Whenever we encounter a euphemism, it’s time to beware. From the war: “Collateral damage,” and “friendly fire.” From the airlines industry: “Near miss.”
Benicians are now presented with a euphemism of equally dubious merit: vivaria. It means animal testing laboratories, and it is part of a proposal for relaxing Benicia’s zoning codes in an effort to include clean energy, high-tech, and research and development uses in the industrial districts.
Thanks to Commissioner Donald Dean who says, “We want to know what’s going into the community. There may be a dark side to some of [this], and we want to know what [it is].”
We don’t have to accept animal testing laboratories in Benicia. We can rewrite and broaden our development plans to include lots of things to enhance our economy without selling our souls.
Remember the 1940’s movie "Picture of Dorian Gray"? Dorian, played by Tyrone Power, makes a wish ever to remain the beautiful young man he is in a portrait of himself, while the portrait takes on the effects of his hedonistic life. As in any good pact with the Devil, he gets his wish.
He gets women and wealth and an extravagant life. As he goes, he steps on the backs of others. He reneges on promises he made. He breaks hearts and disappoints those who thought they knew him, even admired his good looks and influence. Only his portrait, covered in heavy canvas on an easel in his spidery attic, shows the effects of Dorian’s short-sighted selfishness.
He goes to the attic periodically to view his own corrupt soul and assess its march downward. Once, seemingly distraught at the degeneration he sees, he goes and kills the artist, blaming him for his own ugliness and torment.
But ultimately, Dorian knows he is the ugly and degenerate one. It is his distorted soul in the painting. His outward beauty cannot disguise his corrupt and cynical self.
He stands in anguish facing his portrait and a sliver of conscience goes to work. He pulls out a knife; at first we think to tear at the painting. Then his servants, hearing noises above their heads, rush to the attic to find him dead on the floor, shriveled and grotesque. The portrait now restored to its youthful beauty.
Guilt never did do a person much good. Regret and apologies are most limited in their value.
So how shall we have it?
We can stick to the euphemism. We can allow vivaria without looking at the animals. After all, we won’t actually witness the tests. We won’t be present to document the effects on animals’ eyes, or skin, or breathing, or nerves.
We can keep vivaria in the attic of our industrial park and go along our way, pretending not to know what we’re sanctioning there. After all, there is much to be gained by the inclusion of businesses that harm animals for profit: greater city revenues and new job creation are dangled before us.
It won’t show will it? No one has to know.
Or, we could steer away from the ugly and degenerate. We could go to the trouble of writing our zoning codes specifically and precisely to include those businesses and industries we truly can be proud of as we profit from them. I object to the notion that there is no threshold that would allow the city to prevent laboratories from testing on specific animals. It’s our city, our zoning code. It will read as we say, set the limits we determine in good conscience.
We can add such categories as information technology, computer server farms, nanotechnology, semiconductor manufacturing and robotics so the city can “put out the welcome mat” for new businesses without leaving the door standing open for the unsavory business of conducting traumatic, painful, deadly, and crude tests on animals in Benicia.
We’re told that Benicia has an opportunity to be a leader by relaxing our zoning now so we will be ready when ‘the next Google’ walks through the door. Perfect! Google is funding research and development projects that provide alternatives to animal testing!
Why go there?
We can flourish without this unwholesome pact. We don’t need to step on the backs of animals dependent on us. We must not renege on our promises to be moral and ethical in our pursuits. We can expand our economic base while retaining our good looks and influence.
Vivaria be damned.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Most Likely to Shoot His Lawnmower
Once my colleagues voted me “most likely to shoot my lawnmower.” I guess I was showing some on-the-job stress.
I think I growled a little and raised my 10-key calculator above my head. It caught their attention.
Frustrated that the accounts wouldn’t balance in my humdrum job tracking barrels of oil for a private producer, I had a pronounced urge to heave that calculator through the floor to ceiling window in front of my desk onto the green, green lawn fringed with impatiens and agapanthus.
Then I put it back down.
Soon I got a more meaningful job in public service, and left all those numbers behind me.
My honorary title came from a note weeks earlier in the Police Blotter section of the Tulsa Tribune indicating that a local man had been cited for firing a handgun within city limits. He had dispatched his lawnmower with his daddy’s .44. The brief notice did not share what the final straw had been.
We can only assume that whatever fine he had to pay, he paid with satisfaction.
Which brings us to Steven Slater. He said he dreamed of slipping down that airlines escape chute for years, taking his leave with a Heineken in one hand and middle finger extended on the other.
Too much face time with the public put him off his good humor.
So Mr. Slater lost his cool (and his job and his rainy day funds --- forthcoming legal fees, you know).
I almost feel bad for the guy.
Then I remember the social contract: that agreement we made so long ago, consciously or unconsciously, to be nice to each other since we live so close together. We gotta bend a little here and there or nothing’s going to go smoothly.
Could be both Steven and that ugly woman at the overhead bin each needed the other to bend that day, at that moment.
But Steven loses the argument, because he took the job of serving the tired, the rude, the unreasonable exception, along with all the rest of us who are courteous, tolerant, self-contained and bending whenever we’re part of the public.
