Time to Stop Feeding the Trolls

Here at the Compound we have slowly but steadily been working toward making positive (and in some instances significant) changes.  Realizations are one thing, they can be both enlightening and painful as you accept that something you’ve been doing because you enjoy it is really hurting you on a broader scope.  It is the difference between seeing a part versus a whole.

There is plenty of talk about the great disconnect, how the digital age has wrought miracles via access to information and global communication, yet is eroding our ability to communicate as humans and appreciate life and our relationships with it.  For the people in my age bracket, we’ve witnessed a time of miracles.  We are the last, in that we remember and still have one foot anchored in the non-digital age.  We retain the skill sets that came with functioning then, including the patterns of communication.  It is important to remember that no matter how hard we stress it, or how much reminiscing we do, or how many cautionary tales we share – our children simply cannot appreciate that to the extent we want, and they never will.

And by children I mean our co-workers as well, for we are now the upper generational echelon in our respective workplaces.

I love my technology, always have.  I am reasonably intelligent with good problem-solving skills, but I am still not a native.  I will never have the innate comfort level that people born in the last 30 years have by growing up with this level of access.

Social media is an amazing thing.  Having had a front row seat to its evolution and impact on society as a whole really must be the equivalent to sociological porn.  Chat rooms and forums drew us in, made us stay logged in and watching the screen just for the chance to interact with a finite number of people that honestly we likely had nothing in common with or would never interact with on a daily basis if given the opportunity.  To today, where we can send a message to the other side of the globe instantly and live stream from Katmandu if we so choose.  There should be a sense of awe there but for the majority there is no appreciation for the enormity of that ability.  Lost in a sense of entitlement and expectation that is completely artificial in origin.

It is also a vortex, a black hole that is devouring the two things we need the absolute most in order to interact successfully, grow and thrive as individuals.  It steals our time and attention, it is a greedy thing and the more you give it the more it wants.  We only have a finite amount of both and we squander it, investing ourselves in newsfeeds and remote exchanges with people who have earned no additional rights to our lives.  It is the ultimate in self-absorption and we can’t get enough of it.

Notice I keep saying “we,” there is no glass house here.  I am equally guilty of investing so much of myself in technology that I’ve lost opportunities, ignored relationships and missed events that I will never get to see or do again.  For what?  So that at the end of my particular journey I will be able to say, “I had a great timeline!”

So on Valentine’s Day I did an unofficial experiment with myself.  I deliberately changed and observed my interactions with social media for the day.  My goals were simple, look at how I was using it, try NOT to post anything personal, and then figure out what it was taking away from me.

 The following stream of consciousness is the result:

Woke up to breakfast in bed.  The Viking had taken the Head to fencing.  The girl in her footie pajamas had snuck downstairs and made me breakfast.  It consisted of two pieces of (barely) cinnamon toast, strawberries that she had carefully cut the stems off of, and a little cup of whipped cream to dip them in.  She had arranged it all on a platter, placing a single chocolate in the center from her own Valentine’s stash.

I immediately wanted to take a picture and post it on Facebook.  I did not, and shared it with my audience of one instead.

Idiot dogs were flipped over on the bed and were actually in the shape of a heart.  I notice the composition and want to share.  I resist the urge, but it makes me wonder if a positive side effect to social media is, in fact, art.  Increased creativity (even from people who suck at it).

Sit down at the computer to do some morning writing.

Spent an hour looking up quotes, history of valentines, articulating a paragraph about why I didn't even want to participate in the holiday to begin with.  Didn't post.

Checked the news, liked a few things.  Saved pertinent links.

But wait, someone I haven't seen in 15 years shared a video.

Oh, look a blog entry about something amusing (but not relevant)

Oh I like that, should I share it?  What are the implications, yes/no, who will understand the enigmatic point behind it?

Three misspelled memes, utterly destroying the satiric value of the post.  They should be killed.

Six weather reports.  Snow.

TED talks.  They're ok, they can stay.

Recipes.  Recipes are a trap – they look amazing and eventually you admit you will never make 90% of them, but you save them anyway.

Publishing house news / writing information.  That's ok too.

A sprinkle of Jesus.

A dash of all liberals are victims.

A pinch of all conservatives are rapists.

A dollop of “the terrorists make me so mad that I’m going to malign them with my wicked Photoshop skillz.”

Thanks Obama.

A Brian Williams meme – ok, that one was funny.

A half dozen dogs who will be killed, are lost and/or are being mistreated (no really, putting pictures of animal sexual abuse on your feed may not have the societal impact you think, though I wish you luck in your quest).

SAVE ALL THE DOGS.  Then SPAY ALL THE DOGS.  (and kittehs)

Kid pictures!  Awww.  OMG that's like six since I went to bed - but I’m looking anyway, and I've never met the kid.

Vaccines are implanting microchips in you that work in conjunction with EZ pass.

Food is poison, but here’s a recipe to make it look delicious.

Speaking of food, my time is up and I need to get out the door with the girl.

Please note: no actual writing occurred during all of that.  Time lost.

Awesome time at the Farmer's Market, I was going to tag myself there with something witty - but the phone stayed in my purse and my attention stayed on my daughter, who tenaciously clung to my hand while rambling on about the different species of dragons that occupy the fictional world she's building inside of her head.

Of course, I had trouble getting in the door because it was blocked by three young people glued to their screens.

Came home and got my combination birthday/valentine gift.  It's a Tiffany bracelet, with the distinctive silver heart.  "Please return to Tiffany & Co."  I cry, then have to tell the story about why I cried (spoiler alert: it involves a dead grandmother).  I think about taking a picture to show everyone, but decide to stay in the moment instead.

