hand. The force of his reaction almost knocked him to the floor.
"Cholera, when did you two buy these?"
"In the thirties one of the file clerk supervisors at Chrysler hired me."
He knew how Stella was hired. How much history would they march him through to get a straight answer? His throat tightened as he studied Ted. People smiled when they saw Ted’s resemblance to John Paul, but besides his angelic looks, Joe knew that John Paul’s sharp intelligence was Ted’s too, though Ted’s could be more cagy then sacred, Joe thought. The question was, what else hadn’t he said?
“Stella, you tell him how we earned it. You talk better than me.”
Her hazel eyes got enormous. "I waited outside the Chrysler Building for the rain to stop and a junior executive told his girl that the banks could fail, but the Big Three auto-makers--they were the future. He was investing every extra penny he got in stock."
Ted said. "Pretty girls were sent upstairs to deliver files. Next time Stella went she asked an executive how we could buy stock. He might have been pulling a joke, sending us to his broker, but he made an appointment for us.”
“Mr. Donovan was on Grand River. He was a real gentleman. We both took a day off work and rode the trolley downtown.” Stella patted Ted’s hand as she spoke.
Ted nodded at the memory. “He smiled when he met us, a file clerk and her Polak husband, all dressed up to invest our pennies, but he treated us right,”
“He told us we should buy stock in more then one company, than he said to send him a money order twice a year, regular.”
“We only missed in ‘47 the year our Teddy died. The water was polluted and Teddy and Pa---nobody should have to live—or die like that, nobody---.”
Stella’s voice called him back, “We were all dressed up, so we went to Hudson’s Tearoom for lunch, remember that, Ted? It had chandeliers and linen table cloths.”
Ted cleared his throat, reminding her to get back on track.
She said, “We paid everything and invested too. Sometimes we nearly didn’t make it, but helping our family through rough times made losing Teddy more bearable. He taught his cousins to care for the seeds he carried sewn in his clothing for their garden while we worked repairing the house. He ended his life helping them, so we will too.”
“Once I sold the pocket watch Stella gave me for our wedding. It took years to buy it back, but we didn’t want the broker forgetting us. We did our part and he did his.”
Curious but agitated, Joe got out of his chair behind the table and paced the room.
“Our war bonds rebuilt the farm. I signed them before we left here and your pa cashed them and sent me dollars—after the war American dollars were king, you know.”
Joe’s head spun, these were people whose errands he’d run and bulbs he’d changed. He’s jumped when they called, even as he’d juggled two jobs, four children and Kate and now they were telling him they’d used his precious time to conserve pennies while they hid this wealth?
Their picture of The Sacred Heart of Jesus Crowned with Thorns hung above the table. As a child he’d looked at Jesus sorrowful eyes, tiny droplets of blood dripping down his forehead, and he’d always decided against a convenient lie in His presence. He’d come clean and Stella had said, “You’re a good boy. I knew my Joey wouldn’t add to Our Good Lord’s suffering.”
But they’d lied to him through omission. While he’d put them above himself, they’d held back. He walked in circles. Kate had wanted to move to the suburbs, creating more distance, but he figured she lacked the love that motivated the Winowski clan. How could he ever admit this to her?
Ted’s voice brought him back. “Donovan said, ’When you sell your stock, sell slow, or taxes will eat you.’ We didn’t want to talk foolish and then be shamed.”
“But stocks grew faster than taxes by the time we cashed out to help them.”
“But just as I opened my mouth to tell Laszek I had money for him, he said bad girls had set their sights on his grandsons. He told them there wouldn’t be more dollars from the U S, so the girls left town. He said, ‘Your help worked perfect. More would bring disaster to us.’” Ted shrugged, “So we’ve dished it out in dribbles, but what if we die or get goofy? Everything we sacrificed for would be lost. You see that don’t you?”
Stella had been watching Joe as Ted spoke. She added, “And now they must learn how Capitalism works too. Should we leave them to swindlers as others have? If we buy stock in Polish companies our relatives will see how money can work for them. Then maybe life won’t get so desperate."
“So, you built this up since before I was born?”
They exchanged self-conscious looks. Then it struck him. He’d bought the workshop just as the boys scholarships came through. Then the banks turned down his loan applications so he didn’t have the resources to pay his mortgage and hire men he’d have to insure privately. Ted was the first to realize Pateck wouldn’t have given him the space free, Joe had admitted he paid, but not that he owned the space. Anyway, they knew he’d been desperate—Ted rubbed it in every time he walked by the old workshop’s home in their garage. They knew, they had it, and they hadn’t loaned him the money. His blood roared in his ears as Ted sped up his story, as if talking faster made his omission acceptable.
“After the war soldiers staggering towards home died beside our stream. Typhoid spread. Stella’s hair fell out and rose colored spots covered our Teddy. I bathed him and spooned boiled water down his throat, but I knew, I knew we’d lost our boy.”
“I wanted more babies, but the doctor here said I’d been too sick, so helping them live through Communism made us feel Teddy didn’t die for nothing.”
They’d come home childless in 1949 and he’d been born the next year He knew his mother had put him in Stella’s arms every time she walked in the door and Pa had encouraged him to stay by Ted’s side. Joe knew this, but put together as it was now, it unnerved him.
Joe’s mind blurred. "But you’ve let me worry about you."
Ted went on as if he hadn’t heard. “We thought after the Cold War ended Poles would be safe, but now we worry about their being in the European Union. I admit they did good this first year, but their standards aren’t easy, either.”
“So when I prayed you could manage, there was no need?”
Ted raised his thick brows. “Poles need hard money like a gorilla behind them.”
That wad of cash sat in some safe-deposit box well over ten years while he’d struggled? Why, he could have established his business while the boys were still kids and paid Ted interest on the loan. How could they have watched him writhe like that?
Stella said, "If you don't come with us, we’ll hire somebody. And you know how strangers cheat old people.”
“Matka Boska,” Joe threw up a quick prayer to the Mother of God. Did they expect him to dispose of cash he needed to avoid foreclosure? He had to get away fast or his mouth would get ahead of his brain. He said, “Don't plan on me. Get Fred.”
"We'll pay for everything. Here,” Ted pulled hundred dollar bills out of a shoe-box. “Set up an account. Here’s five thousand and there’s more where that came from. We’re not stingy; we want to spread this around. We thought you’d be excited."
Excited wasn’t the word that came to his mind. Confused, distressed, resentful—yes. He’d done for them out of love, but to realize they’d had wads of cash and ignored his need? He felt foolish, stung, used. He could barely swallow.
He shook his head, "Just where was this wad when the bank refused to back me?”
“If things didn’t go good, we wouldn’t want you avoiding us.” Ted said, “Besides, we don’t loan family money since your folks got stuck for your Uncle Joe’s debts.”
Uncle Joe had been out of their lives since the depression when he’d abandoned his failed repair shop and run off. His mother had named him after her brother, but nobody even mentioned Uncle Joe anymore. Referring to him now was crazy.
Ted continued. “Look, my people took the food out of their mouths to ship me to America. Our Teddy’s buried there--.”
Stella broke in, “You’re educated and you have all that’s American behind you.”
“We’ve done all we could to help you, except money. We promised God we’d use our dollars in the old country and that’s what we’re doin’.” When Ted spoke in that tone the conversation was usually over.
But Stella added, “Poles will be the peasants of the world again if we don’t stand by them. They shouldn’t have to produce as cheap as China, they deserve to live decent—replacing one form of slavery with another isn’t right. They need our help, Joe, they do."
He felt like yelling, “I need your help. I need you too,” but pride restrained him. Instead he headed out without a good-bye.
Ted followed to shove his box of dollars in the back seat of the Lincoln. If he had been a drinker he’d have gone to a bar, but he was a homebody so he drove on home.
On Saturday, April 9, 2005, WJR Detroit announced Pope John Paul’s death. Joe thanked God for ending his hero’s suffering as he put aside the table he’d just sanded and he headed toward St. Florian’s Church, where his godparents prayed for the Pope’s peaceful release from his failing body. He’d share their sorrow, as he’d shared most of the joys and disasters of his life.
As he neared the church he saw people streaming out of their houses, stricken, not able to bear this loss alone. Many headed toward the church. Some carried bouquets of red and white flowers. Their progress slowed as they stopped to console their neighbors.
Inside St. Florian’s, Hamtramck’s huge working-man’s church, faithful hunched over their rosaries. Stars sparkled down from the bright blue ceiling, serving as a medium between this life and the next. Priests walked from one group to another, stopping for a whispered word here, a pat on the shoulder there.
Uncle Ted and Aunt Stella knelt in their favorite pew. Joe slid in beside Stella, whose aging hand squeezed his. “Joey, thank God for taking our brave lion peaceful.”
He prayed beside them, forsaking rote prayer, he pictured the dove like Holy Ghost descending to pick up John Paul’s soul in the form of a leaf and soaring toward heaven. When he sensed from their movements his godparents were ready to leave, he genuflected and walked them past other mourners and their Muslim neighbors who had come outside their homes to console them.
He drove to the alley behind Ted’s house and as they walked by Ted slapped the palm of his hand on the garage where Joe’s workshop used to reside. “Why you left here to spend money on that space you can’t use good without your boys, I don’t know.”
“Brad and Andrew will be home this summer and they’ll need space to work. I’m paying the bill and that’s penance enough. Let it go, Ted.”
Stella clutched her sweater tight as the cold April wind whipped her hair around her face. “Stop that, you two. Tonight is about John Paul. He’s earned his peace.”
Ted slapped Joe’s back, “Come on in. She who must be obeyed has spoken.” His white head was right behind Stella’s as they entered their spotless kitchen.
Joe bounded up their steps and pealed off his down jacket. His sense of peace increased every time he walked into their home, decorated with twenty-two religious objects, all lovingly venerated. The smell of cabbage wafted towards him and he pulled out a vinyl covered chair in their forty’s-style kitchen. “Will you two be alright?”