That’s right: Almost of all of us are pretty nice. We set aside our desires for personal space, the aisle seat, an armrest for our elbows, and easy access to the bathroom. We bend. We accommodate. We even smile our brief smiles letting those around us know that even though the cramped conditions suck, we’re going to mind our manners and get through it.
When Steven took the job, he knew there would be a few, a small percentage, who would be jerky, demanding, and inconsiderate. But even now, even he would say, I’ll bet money on it: The vast majority of the public are really nice.
All those flight attendants, cashiers, postal workers and waitresses across the country who hold him up with banners declaring him a hero for reaching his threshold, crossing it, and succumbing to the instinct to run screaming, if not the impulse to smack some other stressed person who didn’t make nice on the airplane---even they will say, even now, most of the people they serve every day are NICE.
The thing is, it’s hard to shake off the not-nice people of the world. It is a skill flight attendants and all other public servants learn early and practice often, or they pull a Steven Slater, or worse.
By his own declaration, Slater was a baggage “Nazi,” on a mission to ensure carry-on rule breakers didn’t enjoy the benefits reserved for carry-on rule followers. A lousy way to go through the workday, with a personal vendetta guaranteed to focus on the negative and take self-righteous pleasure in catching, embarrassing, and angering the offenders.
When he found himself lapsing into sarcasm and fantasies of escape, he could have and should have helped himself to stress management, anger management, a job in accounting, a vacation, a margarita, a massage, a funny movie, or maybe a lawn mower and a sledge hammer. No firearms, please.
Then if he disturbs the peace with his loud banging and cursing, he should pay the fine with a smile.
I think I growled a little and raised my 10-key calculator above my head. It caught their attention.
Frustrated that the accounts wouldn’t balance in my humdrum job tracking barrels of oil for a private producer, I had a pronounced urge to heave that calculator through the floor to ceiling window in front of my desk onto the green, green lawn fringed with impatiens and agapanthus.
Then I put it back down.
Soon I got a more meaningful job in public service, and left all those numbers behind me.
My honorary title came from a note weeks earlier in the Police Blotter section of the Tulsa Tribune indicating that a local man had been cited for firing a handgun within city limits. He had dispatched his lawnmower with his daddy’s .44. The brief notice did not share what the final straw had been.
We can only assume that whatever fine he had to pay, he paid with satisfaction.
Which brings us to Steven Slater. He said he dreamed of slipping down that airlines escape chute for years, taking his leave with a Heineken in one hand and middle finger extended on the other.
Too much face time with the public put him off his good humor.
So Mr. Slater lost his cool (and his job and his rainy day funds --- forthcoming legal fees, you know).
I almost feel bad for the guy.
Then I remember the social contract: that agreement we made so long ago, consciously or unconsciously, to be nice to each other since we live so close together. We gotta bend a little here and there or nothing’s going to go smoothly.
Could be both Steven and that ugly woman at the overhead bin each needed the other to bend that day, at that moment.
But Steven loses the argument, because he took the job of serving the tired, the rude, the unreasonable exception, along with all the rest of us who are courteous, tolerant, self-contained and bending whenever we’re part of the public.
That’s right: Almost of all of us are pretty nice. We set aside our desires for personal space, the aisle seat, an armrest for our elbows, and easy access to the bathroom. We bend. We accommodate. We even smile our brief smiles letting those around us know that even though the cramped conditions suck, we’re going to mind our manners and get through it.
When Steven took the job, he knew there would be a few, a small percentage, who would be jerky, demanding, and inconsiderate. But even now, even he would say, I’ll bet money on it: The vast majority of the public are really nice.
All those flight attendants, cashiers, postal workers and waitresses across the country who hold him up with banners declaring him a hero for reaching his threshold, crossing it, and succumbing to the instinct to run screaming, if not the impulse to smack some other stressed person who didn’t make nice on the airplane---even they will say, even now, most of the people they serve every day are NICE.
The thing is, it’s hard to shake off the not-nice people of the world. It is a skill flight attendants and all other public servants learn early and practice often, or they pull a Steven Slater, or worse.
By his own declaration, Slater was a baggage “Nazi,” on a mission to ensure carry-on rule breakers didn’t enjoy the benefits reserved for carry-on rule followers. A lousy way to go through the workday, with a personal vendetta guaranteed to focus on the negative and take self-righteous pleasure in catching, embarrassing, and angering the offenders.
When he found himself lapsing into sarcasm and fantasies of escape, he could have and should have helped himself to stress management, anger management, a job in accounting, a vacation, a margarita, a massage, a funny movie, or maybe a lawn mower and a sledge hammer. No firearms, please.
Then if he disturbs the peace with his loud banging and cursing, he should pay the fine with a smile.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
A Pretty Package for a Penis
I painted over the penis today.
It was on my walking path. Teenagers and spray paint: A bad combination. They painted a penis right on my walking path!
I'm retired now and making good on my promise to take a walk every day. And there it was --- so annoying. Sometimes I stepped over it; sometimes I stepped right on it. Either way it did not feel good.