Sit down to work on schoolwork, but first - the wall!

Half hour gone - watching a mesmerizing “Uptown Funk” ab workout, bunch of whales dying, you WILL NEVER BELIEVE what happens next (trust me, you will not only believe it, you've probably seen it), Oh wait, 58 facts about Star Wars?  Whaaaat?  Inspirational quotes, more dogs, OMG did you know it's going to snow?

Why do I keep refreshing?  Because that crafty bastard Zuckerburg makes the feed slightly different each time, and it won't match my phone so now I have to check that.

I MIGHT MISS SOMETHING.

Oh look, now there’s a comment on something I shared that is mildly insulting.  Frown.  “Don’t engage crazy, don’t engage crazy, and don’t engage crazy.”  Nope, have to do it.  Type watered down response.  Sure enough, crazy engages and oh look they even throw out a personal reference so that anyone reading it might get the inference that there is some long-standing friendship or inside track here.  Now I’m aggravated.

Aggravated by someone who in the real world I would have pretty much zero interaction with, has no current personal or professional relationship with me and really doesn’t deserve a window into my life.  But Facebook being what it is they get one and they like to use those opportunities to pretty much just be obnoxious.

I gave them that power.  Not social media, I did that.  Do not feed the trolls.  We forget this sometimes.

So there we go, another 45 minutes gone.  I type 70 - 75 words a minute, I just lost the opportunity to put down another 3000 words or so toward a writing project or schoolwork.  Gone, not coming back.

Oh look, an article on how a nap will improve my productivity.  Great idea!

Insert nap.

Social media is a wonderful communication tool.  I find it to be an extremely helpful resource when I need to connect with someone for school, sometimes work and certainly my friends and family who are at a distance.  When media fills all our gaps however, it leaves us no time to be creative or to develop.  I have no intention of giving it up, but it’s obvious that I need to change my relationship with it.

Writers I admire greatly all recognize the dangers here and speak about it freely.  Neil Gaiman is incredibly accessible on media, yet takes a full month off at a time.  He says you need to be bored to help spark your creativity.  Laurell K. Hamilton uses a computer with no internet access to write on, and has turned over all of her media to her assistant with the exception of a personal Twitter account.  Anne Rice manages an extremely successful Facebook page, by the way if you write her she very often writes back (insert stupid fangirl shriek when that happened), but she schedules that time.

How will my relationship change?  I am not sure.  I’ve stopped notifications to my phone and will remove Messenger.  I have browser tools that block media sites and I can say they definitely help.  Will I remove them completely from my phone?  Honestly, I should but I do not know if I’m quite ready for that yet.  But the days of instant answers if I’m not at my desk may be gone, there's a great big life out there.

A couple of weeks ago the boy and I stopped for dinner.  He was in uniform and smiled for an obligatory picture, he’s my kid and you should all be proud of him too.  I put the phone down on the table and we talked and ate.

Another family came in and sat next to us.  A mother, father, boy and girl, they sat down in their untied shoes and unkempt clothes and immediately pulled out smart phones, all of them.  The waitress came over and during part of the interaction the daughter would not respond to the father.  He finally snapped at her that if she did not tell the waitress what she wanted he was taking her phone away.  She snapped back, “Fine.”  Not one of the four of them looked up.  The parents talked off and on, neither child spoke.  Nobody looked at each other. They went through the entire meal like this.

I looked at my son.  I make him make eye contact when he speaks to people, this is especially helpful with his hearing.  I make both of my children interact with the public, wait staff, cashiers, and salespeople.  They know how to ask for something, order their own food and to express gratitude for assistance.  They did not learn this on their own, we had to teach them this.  To say it is easy is a lie, or that we’re perfect is bullshit.  We war constantly with media.  It fills their gaps, it steals their attention, takes away from their ability to communicate.

I kept looking over at that family and couldn’t help but think how many of us could so easily sink back into the virtual world of our design.  How easy it is to never learn how to confront an environment that we did not get to create.  What we are missing, or what we are keeping ourselves from doing.

I put my phone in my purse, out of sight and focused on my son.  My time is finite, I need to make better choices on how to spend it.

A Karma Carol

A Karma Carol

‘Twas the night before last,

and there at the counter.

right in the deli,

a Karmic encounter.

Hot, sweaty, and tired,

a frazzled mess of red hair.

If my hours were shorter,

I wouldn’t be there.

It’s late and it’s hot,

just doesn’t feel fair.

To be standing in line,

Behind a man in his chair.

I smile and I wait,

though my patience is thin.

All I want is some turkey,

So I can go home and turn in.

His track suit is red,

a brace on one wrist.

Useless legs being driven

by a stick in his fist.

The top of the counter,

so far up he can’t see.

I pass him his lunchmeat,

and he smiles at me.

It doesn’t seem to bother him,

that he can’t stand up and get it.

Then he looks at me oddly

and says, “Are you a paramedic?”

I nod, the polite mask

slips safely into place.

Decades of service,

worn into my face.

Tonight I wear no patches,

few markers at all.

He must have seen my ID,

my pants or boots made that call.

Now he is animated,

“Do you work around here?”

“No sir, in Newark.

For my 26^th year.”

“I knew it!” he cries,

good hand slapping his chair.

“I’ve seen you before.”

I say, “It must be the hair.”

“You and your friends,

twice saved my life.”

“Once from a gun,

the second a knife.”

I smile at the words,

“Are you sure it was me?”

“Yes ma’am I am,

a drive-by in 93.”

“It was a hot summer night,

two blocks from your lot.

I remember your face (and hair),

the night I got shot.”

“That night took my legs,

but I got shiny new wheels.

