“April, I am your father,” came the ghostly voice from the brie display.

Actually, that didn’t happen, but it may as well have. Wegman’s was my father’s favorite place in the last several years of his life, and the one I go to near my mom’s house is laid out just like the one in Chapel Hill, North Carolina where he lived. We used to go together and I’d run around and pick up all the items on the list because I knew where they were.

Dad described his retirement job as cooking for my step-mother. He loved to cook, and buying fresh ingredients, reading recipes, and creating delicious and beautiful meals for my step-mother was his great joy. He loved to grill, and took some risks doing so once he had to use an oxygen tank full time. I’m really glad he didn’t blow himself up!

Mom and I went to the Olive Garden for lunch in the same shopping center as the Wegman’s. It’s a step up from Wendy’s! We love the Olive Garden. I feel bad for the people who sneer at it. It’s such an accessible place, with reasonable prices for good, fresh food. You go there and white, black and other people are all eating their meals with their families in peace. No one is screaming or cursing or beating each other up. Of course it’s not South Philly real Italian food - it’s not supposed to be. It has a parking lot! It’s near big box stores! The servers are always so nice. Ours was a young mother of two. We chat with them and get to know them and leave big tips in cash. The servers work hard. Since we don’t order alcohol, we really don’t spend much money at all.

Today we tried the new light menu. It has traditional dishes in about half portions. I had chicken parmigiana and mom had eggplant.

Apparently these were added as a response to customers who no longer want to eat the giant portions they serve on the regular menu. I love it! With a salad it was more than enough for me.

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We get there as soon as it opens when it isn’t crowded and take our time.

I guess that gratitude is a major theme these days. I listen to people around me complain all the time about “the state of things.” I don’t see the point in making oneself miserable all the time. My life is far from easy, but you know what I’ve noticed? It actually gets much harder when I complain about it and focus on the negative. Doing something about a situation is way better than complaining about it. If it is possible to leave a dangerous job or a bad relationship, one should. If it is possible to become politically active around an issue that troubles one, one should become active. Posting on Facebook does not help.

Speaking of, I think one of my formerly close friends unfriended me on Facebook. I note that he hasn’t responded to my email saying that Georgia passed away. He knew and loved Georgia. I wonder why we are no longer “friends.” I fear it may be perceived political differences, which is a pretty pathetic reason to end a friendship, especially if you don’t tell the other person. Oh well. Maybe I’ll write him a follow up email. I don’t really want to just let it go unless he tells me he’s mad about… something. We live states away from each other, but had dinner together last fall when he was in town on business. I almost never sever connections, and I’m upset when I lose someone who has been important to me. Or really anyone. I’d be crushed if I found out that the early morning grocery store cashier at the Conshohocken Giant grocery store passed away. I loved her… every week we’d chat about her grandchildren. When I came back after years away, we picked right up… much to the perplexitude of my friend, who said, “I’ll just wait in the car.”

I’m grateful that my car was fixed and I was able to drive to meet my mom. Grateful that my mom is still with us and able to get out and drive. Sad that Georgia has gone, but I know she is in heaven waiting for us. Grateful for the Olive Garden meal and nice atmosphere and sweet server. Grateful for Wegman’s and how Dad would use my visits as an excuse to buy the expensive Professor’s Brie. Like killing the fatted calf!

Grateful that I made it home safely and got to take I-76 the whole way home and listen to podcasts to catch up on Gadi and Mike and my favorite Constitutional law experts. Grateful for a very nice afternoon tea with my Zen teacher, whom I hadn’t seen in a while.

I’m hoping to find a church home, one where I can worship, build community, serve those in need, maybe even teach middle school Sunday school! I’d like to find one where we don’t talk about politics, where I don’t know how people voted because it’s not what we are there for. It’s so nice to be around people who can have a discussion that does not draw lines in the sand.

When I went to the opening dinner for SAT prep teachers at the company owner’s beautiful home, we didn’t talk politics at all. We talked about the students, the SAT, people’s kids, people’s cats, our other jobs (most of us are teachers or retired teachers), the LSAT, dogs (The head reading teacher has a giant dog! He brought his charming girlfriend who told us all about the antics of their 77 pounds of love and mischief!) We enjoyed amazing homemade Korean food and the breathtaking view from her glassed in porch up in the trees. I have no idea how anyone votes and I don’t care.

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My friend the Socialist came for dinner on Saturday night. I’m his only in person friend and I try to make him a home-cooked meal every other week or so. This week I fried twelve sausage links from the farmer from Lancaster and made potatoes on the side. I ate one sausage, he ate the rest. He managed to consume a stick of butter with the meal, which is pretty typical.

Last time he was over, he went on a rant about how he thinks everyone who has ever traded stocks is a criminal. I asked if he really wants to live in a third world country. I never understand how people who literally live off other people’s tax dollars can want to kill or imprison those whose wealth makes their lives possible.

I got quite annoyed, and he did apologize for bringing it up. This week, we carefully stayed away from economics or politics. I had a good enough time. I need friends with whom I have more interesting conversations though. And who like more interesting food. Memories came up a few days ago of the dinner parties my college roommate and I used to have. We’d make bruschetta with fresh basil, salads with arugula, pizzas from this really great recipe I found with balsamic vinegar, and desserts. I remember one time when my roommate pulled me into the kitchen and said, “I don’t mean to alarm you, but I’m afraid you put basil in the salad.”

That wasn’t the worst problem we had. There was the time when two of my computer science friends came over. I got very into CS in the aftermath of the First David Fiasco. Of the two friends who came to dinner, one was a very big fellow. Unfortunately, our dining room chairs were not very sturdy. In the middle of a story of some kind, this young man found himself on the floor, as his chair had collapsed.

Lucky for me, I was on my way to the kitchen to get the next course, so I turned on the sink and laughed. My roommate was left out there to handle this disaster. She assured them that the chairs were old and destined to break at the slightest provocation. Somehow we all survived that night.

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We loved to cook and entertain. We used to have dessert parties with many cakes, pies and cookies, and a pot of coffee with some spirits on the side. We were not big drinkers at all in college. Our little place was packed and people would refuse to leave… we called it “The Vortex.”

I should have known that things would not work out with my ex because he doesn’t like to cook and entertain. It’s my favorite thing. I love to spend Saturday going to the farmers’ market to get fresh ingredients, preparing dishes, cleaning and serving a lovely meal to friends. I rarely get to do it as I have so few friends close by, but L and her husband come over sometimes. I hope they can come for July Fourth. Last year I made farmers’ market hot dogs and homemade fries.

Just a lot of random thoughts today. The sun is going down on this longest day of the year.

There is plenty of sad. I miss Georgia. I worry about Mom. I worry about money and what I’m going to do that is a secure job with benefits where I can do work that helps people and matches my values instead of forcing me to go against them. That’s a tall order these days.

SAT prep starts on Friday. I will be working six days a week and driving an hour each way, plus doing other work on the side. I’ll be tired but it’s so energizing to work with these most wonderful kids on earth. I never stopped thinking about my students from last year, what they were doing and where they would go in life. The future leaders of this country. I was telling a teacher friend today: some people are there to make money. Others are there to get the kids’ SAT scores higher. I’m there to make the leaders of the future. And I tell them that. Nothing less.

Want to get a room full of Indian-American fifteen year olds to say, “NO WAY!!” Tell them that one of them has to run for President of the United States.

It will be fun.

God is good, and wanting what you have is better than having what you want. There are so many things that we think we want, only to realize that we didn’t really. So many things we have that we don’t appreciate until they are gone. I won’t be like that. Every moment is a gift. Nothing is guaranteed.

Except death and taxes. So I must get to writing.

“It’s 8:20 am on a Tuesday. Do you know what your tax dollars are paying for?”

I support the parents of Lower Merion, who are trying to get an opt-out of Chromebook usage for their kids. Go parents! Let me know how I can help!

Don’t whine. Thank God, assess the situation, take action.

And give the Olive Garden another try. You may like it.

I hope you get some time to be with family, relax and do something fun.

The seminarian put out an email to all the community asking who would like to adopt a kitten. Jean, our landlady on the Christmas tree farm and dear friend, was in seminary at Lancaster at the time and wrote, "Yes, I’d love a kitten!” So she and my mom, who had moved in not too long before, went off to pick up Georgia Kitten.

Everyone fell in love with Georgia, especially Sunny the Golden Retriever, pictured above. Sunny took care of Georgia, chasing Tom cats away and making sure she was safe and loved. Miss Kitty, the previous farm cat and excellent mouser, taught Georgia how to climb trees so she could escape the farm fox, whom Jean named Alfred.

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When I lived on the farm, I got up at five and fed the cats before my mom woke up. I’d make Georgia’s Fancy Feast mixed with water, put it in the bowl on the kitchen table, and say, “Airlift to breakfast?” She always wanted to be picked up and placed on the table in front of her dish, even though she was an excellent jumper.

When we had to leave the beautiful farm in 2020 after Jean died suddenly, Mom took Georgia. Jean made it explicitly clear that the animals were to go to my mom. Sunny died at a ripe old age of almost 18 just after Jean did, while we were still on the farm. But Georgia came to Pottstown with Mom.

Mom got her a playmate right away. Elliott, a giant sweet orange tabby boy, came from the Pottstown SPCA. He was thin and scrawny but he bulked up. He and Georgia loved each other and played all the time. She liked to try to put his head in her mouth.

Today my mother texted me that Georgia was sick. Within a few hours it became clear that she had to go to the emergency vet. Mom’s friend in town came to get the cat and Mom to the vet and I jumped in the car and drove the hour thirteen minutes to meet them at the emergency vet.

By the time I got there they knew that she had a serious infection in her eyes and mouth and far gone cancer in her stomach. You could easily feel the lumps.

It was obvious that Georgia was ready to cross the Rainbow Bridge and go to the giant Christmas tree farm in the sky.

She let my mom and Jean put bunny ears on her one Easter.

Georgia loved to be outside on the farm. She came in and out all day while Mom obediently opened the door. I imagine that she is on the heavenly farm now, with Sunny and Jean.