It's hard to measure the impact of such a negative gesture. Once you know it's there, resist as you might, your eyes are drawn to it. Damn it! For those few moments every day I had to think about a penis I didn't want to think about. Totally uncool.
What's in the mind of a kid who paints such a thing on a path like that? Here's a penis for all to see! Hahahahaha! (That's a feindish laugh.)
Old ladies, little girls! Looook! A PENIS!
Or maybe it's territorial, like a dog peeing judiciously as he goes: I've been here! This little square of pavement is MINE all MINE! Again with the laugh.
Do penis painters go on to other crimes? Yikes! I shudder to think. What's the next logical step? Wagging it?
Once, at the school where I was principal, I came onto campus at 7:00am to find a kid had painted a giant penis on the asphalt quad over night. It was easily twenty feet long in yellow paint. Appropriate somehow.
I imagined that the kid was mad at me for some disciplinary action I had taken. Quid pro quo. You suspend me, I paint a penis. But in this case, I couldn't think of any student who had reason to be mad at me---a rare circumstance for a high school principal!
Nothing else to do but call Maintenance. I asked if they would come out and paint over it before brunch time.
Our District had a very good practice of painting over graffiti and tagging immediately, so it wasn't too long at all before I could see the maintenance crew first standing with their hands on their hips, staring down, and shaking their heads, then bending over the asphalt and painting. When I looked again a few minutes later, they were gone, leaving a set of cones around the area to protect us from walking on the wet paint.
But then, when the bell rang for brunch and I headed toward the quad to supervise the students, I saw half a dozen of them standing around the edge defined by the cones, looking and laughing. I joined them to find that the maintenance crew had indeed painted over the yellow paint. Very carefully, with black paint, distinct on the greying asphalt, they had re-painted the outline of the penis.
"Mrs. Plath," a football player feigned serious concern, "what do you make of this?" My turn to shake my head.
Maintenance had to make a second trip out that morning to paint a twenty foot black box on the quad. Only a hand full of kids and I know what's in the box.
So this morning, I carried a can of my own spray paint to the scene of the crime on my walking path and went to work quickly. My only regret is that I didn't have concrete-colored paint.
But let me assure you, my enigmatic silver box is much nicer than its contents.
It was on my walking path. Teenagers and spray paint: A bad combination. They painted a penis right on my walking path!
I'm retired now and making good on my promise to take a walk every day. And there it was --- so annoying. Sometimes I stepped over it; sometimes I stepped right on it. Either way it did not feel good.
It's hard to measure the impact of such a negative gesture. Once you know it's there, resist as you might, your eyes are drawn to it. Damn it! For those few moments every day I had to think about a penis I didn't want to think about. Totally uncool.
What's in the mind of a kid who paints such a thing on a path like that? Here's a penis for all to see! Hahahahaha! (That's a feindish laugh.)
Old ladies, little girls! Looook! A PENIS!
Or maybe it's territorial, like a dog peeing judiciously as he goes: I've been here! This little square of pavement is MINE all MINE! Again with the laugh.
Do penis painters go on to other crimes? Yikes! I shudder to think. What's the next logical step? Wagging it?
Once, at the school where I was principal, I came onto campus at 7:00am to find a kid had painted a giant penis on the asphalt quad over night. It was easily twenty feet long in yellow paint. Appropriate somehow.
I imagined that the kid was mad at me for some disciplinary action I had taken. Quid pro quo. You suspend me, I paint a penis. But in this case, I couldn't think of any student who had reason to be mad at me---a rare circumstance for a high school principal!
Nothing else to do but call Maintenance. I asked if they would come out and paint over it before brunch time.
Our District had a very good practice of painting over graffiti and tagging immediately, so it wasn't too long at all before I could see the maintenance crew first standing with their hands on their hips, staring down, and shaking their heads, then bending over the asphalt and painting. When I looked again a few minutes later, they were gone, leaving a set of cones around the area to protect us from walking on the wet paint.
But then, when the bell rang for brunch and I headed toward the quad to supervise the students, I saw half a dozen of them standing around the edge defined by the cones, looking and laughing. I joined them to find that the maintenance crew had indeed painted over the yellow paint. Very carefully, with black paint, distinct on the greying asphalt, they had re-painted the outline of the penis.
"Mrs. Plath," a football player feigned serious concern, "what do you make of this?" My turn to shake my head.
Maintenance had to make a second trip out that morning to paint a twenty foot black box on the quad. Only a hand full of kids and I know what's in the box.
So this morning, I carried a can of my own spray paint to the scene of the crime on my walking path and went to work quickly. My only regret is that I didn't have concrete-colored paint.
But let me assure you, my enigmatic silver box is much nicer than its contents.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
A Note to Mrs. Grant
I'm about to be extremely presumptious. Some will no doubt be disgusted. How dare I?
If my own son were dead on the platform, I don't know that I could do what I'm asking.
Still, I just wish Oscar Grant's family would come out with a statement for a peaceful response to the Mehserle verdict, whatever it is.
I'm not saying no demonstration. I'm just saying a peaceful demonstration.