“The Pope earned his rest but I feel like the world’s less safe without him.” Stella filled a pan with of ravioli-like golombki and mashed potatoes. “I’ll warm this up and we’ll share a bite in his name.”
"The Pope suffering so bad and then dying peaceful got me thinkin’.” Ted nodded his bald head as he spoke. “God doesn’t make it easy, even for his friends. If I want to see my Lord I got to do what he expected of me. I didn’t bring peace when we went home in ’93 and John Paul said I could do it. He saw things. Besides, Babcia’s over a hundred. I got no excuse, it’s decided. We’ll fly to Poland, see my mother and pass out our savings.”
Stella added, “And Joe, we want you along to see your father’s home and meet your grandmother. Babcia deserves to meet one of Victor’s sons before she dies.” Stella must have noted the look of disbelief on his face, “The Pope expects us to do this, you know that. You heard him.”
Did he know? The Pope visited Hamtramck September 19, 1987. Joe had called around to see if he and Ted could help out anywhere. He was told, ever so gently, it was harder to turn help down then to get it.
He’d said, “Well, my uncle and I live within walking distance, I know CPR, and there will be folks out there who don’t belong in a crowd, so if you think of an unglamorous spot you need somebody, give me a call.”
The next day an organizer asked, could they go to the shuttle area near the railroad tracks and be available when people loaded up to return to their parked cars? Some folks might need help if they’d stood too long and the fervor of the faithful might outdo all expectations, they’d said.
And they were right. Poles came from all over to Hamtramck because there he was sure to say a few words in their native tongue. Joe and Ted set out buckets of water bottles and joined in the songs. Roving musicians performed for the crowd. He watched as a man offered a performer a tip the man refused. It seemed to Joe that everybody wanted to give to everybody else at this once in a lifetime event.
All morning Aunt Stella, Joe’s mother, his sister-in-law’s and Kate made dough- nut-middles and Uncle Ted, Joe, his brothers and the children old enough to hold a basket handed them out to people who’d arrived early. A couple who’d spent their honeymoon in a sleeping bag under a street light nearby asked Stella if they could use her toilet. She ushered them inside and fed them a full breakfast. Many had shown up the day before with chairs, sleeping bags and children. They carried bread and kielbasa with them and ate politely, cleaning up and apologizing if they bumped anyone as they used Hamtramck’s receptacles.
Along Jos Campau Ave, 50,000 people made the air reverberate with laughter, songs and greetings. Having a relative living in Hamtramck was a badge of honor and even people who weren’t, were proud to be Polish.
Then finally, the crowd reverently called out, “Juznad jezdza, (He’s coming),” just as they must have in Jerusalem when Jesus passed by.
The faithful watched in thrilled reverence as the Pope-mobile approached. Joe perched a twin on each shoulder and when Sarah hollered, “I can’t see God, I can’t see God,” Ted scooped her up and held her in front of him. Joe couldn’t see much, but the electrical current of the crowd buoyed him up as bodies pressed around him in waves.
John Paul blessed his roaring fans all the way to Farmer Jack’s Market and into the parking lot, where he spoke to the crowd.
They weren’t near enough to hear John Paul’s voice, but word came back he’d said, “People who work, each is a human being, not a mere instrument of production.” The crowd murmured their acknowledgement and Joe saw tears rise in Ted’s eyes.
John Paul said, “Immigrants found here in Detroit, a great hospitality.” The ensuing roar might have knocked them over, if they hadn’t been so tightly packed.
While John Paul blessed the crowd, and before the motorcade got word there was a bomb threat, Ted and Joe handed the children to the women and headed toward the shuttle to be in place when people began to board. Almost there, they overtook a woman struggling on legs so swollen she could hardly place her feet. Ted got on one side and Joe on the other to ease her load. She’d instructed her family to look for her near the shuttle so they eased her onto a bench, where Ted joined her, winded. Seven people were there already, talking with the bus driver as Joe fetched water. He’d bent over to help the woman drink when suddenly one of the women speaking to the driver cried out, “It’s him, Matka Boska. Look, he’s here!”
A police car led the Pope-mobile away from the crowd, out and around, because of a bomb threat. They had spotted him and stood transfixed when his Pope-mobil slowed to cross the tracks and John Paul saw them waiting there.
The woman peeked from behind her fingers. “After all I’ve survived, and now, this joy I can die happy,” she said.
The Pope touched his driver’s arm and they stopped just before the tracks. An arm waved, John Paul needed something. Joe sprinted to his side.
John Paul leaned forward, “Who are you? What are you all doing here?”
“Holy Father, I’m Joe Winowski, a volunteer. I’m helping a woman whose legs have swollen from standing too long. I teach accounting and I’m a carpenter on the side.” He babbled, not sure what kind of answer was expected.
“Our Lord was good to widows. He was a carpenter and a teacher too. You follow His example, my son.”
“I call on Him when the young resist reason. I work in His name, Holy Father.”
“Yes, yes, our young are our hope. Example speaks to them. I pray for you to keep heart, it is not an easy thing but it is precious to Our Lord.”
Joe blessed himself then turned to indicate the solidly built man with the wide open face who now stood directly behind him, “Let me present Tadeusz Winowski, a man who resembles you so closely he could pose as you when your arm tires.” He backed up and left a startled Ted to face his Pope.
John Paul’s hand shook as he bent down to look Ted over closely. ”Yes, yes I see the possibility. What languages do you speak?”
Ted recovered himself enough to answer, “I speak Polish, Russian, German and English, Holy Father. If you need me, I stand ready.”
“Oh, Beloved Brother, I bless you, and I pray for your continued good health but you must not tempt me, for even a Pope tires.” John Paul’s laugh rumbled through the air and the lines of fatigue lifted from his face.
The lead police car had doubled back, but the Pope didn’t look away. “Where do you come from?” he asked Ted.
Ted described the farm near Tarnow where his mother and extended family live.
“Farm life is hard, but it allows man his dignity. Have you returned home?”
Ted said, “In ‘46 my wife and I returned to rebuild our burnt out farm house. Our six year old son died of typhus. In my grief I tried to rally opposition to Communism and caused trouble for my family. My wife and I fled into Austria as enforcers came for us. I can only send dollars till now, but I pray each day I’ll live to return.”
“Do not despair. Communist resolve will break, Our Lord wills it. Jesus intends you to reunite with your family and bring peace to their hearts. I see it. Pray each day and your time will come. Never lose heart. Through us He accomplishes all things.” Then he turned to the woman and the others and lifted his hand. The Papal ring flashed as he blessed all those who stood nearby.
They responded by making a Sign of the Cross simultaneously.
Then the Pope signaled his driver to go on.
The witnesses to that special moment laughed and cried and gave each other a group hug as the rest of the crowd descended upon them.
The woman on the bench said she felt better already. “If my legs burst like overcooked sausage, seeing the Pope so close and being blessed by him, makes the sorrows of my life less hard.”
Afterwards, whenever Ted told the story of what happened after the police received a bomb threat he added, “If Karol Wojtyla achieves sainthood, you can know he earned it. All that running around for our Risen Christ, that’s not easy.”
###
Ted had continued in good health, while John Paul visibly deteriorated—and now John Paul was dead, Ted was quoting him and telling Joe not only was he going to Poland, but somehow, the poor-old-dead-pope expected it of him. Joe turned his hands back and forth beneath the table, not sure how to react.
Ted added, “And don’t worry, we’ll pay everything; you don’t need a dime.”
“But you two went over in ’93 to settle things. What do you have to fix now?”
“We thought we'd never return after that, that’s right. “ Ted rushed on. “Everybody was getting old and crabby and we left them all upset. We couldn’t pass out all our dollars and we didn’t leave peaceful, so we want to go back and do it right while we’re both still able."
"We should all be dead by now,” Stella’s jaw was set, Joe saw she was determined, “but if John Paul kept going, sick as he was, we’ll find the strength to go back to that farm and set things right.”
“The Apostles slept in the garden because Jesus said he was leaving and they were scared, they didn’t know what would happen to them.” Ted’s eyes shone, “But Jesus couldn’t make it easy or they’d go running around like big shots. We have to suffer to follow Jesus and I forgot that. I thought because John Paul told me I should go it would be easy. I forgot God depends on our doing his will; he doesn’t wave a magic wand. Our love for Him helps us use all we got to make it happen, but He doesn’t make it easy.”
Stella said, “We thought if we went home it would just happen and when things didn’t go right we came home upset, like he’d let us down.”
“But when I saw that last picture of John Paul at his window, when he hit his head, I understood Jesus wants us banging our heads before we can do what He asked because it isn’t big shot me that gets things done, it’s Him, working through me. I’m our Lords servant, not some Enron blow-hard.”
Stella said, “We didn’t understand God’s Word so when we went in ’93 we made things worse. We have to give more of ourselves to make His plan move right.”
“I have to do the best I can, with the help of God. I can’t die peaceful till I do."
“But you know teachers don’t take off mid-semester and I’ve got carpentry jobs, three kids in college and Annie graduating. I’m out of the equation. Besides, Stella’s had pneumonia. What are you thinking, dragging her around a farm while it’s still cold?”
“You want me to put my money in a box and mail it? That’s not what John Paul said to me. I’m goin’ no matter what you say.”
“You two can’t go sprinkling dollars around Eastern Europe. That’s ridiculous.”
“Then we’ll wait till your classes are out for summer. It’ll be warmer then and the boys can work your shop, but we’re goin’ and we need you. I sat here, fat and free while my brother, Laszek, he suffered through war and Communism. He was beaten for my foolishness and he cared for Babcia. I have to go and we need you with us, Joe. We need you..”
Stella said, “We promised John Paul if he’ll look out for us, we’ll do our best.”
“What the--the Pope just died and you two are talking to him like he’s a saint?”
“John Paul did his best for Jesus. He’s in ‘The Communion of Saints,’ automatic. Priests don’t have to tell us. Besides, those guys say more then their prayers.” Ted said.
“And we need help if we’re going to do good, as old as we are.”