Georgia’s life was not as long as we would have wanted it to be, but it was a beautiful life. She was always with the people and animals she loved. She never lacked for anything that she needed or wanted, including almost constant brushing from my mom. She was a talkative, playful, loving little girl who enjoyed her life.

Her death was sudden. I’m sure she had been getting sick for a while, but cats hide it until it gets bad. I am so grateful that I was able to be there with her and my mom at the end.

I was telling Mom last night that life feels fragile and precious to me. I have almost died before (due to a serious medical error) and I live in a place where real physical danger is always close by. I try to live my days fully, to relish life as it is. Today was sad, and hard. But I try to put myself back into the space of gratitude. Georgia had a happy life. She brought joy to my mom, me, our neighbors, Jean, and Elliott and Sunny and Miss Kitty and even Gabby cat, my mom’s cat who died shortly after she moved to the farm.

Here she was as a baby.

And as a supermodel in a basket.

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Georgia lived her fluffy life to the fullest, whether on the farm sniffing the daisies or chasing Elliott or meowing at Mom to be brushed at all hours of the day and night.

She passed peacefully today at about 6:30 pm. I got Mom settled back at her house and then headed home to Fluffy. Mom’s neighbors, who were so kind to us today and came to be with Mom and take her to the vet since I couldn’t get there right away, are burying Georgia in their backyard, next to one of their cats.

Sleep in heavenly trees, sweet little sister. We will meet again someday on the great Christmas tree farm in the sky.

Every night when I pet my kitty… last night we slept hand in paw!… I pray, “Thank you God for returning me to this pillow safely.”

It hasn’t always been a given that I would make it safely to the end of the day, so I’m grateful to be here.

A good friend asked me, “How often do you try to publish your blog?” There isn’t really an answer. I write when I feel like it, which is sometimes every day. I publish when I have something I want to chat about with all of you fine people!

Usually when I’m not writing, it’s because there’s something I’m thinking about, but for some reason I don’t feel like I can write about it. I don’t want to just put up drivel or comment on every headline of the day. So I’ll maintain a dignified silence if I am not yet ready to speak.

The news of the last few weeks has been a bit difficult for me. Here is my piece for Aeon Chronicle on the aftermath of the Karmelo Anthony case: Making Excuses for Black Violence Does Black Kids No Favors.

I imagine many of us read that horrible piece in which a professor from Howard University with a PhD claims that Austin Metcalf’s father failed to teach him that “black boys have boundaries.” I’m not going to dignify that piece by linking to it.

It brought up a lot for me. I am more familiar than I would like to be with the phenomenon of black men not liking to be told no. It is too personal and frankly too dangerous for me to write about it, so I won’t. But these things are very real for me in a way that perhaps they are not for quite a few of my white friends in the suburbs.

If it makes you feel any better, I’ve experienced violence at the hands of white professionals too!

But today I choose not to live in the trauma. For the most part, I no longer meet the diagnostic criteria for PTSD. That’s why it was shocking when symptoms reappeared - I’d been doing quite well for a long time. I no longer need or take medication. I do not see a therapist or psychiatrist - in part because I find them worse than useless but also because there’s just no need.

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It’s a funny story what really helped me close the book on past trauma, and it’s a big part of today’s gratitude meditation.

The short version is that I reconnected with an old friend, not even a close friend, who had not been in my life at all at the time of the worst traumatic event.

It so happened that I shared what had occurred and asked for some advice on routes to pursue justice.

Having received some good advice and more than anything, validation from a rational person whom I very much respect but who was not involved - really had no horse in the race - I just went about my life. Suddenly, the trauma lost its grip. After years.

There is a lot in the literature of PTSD about how being believed and validated stops trauma from turning into a chronic disorder. This is important. Just being involved in a traumatic event doesn’t doom you to developing symptoms. What happens afterward matters.

These days, I don’t talk about that stuff much. I’ll mention it fast but then I want to move on. It doesn’t define me anymore, and I find it tiresome. So when something brings it up, I want to move on as fast as I can. If I can’t do something productive about the situation, I don’ t want to think or talk about it.

The report on the rape gangs in Great Britain has brought up a lot too. I think it’s important that people read about it. I have been reading this: 250,000 Girls Raped for Being White and Not Obeying Allah. It goes into gruesome detail and I think we need to know.

This is about saving our civilization, my friends. Netanyahu is right: this is not a clash of civilizations. This is a fight between civilization and barbarism. I will not apologize for standing for freedom and civilization and I will not back down. I know many of you are very much with me.

We can not become like the UK. The US is the last stand. I support those who will keep this barbarism out of our country and prosecute crimes when they occur. Anyone who wants to screech, “Racism!” should know that screeching no longer silences white people. Those days just ended. Go read the summary of the report I linked. Come back when you’re done. Having brown skin is no longer a get out of responsibility for crime free card.

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So now I turn back to the gratitude.

As I read these things and reflect on my life, I am so grateful to be where I am. Safe in my own apartment, with my sweet kitty, doing work I love.

I could spend a lot of time wishing I had this or that, wondering what would have happened if I had made other choices. But why waste time, when I can live fully in the beauty of now?

“Sometimes the beauty of life hits like lightning washing everything clear,” sings Shawn Colvin in “Kill the Messenger” - one of the only artists I’ve ever seen in concert!

I am so blessed to have amazing friends. I doubt that there are many people who have had the depth and variety of friendships I have. Maybe that’s the flip side of never marrying or staying in one place too terribly long (though I was at the nurses’ union for ten years.) I’ve seen a lot.

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Last night I was reminded that one of my fellow teachers (I start SAT prep soon and we are in training, so we are reconnecting. SAT prep is my favorite teaching ever!!!) is a serious Catholic. She’s a Latin teacher who loves Latin Mass. We were talking on the phone last night when she said, “I have to remember to let the Holy Spirit guide my job search.”

I love talking with practicing, believing Jews or Christians. People with whom you can say, “I will keep you in my prayers” and it’s meaningful.

My new friends in the neighborhood are practicing Catholics. They’re just easy to be around. I don’t plan to become Catholic, but after SAT camp is over (I’ll be teaching six days a week and resting on the seventh for seven weeks!) I plan to look for a church where I can find a Christian home again. Probably going to look for an Episcopal church that isn’t wacko progressive. I’ve always loved the Episcopal church. Just enough ritual but not actually Catholic. I can take communion. The preaching was never that great but these days no preaching is so I’m not missing anything.

Consider the lilies. Lily season is short. I walk frequently. Like Aerosmith, I don’t want to miss a thing.

I’m not one of those people who says, “Everything happens for a reason.” Those people are annoying. Indeed, if I get hit by a car, it happened because the driver didn’t stop and hit me. That’s a reason, but not one that I find comforting.

I prefer, “Life as it is,” the motto of my school of Zen. Life as it is does not have to be glamorous all the time, or exciting. I’ve had my share of both, and I’d like some more… I miss dressing up and wearing suits and heels! But that day will come soon enough.

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For now, I choose gratitude. I’m grateful for the lilies, for my kitty cat who was so good at the vet this week! I’m grateful that my mom is with me at 81, and that my dad passed peacefully at 79. Grateful for my amazing friends, the old and the new. Grateful for how time wraps back on itself, making 2026 just as bright and vibrant and full of possibility as 1996, or even before.

Grateful for: read nails, Wegman’s, Clark Park, iced coffee, Substack, all my Substack worldwide family!, my friend AB in Florida and SL in NY, SAT Prep and all the wonderful kids whose lives I will be blessed to touch this summer. Grateful that I took the SAT in seventh grade, even grateful that my Dad told everyone who would listen what my score was! Grateful that I live in a time and place where girls can be smart and pretty, and can make choices about our lives. Grateful for air travel and trains and public transit and the Subaru dealership where they called my car a “she” and learned her name while they fixed her so that she is now safe to drive to my summer job and back. (Her name is Visenya.) Seriously, y’all, don’t misgender my 2004 Subaru!

Grateful that this sweet old girl gets me where I need to go safely and never complains! And she’s paid off!

Grateful for that Starbucks in Conshohocken where I studied for the GRE to get into my MPH program, more than fifteen years ago now. Grateful for Dr. Feinman who wrote my recommendations and is one of my longest serving, most steadfast friends.

Grateful for standardized tests, the Constitution, and the last few men in the world who still know how to dress properly.

Grateful for the next pair of heels I will buy, and the sneakers I was wearing when I took the lily pictures.

I really do love shoes, and I am not ashamed of that.

Grateful to have time for a short walk before I resume SAT prep training.

And grateful for all of you.

God be with you, now and always.

Happy Flag Day! Today we celebrate the adoption of the American flag by Congress in 1777.

When I was a kid, we used to say the Pledge of Allegiance to the flag every morning in school. There was no “if” about saying the Pledge. You did, or you got in trouble. There was a lot of controversy about “under God” back in those days, but we said the Pledge all right.

I have worked in dozens of public schools in Reading, PA and Philadelphia, and I have never once heard the Pledge of Allegiance said. I have only ever seen one American flag. Oddly enough, that was in the classroom where I taught 7th and 8th grade English last year - or tried to. I remember while the kids were taking the PSSA (our standardized test in PA) I would stare at the flag and think, “How has it come to this?” I knew that maybe one of my students would perform at grade level.

[Sweet kid, that one. He was the only one who brought a real breakfast to school. Every morning, he would show up, usually second after his buddy who was the son of the head of the cafeteria service. The smartest boy in the class, let’s call him Andrew because that’s not his name (though he had a very white sounding name for a black kid) would come to class, greet me with a very polite, “Good morning, Ms. Smith,” take his seat at the table with his three best friends (the sweetest boys who insisted on cleaning the classroom multiple times a day - it needed it!) and unwrap his foil covered breakfast sandwich. Whole wheat bread, turkey bacon, and egg and cheese, every morning. A proper breakfast for a growing boy. I asked if his parents made the sandwich and he said, no, they bought it every morning at the corner deli on their way to school. But those parents got Andrew a healthy breakfast. And he was the only kid who could read and write at grade level.]