The imminent protest after all is for an end to violence, isn't it? We abhor violence.
It seems to me that Oscar Grant's family is in the unique position to enlighten and educate folks on both sides of this terrible issue.
For his family (based on the media reports), Oscar's death is a blatant act of racist violence. I believe they want an end to racist violence. But in their grief, they seem focused solely on punishing Mr. Mehsele.
Things were desperately wrong on the platform that day, no question. Oscar Grant should not have been killed.
Will the harshest sentence be sufficient to right the wrong? Will all who are watching and listening be edified by Mehserle's imprisonment? What will be learned beyond crime earns punishment?
If the sentence is not sufficient to address the issue, will a violent riot help? Will the oppressed and wounded be uplifted in their own eyes by a riot? Will those they rail against learn the desired lesson?
Sorrowfully, no. We will not learn enough from Mehserle's sentence. And we will not be enlightened by a riot.
Yet so many ASSUME we will have a riot. Businesses are boarding up; commuters are avoiding the trains. Children are watching and listening as we brace ourselves for violence, maybe racist violence, as though it must be expected as a response to this deplorable circumstance.
There is some logic to the anticipation afterall: violence breeds violence breeds violence....
But violence doesn't seem to breed thoughtful growth. Violence doesn't prompt the urge in one person to take on the other's experience or views.
Still, we are about to be caught in the cycle again. We know it well and we're gearing up to repeat it. If we do have a riot, some will no doubt call at some point for an end to it, having never learned that we each in our roles stoke and restoke the fire.
We all know the rage. We are all enraged that we must face again the avoidable loss of a healthy young man.
We all want to lash out and issue the same pain we are dealt.
But if Oscar Grant's family called out for peace, we might have peace. We might stop and think and learn something new. We might listen to his family's pain and grief and strive to break away from such horrible cycles and stunted growth.
Oscar's family has a unique opportunity. They might actually have the power to ensure Oscar's death bears fruit for the living.
There will be no winners, that's clear.
But some might hang their heads and learn. Others might hold their heads higher, with courage and dignity, if we are forced by peace to reflect.
If my own son were dead on the platform, I don't know that I could do what I'm asking.
Still, I just wish Oscar Grant's family would come out with a statement for a peaceful response to the Mehserle verdict, whatever it is.
I'm not saying no demonstration. I'm just saying a peaceful demonstration.
The imminent protest after all is for an end to violence, isn't it? We abhor violence.
It seems to me that Oscar Grant's family is in the unique position to enlighten and educate folks on both sides of this terrible issue.
For his family (based on the media reports), Oscar's death is a blatant act of racist violence. I believe they want an end to racist violence. But in their grief, they seem focused solely on punishing Mr. Mehsele.
Things were desperately wrong on the platform that day, no question. Oscar Grant should not have been killed.
Will the harshest sentence be sufficient to right the wrong? Will all who are watching and listening be edified by Mehserle's imprisonment? What will be learned beyond crime earns punishment?
If the sentence is not sufficient to address the issue, will a violent riot help? Will the oppressed and wounded be uplifted in their own eyes by a riot? Will those they rail against learn the desired lesson?
Sorrowfully, no. We will not learn enough from Mehserle's sentence. And we will not be enlightened by a riot.
Yet so many ASSUME we will have a riot. Businesses are boarding up; commuters are avoiding the trains. Children are watching and listening as we brace ourselves for violence, maybe racist violence, as though it must be expected as a response to this deplorable circumstance.
There is some logic to the anticipation afterall: violence breeds violence breeds violence....
But violence doesn't seem to breed thoughtful growth. Violence doesn't prompt the urge in one person to take on the other's experience or views.
Still, we are about to be caught in the cycle again. We know it well and we're gearing up to repeat it. If we do have a riot, some will no doubt call at some point for an end to it, having never learned that we each in our roles stoke and restoke the fire.
We all know the rage. We are all enraged that we must face again the avoidable loss of a healthy young man.
We all want to lash out and issue the same pain we are dealt.
But if Oscar Grant's family called out for peace, we might have peace. We might stop and think and learn something new. We might listen to his family's pain and grief and strive to break away from such horrible cycles and stunted growth.
Oscar's family has a unique opportunity. They might actually have the power to ensure Oscar's death bears fruit for the living.
There will be no winners, that's clear.
But some might hang their heads and learn. Others might hold their heads higher, with courage and dignity, if we are forced by peace to reflect.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Grammar Rant
What has happened to “pled”? You know, pled, as in, “The suspect pled guilty to the charges.” Nowadays, the suspect “pleaded” guilty. Pleaded! It feels stupid just to write it! Since when did pled become pleaded? Sounds like something a sheep would do.
As far as that goes, when did suspects quit pleading guilty at all? Even when they did it they don’t plead guilty anymore. They’re all claiming innocent regardless of eyewitnesses, prior confessions, fingerprints, and DNA! But I digress.
Pleaded! Really!
And what about helping verbs in the news? Where have they gone? Every night we’re assaulted with at least one half-baked grammatically feeble headline sort of faux sentence. To wit: “Families asking tough questions as the hillside deteriorates.” Or, “Hot weather creating problems for the elderly.”