“Look, John Paul got grudge holders all over the world together.” Ted nodded his head as he spoke. “He’s the best there is, so we turn to him. I send fifty dollars a month home now and more when taxes are due, a litter of pigs die, or a niece of mine marries.”
Joe tried to cut off Ted’s recital. “And you never owned a car and you only drink one six-pack a week because you get the seventh at my house on Sunday. I know that.”
“I’m doing my best, but I can’t handle my brother alone. Laszek’s life didn’t go like it should and John Paul wants me to change things. Please, stand beside me, Joe.”
This is getting crazier by the minute, he thought.
Ted’s square jaw set. "Poland needs hard cash and it’s not just our folks. Laszek says they can hardly pay for seed, let alone buy another farm. We can help them.”
Joe’s accountant’s mind tallied Ted and Stella’s social security and retirement. If they emptied their pockets now, their care would fall on him and he couldn’t step in if their funds ran dry, not in the financial shape he was in, he couldn’t.
“But didn’t you tell me they’re sitting on rutted roads only two hours drive from Russia? Even if you doubled their 36 hectors, they couldn’t compete in today’s world. You’d deplete your savings only to prolong their suffering.”
"I’m not Scrooge McDuck openin’ his vault here," Ted banged the table and plates jumped. “but our farmers need something between them and disaster.”
“So, If we give to them and invest the rest in Polish firms they’ll have something when we’re gone,” Aunt Stella said. “You’re a teacher, you understand business."
Joe felt sick He had enough worries, why were they dumping this on him?
Ted threw his hands open, "We'll help Poland too. So, what do you think?"
“I think your heart is bigger then your wallet. How much cash are we talking?"
Ted looked away. "Well, our house is paid, we have Medicare and extra insurance, so if we keep fifty thousand, we could invest say, seven-hundred-thousand."
"Zloty or dollars? You can’t mean seven-hundred-thousand dollars?” Joe’s chair nearly flew out from under him. He grasped at the table. “Let me see your figures."
Stella unlocked a drawer, removed a ledger and opened it in front of Joe.
He pushed aside dishes to scan impossibly high numbers. How was he going to tell them they’d made a gigantic error and compounded it over the years?
Then Ted reached over and turned back to cash out prices he’d gotten in 1993. Joe jerked back when he saw the value of stocks in Chrysler, General Motors and Ford, listed in Ted’s neat hand. The force of his reaction almost knocked him to the floor.
"Cholera, when did you two buy these?"
"In the thirties one of the file clerk supervisors at Chrysler hired me."
He knew how Stella was hired. How much history would they march him through to get a straight answer? His throat tightened as he studied Ted. People smiled when they saw Ted’s resemblance to John Paul, but besides his angelic looks, Joe knew that John Paul’s sharp intelligence was Ted’s too, though Ted’s could be more cagy then sacred, Joe thought. The question was, what else hadn’t he said?
“Stella, you tell him how we earned it. You talk better than me.”
Her hazel eyes got enormous. "I waited outside the Chrysler Building for the rain to stop and a junior executive told his girl that the banks could fail, but the Big Three auto-makers--they were the future. He was investing every extra penny he got in stock."
Ted said. "Pretty girls were sent upstairs to deliver files. Next time Stella went she asked an executive how we could buy stock. He might have been pulling a joke, sending us to his broker, but he made an appointment for us.”
“Mr. Donovan was on Grand River. He was a real gentleman. We both took a day off work and rode the trolley downtown.” Stella patted Ted’s hand as she spoke.
Ted nodded at the memory. “He smiled when he met us, a file clerk and her Polak husband, all dressed up to invest our pennies, but he treated us right,”
“He told us we should buy stock in more then one company, than he said to send him a money order twice a year, regular.”
“We only missed in ‘47 the year our Teddy died. The water was polluted and Teddy and Pa---nobody should have to live—or die like that, nobody---.”
Stella’s voice called him back, “We were all dressed up, so we went to Hudson’s Tearoom for lunch, remember that, Ted? It had chandeliers and linen table cloths.”
Ted cleared his throat, reminding her to get back on track.
She said, “We paid everything and invested too. Sometimes we nearly didn’t make it, but helping our family through rough times made losing Teddy more bearable. He taught his cousins to care for the seeds he carried sewn in his clothing for their garden while we worked repairing the house. He ended his life helping them, so we will too.”
“Once I sold the pocket watch Stella gave me for our wedding. It took years to buy it back, but we didn’t want the broker forgetting us. We did our part and he did his.”
Curious but agitated, Joe got out of his chair behind the table and paced the room.
“Our war bonds rebuilt the farm. I signed them before we left here and your pa cashed them and sent me dollars—after the war American dollars were king, you know.”
Joe’s head spun, these were people whose errands he’d run and bulbs he’d changed. He’s jumped when they called, even as he’d juggled two jobs, four children and Kate and now they were telling him they’d used his precious time to conserve pennies while they hid this wealth?
Their picture of The Sacred Heart of Jesus Crowned with Thorns hung above the table. As a child he’d looked at Jesus sorrowful eyes, tiny droplets of blood dripping down his forehead, and he’d always decided against a convenient lie in His presence. He’d come clean and Stella had said, “You’re a good boy. I knew my Joey wouldn’t add to Our Good Lord’s suffering.”
But they’d lied to him through omission. While he’d put them above himself, they’d held back. He walked in circles. Kate had wanted to move to the suburbs, creating more distance, but he figured she lacked the love that motivated the Winowski clan. How could he ever admit this to her?
Ted’s voice brought him back. “Donovan said, ’When you sell your stock, sell slow, or taxes will eat you.’ We didn’t want to talk foolish and then be shamed.”
“But stocks grew faster than taxes by the time we cashed out to help them.”
“But just as I opened my mouth to tell Laszek I had money for him, he said bad girls had set their sights on his grandsons. He told them there wouldn’t be more dollars from the U S, so the girls left town. He said, ‘Your help worked perfect. More would bring disaster to us.’” Ted shrugged, “So we’ve dished it out in dribbles, but what if we die or get goofy? Everything we sacrificed for would be lost. You see that don’t you?”
Stella had been watching Joe as Ted spoke. She added, “And now they must learn how Capitalism works too. Should we leave them to swindlers as others have? If we buy stock in Polish companies our relatives will see how money can work for them. Then maybe life won’t get so desperate."
“So, you built this up since before I was born?”
They exchanged self-conscious looks. Then it struck him. He’d bought the workshop just as the boys scholarships came through. Then the banks turned down his loan applications so he didn’t have the resources to pay his mortgage and hire men he’d have to insure privately. Ted was the first to realize Pateck wouldn’t have given him the space free, Joe had admitted he paid, but not that he owned the space. Anyway, they knew he’d been desperate—Ted rubbed it in every time he walked by the old workshop’s home in their garage. They knew, they had it, and they hadn’t loaned him the money. His blood roared in his ears as Ted sped up his story, as if talking faster made his omission acceptable.
“After the war soldiers staggering towards home died beside our stream. Typhoid spread. Stella’s hair fell out and rose colored spots covered our Teddy. I bathed him and spooned boiled water down his throat, but I knew, I knew we’d lost our boy.”
“I wanted more babies, but the doctor here said I’d been too sick, so helping them live through Communism made us feel Teddy didn’t die for nothing.”
They’d come home childless in 1949 and he’d been born the next year He knew his mother had put him in Stella’s arms every time she walked in the door and Pa had encouraged him to stay by Ted’s side. Joe knew this, but put together as it was now, it unnerved him.
Joe’s mind blurred. "But you’ve let me worry about you."
Ted went on as if he hadn’t heard. “We thought after the Cold War ended Poles would be safe, but now we worry about their being in the European Union. I admit they did good this first year, but their standards aren’t easy, either.”
“So when I prayed you could manage, there was no need?”
Ted raised his thick brows. “Poles need hard money like a gorilla behind them.”
That wad of cash sat in some safe-deposit box well over ten years while he’d struggled? Why, he could have established his business while the boys were still kids and paid Ted interest on the loan. How could they have watched him writhe like that?
Stella said, "If you don't come with us, we’ll hire somebody. And you know how strangers cheat old people.”
“Matka Boska,” Joe threw up a quick prayer to the Mother of God. Did they expect him to dispose of cash he needed to avoid foreclosure? He had to get away fast or his mouth would get ahead of his brain. He said, “Don't plan on me. Get Fred.”
"We'll pay for everything. Here,” Ted pulled hundred dollar bills out of a shoe-box. “Set up an account. Here’s five thousand and there’s more where that came from. We’re not stingy; we want to spread this around. We thought you’d be excited."
Excited wasn’t the word that came to his mind. Confused, distressed, resentful—yes. He’d done for them out of love, but to realize they’d had wads of cash and ignored his need? He felt foolish, stung, used. He could barely swallow.
He shook his head, "Just where was this wad when the bank refused to back me?”
“If things didn’t go good, we wouldn’t want you avoiding us.” Ted said, “Besides, we don’t loan family money since your folks got stuck for your Uncle Joe’s debts.”
Uncle Joe had been out of their lives since the depression when he’d abandoned his failed repair shop and run off. His mother had named him after her brother, but nobody even mentioned Uncle Joe anymore. Referring to him now was crazy.
Ted continued. “Look, my people took the food out of their mouths to ship me to America. Our Teddy’s buried there--.”
Stella broke in, “You’re educated and you have all that’s American behind you.”
“We’ve done all we could to help you, except money. We promised God we’d use our dollars in the old country and that’s what we’re doin’.” When Ted spoke in that tone the conversation was usually over.
But Stella added, “Poles will be the peasants of the world again if we don’t stand by them. They shouldn’t have to produce as cheap as China, they deserve to live decent—replacing one form of slavery with another isn’t right. They need our help, Joe, they do."
He felt like yelling, “I need your help. I need you too,” but pride restrained him. Instead he headed out without a good-bye.