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When I walked into the lobby of the giant (regular district, not charter) high school very close to my apartment sometime last year, I saw one overwhelming feature: a giant, I mean gargantuan, Pride of all sorts flag. You know, the one that looks like the Palestinian flag had a bad acid trip and dreamed of the Grateful Dead then threw up? That one.

I thought it was some version of the Palestinian flag until my friend who has had more exposure to the T+ side of the LGBT+++ community than she would like explained what it is.

The all-inclusive of everything except straight people flag was in the prominent place where you might think a school would display an American flag. But no, there is never an American flag seen on any of these properties. Not outside on a flagpole, not inside anywhere. You can’t find one. Unless there’s one hidden in the boys’ bathroom, there’s not a flag onsite.

Meanwhile, the Pride flags are everywhere. Each classroom at my old school had a sign with the Pride flag that read, “This is a welcoming classroom.” The halls had signs that said, “How to be an ally” and outlined several points that all should follow:

• Don’t associate with homophobic people.

• Don’t tell or laugh at homophobic jokes.

I can’t recall the other points but you get the idea.

I completely support people’s right to date, sleep with and marry whomever they want. I support people’s right to transition if they are adults who are sure that’s what they want to do. My actual closest of two friends in the world transitioned at 60. By then, you know. She is, btw, way more conservative than I am.

I have no problem with the Pride flag being displayed. But why is there no American flag? After all, being an American is what gives us the ability to express our sexuality and gender identity! Our country has come a very long way in this respect, progress that we should be proud of. The Muslim countries that Queers for Palestine revere would not be so kind to them.

There were also a lot of Pan-African and Black Power flags:

Okay. It’s an all black school, and while I question the wisdom of teaching black kids nothing but black literature and black history, I can be okay with Pan-African flags.

Still, we are all Americans. Not only that, we are Pennsylvanians. Where are the American flags and the Pennsylvania flags?

To walk around the schools, you’d think that we live in a mishmash of African countries that is entirely LGBT with some people who are asexual or questioning running about. You almost want to put a question mark in the middle of the flag, the whole thing is so confusing.

At this point, I’m ready to pledge allegiance to that guy.

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The kids I taught were rarely unsure about their genders. The boys performed masculinity and the girls performed femininity pretty consistently. Boys were quick to argue and as quick as they could be to violence, given that the school did a pretty good job of reigning that in. The girls had beautiful hair and nails, a topic that we could always enjoy discussing. A few of the kids were openly gay, a total of one I knew appeared to be presenting as a male though was born a female. No one questioned this student’s choice of pronouns, and I went along.

Being an “ally” had rewards. The very out “they” teacher, who called themselves “Teacher ___” instead of Mr. or Ms., held parties for so-called allies in their classroom. The parties involved food, so all the kids suddenly wanted to be allies on party days, even if they had not completed the required ally tasks in advance. Political movements run on food, so I get it.

Being an ally was socially acceptable, even required. Being a patriot - that would have been off-putting and discouraged.

I so wanted to ask Mr. M., “Where are the American flags?” I wonder what he would have said. There was so much I wanted to ask him. I never would have been able to, even if I’d worked there permanently. There were things you could not say. I knew that and everyone else knew that.

There were things you could not say that I have to say. As Solzhenitsyn and my boyfriend from 1993 are my witness, I can not live by lies.

It’s Flag Day and school is out, even the latest of the schools that stay open way past when any of the kids are paying attention. No one will pledge allegiance to anything but their phone, the snacks at the corner store, and maybe the game of basketball.

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I went to yoga today at the yoga studio in the neighborhood. I know the owner well, a very nice woman who now identifies as “they.” I’ve known them since they were a she and a yoga teacher, not yet the studio owner. I knew them when they were single, before they married a woman who is very nice, an acupuncture practitioner who makes her office (and goes by she) in the studio building, along with other bodywork and therapy practitioners. A thriving American business, the true American dream: making a living doing what they love, providing a service that no one has to have to survive, but that people are willing to pay good money for because they value it. They create jobs for the people who teach and work at the studio, and give space for others to practice their chosen profession and make money doing it. But being good a good leftist of this neighborhood so blue it looks like it’s on the verge of death by strangulation, they do not fly the American flag.

“It’s Flag Day, and my mother’s birthday,” I heard Kari, the owner, announce to a few people at the desk after class.

“Indeed it is,” I said. “Where are our American flags?”

“You know, I don’t even know…” Kari said, and turned their attention to someone else. Kari knows me well enough to know that I pay my bill, show up and am grateful for the yoga class, and will give her a bit of playful teasing outside of class. In this neighborhood, if you want to live, you have to learn to agree to disagree.

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I want my own American flag for my apartment window. It’s been a long time since I took down the Biden Harris signs from 2020 and the DA Larry Krasner sign from the same year. To be honest, I’ve been a little afraid to put an American flag up. I know that if I put an Israeli flag in my window I’d get a brick through it.

But it would make me happy to just put a little American flag in the kitchen window. I am an American, and proud to be one. With the possible exception of Israel, this is the greatest country on earth.

I painted my nails red for the first time in years this week, for a variety of reasons too complex and personal for a blog. The decision of nail color is one that women do not take lightly, and I take it more seriously than some, if not most.

“Don’t mess with what works,” said my buddy Mark Judge, always an advocate for red nails. He’s right, you know.

I wonder if my days of pink and purple glitter are over. I am no longer a public school teacher. I’m no longer purple.

I actually think the red looks good, even though I wondered if I should not wear it based on the old, “Redheads shouldn’t wear red,” rule. But when I look at my nails, they look classic and classy

The ring is my fortieth birthday ring. I wear it on my wedding ring finger because I wear my great grandmother’s wedding ring, a gift from my mother on my thirtieth birthday, on my right hand. Every once in awhile someone asks if it’s an engagement ring, but it’s not. My close friend gave it to me eleven years ago, and I never take it off. I think someone would have brought it to my attention if I were engaged. Rarely do such things escape me.

I don’t think I’m quite up for doing these for July 4th, but maybe I’ll change my mind

Or perhaps someday I’ll attend an election night victory party in a red dress. And I’m pretty sure which flag would be flying at that event.

1550 nurses and healthcare professionals (radiology techs, respiratory therapists, social workers, and many, many more) were out on Broad Street in front of Temple University Hospital, engaged in a 28 day landmark strike that would determine the course of healthcare labor relations in Philadelphia for the foreseeable future.

I had forgotten what the main issues were, but when I looked back at this article in Labor Notes, I remembered. Central to the fight was Temple’s attempt to impose a non-disparagement clause, or gag rule, on healthcare professionals for whom this rule would conflict with their professional ethics and obligations under the law.

Temple failed to impose its non-disparagement or “gag” clause, an idea incompatible with the legal obligation of health care workers to serve as advocates for their patients. The clause would have prevented union members and leaders from speaking publicly about patient safety issues rising from short-staffing. — Labor Notes, May 21, 2010

The strike was inspiring, monumental, and for those of us responsible for running it, exhausting. You really haven’t lived until you’ve had people coming to you telling you that they will lose their house within days if we don’t get a contract. I played less of a role in this one than I had in some previous ones - I was running a new organizing campaign at the time - but I was there, ordering pizzas and walking the picket line.

The weather was kind, and nurses etc. walked the street in front of the hospital in the warm spring sun. Dunkin Donuts had set up a free kiosk and gave out coffee to our members and to all of the police who had been stationed to watch over the strike. We trained our members very carefully to not be provoked to any sort of violence or confrontation. We knew that management would try to provoke us, as that’s how they could get an injunction to prevent us from picketing at all. Fortunately, we were dealing with some of the most self-disciplined people on earth: urban nurses who have to provide life saving care under the most difficult of conditions. These people know how to focus.

So, it seems, did the police. Civil Affairs was there - it’s their job to monitor protests of any kind. They were such nice men, always in suits, very professional. I loved coordinating with them. Then there were dozens of regular police officers, some of whom I noticed seemed to pick up a nurse girlfriend over the course of the strike. It’s a classic combination: nurses and cops. Two people who regularly put their lives on the line for people they don’t know.

Apparently, we were not the only ones to notice the police department’s single-minded focus on the strike. At some point mid-strike, on the day of a giant noon rally outside the hospital, some low tech robbers in masks robbed the PNC Bank branch just a half a block down the street from the hospital. And got away!

Why? Because no one was paying attention.

Eventually the thieves were apprehended, but it took quite a while. I’m sure PNC Bank was annoyed that there were no cops available in all of Philadelphia because they were all stationed at the hospital up the block, hitting on nurses and eating pizza that we happily shared with them. (I have a freaky gift for figuring out the exact number of pizzas and kinds of pizza that a large gathering needs to eat. Exactly so many veggie, barbeque chicken, pepperoni, cheese, buffalo chicken, etc. I nailed it every time. No one else can do this as well as I can. I should put it on my resume.)

The moral of the story is: do you job, and do it well. Focus intently when you need to. But never neglect the possibility that someone may be about to rob the bank up the street.

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One of the true marvels of Western Civilization is the ability of men to focus. I say men because men have an entirely different kind of focused attention than women do. Our brains are different, and to argue otherwise is to end up with a lot of unhappiness. Men at the top of Western Civilization developed the ability to focus intensely on something, be it building a bomb or negotiating a peace or any number of other important things, to the exclusion of all else. The thing that makes this a uniquely western achievement is that men can do it without compulsion, either from a king or an army or a god. Of their own free will, some of them can apply this level of concentration to a problem that will simply not be solved any other way.

Women focus too, but in a different way. Women are always scanning the horizon, and pick up on, estimating conservatively, 100 times more emotions than men do in any given ten second interval. By the time the gentlemen read that sentence, the ladies had had at least fifty complex thoughts and feelings about it. This is how we keep the tribe together, how we raise families, and how we keep our men from going batshit crazy. Women focus on the single most important thing any human being can ever do: giving birth to a child. But most of the time we have a million things in the background of our minds, from paying the bills to winning a strike to reminding our former partner (of twelve years ago) that it’s his sister’s birthday.

I could say more about that because it’s a topic I’ve thought about in depth, but I’ll save that for another day.