No! Families ARE asking tough questions, and hot weather IS creating problems! Oh! I see. We’re avoiding the passive voice by speaking and writing in fragments! Wonderful. Why not make it active: Families ASKED tough questions. Hot weather CREATED problems.
But everything is present tense now, too. Have you noticed? “In 1956 he marries his high school sweetheart.” How can he do that? How can a person in 2010 marry in 1956? I say he can’t! Either he married her then, he marries her NOW, or he will marry her in the future. Conjugate, damn it!
And please, commas within the quotation marks! Oh. My. Gosh! Even Alex Trebek puts his commas outside the quotation marks now! Nothing is secure! Nothing is sacred. If Alex is doing it, who’s next? The Queen?
Apostrophes are up for grabs. Any old “s” can claim an apostrophe. “On Sale Today! Shoe’s for Men, Women, and Kid’s!” Usage lesson’s of the past fall by the wayside as student’s mind’s retain like sieve’s.
It’s and its are virtually one and the same. People do not know the difference. Write it however you like! Its raining! Put everything in it’s place! No one notices! No one cares!
You’re and your? Might as well throw in yore! I got a card from a student this year, “Dear Mrs. Plath, thank’s for everything. Your the best!” God love her.
Next, we will have the blurring of there, their, and they’re. Here it comes! All you stodgy old grammarians get out of the way! There new rules are there way of saying their is no more time for Standard English!
This is unacceptable license with the language. And it’s rampant! Don’t people have dictionaries any more? Or, more to the point, don’t they ever use them?
I use mine. In fact, to prove my point, I’m going to use it right now, and look up “pled.” Ah, here it is, “pled (pled), colloquial or dialectal past tense of plead.”
WHAT?!! “Colloquial or dialectal?”
First, I thought it was dialectical---and besides that, how dare they? What are they implying? That I am quaint?
Well of course, that’s the easy way, isn’t it? Out with old, the correct, and the proper. Fine.
Put me on trial, and what’s the case against me?
• In 1966 she buys a Webster’s New World Dictionary.
• Dictionaries creating new usages for careless speakers and writers.
• She pled not guilty to grammar snobbery.
As far as that goes, when did suspects quit pleading guilty at all? Even when they did it they don’t plead guilty anymore. They’re all claiming innocent regardless of eyewitnesses, prior confessions, fingerprints, and DNA! But I digress.
Pleaded! Really!
And what about helping verbs in the news? Where have they gone? Every night we’re assaulted with at least one half-baked grammatically feeble headline sort of faux sentence. To wit: “Families asking tough questions as the hillside deteriorates.” Or, “Hot weather creating problems for the elderly.”
No! Families ARE asking tough questions, and hot weather IS creating problems! Oh! I see. We’re avoiding the passive voice by speaking and writing in fragments! Wonderful. Why not make it active: Families ASKED tough questions. Hot weather CREATED problems.
But everything is present tense now, too. Have you noticed? “In 1956 he marries his high school sweetheart.” How can he do that? How can a person in 2010 marry in 1956? I say he can’t! Either he married her then, he marries her NOW, or he will marry her in the future. Conjugate, damn it!
And please, commas within the quotation marks! Oh. My. Gosh! Even Alex Trebek puts his commas outside the quotation marks now! Nothing is secure! Nothing is sacred. If Alex is doing it, who’s next? The Queen?
Apostrophes are up for grabs. Any old “s” can claim an apostrophe. “On Sale Today! Shoe’s for Men, Women, and Kid’s!” Usage lesson’s of the past fall by the wayside as student’s mind’s retain like sieve’s.
It’s and its are virtually one and the same. People do not know the difference. Write it however you like! Its raining! Put everything in it’s place! No one notices! No one cares!
You’re and your? Might as well throw in yore! I got a card from a student this year, “Dear Mrs. Plath, thank’s for everything. Your the best!” God love her.
Next, we will have the blurring of there, their, and they’re. Here it comes! All you stodgy old grammarians get out of the way! There new rules are there way of saying their is no more time for Standard English!
This is unacceptable license with the language. And it’s rampant! Don’t people have dictionaries any more? Or, more to the point, don’t they ever use them?
I use mine. In fact, to prove my point, I’m going to use it right now, and look up “pled.” Ah, here it is, “pled (pled), colloquial or dialectal past tense of plead.”
WHAT?!! “Colloquial or dialectal?”
First, I thought it was dialectical---and besides that, how dare they? What are they implying? That I am quaint?
Well of course, that’s the easy way, isn’t it? Out with old, the correct, and the proper. Fine.
Put me on trial, and what’s the case against me?
• In 1966 she buys a Webster’s New World Dictionary.
• Dictionaries creating new usages for careless speakers and writers.
• She pled not guilty to grammar snobbery.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
From Heaven to Hell on American Airlines
I'll probably burn in hell for this. I'm hiding from Elizabeth. She doesn't deserve it, but I need a break.