I’d fly down 12^th Avenue,

just to see how it feels.”

“A couple of years later,

you know the Divine?

I got robbed with a knife,

right under the sign.”

“I didn’t have much,

I was kind of a wreck.

Still he took my few things,

left a blade in my neck.”

“Again came your friends,

down the street in the night.

I lost one good arm,

but still kept my life.”

His voice held no hate,

or bitter remorse.

He laughed at himself,

on his motorized horse.

Our orders were sliced,

but the clerks were distracted.

By this very real talk

of events that were tragic.

We talked for a while,

a mutual history.

About real life and real danger

and real love of one city.

See we both came from a time,

before gangs and franchises.

Each night made better,

only when the sun rises. 

We knew the same streets,

shopped the same stores.

He knew the *real* Prince Street,

when he lived on the 8^th floor.

“Night after night.

Kids shot in the head.

You and your friends drag them out,

a chance at life in its stead.”

“The politics are a sham,

the city strangled and hacked.

Yet as bad as it was,

you always came back.”

And before I knew it,

it was time to move on.

The hour was late,

the list was still long.

I expressed my condolences,

he waved off the rest.

“I have my life and my family,

I feel very blessed.”

“We don’t get to know

how our story ends.

Mine goes a bit longer,

thanks to you and your friends.”

“My name is Darin,”

using his good hand to shake mine.

“You will always be welcome,

by my family on South 9^th.”

His companion arrived

and they continued their errands.

I was left at the counter,

not quite sure what just happened.

It’s hard to explain,

the war against Death.

Our anonymous life,

revolves around that last breath.

Years of thankless service,

done in nameless grace.

All of a sudden,

I’m given a face.

Nobody notices,

nobody cares.

Until that one day,

by a man in a chair.

I was still tired,

sweaty and hot.

But I was less hopeless,

See I’d almost forgot.

That in the middle of it all,

our jobs do have meaning.

Even if just to one man, one family,

one child still dreaming.

That the reason we return,

time and time again,

Is not for the thanks,

it’s the love of the win.

The violence, disease,

the pain and the rage.

Is made a little less,

and that is our wage.

It’s self-destructive, I know

a relentless tenacity.

But there’s a reason that none of us

gets out of Brick City.

I paid for my items,

lost in my head for a time.

When I again heard his chair,

zoom by with a whine. 

I heard him exclaim,

as he drove out of sight.

“Thanks again Red,

keep up the good fight!”

Circa 1992 - 93

This is based on a real interaction I had a couple of nights ago in my local grocery store late in the evening.  While the sentences are paraphrased they contain the actual content of the conversation.  I was completed astounded that this person would remember me 21 years later, a state away - but he did, and he was so sincerely thankful to me "and my friends" that it made a very significant difference not only in my day, but regarding some other career things as well.  So Darin, thank you as well.

The Mom House

The seashell road to the house.

This is not fiction.  This is my life, or a snapshot from it.  I make no bones about coming from a long line of dedicated addicts.  In fact I've lost just about my entire family to them.  Mostly alcohol, some drugs - no matter, they're all strung out or co-dependent to someone who is.  The only away to avoid the trap, is to be able to have boundaries and stick to them.  Balanced against the inherent love of your family, having to strength say "no" and walk away comes at an incredible cost.  I understand now why my father could never do it.  Why my grandmother could never do it.  I have been able to do it, but it is profoundly heartbreaking and goes against my entire character and the values I've built a career on - to help.  To maintain it is a daily struggle that is just as constant as the addiction is and will only end when death comes.  

If you know my mother or rather, knew my mother, then do not feel you have to read this.  If you have good memories and healthy boundaries, there is no reason to look further.  I share this because I believe that when it comes to addicts, secrets are what kill the family and I won't do it.  I share it because I know (for a fact) that I am not the only adult child facing this, or to this degree.  You are not alone.  To my friends in Recovery, thank you for each day you get up and win one more round.  

The air remains heavy and hot, despite the fact that the sun has long since disappeared.  Summer nights in the south aren't so much a cooling off as a kicking off of the heavier blanket, where the sheet gets left on, keeping some of the air trapped.  The crunch of my tires on the seashell driveway is an undercurrent to the cicada songs that undulate past my window.  Past the neighbor’s place, large dark shadows move slowly, telling me the horses are out.  A break in the trees and there it is, my headlights hit the small white house sitting on the edge of the water.  The garage door is open, waiting for me.  I hesitate at the entrance and wait for the motion sensors to come on, there is no telling what the configuration of the garage will be each time I come and I can’t afford to fall out here.  Under the yellow bug lights I pick my way through the odd assortment of dry goods, fishing poles and rusting gardening tools.  The old wooden screen door leading into the house creaks tiredly, pulling it open draws a drag of fetid air with it.  I cringe inwardly as I can feel the layers of smell settling on my clothes, years of exhaled cigarettes, stale sweat, dried urine and even a trickling thread of … decomposition? 

This part of the house is quiet, living room lights on courtesy of timers.  Furniture unused for years sits on Persian rugs whose tasteful designs carefully camouflage a variety of yellow and brown stains.  I put my bags down and make my way past the virginal dining room table.  The smell of rot is a little stronger as I head into the small kitchen.  A dying cantaloupe is folding in on itself on the counter, sticky juice pooling beneath it like a little melon crime scene.  Every surface is covered with a composite of grease, odd spills and splashes.  Dishes with dried food, meals untouched or left off in the middle, sit by the sink.  I crack the refrigerator (face it, you would too) and realize this is where some of the smell is from.  Steaks, lamb, burgers, a mosaic of browns and grays that were never meant for meat.  Curiosity duly punished, I follow the sound of a blaring TV to the living room.