The habit of focus is good. I fear that phones and growing rates of ADHD are intertwined and destroying this thing that is essential to saving our civilization. While men in the US, Europe and Canada are messing with their phones, men who would kill or enslave and at very least convert us are paying quite a bit of attention. There will not come a point when we will all peaceably play video games together and join a group chat on whatever app the kids are using these days. We need people to focus on the essential task of discerning threats to our security and fighting them, un-distracted by virtue signaling, fear of cancellation, or concern about the proper oven temperature for roasting fish.

That salmon is probably raw and should probably be grilled, but see, you’ve already wasted a thought!

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In the process of achieving and maintaining focus on a larger goal, it’s important not to miss either the obvious or the unexpected.

The obvious: it’s lily season and they will be in bloom for only a short time before the heat dries them out and they’re gone until next year. Take a moment to look for the flowers if you live in a place where you have them.

This is a picture of real lilies, just a few houses down from me. I’m enjoying having a little free time to walk and take pictures at peak season for my favorite flower.

Then there’s the unexpected: someone may rob a bank down the street from your strike. Any number of things may happen that if you’re not paying attention, you could miss.

A few years ago, I started doing an Open to Possibilities meditation. I had always been a person with a plan, but as time went on, things got so far away from my original plan that I decided to just be open to what might happen. Save for retirement, have health insurance, but be open to possibilities.

In the morning when I meditate for the first time, and then again in the evening in times of high stress or volatility, I open my mind up to possibilities. Every time a narrative about what might happen starts, as it inevitably does, I recognize it, then let it go, with the mantra, “I am open to possibilities.”

I start to think about a potential job… and let it go before the idea gets too clear. I imagine a place to live… and let it go, before I get to attached.

It’s not indifference to the outcome. I’ve never managed that cold feat of bloodless calculation. I have a friend who can do it and I envy her, but true indifference to the outcome I have never achieved.

What I have achieved is a conscious recognition that I never know what will happen, even when I think I do, and a determination to trust in God, even when I am tempted to trust only in myself.

That way, when I say to myself like Han Solo did in The Force Awakens, “This not how I thought this day was going to go,” I’m always right. Nothing ever goes the way we think it’s going to go, even if we are having a “normal” day. Even less so when there is no normal day.

Once accomplished in the Open to Possibilities meditation, it is amazing what possibilities can open. Even that which appears impossible.

Which brings me to one of my favorite exchanges in the new three Star Wars. As they are getting out of the ship that Han and Chewie were on when they recaptured the Falcon, Han informs Rey that they’re leaving the hangar at light speed.

Rey: Is that even possible?

Han: I never ask that question until I’ve done it.

How is the beauty of real lilies even possible? These are one block from my apartment.

I remember asking what they meant and being told that it was something the Republicans said. It was bad. It seems like this was during one of those waves of media coverage of the “welfare queen” and the idea that people who didn’t work were getting money from the government. This was all very racist and anti-feminist too, I remember being told or believing, or both.

Being a divorced mother in the South during the Reagan years was very difficult, and being the child of a single mother was an experience you don’t forget. A large part of why I have moved to embrace more traditional values is that now I realize how much the experience of not having my father in my home affected me, but that’s a story for another day.

It makes sense that I was a Democrat growing up. Democrats were the party of equal pay for equal work for women. Republicans were the party that said that the only way for women to be good was to be a wife and stay at home mother. Back then, Republicans were the party of slut shaming and Democrats were the party of sexual liberation. Or so I thought.

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“It’s Your Money” signs were Republican, and that was bad, so that was enough of an answer for me at the time. My thoughts about taxes back then basically went, “The Republicans call us ‘tax and spend’ liberals, but it’s important that we spend money so that poor people can have food and not be homeless, and kids can get an education.” My analysis wasn’t as simple as that, but it was standard left-leaning, with the assumption that what the government does is good and the money the government raises to do what it does belongs to the government.

When I first began working, at age 14 as a student assistant in the library where my mom was the library director, taxes came straight out of my check. I didn’t think about them, they just disappeared. When I got my first salaried job as an organizer, taxes disappeared as such. Taxes were a part of reality I accepted without question: MY money was the money I made after taxes. The rest could be an offering to the Greek gods for all I really thought about it.

I got into a executive job at age 28 and found myself in the high tax brackets, but I still didn’t care about taxes. I was so happy to be making quite good money by my early thirties and so deep into my work as Director of Organizing for a nurses’ union that I didn’t give taxes a moment’s thought. I never even looked in detail at my check.

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My viewpoint changed when I started making money by the hour, by the day, and even by the minute. When you are on salary, things can feel a bit nebulous. A company or organization pays you regularly in exchange for a claim on a large part of your life. If you like the work and the organization, it can feel natural. If not, it can be like living in a cage. Either way, the exchange of money for time is not as clear as when you are paid directly for your time, and free to spend your non-work time as you choose.

One I got paid by the day as a substitute teacher, I started to see things in terms of how much of my time I was giving for them. In 2019 I bought my parents a bouquet of roses for their anniversary. It cost most of a day’s pay, and I was happy to be able to do it. When they almost didn’t get the flowers due to an unusual snowstorm in Chapel Hill, NC, I was on edge - not just because I wanted them to have their gift, but because that bouquet cost me almost a day’s worth of labor. Material wealth and time were no longer unrelated concepts.

Now when I look at my check from work, I see how much is going out in taxes. Federal, state and city. The Philadelphia city tax is 3.74% for residents, 3.43% for non-residents (they don’t get to pay extra to live on our dangerous and often trash-covered blocks.) There is also a tax on soda that combined with the cost of doing business in a neighborhood where there is frequent shoplifting and looting makes a Diet Pepsi two liter at my corner store $3.75. The City Council almost passed a $1 per ride tax on ride shares to close the gap in funding that the school district says it’s can’t close, but it hasn’t passed yet.

The taxes I pay are not abstractions to me. Out of my little income, some portion is going to do the things that state, federal and local government do. So I want to a) know what my taxes are going for b) have some say in how they are spent.

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I’m not sure why it’s a conservative position to simply want a say in where my tax money goes. If my tax money funds schools, I want to know what those schools are doing. If a police officer is rarely seen in my neighborhood, I want to know if the police are underfunded, or if they are simply not coming here. Whether one believes that we should all pay high taxes to fund a complete social welfare state with healthcare and free education and treats for our cats, or one believes that we should all keep as much of our money as possible, shouldn’t we all want a voice in how our taxes are spent? Isn’t that part of being a responsible citizen, or did I understand my Social Studies teachers incorrectly?

Yet in the airy-fairy world of those who would tax the mythical rich to pay for programs for the mythical deserving poor, asking where our tax dollars are going is an immediate sign that you are “One of them.”

“Yes…” I say in the voice of the Emperor in The Rise of Skywalker. “Long have I waited…”

I am getting involved in local politics, in large part because I want to know and have a say in where my money is going. In fact, last night I was elected Chairman of my ward. Easiest election I ever had… I walked in and the Ward Leader asked me if I would do it and I said yes! She knew I would say yes because I’ve already demonstrated that I step up and do what needs to be done. An organizer, no matter how many years out of the game, does not need to be asked twice or subtly. As I leave every meeting at my state committeeman’s house, I ask, “Is there anything else I can do?” Always been an action-oriented person.

I want to advocate for the things I think are good, like charter schools and more police and an end to the careless running of stop signs. I want to oppose things I don’t like, such as fare evaders on public transit and people using the streets as public toilets. It’s nice to spend time with other people who think these are rational positions to take, and who have worked hard in their own neighborhoods to make the city safer and more livable, for all of us.

While you can take a girl out of organizing, you can never take the organizer out of the girl. It’s been a while, but my skills are as sharp as ever. So if you could kindly pass me the light saber, let’s get on with it.

It seems like I must weigh in on the childless cat lady thing, but how much more can be said? The stereotype of the woman without children or a husband who loves her cats is so constant that I have cocktail napkins about it.

Putting women into categories based on their motherhood status and drawing a whole host of assumptions from them is a long running American pass-time, much like baseball or honking your horn at someone in front of you in traffic.

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So I will (sarcastically, in fun, I assure you, as some of my best friends are catless child ladies), raise some questions about this group of women.

Suspicious, isn’t it, that no one investigates why these women don’t have cats?

I volunteer at a cat shelter in a poor area of Philadelphia. Every Monday night I care for starving, sick kitties, almost all of whom were abandoned. They are usually friendly and were obviously someone’s cat, not feral. All they want is to be loved and held and fed and cuddled. These little beings didn’t choose to come into the world, and their mothers didn’t choose it either - if they are not spayed and are outside, female cats will become mothers.

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Cats are much, much less expensive than children. They are also much easier to care for on almost every level. A person with a modest income can keep a cat in conditions that are the equivalent of kitty paradise. Just a comfy place to sleep, decent food, and love is all they want. Sure, some have expensive tastes in catnip toys, but to be honest, I did that to myself by only buying my baby the finest (YEOWWWW!!! Brand).

If women are supposed to be so nurturing and loving and the caretakers of others, why are women who clearly have the resources, resources that they spend in ridiculous (to me, who is not a fan of treating kids like money grows on trees) amounts on children, not taking even one homeless, lonely, hungry kitty into their palatial homes?

Cats make great companions for children, and can teach them some important life lessons, like pull my tail and I’ll bite you. Catless child ladies are not only depriving needy cats of their love and resources, they are depriving their children of the opportunity to be raised properly by cats.

Humans need to learn to love and care for other beings. Cats are great for this because they are usually a little easier than dogs logistically, and unlike dogs, they demand respect. A cat, like an excellent elementary school teacher, will teach you respect.

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Are catless child ladies really so busy holding down jobs to provide for their children, attempting to take care of their man if they are fortunate enough that he stuck around to help care for the children he fathered, and basically hold their own sanity together that they don’t have time to clean a cat box? Make the kids do that!

Cats can provide a much needed source of love and relaxation for the stressed out, overworked catless child lady. My assumption is that all mothers work hard, whether that work is inside, outside, around, between, above, or in whatever relationship to the house. A cat could be an incredible emotional support to a woman who probably doesn’t get half the appreciation she deserves on the job and at home.