Ted followed to shove his box of dollars in the back seat of the Lincoln. If he had been a drinker he’d have gone to a bar, but he was a homebody so he drove on home.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
An open letter on a teaching life
As a retired teacher (grades 2 through high school English for soldiers in DoDDS Germany) and the mother of 5,the book Nurture Shock compelled me. I laughed aloud at some of the research. I might have written several of them, others startled me with their unexpected twists.
I know we unintentionally motivate kids to lie. While teaching 7th grades I realized DoDDS wasn’t failing any junior high students so I initiated a policy of retesting. If a child failed a test on vocabulary or an essay I sent it home with a note asking the parents to review and retest their child. Kids stopped failing but I did catch one child cheating. I quietly put an x on the bottom of his page so he knew I knew. After class he said, “I just wanted Mom to be proud of me.” Ah yes.
I asked a quiet boy to throw his gum away. He insisted he didn’t have any. The next student found fresh gum shoved inside his text book. I’d embarrassed him and he did the first thing that came to mind. I had to cut a hole in 3 pages to get it out. I asked Mom to talk to him about how to better handle embarrassing moments.
My own children told a few whoppers to gain privacy. Their dad, a guidance counselor, and I both worked at their high school. I learned to reward the truth and encourage the feeling that a lie was an unfortunate choice they could deal with better.
I am somewhat dyslexic myself. I reverse words, (saying Jefferson when I mean Hamilton.) I’m sometimes astounded when a listener quotes me. I understand how children embarrass themselves and struggle to learn. I was a better teacher for it—but it was never easy. Teaching demanded my undivided attention. It was both tiring, and creative. I can’t think of another job I could have had I would be more proud of today.
My husband and I arrived in Germany single in 1961 and married in 1962. During summers and vacations we drove wherever we could get in Western Europe. We were in Berlin when Am. tanks faced Russian tanks. Being in Germany when the Wall went up and when the Wall came down gave us and our kids an enlarged perspective. We made friends of our German neighbors and we continue those attachments today.
Bob is Polish-American so we drove to the family farm in Poland from 1972 on. Our 5 children grew up interested in the world around them because our travels were risky enough that they didn’t dare tune out. We looked out for each other. We had very little money, but we were American and that meant a lot. In Czechoslovakia a machine gun carrying guard walked off his post to give us directions. In other countries people stepped forward to make sure we were safe and that we saw their most compelling sites.
In 1991, after the Wall came down, 4 of Bob’s Polish cousins asked if they could visit us to learn about the West. For 2 years they were in and out of our 3 bedroom apartment—sleeping on my son’s top bunk and in a bedroom they made from a closet. Bob got them work and collected their pay so there wouldn’t be any misunderstandings.
Many nights our friends came to talk to them about how they could grow the dollars they’d earned back home. It was exciting, constructive and heady stuff. By the time DoDDS offered us each buy outs, the Poles had bought (for $5.00 each) 22 washers, dryers, stoves and refrigerators from Army excess. Soon they were importing used cars. Teaching children of our military spoke to our idealism, and helping the Polish relatives learn about Capitalism was exciting and fulfilling. Talk about being grateful to be American—I can’t tell you how grateful we are.
When Bob, our 2 youngest boys (born in our 40’s), and I, retired to Arizona in 1994 Bob was able to golf most days and I resumed writing. I’d written a novel in 1972 and taken it to the Bread Loaf Writers Conference where I had lunch with Isaac Asimov and was mentored by William Lederer. When I sent that novel to an agent he loved the chapters Lederer had critiqued, then he said, it fell apart. What I heard was Lederer was a good writer, I wasn’t. Besides, I realized I couldn’t keep my children safe and write too, I just couldn’t. I knew I could be a good parent but being a good writer was more iffy. I put aside long projects and limited myself to short stories and letters.
Since retirement I’ve completed a novel about an American family going into Poland that I paid a professional $1,500. to critique. He made a few squiggles and proclaimed it wonderful. I took it to a writer’s conference and was told the beginning was so stiff he hoped I hadn’t spent much time on it. I’d spent 8 years on that book. Of course, I’d overworked the beginning, but why hadn’t the critic for hire said that? First, I started over from scratch. When I called to protest he said he hadn’t noticed.
Now I’m writing about our years with the American Forces in Europe during the Cold War. It’s a bit odd because (for classes) I must write in 10 page increments, but I’ve laced the stories together and put several on my blog--wurzburggermany.blogspot.com.
My sister sent me a quote I carry in my wallet from an African farm woman. It says, “My strength is exhausted; only my wisdom remains.” I’ve never perceived myself as overly smart but I do feel wise.
Occasionally I’m moved to share my wisdom and I’m as startled as my audience. A 17 year old turned in a well written story about a miserable marriage. One by one the class pronounced her insightful and right on. I was the last to comment.
I said it was a well written piece but that I was astounded that a room full of free Americans would have such a low opinion of family relationships, marriage in particular.
The man in the story didn’t have a good thing to say about his mistress, his wife or his teen age children, not one. I asked how they thought a free person who had chosen his mate and knew about birth control could look at his family with hatred and disgust without even a memory of when they were the light of his life.
I understand a 17 year old not perceiving the benefits of a long-term relationship but there were older people in that class. I asked if they’d forgotten the knee bending love they felt for a new born child and their gratitude towards their partner for that precious child. I said the fun, trials, accomplishments and memories shared over time were treasures beyond compare and I thought they should start talking to their elders again. The sexual revolution seems to have stunted inter-generational conversation and to me, that’s a big loss—especially in hard times when our young need the encouragement elders are primed to give. Did we become so embarrassed by their promiscuity we relinquished our role in their lives? If so, I said, it was time to get past that.
Our class had a rousing discussion, the best the instructor said he’s monitored all year. The students seemed thrilled to have somebody scold them in the name of love and I was delighted to discover that my own marriage, 47 years old, left me compelled to speak up in its defense.
I feel strongly that my husband and I have contributed to the good of the world both through our work, our help for Bob’s cousins and the children we raised. We’re both well enough to travel and enjoy each day. Writing is great fun and Bob took over cooking once he retired. We never made a lot of money and sending 4 of our 5 through college was a real accomplishment for us. We don’t have money to throw away, but I have a group I meet at a near-by bakery daily and we keep each other going while Bob plays golf and mentors a young business man.
Our bachelor son, called to say his job was exhausting. I said, “Buddy, at your age I had 5 children and I taught full time. I took an hour after school to visit one of my German friends and share a good stiff coffee and a piece of cake. Then I made supper, got you all to do your homework and corrected papers. Listen to me, go have coffee and cake. You can do whatever you need to do, you simply have to decide what gets done well and what gets a lick and a promise. If you’d throw in a prayer once in awhile it wouldn’t hurt either.”
I was being funny, but really I wasn’t. When I think about it, it’s hard to believe I did all I know I did. My youth, my faith and my belief that we, as Americans, have so much to be grateful for we’re obligated to look out for others. So how could I not push myself?
I’ve reevaluated how we’ve spent our lives. Right now I’m busy writing letters on behalf of health care because we can’t just vote a man into office and think he can carry on. We must keep our wind under his sails. This is an exciting world we live in and the older I get the more I want to participate. Isn’t it odd what we learn when we set out to teach?
Carol O’Donnell-Knych
I know we unintentionally motivate kids to lie. While teaching 7th grades I realized DoDDS wasn’t failing any junior high students so I initiated a policy of retesting. If a child failed a test on vocabulary or an essay I sent it home with a note asking the parents to review and retest their child. Kids stopped failing but I did catch one child cheating. I quietly put an x on the bottom of his page so he knew I knew. After class he said, “I just wanted Mom to be proud of me.” Ah yes.
I asked a quiet boy to throw his gum away. He insisted he didn’t have any. The next student found fresh gum shoved inside his text book. I’d embarrassed him and he did the first thing that came to mind. I had to cut a hole in 3 pages to get it out. I asked Mom to talk to him about how to better handle embarrassing moments.
My own children told a few whoppers to gain privacy. Their dad, a guidance counselor, and I both worked at their high school. I learned to reward the truth and encourage the feeling that a lie was an unfortunate choice they could deal with better.
I am somewhat dyslexic myself. I reverse words, (saying Jefferson when I mean Hamilton.) I’m sometimes astounded when a listener quotes me. I understand how children embarrass themselves and struggle to learn. I was a better teacher for it—but it was never easy. Teaching demanded my undivided attention. It was both tiring, and creative. I can’t think of another job I could have had I would be more proud of today.
My husband and I arrived in Germany single in 1961 and married in 1962. During summers and vacations we drove wherever we could get in Western Europe. We were in Berlin when Am. tanks faced Russian tanks. Being in Germany when the Wall went up and when the Wall came down gave us and our kids an enlarged perspective. We made friends of our German neighbors and we continue those attachments today.
Bob is Polish-American so we drove to the family farm in Poland from 1972 on. Our 5 children grew up interested in the world around them because our travels were risky enough that they didn’t dare tune out. We looked out for each other. We had very little money, but we were American and that meant a lot. In Czechoslovakia a machine gun carrying guard walked off his post to give us directions. In other countries people stepped forward to make sure we were safe and that we saw their most compelling sites.
In 1991, after the Wall came down, 4 of Bob’s Polish cousins asked if they could visit us to learn about the West. For 2 years they were in and out of our 3 bedroom apartment—sleeping on my son’s top bunk and in a bedroom they made from a closet. Bob got them work and collected their pay so there wouldn’t be any misunderstandings.
Many nights our friends came to talk to them about how they could grow the dollars they’d earned back home. It was exciting, constructive and heady stuff. By the time DoDDS offered us each buy outs, the Poles had bought (for $5.00 each) 22 washers, dryers, stoves and refrigerators from Army excess. Soon they were importing used cars. Teaching children of our military spoke to our idealism, and helping the Polish relatives learn about Capitalism was exciting and fulfilling. Talk about being grateful to be American—I can’t tell you how grateful we are.