Piles of catalogs, loose papers and assorted garbage are dotted across the floor.  The local newscaster smiles at me with his non-regional diction from the enormous TV in the corner.  An old typewriter is on the couch next to barely literate letters on stained paper, laboriously typed to people no longer alive or who no longer care.  There is ash everywhere, empty packs and cigarette butts visible in every receptacle that will hold them.  An odd assortment of items from those discarded catalogs crowd the end tables and furniture – an Egyptian wall clock with moving Horus, an Airstream trailer birdhouse, an Uncle Sam nutcracker, bird art of all kinds.  I go to perch gingerly on the edge of a couch and am immediately hit with the acrid smell of urine from the cushions.  Failing to find safe purchase to stop and collect my thoughts, I know I have to continue looking.

The hallway leading to the bedrooms is dimly lit by a single nightlight, which is reflected by the glass in fallen picture frames that line the floor on one side of the hall.  Old family photos slump against the floor, staring up in mute indignation.  There is light coming from the last door on the right, where the garbled sound of a second TV competes with the news behind me.  I crane my head and look into the room.  She sits on the edge of a bed that’s covered in soiled sheets and a faded comforter.  Legs crossed in a very ladylike fashion, she draws deeply on her cigarette, ash falling unheeded onto the floor.  There is dried blood all over the arm of her pink satin nightgown and other, even less palatable, dried stains elsewhere.  She wobbles slightly, and an empty beer can falls from the pile atop the small garbage can next to the bed.  It clatters raucously across the hardwood floor, reminding me who the master of this house is.

I lean against the doorway.  “Hi Mom.”

Brooks

My dog Brooks died a few short nights ago, on September 10th.  A piece of me has gone with him, rightly so.

Brooks with Owen

A dozen years ago, I was pregnant with my son and we had just moved out to Pennsylvania.  At that time we were the last house on the street, surrounded by trees and far from all of our friends.  Right around Mother's Day we made the decision that we were ready to get a dog.  I was home alone frequently, we now had a house with some property, there was no reason really to prevent it.  So began the search for "the dog."

We set out looking for an Australian Cattle Dog (Blue Heeler).  A local place had a pup that was Cattle Dog and Eskimo mix, he was gorgeous ... I even named him in my head.  We got there literally ten minutes after he was placed in a home.  Dejected we went home, put our names in the ring for a few rescue sites and began looking at Petfinder.

In doing the search for a Cattle Dog, we came across this picture of a "Cattle Dog / Lab mix" named "Brooks" at a shelter all the way south in Marlton, NJ.  It was a handsome profile picture, the dog's head was tilted up and you could see he was mostly black with spots on his chest.  But Marlton is almost three hours away and surely something closer would come up.

We found a Cattle Dog pup a few days later at a nearby shelter ... missed him by two hours.  We got contacted by a rescue for a 2 year old, fully trained and raised with kids ... the foster family then adopted him.  So every day brought us back to Petfinder and the picture of Brooks.  I'd like to think that perhaps Fate was nudging us together.

Finally we took a sunny day and decided to make the trip south.  I dutifully filled out the forms online and a few days later we went.  The staff was a little surprised when we asked for him by name, but brought him out to us in the play yard.  That was when we could see why his profile pic was at such an odd angle, why his lineage was unclear on the website - the brindled square jaw, the black and tan markings, there was no doubt that this dog was not really a "lab mix" but was a Pit Bull / Rottweiler mix instead.  We learned that he was brought in to the shelter as a puppy and that nobody had taken him, that he had spent the last ten months growing up in the shelter.  We spent an hour playing with him in the sun, there was no doubt for either of us that this was "the dog."  (We love taking the ones that nobody wants.)

Back inside to sign the papers and finally Mommy is going to have her dog.  I literally had the leash in my hand when the girl looks at the form and says, "Oh ... I have to get manager's approval for this one."  Long story short, they took him away from us.  They came up with a dozen different reasons why we couldn't have him, does not matter what they are now, but we could not take him home.  We left empty-handed.

One of the hardest things I've ever done is walk away from him then, openly crying and cradling my pregnant belly, him watching us with tilted head and confused expression, his wagging tail going slower and slower as he watched us get into our car.  Oh, and it started to rain - it was a scene right off of the Lifetime Network, I'm telling you.  (The person you should really feel sorry for is the Angry Viking, listening to his pregnant wife sob hysterically all the way back home.  "Mommy's never going to have a dog!")

Mama's Boy

A few nights later I was working online and talking with one of my friends, relating the whole depressing story.  He then became a superhero, putting on his cape he flew down to the shelter - lied through his teeth on the application, smiled charmingly and sailed back out with Brooks in tow.  He then drove him directly to Pennsylvania and delivered him to me.  It was one of the most amazing and selfless things anyone has done, one that made a lifelong impact on me and my family.

Which is why for his entire life, one of Brooks' tags read "I belong to Andrew Epstein."  (Besides, it's not everyone who can say they owned a trafficked dog.)

Baby Diva and Dog

While the idea was this dog was for Chris, that lasted all of a day - he had made up his dog mind, he was a mama's boy.  The first time Chris tried to take me out to dinner, he chewed an AC unit out of the window trying to follow us.  He was my shadow, I could not even move to another room without being followed.  He would butt his way into the bathroom, then turn around and stand in the doorway.  Obviously he felt he was guarding me from intruders ... or trolls, because there are definitely trolls hiding in the recesses of the bathroom.

Thanks Dr. Heidi!