Face it. She's demanding. I know she can't help it, but dang! How many times can I review her flight plan with her?
Elizabeth has Apert's Syndrome. It's a rare condition with a constellation of unfortunate physical and mental symptoms. First, and most notable, her head is misshapen.
Remember that old cartoon where the witch is sitting in front of the mirror in the haberdashery? She's trying on pointy hats for Halloween. The sales girl standing above her delicately places a hat pin in the topmost point of the hat. "Ouch!" says the witch.
That would be Elizabeth. When she wears her pilled-up red felt cowboy hat with the sequins glued around the brim, her head looks pretty normal. But when the hat flies off in a gust of wind, it reveals that her peaked head fills the uppermost regions of the hat. Straggly wisps of oily hair do little to disguise the fact.
Her face is distorted too. Poor Elizabeth! She's our Quazimoto. Porcine nose almost always free flowing. Two middle fingers on both hands are fused into one finger. One hairy knuckle, one fingernail.
Her squat little body, or should I say fuselage, is always cloaked in her gray American Airlines jacket.
Elizabeth comes to me on the quad every day now. Every brunch. Every lunch. She finds me to review her flight plan. It goes like this: First she stands in front of me and proudly taps the AA logo with the oversized middle finger of her right hand. "Do you know what this stands for?"
I used to say, "American Airlines" and it pleased her. She smiled at me and we talked about how the turbulence caught her on her flight to Miami. She had to make an emergency landing in Houston where they cleared the debris from her engines and she was on her way in no time!
Day after day we replayed the scenario: American Airlines; Miami; turbulence, debris. I asked her to be sure: "Elizabeth, are you the pilot, or the airplane?" "I'm the airplane! I'm a 747! I was on the runway with those other planes and they couldn't beat me. I'm the fastest one! I have red, white, and blue painted all over my fuselage!"
"Are you the stewardess?" she asked, eyeing me as though dubious of my qualifications. "No, I'm Air Traffic Control," I said.
The bell rang and with that she wanted clearance for take off. "747, cleared for takeoff!"
"Roger!" and off she flew to her classroom, arms atilt and backpack flapping.
She brought me two pieces of construction paper the next day. One gray and shaped like a submarine with three stripes running the length in red, white, and blue pastel chalk. The other is the AA logo, red and blue on white paper.
On about the 200th day she approached me and tapped the AA logo I became perverse. "What does this stand for?" she said.
"Alcoholics Anonymous?" "No."
"Aardvarks and Apples?" "No."
"Artichokes and Anchovies?" "No!"
I could have gone on and she sensed it. "American Airlines!" she declared with a little pat of her foot.
Students scuffled in the cafeteria one day. Elizabeth said she was taking on fuel so she didn't see everything. But she dwelled on it. She worked it into the routine for weeks. Did I see what happened? Neither did she. She was taking on fuel when all of a sudden, pow! "So I just took off!"
Mucus forms a shiny sheet between her nose and upper lip. I began carrying tissues for this reason. Now when I hand one to her, she smears and smears, only to have it begin again.
One of our campus supervisors observed this ritual day after day. She called me on the walkie talkie from across the quad. "You're going straight to heaven, you know."
"Do you think so?"
"Oh yeah, for all these conversations, you've got a straight shot!"
But today, behaving like the adolescents I serve, I am hiding from Elizabeth. I'd just like to complete my lunch supervision without the pre-flight itinerary.
It's not that hard to elude her. Believe me, I know her routine. So I move from my usual, highly visible spot, just to the left near a cinder block pillar supporting the overhang.
She comes out of the cafeteria at 12:40pm and lands exactly where we usually stand. Not seeing me, she's flustered. She begins a systematic scan of the area, turning quadrant by quadrant. When it's time to scan in my direction, I step behind the pillar. Like a light house beacon she turns again. With that, I step into the cafeteria and relax. She won't look in here. She's already been here. We always talk outside.
"Mrs. Plath!" A group of students beckons me and I'm off to lighthearted conversation about Senior Ball. Am I going? Will I dance? So much normal fun!
Then, from the corner of my eye, I can see her, taxiing closer. She found me. Darn. As I turn toward her the other students peel away, and it's just Elizabeth and me again.
"Mrs. Plath! I was looking for you!"
"You found me Elizabeth." I hope it didn't show too much, my weariness.
"I just wanted to tell you, Mrs. Plath, thanks for everything."
Face it. She's demanding. I know she can't help it, but dang! How many times can I review her flight plan with her?
Elizabeth has Apert's Syndrome. It's a rare condition with a constellation of unfortunate physical and mental symptoms. First, and most notable, her head is misshapen.
Remember that old cartoon where the witch is sitting in front of the mirror in the haberdashery? She's trying on pointy hats for Halloween. The sales girl standing above her delicately places a hat pin in the topmost point of the hat. "Ouch!" says the witch.
That would be Elizabeth. When she wears her pilled-up red felt cowboy hat with the sequins glued around the brim, her head looks pretty normal. But when the hat flies off in a gust of wind, it reveals that her peaked head fills the uppermost regions of the hat. Straggly wisps of oily hair do little to disguise the fact.