Cats are grateful and loving in a way that children often are not.

If you get them spayed, you do not have to worry about cat teen pregnancy.

We should, as a society, investigate the motivations of the catless child lady. Should catless child ladies run for political office? I mean if they can only take care of humans but not a simple housecat, how can they be entrusted with important issues involving nature, like climate change?

Not to mention foreign policy. I do not want people without cats attempting to negotiate any sort of peace. Having a cat teaches you how to compromise. (Okay baby sure it’s time for some more treats. I love you Mommy’s little boo boo baby fluff!)

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And don’t even get me started about catless child men. Men who love cats are just plain better than men who do not. On this hill I will stand and die. I will give some ground on any number of issues, being a person who does not see things in black and white (except tuxedo cats!) but on this, I am adamant. Men who love, care for, and revere their cats, especially those who proudly post pictures of them on social media, are really the only men fit to serve as world leaders. Those who love dogs may have a chance, but the real men love cats.

I’d love to say more, but this childless cat lady is about to go for her weekly volunteer shift at the cat rescue. If any catless child ladies out there have seen the error of their catless ways, I can help find you just the right cat or cats to solve all of your problems and make you the whole, fulfilled, truly a woman that God intended you to be.

Our other tradition is arguing about politics! While I greatly enjoy a conversation with anyone who will speak proper English, Ken is a real treat because he knows so much. He spent six years in Japan in the 1980’s, speaks fluent Japanese, and got his first Masters in East Asian Languages so he reads ancient Chinese in the original.

Ken describes himself as a Socialist. I most assuredly do not.

We argue and make fun of each other and I always learn something because he brings up a fact or theory that I didn’t know. Or maybe had forgotten.

A large percentage of you already know where this is going. The rest of you are probably worried about the rabbit, so I’ll assure you that it’s a character in a story, not a guest at the meal or the meal itself.

We repeated the argument that Socialists and the rest of us have all the time. Where are we going to get the money for all this free stuff? In a real Communist country, you know, you don’t get to sit around and write poetry all day. If other people don’t want to pay you to do what you want to do, you’re going to have to spend at least some time doing what you don’t want to do in order to survive. There’s no other way that a civilization can function.

AS: It’s like sitting in the middle of a farm, saying that the crops should grow, then waiting. Doesn’t seem like a good strategy.

KA: Or waiting for a rabbit to kill itself!

AS: What?

KA: The rabbit in Han Feizi’s story. A farmer sees a rabbit run into a tree stump, break its neck and die. The farmer cooks and eats the rabbit. Then he sits by the tree stump waiting for it to happen again, instead of working the fields.

AS: Aha! I vaguely remember this! But waiting for a rabbit to kill itself sounds like a terrible survival strategy! That’s not my career plan! (by this time we are laughing hysterically.)

Ken describes a bit about Chinese Legalism. Any of you are welcome to give an explanation… I read up on it a bit but it’s hard to know what’s a good source outside of your own field.

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The story of the farmer expecting a rabbit to kill itself on a regular basis, therefore quitting his work and sitting to wait, struck me because it gets to the heart of something I saw every day. Kids standing at the back of the classroom, making Tik Tok videos of dances and ignoring their actual school work.

“My dears, you know that Ms. Smith will enforce policy on making videos in class.”

And I did. I loved being a sub who enforced the rules in a place where I was supported. A Dean or other official comes and confiscates the phones.

“Now ladies, how is it you presume to making a living and provide for you own family if you’re making Tik Tok videos instead of doing your school work?”

“We’re going to be influencers!”

The kids start to yell out how many followers they have.

All over cities like this, all over the country, young people actually believe that they will become wealthy influencers by doing these dances on Tik Tok.

Sure, some people find this strategy successful. The rest either get a job, or live on government programs and the off the books economy.

This is not theory. I see it, they tell me.

“Ladies and gentlemen, do we remember when the EBT cards didn’t get refilled for awhile?”

“Oh yes miss…”

Often a vibrant discussion will ensue, but if I thought I was going to make a living as an economics professor because I got a few kids to stop making Tik Tok videos and think, I’d be… waiting for a rabbit to kill itself.

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“Do you know that taxpayers, like me and your teachers and grownups you know, are paying for your education right now?”

You’d be alarmed at how often I heard, “Miss, what’s a taxpayer?”

I briefly pray to the ghost of Mrs. Thatcher and give out some stickers while I explain where the money comes from that pays for the school, the Chromebooks, the teachers and staff, the lunches, the breakfasts, the heat and air conditioning.

I love getting kids to think. When you’re subbing, you are doing more keeping order than actual teaching. Those young people who do their work get stickers and lavish praise from me. But usually they run out of work or won’t do it, so I figure the taxpayers who pay me to do this may as well get their money’s worth and we should try to give the kids an education.

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Still, I ask myself, “What are we doing here?” No one member of the system can take it on and reverse it alone - and the people I’ve worked with are all trying, so hard, doing better than any other urban public school I’ve been to.

You probably know what I’m going to say:

We have to stop making excuses for it. We can not just wave the magic “systemic racism” wand and pretending that excuses anyone from working.

Decades of failed liberal policy has taught these children that a rabbit will routinely kill itself in order to provide their breakfast, lunch, snacks, housing, Chromebooks, and who knows what else. As the relatively well off people I know on Facebook blather on about taxing the rich out of existence to fund social programs, I wonder:

Do they really think that suicidal rabbits will continue to appear?

The rabbits are getting sick of this. They work for a living, and they won’t kill themselves so that others can make Tik Tok videos indefinitely. If public education is not about teaching these children to become grown ups who can get jobs, what are we doing here?

One of my favorite capitalists, J-Lo, starts her famous song, “Jenny from the Block” with the line, “Everyone’s got to make a living.”

It’s true, you know. Maybe that quote should grace the school walls.

The parents want access to little Sharif at all times. He must have his phone. They say this is for safety but how does his phone keep him safe? In the event of a school shooting, phones would make it less safe, not more.

Here is how it really works:

In the middle of his seventh grade class, while the teacher is attempting to teach an English lesson, Sharif jumps up and says, “My mom is calling me!” and runs out of the room.

“My mom is calling me,” is the universal excuse for why they have to have their phones. I wanted to scream, “Barack Obama is calling me but I’m gonna let him go to voicemail because I am at work!” But no. Mom above all.

Mom is not calling for safety. Nine times out of ten Mom is not calling for any reason that could not wait until after school. Maybe she’s mad that Sharif didn’t take out the trash. At best, it’s a change in who is picking up whom. All of these pieces of information could wait until after school. But no, Mom has to tell Sharif right now.

Sharif runs out of the room. All the kids are distracted. The teacher has to take two minutes to get their attention (such as it is) back.

Sharif comes back in. He looks downtrodden. Mom yelled at him. Now Sharif will not be able to concentrate on his lesson. A day of English class is lost for Sharif because Mom had to have access to him right then.

That’s the best case scenario. Here’s what is happening more often:

— a 12th grade girl is looking at a picture of a naked man on her phone

— half the class is playing a video game on their phone

— beautiful, sweet Jana in the tenth grade is distraught. I keep telling her to put her phone away. But she’s in a text war with someone about something, likely a boy. Finally, I call the Dean and he takes her phone. “But Ms. Smith, I’m going through something.” I get it, honey, but you’re in school.

— the kids are making TikTok videos of their dances because they think they will make a living as influencers

— a boy is bragging to his buddies about his girl. Another boy claims that the young lady is not his girl. One says he will call her. This is on school hours! I say, “Gentlemen, here we draw the line. You will not bother this young lady and distract her from her studies.” I call the Dean. She takes the phone.

— the boys prank call some store - from math class

— kids are in the bathroom making Tik Tok videos. For a long, long time when they should be in class.

— a seventh grader sees porn on an older kids’ phone

If you think these things only happen when a sub is in the room, think again. The regular teachers spend half their time fighting the phones too. “Put your phone away!”

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Adults can’t resist the draw of that Godforsaken object in their pocket. How can we expect children to?

This is insane. Your tax dollars and mine are paying for kids to be on cell phones! Or for their attention to be constantly drawn away. Is that what you thought you were funding when you decided public education was a good idea?

This could easily be solved. 24 states have bell to bell bans. The devil is in the details, of course. Jonathan Haidt (on whom I have a big crush having binge read his entire blog) describes the ways to test if cell phone bans are working.

At one school where I worked, halfway through the year the principal began a policy of taking the kids’ phones at the start of the day and returning them at the end. All of a sudden, I had the kids’ attention sometimes!!! I saw the difference. Kids who previously spent all their time trying to sneak their phone out of their pocket to continue the group chat could pay a tiny bit of attention to the stated purpose of education: learning.

For cell phone bans to work, the phone must not be in the child’s possession, at all. Not in pocket, not in locker. It must be left at home or stored away, such as in the main office, all day.

Could you keep your phone in your purse or pocket or briefcase all day if you were told to? No, and you’re an adult.

The children go through some angst when they first meet a ban, but soon you hear them laughing and talking on recess and at lunch instead of staring at their phones. And the teachers’ collective blood pressure goes from near stroke level to almost normal.

The schools cannot make this happen alone. The state must. The schools will not say to the parents, “No, you can not yell at poor little Sharif on school time and by the way he’s watching porn on lunch,” to the parents. But the state government can.

Governor Shapiro is firmly in favor of the ban. It’s working its way through the legislature.

There is no doubt that cell phone bans will improve the education of our students. But for me, it goes beyond that.

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What, really, is the point of public education?

Are schools places where young people of all backgrounds will learn the basics of literacy and math, science, history and civics, and hopefully art, music, and other subjects?

Or are they day cares for kids of all ages, where kids are entitled to do whatever they want on taxpayer money?

If it’s the later, I don’t want to fund it. Or fund it more cheaply by dropping the pretense and getting rid of the teachers. Just make it an all day gym and arcade if we’re not going to require that the students engage in learning.

We’ve gotten so used to the idea that public education is a right that it’s become more of an entitlement. Parents can send their kids somewhere all day, which at least gets the kids off the streets. But if we don’t require something of the students, it’s just a daycare.