When Bob, our 2 youngest boys (born in our 40’s), and I, retired to Arizona in 1994 Bob was able to golf most days and I resumed writing. I’d written a novel in 1972 and taken it to the Bread Loaf Writers Conference where I had lunch with Isaac Asimov and was mentored by William Lederer. When I sent that novel to an agent he loved the chapters Lederer had critiqued, then he said, it fell apart. What I heard was Lederer was a good writer, I wasn’t. Besides, I realized I couldn’t keep my children safe and write too, I just couldn’t. I knew I could be a good parent but being a good writer was more iffy. I put aside long projects and limited myself to short stories and letters.
Since retirement I’ve completed a novel about an American family going into Poland that I paid a professional $1,500. to critique. He made a few squiggles and proclaimed it wonderful. I took it to a writer’s conference and was told the beginning was so stiff he hoped I hadn’t spent much time on it. I’d spent 8 years on that book. Of course, I’d overworked the beginning, but why hadn’t the critic for hire said that? First, I started over from scratch. When I called to protest he said he hadn’t noticed.
Now I’m writing about our years with the American Forces in Europe during the Cold War. It’s a bit odd because (for classes) I must write in 10 page increments, but I’ve laced the stories together and put several on my blog--wurzburggermany.blogspot.com.
My sister sent me a quote I carry in my wallet from an African farm woman. It says, “My strength is exhausted; only my wisdom remains.” I’ve never perceived myself as overly smart but I do feel wise.
Occasionally I’m moved to share my wisdom and I’m as startled as my audience. A 17 year old turned in a well written story about a miserable marriage. One by one the class pronounced her insightful and right on. I was the last to comment.
I said it was a well written piece but that I was astounded that a room full of free Americans would have such a low opinion of family relationships, marriage in particular.
The man in the story didn’t have a good thing to say about his mistress, his wife or his teen age children, not one. I asked how they thought a free person who had chosen his mate and knew about birth control could look at his family with hatred and disgust without even a memory of when they were the light of his life.
I understand a 17 year old not perceiving the benefits of a long-term relationship but there were older people in that class. I asked if they’d forgotten the knee bending love they felt for a new born child and their gratitude towards their partner for that precious child. I said the fun, trials, accomplishments and memories shared over time were treasures beyond compare and I thought they should start talking to their elders again. The sexual revolution seems to have stunted inter-generational conversation and to me, that’s a big loss—especially in hard times when our young need the encouragement elders are primed to give. Did we become so embarrassed by their promiscuity we relinquished our role in their lives? If so, I said, it was time to get past that.
Our class had a rousing discussion, the best the instructor said he’s monitored all year. The students seemed thrilled to have somebody scold them in the name of love and I was delighted to discover that my own marriage, 47 years old, left me compelled to speak up in its defense.
I feel strongly that my husband and I have contributed to the good of the world both through our work, our help for Bob’s cousins and the children we raised. We’re both well enough to travel and enjoy each day. Writing is great fun and Bob took over cooking once he retired. We never made a lot of money and sending 4 of our 5 through college was a real accomplishment for us. We don’t have money to throw away, but I have a group I meet at a near-by bakery daily and we keep each other going while Bob plays golf and mentors a young business man.
Our bachelor son, called to say his job was exhausting. I said, “Buddy, at your age I had 5 children and I taught full time. I took an hour after school to visit one of my German friends and share a good stiff coffee and a piece of cake. Then I made supper, got you all to do your homework and corrected papers. Listen to me, go have coffee and cake. You can do whatever you need to do, you simply have to decide what gets done well and what gets a lick and a promise. If you’d throw in a prayer once in awhile it wouldn’t hurt either.”
I was being funny, but really I wasn’t. When I think about it, it’s hard to believe I did all I know I did. My youth, my faith and my belief that we, as Americans, have so much to be grateful for we’re obligated to look out for others. So how could I not push myself?
I’ve reevaluated how we’ve spent our lives. Right now I’m busy writing letters on behalf of health care because we can’t just vote a man into office and think he can carry on. We must keep our wind under his sails. This is an exciting world we live in and the older I get the more I want to participate. Isn’t it odd what we learn when we set out to teach?
Carol O’Donnell-Knych
Conferences
CONFERENCES
By Carol O’Donnell-Knych
Parent/teacher conferences can make anybody’s stomach churn. After all, each side of the table is open to criticism from the other, but my teaching life (from second grade on up through high school) couldn’t have been as constructive as it was without the insights gained through my contacts with parents. I know teachers who would rather cut off an arm then confer, but my progression from bumbling beginner to enthusiastic participant left me thinking the struggle to aid the students entrusted to my care was worth sharing.
Teaching dependents of American Military in DoDDS, conferences were often by phone because so many students rode the bus, also I include letters from grandparents received during our Family History Unit. What mattered were the insights I gained as a teacher.
Conferences clarify a child’s situation and help the teacher develop their maturity. Though I put myself on the line for criticism, I believe I was a better teacher for doing so.
Overseas, parent/teacher conferences became increasingly important because military dependents don’t have their extended family nearby to lean on. Families tried to make foreign assignments a learning experience, but there were always those whose situation left them unhappy. We teachers assume kids come to school “ready to learn” but some come with baggage their family heaps upon them and we simply can’t know how complicated their living situation is until we get that telling glimpse.
Military sponsors are expected to attend conferences--rank is no excuse. In civilian schools mothers appear, but among the military, when there’s trouble it reflects on the sponsor’s career. A truly disruptive family can be shipped home. I’ve overheard principals say, “Do you need me to talk to your commanding officer?” No, they never did.
With DoDDS I found myself conferring with dads. In the ‘60’s state side fathers were described as distant, but that wasn’t what I saw. When I asked another teacher how the literature could be so at odds with our experience she said, “These fathers want the teacher to know their child has a man looking out for him. He’s sacrificed so they’ll have a better life and he’ll see to it that nonsense stops fast.” I found that to be true, even if the child declared the teacher as prejudiced, those dads listened and judged for themselves, coming down on the side of learning always.
In my experience, principals think of teaching as a sink or swim endeavor. Most encourage teachers to handle things themselves, but they’re not happy with those of us who venture outside our subject area. 12 year olds feel rebellious; it’s like a call of nature and military families can be very strict. If a child wants to assert himself he/she usually begins being obstinate with a female teacher. They aren’t personally rude; they simply fool around, draw, or don’t do their assignments, even when given time in class. I’m not the best disciplinarian so I designed schemes to keep a lid on the mischief.
I set up a book with a section for each of the 5 classes I taught daily. If a child caused a minor fuss I asked him or her to write down what they’d done and declare they wouldn’t do it again—tripping a friend, swiping a pencil, calling a friend stupid as they grabbed their paper—their confessions had to be well written, and include self- incriminating details. The second infraction earned the same response, but the third earned a call home. I was very clear about the 3 strikes consequences but still, they seldom saw it coming.
When parents came in for their conferences we’d discuss the latest mischief, and their red-blooded American child might snicker. Their infraction sounded silly in the light of day—but when I pulled out the signed apologies, showing they’d had the opportunity to change their wicked ways, suddenly there was a pattern seldom lost on parents. The fact they were taking from class time to perform came across loud and clear and that was enough. Children seldom arrive at a constructive place in life alone and most parents are relieved to share that load once they see we’re all working for their child’s welfare.
Early on I’d received a note from the father of a second grade boy stating Dad had spanked him, soaped his mouth and sent him to bed without dinner because I’d reported he sometimes pushed classmates (thinking they’d speak to him about his behavior in line.) I placed that letter in the child’s permanent record but it was removed because the administration said I didn’t have any business warning the next teacher to tread lightly. Some parents are loving; they simply don’t know how to parent. I found myself resisting the directive to narrow my gaze to “my business.” Of course I spoke to his new teacher but what about those I never met?
Once I reported a student who wrote that she wanted to kill herself, sending that family into counseling. Though I was legally required to report it, Mom demanded a conference with the principal, the counselor and me saying, “That’s a stupid teacher to take my daughter’s creative writing seriously.”
By the time we all had schedules that aligned, they’d determined the girl wasn’t suicidal, but airing her feelings that dad and the boys overwhelmed her and Mom helped the entire family, so Mom gave me a big hug. I can’t tell you how relieved my principal was.
Later, I assigned writing about mischief that got out of hand. I reaped a paper describing several of our kids throwing rocks off a German overpass by a small rough-neck I could imagine performing that deed. I was told privacy issues prevented our disclosing that information. I pointed out that if drivers were injured, the shame would be on us. German police were given a time and place so they could patrol and no incident occurred.
Another time when a student stayed after class to help he told me he’s been “a love child.” His birth parents were too young. His mother married his step-father who kept him and his step-sister when she left. “She couldn’t take me because I eat so much she couldn’t save for a house if she had to feed me. Between my parents there are seven children. Mrs. K, why do people do that to their children?”
I said I was sure his parents loved them all, they just started before they could cope with the pressures of life. I said “I’m sure the younger kids look up to you, so I hope you wait to have children until you can care for them together with the woman you love.”
Two years later I was teaching a small Basic Skills class. That young man’s sister, Erica, attracted the notice of Joey, our “official 7th grade sexual expert.” Our vice-principal knew him and his single father well, he was the go-to guy for any girl wishing to explore her sexuality. He wasn’t forcing anybody, but I wouldn't want him teaching my daughter.
I’d spread out the 12 students in my class so they could concentrate. One day I saw “our expert” behind Erica, rubbing her neck. Startled, I ordered him back to his seat. The next day he was caressing her arm. Indignant, I shooed him away. The 3rd day I tried to empower her to resist him herself.
“Tell him to keep his hands off you Pop him one. He has no right to touch you.”
Erica whispered to me, “Don’t worry, Mrs. K, Joey’s not hurting me. He does that in all my classes. Besides, he makes me feel good.”
I called Erica’s father that night and described the scene to him. “It isn’t my job to explain the facts of life, but I have a daughter and I know how responsible you’ve been. I simply couldn’t let this go on without alerting you. Erica doesn’t see that fellow coming but if you talk to her now maybe she’ll be able to resist till she’s more mature.”