Her face is distorted too. Poor Elizabeth! She's our Quazimoto. Porcine nose almost always free flowing. Two middle fingers on both hands are fused into one finger. One hairy knuckle, one fingernail.
Her squat little body, or should I say fuselage, is always cloaked in her gray American Airlines jacket.
Elizabeth comes to me on the quad every day now. Every brunch. Every lunch. She finds me to review her flight plan. It goes like this: First she stands in front of me and proudly taps the AA logo with the oversized middle finger of her right hand. "Do you know what this stands for?"
I used to say, "American Airlines" and it pleased her. She smiled at me and we talked about how the turbulence caught her on her flight to Miami. She had to make an emergency landing in Houston where they cleared the debris from her engines and she was on her way in no time!
Day after day we replayed the scenario: American Airlines; Miami; turbulence, debris. I asked her to be sure: "Elizabeth, are you the pilot, or the airplane?" "I'm the airplane! I'm a 747! I was on the runway with those other planes and they couldn't beat me. I'm the fastest one! I have red, white, and blue painted all over my fuselage!"
"Are you the stewardess?" she asked, eyeing me as though dubious of my qualifications. "No, I'm Air Traffic Control," I said.
The bell rang and with that she wanted clearance for take off. "747, cleared for takeoff!"
"Roger!" and off she flew to her classroom, arms atilt and backpack flapping.
She brought me two pieces of construction paper the next day. One gray and shaped like a submarine with three stripes running the length in red, white, and blue pastel chalk. The other is the AA logo, red and blue on white paper.
On about the 200th day she approached me and tapped the AA logo I became perverse. "What does this stand for?" she said.
"Alcoholics Anonymous?" "No."
"Aardvarks and Apples?" "No."
"Artichokes and Anchovies?" "No!"
I could have gone on and she sensed it. "American Airlines!" she declared with a little pat of her foot.
Students scuffled in the cafeteria one day. Elizabeth said she was taking on fuel so she didn't see everything. But she dwelled on it. She worked it into the routine for weeks. Did I see what happened? Neither did she. She was taking on fuel when all of a sudden, pow! "So I just took off!"
Mucus forms a shiny sheet between her nose and upper lip. I began carrying tissues for this reason. Now when I hand one to her, she smears and smears, only to have it begin again.
One of our campus supervisors observed this ritual day after day. She called me on the walkie talkie from across the quad. "You're going straight to heaven, you know."
"Do you think so?"
"Oh yeah, for all these conversations, you've got a straight shot!"
But today, behaving like the adolescents I serve, I am hiding from Elizabeth. I'd just like to complete my lunch supervision without the pre-flight itinerary.
It's not that hard to elude her. Believe me, I know her routine. So I move from my usual, highly visible spot, just to the left near a cinder block pillar supporting the overhang.
She comes out of the cafeteria at 12:40pm and lands exactly where we usually stand. Not seeing me, she's flustered. She begins a systematic scan of the area, turning quadrant by quadrant. When it's time to scan in my direction, I step behind the pillar. Like a light house beacon she turns again. With that, I step into the cafeteria and relax. She won't look in here. She's already been here. We always talk outside.
"Mrs. Plath!" A group of students beckons me and I'm off to lighthearted conversation about Senior Ball. Am I going? Will I dance? So much normal fun!
Then, from the corner of my eye, I can see her, taxiing closer. She found me. Darn. As I turn toward her the other students peel away, and it's just Elizabeth and me again.
"Mrs. Plath! I was looking for you!"
"You found me Elizabeth." I hope it didn't show too much, my weariness.
"I just wanted to tell you, Mrs. Plath, thanks for everything."
Monday, May 17, 2010
Moral Obligation
One of the greatest satisfactions of being a school principal is found in that rare moment when you feel you’ve made a difference. Principals are suckers for that. Give us the tiniest inkling that we’ve somehow helped, and we’re in it for another year.
Such a moment presented itself recently after a particularly disheartening event at my school.
We had a fight.
Not all that unusual on a high school campus since the invention of high school campuses. Kids get mad at each other. The anger builds up. They don’t always have the skills or finesse to deal with their anger more subtly. So, they hit.
Maybe ten years ago, that would have been that. Now, it’s not just that any more. Fights seem worse these days, even if they’re just the same old fights among teenagers we had back when our dads were punching each other behind the gym. Because the whole world seems to be racing toward the brink, we cannot feel confident that this fight might be the ordinary old kind of fight. This fight might be the fight that leads to the next one and the next one…the never-ending retaliatory kind of cyclical fight that defies logic and common sense. It could be that kind of fight. Or it could be worse.
Because we want to avoid all fights, we keep our collective ears to the ground and respond to the smallest murmur of discontent between individuals on campus. We counsel and advise young people in how to deal with peers they don’t like. We offer a wide range of options so that student A can resist the urge to smack student B.
We’re actually pretty good at it. But we’re not 100%. And so, this week, at lunch, A smacked B. B smacked back. And because they were equally matched, we had a frenetic fight with a big audience.