Want kids to learn to read and write?

Get rid of the phones.

Let this dragon eat them all.

Still, while I was working, I was afraid to write. Afraid that if I wrote the truth I’d lose my income, and the connections I’d worked so hard to build. I felt like part of the team… until I didn’t. I felt safe… until I didn’t.

Now that I can write again, something is happening that almost never happens to me.

Is that writer’s block?

I’m a person who can’t stop writing. I write in my head all day when I’m walking or at the store or even trying to sleep. I have articles stored up for miles on everything from gender politics to trigger warnings to why texting will destroy us all. I never stop writing.

But today it’s hard. I’m finally writing something important, that I’ve been supposed to do for a year. And it’s not coming. That never happens to me.

What am I afraid of?

Maybe after being no one for so long, it’s scary to think of being someone again. I can’t even figure out what to wear now that I’m not in my teacher disguise. Fortunately yoga pants will do for today.

Being a writer is essentially a solitary sport, and I am an extreme team player. As much as I love the quiet and the lack of “nigga bitch pussy!” while I sit at my desk in my apartment, I’m lonely. I want someone to play with, but all of my friends are scattered across not just the country and the world, doing important things. Ari is in Jerusalem, God is in is heaven, and I’m in West Philly where I don’t belong, wondering if I should just clean the house instead of writing.

It never hurts to clean the house, I suppose.

I called my pal Mark Judge, but I guess he’s writing his own articles, or more likely skateboarding. Last night I was talking with a friend from the neighborhood whom I don’t know well, and I mentioned Mark. She was shocked that I’m friends with the guy who was drawn into the Brett Kavanaugh/Christine Blasey Ford scandal.

“Are you glad that Brett Kavanaugh is on the Supreme Court?” she asked.

I was shocked for a moment that someone actually believed the Brett did anything wrong… I guess I’ve been hanging out with Mark for so long that I know the backstory of the opposition research hit they tried to pull on Kavanaugh, dragging Mark in and nearly ruining his life. A less strong man would have been driven to suicide. I’m so glad that Mark is as strong as he is because without him, I wouldn’t be sitting here writing. Without him I probably wouldn’t be any number of things I am now.

When I first started writing for Splice Today, which is more libertarian than anything but definitely not progressive, one of my ex boyfriends from college told me I was being manipulated by conservative men. This was the piece to which he referred, The Beauty of Female Passion. It has never ceased to amaze me, from 1992 on, how liberal and progressive men tell me I don’t know my own mind, while conservative men ask me questions and seem genuinely interested in what I think.

I remember a conversation with another Mark, many years ago, that started when he asked me why I was a liberal. As we got about three hours into talking (we were in a van on the way to DC and stuck in traffic) the thought flashed across my mind, so clearly I can remember it verbatim, 33 years later. “This person is genuinely interested in what I think.” Not in proving a point or converting me to anything.

That progressive ex from college got mad at me when I told him I was reading Bari Weiss. Not that I took any particular stance, just that I was reading her. Thought crime? He unsubscribed from my blog over my stance on Israel. We haven’t talked since.

So here we are. I used to write with a copy of Mark’s book The Devil’s Triangle on my desk but I can’t seem to find it now. It will turn up. With as much as I cling to pieces of writing, maybe I should get a teddy bear or something. Have you ever seen a plush Solzhenitsyn?

This dude would NOT make a good teddy bear.

Live Not By Lies by Solzhenitsyn.

As the weeks went by and things got worse, my good friend sent me this.

I first fell in love with Solzhenitsyn in tenth grade, when I took Russian Literature. Tenth grade, the grade where the students I had now could not write five coherent sentences.

I swore I would be like Solzhenitsyn. That I wouldn’t be complicit. All through high school and college and for many years after, I never doubted that. How did the firebrand girl who wasn’t afraid to lead a sit in at the Yale President’s office in 1996 become this tired, angry woman with the light going out of her eyes, clutching a PDF of Solzhenitsyn and a bunch of stickers? How did the woman who just a few years ago published articles in support of Israel and against antisemitism, even as her neighborhood got more dangerously anti-Israel, come to be sitting at her keyboard, typing out articles in a rage but afraid to hit publish?

Lie by lie. Hope by hope, broken dreams. Again and again.

Things get worse at the end of every year. That is to be expected. But things got much worse. I won’t go into detail but events occurred that made it obvious that my physical safety was in danger. And for what? A $216 a day paycheck with no benefits, no healthcare, no disability insurance? The ability to say, “I’m a teacher,” when what that means is, “I try to keep the peace while kids run and scream?”

I could no longer put my own safety at risk. If I got hurt, I have no disability benefits and no healthcare. Who takes care of my little family if I can’t work? Not the school. There’s no one but me.

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What was worse than fearing for my safety was the fear that I was losing my soul.

Love for the little ones was turning to anger. Respect to the point of reverence for leadership was turning into… confusion? Contempt? “What is it you think we are doing here?” I wanted to ask.

But I didn’t want to give up. I had made a commitment. I believed that all of these people are doing the best that they can under difficult circumstances, and I still do. But I cannot live with the lies.

Solzhenitsyn and my old college friend, as well as another from a different era of my life, to the rescue. As PTSD symptoms that had been in remission for a while returned, I resigned my long term sub post.

Frederick Douglass did not fight for the descendants of slaves to make Tik Tok videos in the classroom. Replace those Black Lives Matter posters in every classroom with Black Literacy Matters and teach the kids to read and write. Until then, I will not be a part of it.

Solzhenitsyn does not ask us to go to the gulag. He doesn’t even ask us to speak out.

“We are not called upon to step out onto the square and shout out the truth, to say out loud what we think—this is scary, we are not ready. But let us at least refuse to say what we do not think!”

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It is not education to pass children from grade to grade when they can’t perform the basic tasks of grade level. To participate in the system is to perpetuate the lie.

Alone, it feels impossible to get out. I felt trapped. Get through the day, get through till the end of the year… but not when I might be trampled in a fight or accidentally knocked down by an out of control seventh grader in a classroom where only certified special ed teachers should be.

Live not by lies. Keep repeating it.

I am not alone. That’s what I realized. The article held my hand even though I had nightmares every night.

We Yalies of my little tribe don’t abandon our own. I was watching Ahsoka when I first started writing about Israel, and thought, if Sabine would risk the galaxy for her Ezra, the least I can do is write an article for mine.

I feel like my friends went to the other side of the galaxy to bring me home.

Sticker Lady is gone.

April Smith is back.

After months of looking down, I can see the sky again.

Zahir wants to be an English teacher when he grows up. He is always polite. He does his work, in class, never cheats using Google or AI. He comes and gives me little hugs when he sees me. It took me a while to learn the spelling of his real name to write the bathroom pass, and he was very patient about it.

He is smart, has impulse control, and is articulate. There are a whole lot of you liberals who are trained to believe the word “articulate” is racist when used for a black person, but it’s a real thing. Most of his classmates can’t get out a sentence in proper English. I am not making light of it or too much of it. You come live the life I live and tell me what you see.

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So Zahir wants to be an English teacher. He will need to take the SAT to get into college. He wants to go to Temple which has a great teaching program. He has wonderful, logical ambitions. This young man is the future.

I told him I teach SAT prep. I brought up some SAT questions on my laptop.

“Miss I don’t have any idea what this is talking about.”

No, of course he doesn’t. The SAT is hard. It proves that you are fluent in academic English, that you can read studies. It’s more science now than it was when I took it. My friends from college may be shocked at the new version.

If I had a semester with Zahir and a few of the best kids in the school, I could get their SAT verbal scores up to Ivy level. I know I could. Give me these kids for a semester, the driven ones, the motivated ones, and I will forever alter their life path. Colleges are falling over themselves to admit black kids from the hood but they can’t find qualified ones. I’ll make them.

But no. That idea would go nowhere. It sounds like a joke when I say it out loud.

Instead, tons of money and resources go to social workers, case managers, and one-on-ones for the worst kids. The ones with the behavior problems, the ones who just want to disrupt and don’t want to learn. I’m done with feeling sorry for them. They have problems and should get help, but they poison the school for the kids who are trying. Who care.

Our society had made a collective decision to reward bad behavior and punish the good. The kid who is the most disruptive gets the most attention. The kids who are good quietly shut down. Teachers don’t have time to give them the attention they deserve because we are too busy managing the kids who are a threat to themselves and others on a daily basis.

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The good kids should matter more than the ones who are abjectly dysfunctional. But the system values the dysfunctional many times more. They get all the resources, all the excuses, all the time in the world. Only a small percentage of kids with IEPs can fail, else the school gets in trouble.

I have a solution. Controversial, but it would work:

Kick the bad kids out.

Get rid of the behavior problems. Send them to the schools that are more like military schools, where they can be re-parented because they obviously did not learn how to behave at home. Their iPhone addicted and likely drug addicted parents didn’t parent them so let the state do it if you love the state so much. Or send them to work. Get the disrupters away from the kids who have a chance, who want to become productive members of society.

I want Zahir to go to Temple, become an English teacher, learn to use the English language. I want him to write. I want him to marry a nice young lady and have his own children. I want to teach his children in middle school. Is that too much to ask?

But if things don’t change he won’t have a chance. Because the norms are so low, and the good kids don’t get any attention.

Someone has to fight for them. I’m looking around. I don’t see anyone else.

Guess it’s me.

I am trying very hard not to curse, but seriously my beloved readers, WTF???

This was the “Consent Festival” in Clark Park, the park where I visit the super hot farmer and his charming, hard working American sons every weekend and buy farm raised meat and produce, some of which will go into a delicious sausage and kale soup tonight.

The Consent Festival was in the middle of the park. Tables in a circle with all sorts of no doubt taxpayer funded nonprofits hawking their… uh… services.

Many were about sexual health. That’s great. Condoms, HIV home tests (didn’t even know they had those!)

But some were downright bizarre. One table I stopped by featured several obviously men dressed as women talking about their hotline for rape survivors.

They happily informed me that it was trans-led and trans-staffed.