He was a relentless guardian of the children.  He slept beneath my feet when I would rock James at night, if you played too rough you would turn around to find 75 pounds of pissed off dog staring you down.  He accidentally knocked James down the stairs once as a toddler, once.  For the rest of his life he would wait on the stairs if anyone was walking on them, he never rushed past again.  Endlessly patient, he endured a decade of being dressed up, bandaged, manhandled and wrestled with - never once even growling a warning.

One word - skunk.

He was clever, he was our Houdini.  Once off the lead he was gone, a black shadow racing into the trees with Beryl fast on his heels.  He knew how to push open screen doors and has successfully managed to escape every single new dogsitter at least once.  Like the "Incredible Journey" they would limp back hours later, covered in everything from pond muck to skunk.  He would just come lay on the deck and patiently wait for us to notice that he'd come back, he'd known where home was all along.

Eat the Baby!

He knew my habits and stayed in rhythm with me better than anyone else (dogs and people included).  If I slept for 12 hours (really, I used to), then so did he - never moving until I was ready to get up.  If I worked nights, he knew that right after breakfast was bed.  He knew how to lay on his side with me during naps, head on my pillow and my arm around his chest.  And always, he would stand guard in the bathroom.

Brooks & Banshee

The kids could do anything to him, he didn't care.  If you said "eat the baby," he would cover them with kisses. The cats often slept on him, he didn't mind.  When my cat George died in my arms, he crawled onto the bed and simply leaned on me.  When Banshee was dying of cancer, he put aside his differences with her and laid with her, day after day.  He would simply curl up around her on the couch, quiet and present - which is all any of us needs sometimes.

He tolerated other dogs, but Beryl was his lifetime friend.  Having been together almost their entire lives, she still sleeps next to his bed, never on it.  It sits empty and cold next to mine.  She used to help herself to treats out of his dish, because even though it's the same food it must be better because he has it.  Today I found her standing where his dish used to be, looking at me hopefully.  I have no hope to give her.


I am forever grateful of the series of events and choices that brought him into our lives, he made this more of a home, my first home.  He was there when we brought James, and then Meredith home - he helped make us a family.  He taught my children the love of dogs and he was my best friend.

Part of the heartbreak of dogs is that when they go you feel the empty places more than you ever did before.

Who will protect me from the trolls in the bathroom now?

Rest easy buddy, I'll see you at the Bridge.

Dear Teachers ... I trust you.

Photo courtesy of: http://www.good.is

Dear Teachers,

The range of meaning that some words contain never ceases to amaze me.  The word "teacher" for me encompasses such a vast span of my life, both personally and professionally.  It is a simple term that no longer gets the venerable inference it deserves, too often associated with the assumptions of undeserved tenure, incompetent instruction and too demanding class of laborers.  As a result you also miss the facets that include the overworked, underpaid and unappreciated maestros of the didactic arena.  When you hear "teacher" what does it elicit from you?  Does it brings to mind your favorite one from school, what image does it evoke?  She's the stereotypical young woman who is patient and quiet, perhaps even boring.  He's the shop teacher with the gravelly voice and missing digits, she's the disciplinarian who obviously never remembered what it was like to be a teenager.  He's the English teacher who droned on and on about how wonderful "Crime & Punishment" is as a literary work (Sorry Mr. H, after Chapter 2 it was no Crime and all Punishment).  She's the History teacher that noticed your eyes were red-rimmed from crying and made a point to distract the class in another direction, conveniently forgetting to collect your paper.  He's the Biology teacher who made you look forward to anatomy class, and it wasn't just for the lesson plan ... (Mr. K, you know who you are.)

Titles like "teacher" stop becoming a role and begin to become a category, which can be unfortunate because labels reflect the lowest common denominator.  The word "teacher" to me gets tossed around like a Frisbee.  When you think about it, it behaves much like those same aerodynamic discs.  Depending on the skill of the toss, it will can soar a great distance - rising higher with each draft it can catch before gracefully floating back to Earth.  It may catch the first breeze it comes across, or gets slapped with and wobble broadly as it tries to find purchase on its invisible terrain.  Perhaps it will simply careen to the side and slam into the ground, having gained neither grace or distance.  I am forever grateful for those teachers in my past (and present) who had the ability and measure of personal investment it took to help me to soar when I could, and make the best landing possible if I could not.

Now that I am a parent I realize more than ever what a sacred relationship there is between a teacher and their students, for I am their teacher as well.  I am beholden to them to make sure that I can provide and protect them, and that does not just apply to material things.  How to be resilient, compassionate, to see the world with an open mind and fair intent, this is no small task and now that autumn has come once more I have to let someone else share that responsibility with me.  In many ways it is a hard, hard thing to watch them get on that bus and drive away from me.  Now I must trust.  I must trust them and I must trust you.

What I need you to know, more than anything right now, is that I do trust you.

I trust that you will at the very least be fair, that you will be attentive and understanding.  That when you notice signs of struggle you will not look the other way.  That you will correct, that you will be firm, that you will invest and stand by your convictions.  That you will demonstrate the behaviour you want my children to display as adults, for you are their role models too.  That you will give them homework, and that you will be reasonable.  That you will not be afraid to communicate with me - about even the slightest issues.  Most of all I trust that you will care, not just about all kids but about my kids, as individuals.

What I also need you to know is that you are not alone in this.

I will make sure they sleep, that they are clean and dressed (I claim zero responsibility for the 7 year old's fashion sense.), that every day will have time dedicated where my attention is on nothing else but reviewing with them their day, reading their assignments and helping them with what I can.  (Though I have NO idea how you people teach math anymore, so if I can't find it on YouTube I'm kicking it right back to you with a sheepish note.)  I will correct when I must and if I have to lock the electronics away for another school year I will not hesitate to do so, they can chew their own pencils sharp and do it by candlelight if they have to.  I do not negotiate with terrorists and it is not your responsibility to give my child a grade they have not earned.  I will not hesitate to provide both positive and negative reinforcement, all decisions have consequences and to go without sends a life lesson that never ends well.