The next day a gaggle of girls gathered around my desk. I winced, thinking they’d tell me to mind my own business. Erica turned to me, “My dad talked to me about boys. He said he wanted me to stay a little girl longer and he cried. He said you were a good lady to call him long distance (I hid our phone bills from my husband.) Thank you, Mrs. K.”
Several girls asked if I’d call their Dad, but I said they should tell them about Erica and their conversation would happen. I considered myself blessed I hadn’t been reprimanded.
I had Joey, our sex expert, again in 8th grade. He got into some disruptive mischief so I sent him to a time out seat in back, tucked behind a bookcase. When I checked he seemed busy. After the classes changed there was a buzz of activity in back.
Jeannie, my best artist told me I’d better come see what Joey had drawn on the wall. Disgusted and busy, I told the class to sit down and ignore it, that I’d look later.
Jeannie offered to copy it for me. When I saw her meticulous copy of his detailed drawing of a 2’ long penis with an original poem naming a student from my last class he’d like to share it with I felt like he’d flung boiling water over my heart. I’d not only have to deal with him, I’d have to call my artist’s mom, plus the girl he’d named, oh boy.
I sent Jeannie to the office with her drawing in a sealed envelope. The vice-principle appeared on the run, armed with a large piece of Manila paper and tape to cover that drawing. She announced Joey’d be coming in to remove it and he was to be ignored.
Of course, those who hadn’t seen it wanted to know what he’d done. I said it was just our expert being mischievous, but I’d have to trust them to not talk about it because he’d used another student’s name and it would be a terrible injustice to humiliate her.
Our expert denied his deed, but when he was told Dad was on his way to view the art work he got a bucket and comet and scrubbed that wall panel clean. When Dad saw the tell-tale space and the vice-principal showed him the drawing he paled.
Now when you hear a very large man muttering, “My good God,” you have to feel for him. He glanced my way before ducking his head and muttering, “Sorry Ma’am.”
Amazingly enough the class kept it quiet, though the student named in the poem did hear her name was used inappropriately. We had a class discussion about the kind of boys who bad-mouth nice girls. She and her mother took it well, but Joey found his circle tightening as his father prepared to send him to live at Grandpa’s for the rest of the school year. By the time he returned he’d filled out enough to play football. He had one girl friend and I never heard another word about predatory behavior linked to him, a testamony to cooperation among the adults in his life and the miracle of maturity.
Not all my conferences involved such graphic displays. Often they concerned attending to the task at hand. When bright kids decided they really didn’t need to learn once they could read and write I’d call home and ask parents to point out that school was their job. I said that learning was like climbing a ladder; it’s easy if you don’t skip rungs, but do and it’s increasingly hard to reach the top. I had upper-grade texts I’d assign to show a bored student that he wasn’t as far ahead of classmates as he thought.
Parents often thanked me and they made sure the child got his assignments done, but some parents needed more help than their child. I called one mother from the Philippines who spoke broken English. She said her son, Sam, knew he was smarter then his step-father, a kind and decent man who’d taken them in after his birth-father abandoned them. She said, “If my husband hits him to get him to work, Sam will call the M P’s and ruin my husband’s career. If he won’t behave we’ll have to leave because my husband is too good to do that to him.” She paused to consider her options. “I’m still bigger then Sam, if I jump and wrestle him to the floor maybe he won’t realize he’s stronger then me.”
Horrified at the thought, I persuaded her to talk to Sam as if he was an adult because his behavior would affect his adult life. I suggested she explain their situation to him, then ask if he thought he was smart enough to support himself, and her, if they left.
The next day Sam asked me for extra credit assignments. “My mother said I’m not a little kid anymore, but we can’t get along without my step-dad. I’m going to study harder and I’ll be nicer to him because he’ll take care of my mother when I’m gone. Thanks for telling her to talk to me like a man, Mrs K. I understand better now.”
Teachers grumble because “I know that parent’s going to stick up for their kid.” But I tell you, it’s a parents God given duty to be there for their child, even if the teacher is mad enough to hang that kid out the window by his thumbs. A parent who doesn’t support their child is somebody no teacher ever wants to meet.
Of the hundreds of parents I dealt with, very few truly shocked me, until I saw a bright boy wad up his instruction sheet and dump it in the garbage as he left. I’d designed projects to teach more advanced skills. One was to write to the oldest person in their family capable of answering. We started early in the year so we could refer back to times their family connected with so they’d see that they were part of our continuing history. They wrote letters stating our goals and each child added something personal about their life in Germany so the letter was more than a request.
I fished Steve’s sheet out of the trash and invited Mom to come in so I could explain the assignment, thinking her son just didn’t get how much fun he’d have. The next day Mom arrived at my door with Steve in tow. The mother was tall, heavy and glowering. He was slim, blond and handsome.
As I turned to unlock my door she said to him, “Go get your assignment sheet.”
“I don’t have it, Mom.”
She slapped his face, not hard enough for me to call the M P’s, but shocking nonetheless.
I lightened my tone, saying many kids needed help to get this assignment started and he was such a good student I’d felt sure she’d want him to do his best. “He left his paper with me yesterday.” I pulled out the sheet with his name on it and proceeded to go over the directions as she emanated hatred and disgust at that child.
Breathless, I said, “If you don’t have anybody you can write, you can tell him a tale you remember from growing up and I’ll accept his written interview.” Anything to save that kid, I thought, anything.
She shook her head and said she’d come from a gruff group of mountain people who didn’t tell many tales except about peddling moonshine. Only she and her “smart mouth” brother had escaped. I said a moonshine story was just what we needed, and the way it turned out, he wrote a witty report on moonshiners backed up by his family tale.
She barked at him to thank me as they left the room. Steve not only thanked me, he did everything I asked of him from then on. We never mentioned my producing that paper.
The school nurse said that unless he showed up obviously battered or asked for aid, we couldn’t remove him from his home, and we might well make life there harder for him. We suspected he reminded Mom of that brother who’d tormented her.
The nurse and I decided that whenever I detected surliness in a parent I should say, “I know it’s hard, I have 5 kids of my own, but we’re both here for your child’s welfare and together we’ll do a good job.” It seemed to me then, and I’m even more sure of it now, that scolding a parent who goes home with that child is never helpful to that child.
Meeting that mother taught me to start with a compliment before reporting mischief because it’s hard to retract annoyance once it’s registered and we never want to trigger abuse. From then on, I started conferences by saying I’d noticed some good attribute and I was trying to reinforce its development because, as we all know, being 12 is hard. Then, if their response sounded positive I went on to discuss the mischief that needed parental attention.
Don, a pale, asthmatic student received a reply from his grandfather with a $10 bill inside. He shared a family story, then said, “I’m so proud you invited a classmate to go on that church picnic with you. I showed your letter to all my friends and they say their grandkids can’t write like that. You must go to a real good school. Their grandkids refuse to go to church at all, so they say just inviting your friend took courage. My faith sustained me when I lost my job the week after I married your grandma and now, when I read that you’re studying and keeping your faith, that makes me a proud Grandpa.
Don’t you think that boy worked harder after that?
In their letters each child asked what the world was like when they were 12 and if any event in history had changed their lives significantly. Whatever event was mentioned in their reply the kids looked up the date in my Chronicle of The 20th Century (daily news items for the last 100 years.) Finally, they gave a 3 minute talk about what they’d learned, pretending their relative was in the hall waiting to speak to the class.
Military dependents come from varied cultures. One letter came from a grandmother raised in Haiti. She’d walked through mud to school and rinsed her feet in a stream before entering. She hand copied a letter written by a Haitian leader removed by Napoleon’s troops. It sounded like the Haitian version of the Gettysburg Address, to me. He declared that the French could do what they wanted to him but they would never crush the drive for freedom from the hearts of the Haitian people.
A brooding classmate said, “I was really mad that Haiti is my dad’s next assignment, but now I hear this I understand they need our help. I won’t feel so bad about being without my dad for awhile.” What more could I ask from any lesson?”
Some grandparents had had terrible troubles, but life had improved and they proclaimed themselves so happy to be in the US their letters were inspirational.
Money accompanied many replies that said, “I have – grandchildren, but you’re the first to ask about me.”
Lucy, from Texas said, “My grandma raised my dad alone by cleaning hotel rooms. Her father said girls don’t need to learn, so she’d quit school. She’s proud my dad’s helping me and my sisters learn. She said she never knew a 12 year old could write like me. I’m trying harder for her. I just feel bad she sent me $10.00, I have more then she does. ”
I said her Dad would take care of Grandma, but those dollars were a sign of respect from one woman to another. I recommended she buy a book and thank Grandma for that.
Meeting Steve’s Mom taught me to start with a compliment before reporting mischief because it’s hard to retract annoyance once it’s registered and we never want to trigger abuse. From then on, I started conferences by saying I’d noticed some good attribute and I was trying to reinforce its development because, as we all know, being 12 is hard. Then, if the reply sounded positive, I got to the mischief that needed parental attention.
I didn’t just call about mischief though. A girl walked in early one day, unzipped her slacks and tried to flap cool air down her pants declaring, “It’s too hot. I’m just so hot I can’t stand it.” It wasn’t that hot. I called Mom and suggested a physical. Obviously hormones were raging, though she had no idea what was going on. Later the nurse informed me the doctor had put her on birth control pills to ease her into puberty.
Growing up is a struggle and many people expect more adult judgment from a 12 year old that they can give. As an end of the year assignment, I offered extra credit for writing Dad a letter thanking him for all he did. Could they write Grandpa, step-fathers, guardians etc.? I said okay—but they could only get extra-credit for 3 tops.
I looked over their length and appearance but didn’t read the wording—those letters were between them and Dad, except Monica’s. She asked me to read hers. Did I think she should send it? She’d told her Dad how much she missed him. She knew he sent support money, but she was beginning to forget what he looked like. Could he send a poster size photo of himself she asked—she wanted to put it on the back of her bedroom door so Mom wouldn’t have to look at it.