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Okay, fine. Trans people are assaulted and should be able to talk to fellow trans people about it if they want. My actual best friend is a trans person, and she’s way more conservative than I am. She detests these people so much that she said to call her back when I was outta there when I started telling her what I was seeing. She didn’t transition to be trans, she wanted to live as a woman. By age sixty I think you know. Anyhow…

This survivors’ hotline is staffed by men with penises pretending to be women. As a survivor of multiple sexual assaults, I’d have to tell you - the last person I’d have wanted to talk about it with would have been a person with a penis who puts on a dress and pretends to be a woman. Thanks but no thanks.

I walked on. There was a woman who teaches consent and hosts cuddle parties. Yes, cuddle parties. She had stuffed bears, and said that she would give me one if I’d do an exercise with her. Sure, I said, because I love stuffed animals and the bear was quite cute.

“Can I kiss you?” she asked.

I noticed that her green eye shadow was very becoming and if I were attracted to women I might have said, “Sure! Why not?” But I’m not so I said, “Not right now.”

She proceeded to interrogate why I said “Not right now” instead of “No.”

Because I am polite and Southern, I said, still hoping to win the bear. I did, btw.

We chatted for a bit. She said she hosts cuddle parties where you can just say no to people who ask to give you a hug for practice at saying no.

Thanks, I get enough practice at saying no when I get asked by five homeless people for money every day. Or, “Can I ask you a question?” No, you can’t. You have no right to intrude on my day.

I walked along, collecting info for the book. All background.

I came upon a nice young woman who does some kind of sexual health education. Whatever. But the young lady, in her twenties I’d say, was paler than I am, with blonde hair and blonde eyebrows.

“Dear, forgive me if it’s too personal, but are you wearing sunscreen?”

No, she was not. She said she hadn’t thought of it. The girl was in direct sunlight.

“This is a medical emergency sweetie (I refer to everyone as though they are my student these days) I’m going home to grab my hardcore sunscreen and I’m coming back with it.”

So I walked the about twenty minute walk, grabbed a bottle of Helios sunscreen that my ex researched and recommended and brought it back to her.

“You are saving my life,” she said.

Awwww. I’m saving her from becoming a long haired lobster, for sure.

On my way home I bought a book from one of the booksellers on the street called White People Surrender. It’s hilarious. I’ll write a review when I’m done reading it. I have to give the author credit, he’s got guts.

Me and my white girl friend put on our sunscreen and had a moment of solidarity.

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Meanwhile, I was reading one of Rob Henderson’s Substack notes about consent. How men have been so trained to think they will be charged with assault if they even talk to a girl. Thank the Goddess I grew up before all that.

Though to be honest, I was always the aggressive one. Ask anyone I ever kissed, “Was there any doubt in your mind that I wanted to kiss you?”

None. I was clear. I am nothing if not direct.

I have never, that I recall, grabbed a man by the hair and dragged him back to my cave. But I might, if he had enough hair and I had a cave.

As it stands, I am clear. I think all women should be. No means no and yes means yes.

The younger generations are swimming in an ocean of doubt. My friends wonder if they will be blessed with grandchildren. No one seems to know how to do the basics: get a job, get married, have kids.

Now granted, I didn’t do that. But it wasn’t the easy way out when I didn’t follow the script. Now the hard way is what used to be the script.

Heaven help us all. As cars drive past my apartment blasting rap screaming the N word that I wait all week to get away from, I contemplate a move. A big one. This is getting old.

I love fries and consensual sex. But I still don’t get the consent fries thing.

Our children yell, “Hi Sticker Lady” “I love you!” “You’re the GOAT!” from the stairs. Some sneak in for a hug and a sticker wherever they figure out I’m subbing. They ask if I’ll be in their class and they’re sad if I’m not.

The teacher came back on the long term class I was subbing, and the kids were mad, but they adjusted. I told them that they must work hard and be respectful to her. Maybe they listened.

Now a teacher is gone, the long term sub appears to have quit, and they’re assigning me to her classes. Special ed math, what I am least qualified for. But I am qualified to be a steady presence.

Nice white people in the suburbs or in high rises could not imagine what I see every day. Kids don’t sit in their seats. They throw punches and swear. I hear the N word more than in one day than I did in twenty or thirty years as a white person. And yes, I know the difference between the hard r and not.

Just plain “nigga,” they say, over and over again until it repeats in my ears and I am confronted with the utter failure of urban public education.

We are supposed to be teaching these kids to be functional, literate members of society who can support their own families.

Instead we are raising entitled brats who run around, play with their phones, make Tik Tok videos and cheat with AI. They have no intention of ever doing the work or learning. Their free lunch and free breakfast and tons of snacks, no doubt paid for on an EBT card because that’s how the neighborhood is… well, that’s just part of it. They have not been taught that work has value so how can we be surprised or angry when they take the easy way out?

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Maybe it’s too much.

I love the people I work with. I love the kids.

But the exhaustion after dealing with these kids for almost eight hours… it’s becoming too much.

My favorite teacher was crying on Tuesday. She is in charge of all the testing and it’s too much. It’s too much.

I love her. I wanted to be her… once. Once when I believed what I now think is a whole hill of lies.

I insisted on staying to help her.

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It’s eating into my mental and physical health. I’m eating too much out of stress. I can’t sleep.

Only Loviefluffy’s sweet purrs and the soft breeze through the window make it okay.

SAT prep awaits me. A whole new world. I will fulfill my commitment, but then I am done.

When I first listened to “Angry Young Man,” I knew that I identified with the angry young man, not the narrator. I believed in causes. I was filled with righteous anger, and rightly so. Now that the Epstein mess has dragged in my high school, Interlochen, you may have some idea of what I went through before I even got to college. I had a reason to be angry and my friends had reasons too.

For years, anger was my fuel. While at Yale, I mostly had fun… the Yale Political Union, working as a computing assistant and taking computer science classes, getting frozen mochas at the Daily Cafe… all a short break from the CAUSE. But the strike of the Yale Unions in 1996 came around and I signed on… with lifelong results.

I believe I’ve passed the age

Of consciousness and righteous rage

Found that just surviving was a noble fight.

I once believed in causes too, had my pointless point of view.

Life went on no matter who was wrong or right.

— Billy Joel, “Angry Young Man.”

There’s still more angry young man in me than I sometimes believe, but I’ve learned that just surviving is a noble fight. Every day that I go and do my very hard job, take care of my kitty, keep the house clean and the bills paid, is a victory. I want to expect so much more of myself, but just surviving is a noble fight.

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On Saturday at the farmers’ market, I ran into the same canvasser I had met the week before. He was canvassing for a liberal nonprofit that does environmental things. I’m not a fan and if I had extra money it would go first to my own family then to a cat shelter. Not to a liberal nonprofit. Be that as it may…

This young man, whose name wasn’t Zion but I’ll call him that, was very sweet, enthusiastic, and exhausted. I had met him the week before when we had a conversation about how I’m not going to support his nonprofit. Then we chatted more about how hard canvassing is. Having done union house visits and phone banks, I know. It’s awful to put yourself out for target practice, begging from anyone and making yourself vulnerable to all their anger and frustration. I’m always nice to canvassers, no matter what.

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This week Zion was more tired. He asked me again to join and I reminded him that I wasn’t going to. But I said I hoped he was doing okay.

He tried to put a good face on it.

I pulled out the $2 in cash I had in my pocket and said, “Could I give you this? Buy a cup of coffee on me.”

He said his account was down to zero and he might just by a bottle of water. That seems good. He was really grateful though.

It helps to see that someone cares. Neither of us are bought into the political cause he’s standing out there begging for - but we are both humans who have been through it. I wanted to help him with what I could.

Zion is out there surviving. So I am. So are you. It’s a noble fight. Some days we can do more than survive, but on those days when we just make it, let’s not sell ourselves short.

And there’s always a place for the angry young man…

The farm not long before we had to leave, as the sun was setting casting a shadow on the trees. That would not be a good place for the angry young man. It’s too peaceful.

I am grateful today that I got to spend Mother’s Day with my mother, and that she is still with us, driving, and preaching at church at 81! I know how blessed I am to have her in my life. I went to her church were she was filling in for the pastor who is out of town, and then we went to Wegman’s for lunch and shopping. A nice Mother’s Day, though I’m coming down with a cold and a thunderstorm just started.

As a woman who never had children, I have almost never felt conflicted about the matter. I never had children because I never wanted children. Year after year, people would ask me, “When are you going to get married and have kids?” “I don’t want kids.”

“You just haven’t found the right guy yet,” they’d often say, as though it’s part of a script.

“No, I’ve found several good guys, I just don’t want kids.”

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As I got older it became more ridiculous. Some people would say that I should have kids because even though I was not married and did not want children, it could still be done!

Finally at the age of 51 I seem to have passed the point when people pressure me to have children. I strongly support people having children, and one of the best things about many of the jobs I’ve had has been covering for parents who have family emergencies and have to be out. I am far from anti-children or anti-motherhood - I think those are wonderful, indeed necessary things. I just never wanted kids myself.

The closest I ever came to getting married and having children was a long, long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. Or, rather, in Vermont, which may as well be another galaxy.

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I was 27, running the biggest organizing campaign ever to be won in Vermont and the biggest one to be won in the AFL-CIO that year, 2002. The plot line was complicated when I started dating Vermont’s most attractive single man. He had never been married and was 46 at the time, but looked much younger and was the only man in Vermont who could properly wear any item of clothing from Brooks Brothers.

He was an up and coming City Council Member (they didn’t say Councilman) in Burlington, VT, and a former high up staffer to Bernie. Even then, one needed not say, “Bernie Sanders.” Just “Bernie” was explanation enough.

I think his party was actually called the Progressives. He was as progressive as progressive can be. He was widely believed to be the heir apparent to his mentor Bernie, and as we got quite serious, I imagined it was just as likely that I might end up the wife of the junior Senator from Vermont someday. He had political ambitions, to be sure, and I would have been a great accessory… and even better at running campaigns.

He loved golf, his two cats, and the Red Sox. I have never been a baseball fan, but he tried to convert me with all the enthusiasm of an evangelical at an altar call. He gave me seven books to read about baseball. I read the books and enjoyed them, especially one about the players’ union. But when he took me to a game at Camden Yards while we were in Baltimore, he seemed disappointed when I asked if it would be okay if I read.