In short - I've got your back.  I will communicate openly with you, for if we do not function in tandem my children will not have the best chance at success.  That's all either of us really wants, isn't it?  All I ask is that you do not violate my trust, for my response will be swift and will be terrible - as I am certain yours would be on behalf of your children.

I believe the most successful teachers do not do this as a job, it is a vocation - a divine calling which is challenging, heartbreaking and ultimately rewarding on a level that the rest of us can never know.  Whether you are in that category or not, you are holding up the mantle of those that are as well as yourself.  You should be proud of your investment and the measure of trust that is laid upon you each day.  When the burdens of the school year weigh heavily on you, or perhaps you are confronted with parents that place the onus of success solely on your shoulders, remember that we are out here as well.  We know you are their for our children and are eminently grateful for that, and they will be too - across the breadth of their lifetime.

Thank you in advance.  Have a great year.

James and Meredith's Mom

Not Our First Rodeo

photo taken from poconorodeo.com 

Downtime is precious, downtime with family infinitely so, so engaging in activities has to include things that we're all willing to play along with - else the whole project suffers.  Problem is that our lifelong exposure to public service has made us anti-social, almost ferociously so at times.  This does create obstacles in taking the children out for activities on occasion.  So ... how to balance our natural aversion for crowds and especially obnoxious urbanites (or people in general) with a need to keep our children socially adept?  

Last week's sociology experiment?  A rodeo.

Rodeo?  You mean with like ... cowboys and cowgirls and flags and bulls and stuff?  I thought you lived in the Poconos!

Yes, a rodeo.

Let's face it, while the Northeast has their fair share of horses - one does not equate the wilds of Pennsylvania on the same scale as the Badlands in the Dakotas.  We have country, but it's like ... country lite, you know - tastes great, less leather.  We play the theme songs but somewhere down the road the line between cowboy and redneck gets dangerously blurred and it's less John Wayne and more Freebird.  Still, mixed in among the pedicured feet tucked into $200 boots and Confederate flags are the vestiges of the West from which it came and the presence of authentic competitors and showmen and women, reflections of this proud and unique culture.  

After a mostly rainy morning the clouds broke and we headed up to check out the Pocono Rodeo at Memorytown.  It's a pretty drive, even for us.  Yeah yeah, you can get to it off of 80, it's the Poconos - you can get to everywhere off of 80 but considering this is a Race Weekend (if you know, you know), why would you?  It's much nicer to meander through the woods, past shuttered barns with beautiful hex signs on them, sun-dappled pavement undulating out in front of you between walls of the variant shades of green from a pallet only true forests possess.  The same treeline opens like a curtain and now you get glimpses of rolling hills and white steeples nestled in valleys not very far away.  It's beautiful, it's distracting and it's totally why SOMETIMES it may not be good to drive with your husband who is suddenly convinced that you will careen off the road every single time you swivel your head to "oooh" or "aaah" at yet another bucolic farm. 

Parking is free and the "venue" spills over both sides of the road - it really does not matter where you park.  We opted down by the Memorytown Tavern, where they had BBQ going, open air seating next to a small lake that had some ambitious paddleboaters taking in the sights.  Dogs were welcome, kids ran through the wet grass and the smell of mesquite rolled out from the restaurant.  There was a free bouncy house set up, I say "was" because before the Diva and the Head could even give it a go it died a glorious death, the inflated pony head at the top collapsing in on itself without so much as a final squeak.  

A small, somewhat sad little petting zoo and pony ride occupied to oval structures on the tavern's lawn.  In the pony ring there was one small speckled pony, done up with his shiny black saddle and dutiful taking little ones on endless circles in the small ring.  Following right behind him was a much larger version of the same pony, similar white and blonde markings simply twice the size and sans saddle.  Yet he followed the little one every ... single ... turn around that ring.  I'm not sure if he's the slower cousin in the family or what, but for the little ones on the pony it was sometimes like being chased by a large dog.  With hooves.  And teeth.

Being photobombed by Thumper!

The petting zoo consisted of little more than a goat, a miniature horse, a sheep and a bunny.  All terribly patient and none in poor condition, but trapped in the small ring being manhandled at will by sticky-fingered darlings must be tough on the nerves at times.  

We finally headed up the hill to where the actual rodeo was, dodging roving bands of Amish folks along the way.  (Don't ask me, I'm guessing they weren't there to listen to Toby Keith.)

They advertise vendors, and by vendors they meant two.  (Two is plural so that counts.)  One for hats, one for leather goods, pleasant folks trying to make a buck.  Pamphlets offering instruction on mounted shooting on a table, "We provide everything except the horse, the gun and the guts."  Quite possibly the most awesome thing ever right there, sign me up!  By the time I get to the gate my inner Annie Oakley is waking up and having a look-see.

Front row seats equates to metal bleachers with prime view between the bars of the fencing, but the kids wanted to be right up front.  Riders are warming their horses up in the ring and let's face it, cowboys may be the stereotype but really who can resist pretty girls galloping around on feisty horses.  Snorts and banging metal draw your attention to the far end of the ring, and you realize they weren't kidding - thar be bulls here, and they have issues.  (This by the way, is conveniently also where the ambulance is standing by.)