I said I thought he’d be thrilled she’d written and sure enough, his photo (less than poster size) arrived with the next check. She showed me, then taped it on her door, as promised.
Last of all, I offered extra credit if a child persuaded a parent to write a recommendation letter for him/her, stating the qualities they could see in their child that they felt would help later on in life. Humorously affirming letters full of love appeared.
Growing kids must move some part of their body every few seconds. That alone makes them annoying. Besides, who can resist letting a jiggling 12 year old know just how disappointing they are? Those children were touched by the letters from their parents. The calming effect those recommendations wrought was remarkable.
One dad said he was tough on his son because he mirrored him so closely he wanted to spare his son some of the growing pains he’d suffered.
His son grinned, “And I just thought he hated me.” We laughed together, but knowing 12 year olds as I do, that wasn’t just a funny line.
Ron told me, “My step-father said he was proud he could be part of my life. I thought he was just nice to me for my mom. I wouldn’t know he loved me if he hadn’t written that.”
Actions don’t always speak louder than words because growing kids are so self-critical they long for the adults in their lives to say aloud their affirmations.
I only remember one parent who refused his child’s request. I called and Dad said, “That kids got to earn it. I’m not writing anything till he does.” I tried to explain part of our mission was to encourage and model the kind of behavior we wanted, but no-go.
So I wrote his letter myself, saying that I saw his son’s truthfulness, his capacity for friendship and his ability to lighten up a serious discussion. Dad graciously called to thank me. He said he hadn’t understood where we were headed.
Many fine teachers claim we should simply shut our doors and teach, but it seems to me that very few of the conferences I benefited from were about learning style; most were about maturity, self-control and cooperation.
It’s amazing to me the struggles I’d have missed and the help I couldn’t have given if I hadn’t bothered to reach out to parents.
Through it all I learned that a child will respond better if he’s spoken to with respect. We may not be teaching morality in public schools, but we are setting an example by being caring and responsive to the needs of children. It seems to me that’s how we raise young people who can control themselves and function as responsible citizens in a free world.
By Carol O’Donnell-Knych
Parent/teacher conferences can make anybody’s stomach churn. After all, each side of the table is open to criticism from the other, but my teaching life (from second grade on up through high school) couldn’t have been as constructive as it was without the insights gained through my contacts with parents. I know teachers who would rather cut off an arm then confer, but my progression from bumbling beginner to enthusiastic participant left me thinking the struggle to aid the students entrusted to my care was worth sharing.
Teaching dependents of American Military in DoDDS, conferences were often by phone because so many students rode the bus, also I include letters from grandparents received during our Family History Unit. What mattered were the insights I gained as a teacher.
Conferences clarify a child’s situation and help the teacher develop their maturity. Though I put myself on the line for criticism, I believe I was a better teacher for doing so.
Overseas, parent/teacher conferences became increasingly important because military dependents don’t have their extended family nearby to lean on. Families tried to make foreign assignments a learning experience, but there were always those whose situation left them unhappy. We teachers assume kids come to school “ready to learn” but some come with baggage their family heaps upon them and we simply can’t know how complicated their living situation is until we get that telling glimpse.
Military sponsors are expected to attend conferences--rank is no excuse. In civilian schools mothers appear, but among the military, when there’s trouble it reflects on the sponsor’s career. A truly disruptive family can be shipped home. I’ve overheard principals say, “Do you need me to talk to your commanding officer?” No, they never did.
With DoDDS I found myself conferring with dads. In the ‘60’s state side fathers were described as distant, but that wasn’t what I saw. When I asked another teacher how the literature could be so at odds with our experience she said, “These fathers want the teacher to know their child has a man looking out for him. He’s sacrificed so they’ll have a better life and he’ll see to it that nonsense stops fast.” I found that to be true, even if the child declared the teacher as prejudiced, those dads listened and judged for themselves, coming down on the side of learning always.
In my experience, principals think of teaching as a sink or swim endeavor. Most encourage teachers to handle things themselves, but they’re not happy with those of us who venture outside our subject area. 12 year olds feel rebellious; it’s like a call of nature and military families can be very strict. If a child wants to assert himself he/she usually begins being obstinate with a female teacher. They aren’t personally rude; they simply fool around, draw, or don’t do their assignments, even when given time in class. I’m not the best disciplinarian so I designed schemes to keep a lid on the mischief.
I set up a book with a section for each of the 5 classes I taught daily. If a child caused a minor fuss I asked him or her to write down what they’d done and declare they wouldn’t do it again—tripping a friend, swiping a pencil, calling a friend stupid as they grabbed their paper—their confessions had to be well written, and include self- incriminating details. The second infraction earned the same response, but the third earned a call home. I was very clear about the 3 strikes consequences but still, they seldom saw it coming.
When parents came in for their conferences we’d discuss the latest mischief, and their red-blooded American child might snicker. Their infraction sounded silly in the light of day—but when I pulled out the signed apologies, showing they’d had the opportunity to change their wicked ways, suddenly there was a pattern seldom lost on parents. The fact they were taking from class time to perform came across loud and clear and that was enough. Children seldom arrive at a constructive place in life alone and most parents are relieved to share that load once they see we’re all working for their child’s welfare.
Early on I’d received a note from the father of a second grade boy stating Dad had spanked him, soaped his mouth and sent him to bed without dinner because I’d reported he sometimes pushed classmates (thinking they’d speak to him about his behavior in line.) I placed that letter in the child’s permanent record but it was removed because the administration said I didn’t have any business warning the next teacher to tread lightly. Some parents are loving; they simply don’t know how to parent. I found myself resisting the directive to narrow my gaze to “my business.” Of course I spoke to his new teacher but what about those I never met?
Once I reported a student who wrote that she wanted to kill herself, sending that family into counseling. Though I was legally required to report it, Mom demanded a conference with the principal, the counselor and me saying, “That’s a stupid teacher to take my daughter’s creative writing seriously.”
By the time we all had schedules that aligned, they’d determined the girl wasn’t suicidal, but airing her feelings that dad and the boys overwhelmed her and Mom helped the entire family, so Mom gave me a big hug. I can’t tell you how relieved my principal was.
Later, I assigned writing about mischief that got out of hand. I reaped a paper describing several of our kids throwing rocks off a German overpass by a small rough-neck I could imagine performing that deed. I was told privacy issues prevented our disclosing that information. I pointed out that if drivers were injured, the shame would be on us. German police were given a time and place so they could patrol and no incident occurred.
Another time when a student stayed after class to help he told me he’s been “a love child.” His birth parents were too young. His mother married his step-father who kept him and his step-sister when she left. “She couldn’t take me because I eat so much she couldn’t save for a house if she had to feed me. Between my parents there are seven children. Mrs. K, why do people do that to their children?”
I said I was sure his parents loved them all, they just started before they could cope with the pressures of life. I said “I’m sure the younger kids look up to you, so I hope you wait to have children until you can care for them together with the woman you love.”
Two years later I was teaching a small Basic Skills class. That young man’s sister, Erica, attracted the notice of Joey, our “official 7th grade sexual expert.” Our vice-principal knew him and his single father well, he was the go-to guy for any girl wishing to explore her sexuality. He wasn’t forcing anybody, but I wouldn't want him teaching my daughter.
I’d spread out the 12 students in my class so they could concentrate. One day I saw “our expert” behind Erica, rubbing her neck. Startled, I ordered him back to his seat. The next day he was caressing her arm. Indignant, I shooed him away. The 3rd day I tried to empower her to resist him herself.
“Tell him to keep his hands off you Pop him one. He has no right to touch you.”
Erica whispered to me, “Don’t worry, Mrs. K, Joey’s not hurting me. He does that in all my classes. Besides, he makes me feel good.”
I called Erica’s father that night and described the scene to him. “It isn’t my job to explain the facts of life, but I have a daughter and I know how responsible you’ve been. I simply couldn’t let this go on without alerting you. Erica doesn’t see that fellow coming but if you talk to her now maybe she’ll be able to resist till she’s more mature.”
The next day a gaggle of girls gathered around my desk. I winced, thinking they’d tell me to mind my own business. Erica turned to me, “My dad talked to me about boys. He said he wanted me to stay a little girl longer and he cried. He said you were a good lady to call him long distance (I hid our phone bills from my husband.) Thank you, Mrs. K.”
Several girls asked if I’d call their Dad, but I said they should tell them about Erica and their conversation would happen. I considered myself blessed I hadn’t been reprimanded.
I had Joey, our sex expert, again in 8th grade. He got into some disruptive mischief so I sent him to a time out seat in back, tucked behind a bookcase. When I checked he seemed busy. After the classes changed there was a buzz of activity in back.
Jeannie, my best artist told me I’d better come see what Joey had drawn on the wall. Disgusted and busy, I told the class to sit down and ignore it, that I’d look later.
Jeannie offered to copy it for me. When I saw her meticulous copy of his detailed drawing of a 2’ long penis with an original poem naming a student from my last class he’d like to share it with I felt like he’d flung boiling water over my heart. I’d not only have to deal with him, I’d have to call my artist’s mom, plus the girl he’d named, oh boy.
I sent Jeannie to the office with her drawing in a sealed envelope. The vice-principle appeared on the run, armed with a large piece of Manila paper and tape to cover that drawing. She announced Joey’d be coming in to remove it and he was to be ignored.
Of course, those who hadn’t seen it wanted to know what he’d done. I said it was just our expert being mischievous, but I’d have to trust them to not talk about it because he’d used another student’s name and it would be a terrible injustice to humiliate her.
Our expert denied his deed, but when he was told Dad was on his way to view the art work he got a bucket and comet and scrubbed that wall panel clean. When Dad saw the tell-tale space and the vice-principal showed him the drawing he paled.
Now when you hear a very large man muttering, “My good God,” you have to feel for him. He glanced my way before ducking his head and muttering, “Sorry Ma’am.”