Things didn’t work out, and I went home to Philadelphia where I belong, to take over as Director of Organizing of the union where I was for a decade. But if we had married I am fairly sure we would have had at least one child. And given his close relationship with Bernie and the political ties involved, there is a good chance that Bernie would have been godfather to my child.

My son or daughter might have addressed Senator Sanders as, “Uncle Bernie.”

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Some wise person whose book I can never find wrote something to the effect of:

We always imagine that a different future would have been better.

But there is a fifty-fifty chance it would have been worse.

Or as my best friend is fond of quoting an old labor movement icon with a strange sense of humor: “If the queen had wheels, she’d be a wheelbarrow.”

While I greatly appreciate and support the mothers (and fathers) out there, especially those who are trying to raise their children with traditional values in a world that seems to want us all turned into terrorists with pink hair and unflattering outfits, I am just as happy that I am not one of them.

Sure, there is some alternative universe where I married and had a child or two and became the wife of the junior Senator from somewhere… or the Senator myself.

But I could have ended up with a child who calls Bernie Sanders “Uncle Bernie.”

I’ll stick with life as it is.

I was not all that surprised as I had heard her hunting cry in the night. She howls to wake the dead, or to kill the living, when in pursuit of a mouse. We live in an old Victorian cut into apartments in West Philly, and no matter how clean you keep the place, you’re going to get a mouse every few months. Still, I wonder how the local mouse community has not gotten the memo. THERE IS A DANGEROUS CAT THERE! DO NOT ENTER!

Apparently my local mice are repeat offenders and slow learners.

Of course I praised her Fluffy Majesty for her feat of hunting, thanked her for protecting the home front from vermin, and petted her at length. Then I removed the mouse from the house and put it outside for a burial at garbage.

It occurred to me that some of my old liberal friends, especially the vegan yoga teacher, would be horrified that my cat killed a mouse and left it on my yoga mat.

“So much for ahimsa!” he would screech, referring to the yogic ethical principle of non-harming. I really did love that yoga teacher - he was a fabulous teacher with a dominant streak that he would deny exists - but he went psycho vegan and is now a religion professor with a PhD and a bunch of keffiyehs.

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Here is what he fails to understand: it is the cat’s nature to kill the mouse. This is a world with a food chain, with predator and prey. Most of the time, she is a cuddly throw pillow with ears. But once every few months, she becomes her natural self, and tortures a mouse to death. It’s who she is.

There are people who would insist on feeding tarantulas vegetarian pellets, when all know that tarantulas only eat live prey. There are those who feed cats vegan cat food even though cats are natural carnivores who have serious health problems if they don’t eat meat products.

There are plenty of people who insist that the world is not the way it is, and that we should contort ourselves into pretzels to make it other than it is.

There are those who see things entirely through the lens of oppressor and oppressed, all determined by color.

On this Loviefluffy would win because she is black! She’s black so she must be the oppressed, not the oppressor! I’m sure if she scratches me, a white woman, it is my fault (actually we have a comfortable arrangement regarding scratching, all are at peace with it.)

She was born on these blocks. A true West Philly black girl. Her street cred is impeccable.

I imagine a few who figure out that she is a conservative cat might want to dig deep to find out if her skin is white beneath that black fur. Those people are likely to lose a hand or an arm or an eye if they try to dig into my cat, and they would deserve it.

Some wacko vegan progressive out there probably thinks that we should let the mice overrun our modest home because they are lower down on the food chain than either Loviefluffy or I, so they must be given the land, even if they make the rest of us miserable, leave trash everywhere and eat all the Splenda (newer readers may have missed the time the mice ate approximately 1000 packets of Splenda in my kitchen cabinet. Tastes just like sugar, they say!)

Loviefluffy and I have a lot of shared values. Calm, quiet, routine, early to bed and early to rise. Listening the birds sing in the morning, cuddling at night. Getting rid of those who invade our home.

Is Loviefluffy the oppressor? Only in a worldview that denies the natural order of things.

If you think that way, I suggest you not visit. She would likely bite you.

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I’ve written elsewhere about how kids already spend way too much time out of school. Between summers, celebrating every religious or cultural holiday that is observed by almost anyone (except the places that don’t celebrate Jewish holidays) and snow or other weather emergency days, kids experience far too many interruptions in instruction. Maybe you have to be a parent or a teacher to see what this does to kids. Every day missed means at least one day getting back in the swing of things, and for those in poor and dangerous neighborhoods, it’s one more day in the streets and not in the classroom, or one more day absorbing social media and playing violent computer games.

The last thing teachers should be doing is encouraging children to skip school. For any reason. But certainly not because of a made up “strike” that is supposed to target billionaires who are behind every evil that the NEA can think of, judging from their website. (I’m not going to drive traffic to it by linking, but if you want you can google it as easily as I did.) They don’t explicitly tell kids to skip school - not that I could find - but there are tons of articles and how-to guides about planning May 1 actions. It would be hard to miss that this is planned as a national school/work/shopping strike.

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A strike, for those not familiar with the labor movement, is supposed to be a tool workers use to gain better wages, benefits and working conditions from their actual employer, not a collective temper tantrum. People fought for the eight hour day, and for many other wonderful things that are commemorated on May Day, or should be. People also fought for an end to child labor, and putting kids in mandatory school was part of that fight. Replacing work hours with school hours - can’t be in the factory using those little fingers to create piecework if you’re in school learning to read and write! A wonderful idea, it was.

Now the progressives are encouraging kids to “strike” from school. How will this help anyone? It will certainly hurt the actual children, who have enough problems learning to read and write as it is. It’s like if the nurses’ union told patients to take the day off from taking their prescription medication!

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I also feel bad for the teachers who need the union’s help with issues actually concerning wages, benefits and working conditions, and who may feel pressured to go along with nonsense of this sort or else risk being bullied by union activists. When I was a member of the union as a full time teacher, before my conversion to being openly anything but liberal, the union helped me with the issues it is supposed to. I am grateful for the help in navigating a necessary medical leave. That is what unions are for.

Fortunately I now work in a charter that does not have the union. I doubt that many kids, if any at all, will observe this “strike” or even know about it. I plan to go to work, do my best to educate children, encourage them to stay in school and maybe even read a book (!) and then just to top off my day of activism against the planned “strike,” I might buy something. Something small, to be sure, but I could use another pair of cat socks.

More at another time on why someone who was a union organizer for twenty years vehemently opposes the two largest teachers’ unions. For now, I have to get to work. There are children who need to be educated… and who need stickers!

It is a quick read, written in verse. It just keeps coming at you. I couldn’t put it down.

Mild spoilers ahead, but nothing you wouldn’t find out in the first three pages or so.

The book shows us life through the eyes of a boy whose older brother was just shot and killed.

He introduces us to The Rules, and they aren’t The Rules of how to get a man to marry you.

The Rules are:

1. No crying.

2. No snitching.

3. Get revenge.

These rules permeate everything I live with every day.

The kids live in a low trust society, even if a high trust society is not far away from them. Gun violence touches everyone. So many sweet kids wear necklaces with a loved one’s picture framed by angel wings. That means the person pictured was killed.

“No snitching” is a huge part of the culture. Kids won’t say who did a bad thing. Sometimes a whole group will get punished, but most of the time, the amazingly good deans and other culture staff can figure out who did what or get a kid to tell. I’m sure they know that they are standing between these kids and jail or death.

When gun violence claims the life of a young person, how can the survivors ever be whole again?

I think that Jason Reynolds’ book shows the depth of the pain, what it can drive people to, and how the cycle just keeps repeating.

When some of my liberal friends express a willingness to forgive all violence and blame it on “the system” or “systemic racism” or some such, I often say, “I think you’d feel differently if I got shot.” Or knifed to death or what have you.

It is different when it happens to you, to your family member, to your friend or your neighbor or your coworker.

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I often cover for teachers who are at funerals. When they come back, you don’t get the sense that the funeral was for a very elderly relative who died peacefully in their sleep.

At another school, I covered for a teacher whose sister was murdered. The teacher was in her early thirties, the sister was her younger one.

How do you keep going? And how do you come in and face kids who are already showing a tendency to resort to violence?

The thing I love most about my school is that the violence is really kept at bay. Other schools have fights, even if they are not frequent and even if the pre-fight gets broken up. Mine really doesn’t. If I call the Dean about a pre-fight, a play fight, or heaven forbid someone threatening something scary, the Deans are on it. No question that they back me up.

Of everyone, I think I love the Deans the most. Sure I love the other teachers and the kids, and all the AP’s and the Marvelous Mr. M, but I love the Deans the most. And Charlotte.

Charlotte Tarantula is getting ready for supper. She will eat on Thursday. She’s up on the side of her terrarium looking beautiful. As it turns out, she is a Pinktoe Tarantula, not a rosehair. She really does have pink toes!!! Like a tarantula with ballet slippers on!

(Closest I could find without paying for ChatGPT’s image generator, which I will not be doing. I clearly need this pair of shoes.)

To understand the kids, you have to interpret everything they do through the lens of gun violence. Lives can be taken and turned upside down in a flash. There is no security. The future is far from guaranteed, so there is a great deal of pressure to live in the present, even at the cost of future possibilities.

Everything can happen so quickly for these kids that their lives are unstable even in the midst of parents trying to do everything they can to give their kids stability. That’s one reason why I have to keep showing up every day. Yes, I need the money. Yes, I like the job a lot. But the kids need to see Sticker Lady. Those stickers are a tiny piece of stability in an ocean of danger.

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Even with the horror that surrounds them, the kids are joyful. We do that on purpose. Music lights up the hallways in the morning. There are clubs and fun events and sports and cheerleaders. Girls who may have lost their fathers, uncles, grandfathers, even brothers, can still jump and scream with the best of them.

In some ways it shows that life will not be defeated. I just wish life didn’t have to fight so hard.

That song from the nineties by Maroon 5 that goes

I don’t mind spending every day

Out on your corner in the pouring rain…

Just popped into my head. Don’t really know why.