Concession stands are just that, concessions to the fact that people will eat because they are bored and focus on quality versus convenience will weigh toward the latter every time.  People are pleasant, prices are fine, but if you restaurant-quality then walk back across the road to the actual restaurant, this is snack food people.  Still, nothing says traditional Americana fare quite like funnel cake and deep-fried Oreos.  

The stands are starting to fill and the Emcee is beginning his show, warming up the crowd along with the requisite rodeo clown.  I watch my kids swinging their feet along the gravel, ignoring the mud in the ring and watching the riders with rapt attention, all while inadvertently coating themselves in that unique paper mache that saliva and powdered sugar makes.

The sound system is tinny and squawks at odd moments, making the emcee sound vintage - he works in tandem with Bull the clown, coaxing cheers from an initially reluctant crowd (which is growing by the minute).  Finally it's time to begin, the riders charge back into the ring to cheers.  There is the Star Spangled Banner and the Cowboy's Prayer (I'm going to wager there are few atheists on the back of a ton of Prime USDA beef actively trying to kill you.), but the part that caught me off-guard was the flag ride.  You know, where the pretty cowgirl rides around the ring, an American flag billowing spectacularly above her?  They do not play "America The Beautiful," "My Country 'Tis of Thee" or even "Yankee Doodle Dandy."  Instead they play the complete passage of  "America - Why I Love Her" by John Wayne.  The Duke was my late father's favorite actor of all time, and honestly if you can sit and listen to him read this entire thing without at least feeling the slightest bit of pride in our country, it's time for you to go - regardless of personal politics.

Speaking of politics, don't expect a lot of interest in them here - nobody was immune to good-natured ribbing.  Whether you were a visiting New Yorker, a local, Amish, or a Democrat, there was a jibe for everyone.

Bull riding evokes a lot of primal excitement, wiry combatants perched atop a ton of flesh-driven horns and hooves is thrilling on a basic level.  Eight seconds, that's all they need - it sounds like practically nothing, it plays out as an eternity.  With each gate release time slows down and getting to the buzzer seems practically impossible.  We cheer for the cowboys, we cheer just as loudly for the bulls.  There is something uniquely satisfying about the way they jog back out of the ring, head up, fully aware that they are the masters here.  Only a couple make the time, the bulls are the winners here.

Slate grey clouds roll in and as the evening wears on we are intermittently subjected to summer rains, my children have no interest in seeking shelter now, they might miss something.  So we all huddle under an umbrella and keep on cheering while the warm water runs down our backs.  Now they know why cowboy hats are designed the way they are ... suddenly one of those vendors outside becomes very popular and now the Diva and the Head both sport "authentic" hats now, the kind that funnel the rain back off of your head.

The barrel racers are up and these are the girls I want my daughter to see.  We are right by one of the barrels, close enough to duck the clods of mud coming from the wheeling horses as the riders push them around the barrels.  Her eyes are huge as she watches each one come through, our throats are starting to get scratchy from all the cheering as we scream each girl home - no favorites here, just a girl, her horse and the clock.

There are trick riders, sharpshooting and trick roping, the kids gallop through the mud on hobbyhorses in a filthy debacle of a race.  Other children do some "mutton wrangling" - attempting to cling to the musty fleece of an irritated sheep who promptly dumps them at the gate.  There's relaxed laughter and lots of applause and we are treated to at least one spectacular rainbow as the skies clear, colors splashed across the sky over the damp trees, children's laughter and the faint sound of country music rolling up from the lakeside tavern next door.

The riders are done, the bulls have won, the girls are cooling off their horses and the stands empty, nobody's in a hurry and the crowds meander out of the lot.  Some go to the adult "after party" at the tavern, others wend their way to their cars as the last shreds of daylight begin to thin out.  I load my family back into the car, they are sticky, wet and chattering happily about the riders - proudly wearing their cowboy hats.

Thanks for the memories Memorytown.  We'll see y'all again.

All the World's a Stage

“There are four ways, and only four ways, in which we have contact with the world.  We are evaluated and classified by these four contacts: what we do, how we look, what we say and how we say it.” ~ Dale Carnegie

On the short list of advice I would consider truly valuable to a person newly entering EMS as a career field is this:  “Never get involved in a land war in Asia.”

No, wait … wrong venue (though you get extra credit if you know the reference) – it’s really this:

“Every day that you are out there is one long job interview.”

Regardless of what area of the country you work in, EMS by design is a small field.  Whether the distance is measured by county, region or state, the gap between you doing something epic (good or bad) and the people on the other end of said area finding out within the week (or day) is actually pretty small.

That was true before there were smart phones and YouTube.

One of the tried and true cautionary adages for anyone working the public sector is that you never know who you are talking to, or performing in front of.  It is short-sighted to think that prudent behavior should be reserved solely for the public eye.  Just as true customer service applies to everyone you interact with – including your co-workers, so does your reputation.  To act as if what you say or do in the “privacy” of your truck, station or any other sort of quarters you inhabit does not have a direct effect on professional perception of you is profoundly naïve.  It will likely become an unfortunate lesson for you at some point in your career.

Why is that?

EMS is part of the Emergency Service eco-system and in such an in-bred subculture there is very little you can do while working that will not create ripples in the professional gene pool.  The area you work in may be different, but in my experience it’s rare to find someone who works only one department – or at the bare minimum, have friends or family in multiple departments across multiple branches of service.  

To enjoy some longevity in this field it’s important to realize that the person sitting next to you today may be the one across the table from you when you need a job next month – or next year, or five years from now.  If you do not think that your actions on everyday routines is not being noted and mentally filed, think again.