Amazingly enough the class kept it quiet, though the student named in the poem did hear her name was used inappropriately. We had a class discussion about the kind of boys who bad-mouth nice girls. She and her mother took it well, but Joey found his circle tightening as his father prepared to send him to live at Grandpa’s for the rest of the school year. By the time he returned he’d filled out enough to play football. He had one girl friend and I never heard another word about predatory behavior linked to him, a testamony to cooperation among the adults in his life and the miracle of maturity.
Not all my conferences involved such graphic displays. Often they concerned attending to the task at hand. When bright kids decided they really didn’t need to learn once they could read and write I’d call home and ask parents to point out that school was their job. I said that learning was like climbing a ladder; it’s easy if you don’t skip rungs, but do and it’s increasingly hard to reach the top. I had upper-grade texts I’d assign to show a bored student that he wasn’t as far ahead of classmates as he thought.
Parents often thanked me and they made sure the child got his assignments done, but some parents needed more help than their child. I called one mother from the Philippines who spoke broken English. She said her son, Sam, knew he was smarter then his step-father, a kind and decent man who’d taken them in after his birth-father abandoned them. She said, “If my husband hits him to get him to work, Sam will call the M P’s and ruin my husband’s career. If he won’t behave we’ll have to leave because my husband is too good to do that to him.” She paused to consider her options. “I’m still bigger then Sam, if I jump and wrestle him to the floor maybe he won’t realize he’s stronger then me.”
Horrified at the thought, I persuaded her to talk to Sam as if he was an adult because his behavior would affect his adult life. I suggested she explain their situation to him, then ask if he thought he was smart enough to support himself, and her, if they left.
The next day Sam asked me for extra credit assignments. “My mother said I’m not a little kid anymore, but we can’t get along without my step-dad. I’m going to study harder and I’ll be nicer to him because he’ll take care of my mother when I’m gone. Thanks for telling her to talk to me like a man, Mrs K. I understand better now.”
Teachers grumble because “I know that parent’s going to stick up for their kid.” But I tell you, it’s a parents God given duty to be there for their child, even if the teacher is mad enough to hang that kid out the window by his thumbs. A parent who doesn’t support their child is somebody no teacher ever wants to meet.
Of the hundreds of parents I dealt with, very few truly shocked me, until I saw a bright boy wad up his instruction sheet and dump it in the garbage as he left. I’d designed projects to teach more advanced skills. One was to write to the oldest person in their family capable of answering. We started early in the year so we could refer back to times their family connected with so they’d see that they were part of our continuing history. They wrote letters stating our goals and each child added something personal about their life in Germany so the letter was more than a request.
I fished Steve’s sheet out of the trash and invited Mom to come in so I could explain the assignment, thinking her son just didn’t get how much fun he’d have. The next day Mom arrived at my door with Steve in tow. The mother was tall, heavy and glowering. He was slim, blond and handsome.
As I turned to unlock my door she said to him, “Go get your assignment sheet.”
“I don’t have it, Mom.”
She slapped his face, not hard enough for me to call the M P’s, but shocking nonetheless.
I lightened my tone, saying many kids needed help to get this assignment started and he was such a good student I’d felt sure she’d want him to do his best. “He left his paper with me yesterday.” I pulled out the sheet with his name on it and proceeded to go over the directions as she emanated hatred and disgust at that child.
Breathless, I said, “If you don’t have anybody you can write, you can tell him a tale you remember from growing up and I’ll accept his written interview.” Anything to save that kid, I thought, anything.
She shook her head and said she’d come from a gruff group of mountain people who didn’t tell many tales except about peddling moonshine. Only she and her “smart mouth” brother had escaped. I said a moonshine story was just what we needed, and the way it turned out, he wrote a witty report on moonshiners backed up by his family tale.
She barked at him to thank me as they left the room. Steve not only thanked me, he did everything I asked of him from then on. We never mentioned my producing that paper.
The school nurse said that unless he showed up obviously battered or asked for aid, we couldn’t remove him from his home, and we might well make life there harder for him. We suspected he reminded Mom of that brother who’d tormented her.
The nurse and I decided that whenever I detected surliness in a parent I should say, “I know it’s hard, I have 5 kids of my own, but we’re both here for your child’s welfare and together we’ll do a good job.” It seemed to me then, and I’m even more sure of it now, that scolding a parent who goes home with that child is never helpful to that child.
Meeting that mother taught me to start with a compliment before reporting mischief because it’s hard to retract annoyance once it’s registered and we never want to trigger abuse. From then on, I started conferences by saying I’d noticed some good attribute and I was trying to reinforce its development because, as we all know, being 12 is hard. Then, if their response sounded positive I went on to discuss the mischief that needed parental attention.
Don, a pale, asthmatic student received a reply from his grandfather with a $10 bill inside. He shared a family story, then said, “I’m so proud you invited a classmate to go on that church picnic with you. I showed your letter to all my friends and they say their grandkids can’t write like that. You must go to a real good school. Their grandkids refuse to go to church at all, so they say just inviting your friend took courage. My faith sustained me when I lost my job the week after I married your grandma and now, when I read that you’re studying and keeping your faith, that makes me a proud Grandpa.
Don’t you think that boy worked harder after that?
In their letters each child asked what the world was like when they were 12 and if any event in history had changed their lives significantly. Whatever event was mentioned in their reply the kids looked up the date in my Chronicle of The 20th Century (daily news items for the last 100 years.) Finally, they gave a 3 minute talk about what they’d learned, pretending their relative was in the hall waiting to speak to the class.
Military dependents come from varied cultures. One letter came from a grandmother raised in Haiti. She’d walked through mud to school and rinsed her feet in a stream before entering. She hand copied a letter written by a Haitian leader removed by Napoleon’s troops. It sounded like the Haitian version of the Gettysburg Address, to me. He declared that the French could do what they wanted to him but they would never crush the drive for freedom from the hearts of the Haitian people.
A brooding classmate said, “I was really mad that Haiti is my dad’s next assignment, but now I hear this I understand they need our help. I won’t feel so bad about being without my dad for awhile.” What more could I ask from any lesson?”
Some grandparents had had terrible troubles, but life had improved and they proclaimed themselves so happy to be in the US their letters were inspirational.
Money accompanied many replies that said, “I have – grandchildren, but you’re the first to ask about me.”
Lucy, from Texas said, “My grandma raised my dad alone by cleaning hotel rooms. Her father said girls don’t need to learn, so she’d quit school. She’s proud my dad’s helping me and my sisters learn. She said she never knew a 12 year old could write like me. I’m trying harder for her. I just feel bad she sent me $10.00, I have more then she does. ”
I said her Dad would take care of Grandma, but those dollars were a sign of respect from one woman to another. I recommended she buy a book and thank Grandma for that.
Meeting Steve’s Mom taught me to start with a compliment before reporting mischief because it’s hard to retract annoyance once it’s registered and we never want to trigger abuse. From then on, I started conferences by saying I’d noticed some good attribute and I was trying to reinforce its development because, as we all know, being 12 is hard. Then, if the reply sounded positive, I got to the mischief that needed parental attention.
I didn’t just call about mischief though. A girl walked in early one day, unzipped her slacks and tried to flap cool air down her pants declaring, “It’s too hot. I’m just so hot I can’t stand it.” It wasn’t that hot. I called Mom and suggested a physical. Obviously hormones were raging, though she had no idea what was going on. Later the nurse informed me the doctor had put her on birth control pills to ease her into puberty.
Growing up is a struggle and many people expect more adult judgment from a 12 year old that they can give. As an end of the year assignment, I offered extra credit for writing Dad a letter thanking him for all he did. Could they write Grandpa, step-fathers, guardians etc.? I said okay—but they could only get extra-credit for 3 tops.
I looked over their length and appearance but didn’t read the wording—those letters were between them and Dad, except Monica’s. She asked me to read hers. Did I think she should send it? She’d told her Dad how much she missed him. She knew he sent support money, but she was beginning to forget what he looked like. Could he send a poster size photo of himself she asked—she wanted to put it on the back of her bedroom door so Mom wouldn’t have to look at it.
I said I thought he’d be thrilled she’d written and sure enough, his photo (less than poster size) arrived with the next check. She showed me, then taped it on her door, as promised.
Last of all, I offered extra credit if a child persuaded a parent to write a recommendation letter for him/her, stating the qualities they could see in their child that they felt would help later on in life. Humorously affirming letters full of love appeared.
Growing kids must move some part of their body every few seconds. That alone makes them annoying. Besides, who can resist letting a jiggling 12 year old know just how disappointing they are? Those children were touched by the letters from their parents. The calming effect those recommendations wrought was remarkable.
One dad said he was tough on his son because he mirrored him so closely he wanted to spare his son some of the growing pains he’d suffered.
His son grinned, “And I just thought he hated me.” We laughed together, but knowing 12 year olds as I do, that wasn’t just a funny line.
Ron told me, “My step-father said he was proud he could be part of my life. I thought he was just nice to me for my mom. I wouldn’t know he loved me if he hadn’t written that.”
Actions don’t always speak louder than words because growing kids are so self-critical they long for the adults in their lives to say aloud their affirmations.
I only remember one parent who refused his child’s request. I called and Dad said, “That kids got to earn it. I’m not writing anything till he does.” I tried to explain part of our mission was to encourage and model the kind of behavior we wanted, but no-go.
So I wrote his letter myself, saying that I saw his son’s truthfulness, his capacity for friendship and his ability to lighten up a serious discussion. Dad graciously called to thank me. He said he hadn’t understood where we were headed.
Many fine teachers claim we should simply shut our doors and teach, but it seems to me that very few of the conferences I benefited from were about learning style; most were about maturity, self-control and cooperation.
It’s amazing to me the struggles I’d have missed and the help I couldn’t have given if I hadn’t bothered to reach out to parents.
Through it all I learned that a child will respond better if he’s spoken to with respect. We may not be teaching morality in public schools, but we are setting an example by being caring and responsive to the needs of children. It seems to me that’s how we raise young people who can control themselves and function as responsible citizens in a free world.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)