We function in a tiered system, a hierarchy by design.  Each rung of the ladder has those that struggle to reach, those that hang on but never get a foot up and those that climb it with ease after some practice.  Every level has eyes upon it.  If you are a sloppy EMT with poor skills who becomes defensive about correction, you are going to end up losing valuable learning opportunities and chances to be coached into becoming a better clinician.  Perhaps you will find yourself having a difficult time entering a paramedic program.  If you are a lazy paramedic who revels in doing the bare minimum, then at some point you may find it very difficult to gain additional or new employment, even though you carry the same card as everyone else.  When you attend educational programs, do you show up on time, prepared, engage in the class?  Those classes are often taught by the people who will make the decision if you’re worth an investment later on.  Where on the ladder are you?

This scrutiny and its effects holds doubly true for paramedic interns.  You should bring your absolute “A game” to every one of your clinical hours.  If you think that as the student you are beneath notice guess again – hiring a brand new medic with no mileage on it is a true gamble.  Especially if that medic did not come from within the system and you have no idea what their performance ability is.  Rest assured however, your preceptors know exactly what you are (and are not) capable of.

None of this has anything to do with your direct patient interaction; the average person really has no idea what the true quality of the emergency care they’re receiving actually is.  I know quite a few EMTs and Paramedics who are absolutely beloved by their patients and other agencies because they are so nice and accommodating in person.  Yet behind closed doors these people rarely come to work on time, uniforms are incomplete or optional, they do not check their vehicles or follow SOPs regularly, they only take education that they are absolutely required to and that is under duress – is this starting to sound familiar to anyone?

While having coffee at shift change at my part-time employment a couple of years ago, I waited for my relief to come in.  There I am in a line position, with the same responsibilities as anyone else.  This was a newly certified paramedic – as in brand new, first shift as a second.  Ever.  They walked in late, uniform undone, boots unlaced and from the moment they came through the door they complained about having to be there.  This was followed by an indignant rant on how they were not given the shift assignment they wanted.  There was no move to take report on the truck, or even obtain the keys and radio and make a suggestion that they might be planning to at least check their vehicle out.  Most of my interactions with them since that day have been in a similar vein.  This person is always looking to take the easy way out, shortcuts wherever they can find them.  There is no drive to be anything more than the minimum necessary.  

In my full-time job my role is a little different and I am one of the people responsible for hiring.  Fast forward this unfortunate interaction a few years and now that same person is looking to me for work.  As much as nobody likes to be the bad guy, the reality is that hiring someone is an investment of money and man-hours.  Just like any other type of investment you have to look for the best return you can get.  Needless to say that person was not a successful candidate, the person hired in their stead had less experience but far more drive and is moving forward with developing this as their career versus just a job.  It is not always enough to be a good provider, this is a profession and if we are to be treated as such then the realization must be made that you need to be a good employee as well.

If you are familiar with the idea of “six degrees of separation” (or Kevin Bacon) then you know that it is the concept that everyone is six or fewer steps (by way of introduction) from any other person in the world.  If you know EMS then you know our degrees of separation or even shorter – down to two, maybe one step away from knowing someone who knows you.  People in the position to hire or advance you have usually been in their respective field for longer than ten minutes, in all likelihood it is more than ten years.  This means they know A LOT of people, probably more than you do and certainly enough to get some decent intel on what you are *really* like.

We interview dozens of candidates a year, reputations notwithstanding.  A poor work reputation is not a death sentence, merely a burden or obstacle toward professional development.  Poor reputations can be overcome with time, effort and someone willing to be objective and honest.  We often take on people with “baggage” from other departments because we know what the issues are and if they demonstrate enough value then very often a clean slate and new environment is just what the doctor ordered.  However that is not as easily done when you have direct knowledge of someone regularly engaging in the exact behaviors you are looking to avoid in your hiring.

Any advice I have for interviewing is not much different than you will read in any number of professional development articles – be on time, dress well, bring your documentation, prepare your answers, do your homework and have some questions in return.

But in this very small field, what do you do when you find yourself sitting across from someone who you know might not have good reasons to hire you?

Own it.

From the moment our fledglings walk into orientation we tell them the same thing – be honest at all times.  Own your mistakes, be accountable for your behavior, do not push something you’ve done off on a pallet of weak excuses.  The same holds true if you know you have a poor track record.

Do not avoid it; if the subject comes up discuss it objectively.  Answer questions fairly, do not shift blame.  Accept the onus that comes with it and make clear your intentions to avoid repeating those same mistakes in future.  Make the person interviewing you believe that you if given the chance you will prove that while you may have baggage, nobody else has to carry it for you.  That given the opportunity, you will be a good investment – a solid provider AND employee.

Own it.

The rest is easy.  Once you’re given the chance then you come to work (on-time & in uniform), be nice, take sick people to the hospital and then go home.  The rest will work itself out with time and consistency.

Please take this as a cautionary tale.  Evaluate your work habits – are you a good employee, or just a good provider?  Look at your interactions – not with the patients, but with those you must work with and rely on to be there for you.  Is your job performance a reflection of your attitude and do you want it to be indicative of who you are as a provider?  Are you looking to move elsewhere in the field and what is your professional reputation going to do to help or hinder that?

My very first job offer as a paramedic occurred before I ever had a card.  It was as I exited my clinical test for National Registry.  I was sitting on the steps, trying very hard to keep the anxiety attack at bay and maintain my composure now that the practicals were done.  One of the evaluators (not mine) came and sat with me, we’d never met before that day.  After he finished talking me off the ledge, he introduced himself as the director of a paramedic project about an hour away – he shook my hand and told me when I had my card, I had a job.

I was taken aback; I thanked him and said, “You don’t even know me.”

His response was, “No, but the people whose opinions really matter do.  Keep up the good work and call me when that card comes in.”

I never forgot that.