Such things are so very discouraging for so many reasons. Word goes home from the audience, and the community adds that piece of data to their view of our schools. And because of human nature, those bits of data get repeated more frequently than say, the data that we had 82 Scholar athletes from our Fall Sports teams. That’s 82 athletes with GPA’s of 3.0 or higher. We have another 63 from Winter Sports. Spring Sports are likely to be impressive too. Graduating seniors going to Stanford and Berkeley. Another Gates Millenium Scholarship winner this year.
But aside from that, such events create a stir on campus that may take days to subside. So, I went on the PA and talked to the kids. I said they each had the moral obligation to keep us informed if they knew a conflict was escalating.
They usually do know. They see the hard looks, and hear the insults, sometimes days before the players face off. We do get tips. We always act on them. And, we are quite successful at averting combat when we have the information in advance.
I told the kids all this and appealed to their moral sensibilities. Help us stop the fights before they begin. Help us stop the violence.
Now, in the lunchroom are Mike and Jacob, two seniors, pals, horsing around. They’re “play fighting,” making a show for their own amusement and for that of their friends, other big healthy strapping boys who smile and watch. It’s slow motion, as though these two are rehearsing for the next take on a movie set. They grab each other and pretend struggle.
I see this from across the room and begin to move toward them to fulfill my role of killjoy. But Danny sees them too. Danny is small and developmentally delayed, and Danny has heard my speech.
Before I reach Mike and Jacob, Danny gets there. He pushes himself between them facing Mike with outstretched arms to protect Jacob. Danny looks up at Mike’s fake snarl and says, “Stop! Stop the violence!”
By now I’m on the scene and Mike turns to me with a questioning smile. “We were playing, Mrs. Plath.”
“I know, Mike, but he doesn’t.”
Danny has turned to Jacob. “Aw you all wight?”
Jacob, too, smiles a questioning smile, but turns to Danny and clapping him on the shoulder says, “Thanks, man.”
I thanked Danny too. He helped me know there is hope. Someone is listening.
Such a moment presented itself recently after a particularly disheartening event at my school.
We had a fight.
Not all that unusual on a high school campus since the invention of high school campuses. Kids get mad at each other. The anger builds up. They don’t always have the skills or finesse to deal with their anger more subtly. So, they hit.
Maybe ten years ago, that would have been that. Now, it’s not just that any more. Fights seem worse these days, even if they’re just the same old fights among teenagers we had back when our dads were punching each other behind the gym. Because the whole world seems to be racing toward the brink, we cannot feel confident that this fight might be the ordinary old kind of fight. This fight might be the fight that leads to the next one and the next one…the never-ending retaliatory kind of cyclical fight that defies logic and common sense. It could be that kind of fight. Or it could be worse.
Because we want to avoid all fights, we keep our collective ears to the ground and respond to the smallest murmur of discontent between individuals on campus. We counsel and advise young people in how to deal with peers they don’t like. We offer a wide range of options so that student A can resist the urge to smack student B.
We’re actually pretty good at it. But we’re not 100%. And so, this week, at lunch, A smacked B. B smacked back. And because they were equally matched, we had a frenetic fight with a big audience.
Such things are so very discouraging for so many reasons. Word goes home from the audience, and the community adds that piece of data to their view of our schools. And because of human nature, those bits of data get repeated more frequently than say, the data that we had 82 Scholar athletes from our Fall Sports teams. That’s 82 athletes with GPA’s of 3.0 or higher. We have another 63 from Winter Sports. Spring Sports are likely to be impressive too. Graduating seniors going to Stanford and Berkeley. Another Gates Millenium Scholarship winner this year.
But aside from that, such events create a stir on campus that may take days to subside. So, I went on the PA and talked to the kids. I said they each had the moral obligation to keep us informed if they knew a conflict was escalating.
They usually do know. They see the hard looks, and hear the insults, sometimes days before the players face off. We do get tips. We always act on them. And, we are quite successful at averting combat when we have the information in advance.
I told the kids all this and appealed to their moral sensibilities. Help us stop the fights before they begin. Help us stop the violence.
Now, in the lunchroom are Mike and Jacob, two seniors, pals, horsing around. They’re “play fighting,” making a show for their own amusement and for that of their friends, other big healthy strapping boys who smile and watch. It’s slow motion, as though these two are rehearsing for the next take on a movie set. They grab each other and pretend struggle.
I see this from across the room and begin to move toward them to fulfill my role of killjoy. But Danny sees them too. Danny is small and developmentally delayed, and Danny has heard my speech.
Before I reach Mike and Jacob, Danny gets there. He pushes himself between them facing Mike with outstretched arms to protect Jacob. Danny looks up at Mike’s fake snarl and says, “Stop! Stop the violence!”
By now I’m on the scene and Mike turns to me with a questioning smile. “We were playing, Mrs. Plath.”
“I know, Mike, but he doesn’t.”
Danny has turned to Jacob. “Aw you all wight?”
Jacob, too, smiles a questioning smile, but turns to Danny and clapping him on the shoulder says, “Thanks, man.”
I thanked Danny too. He helped me know there is hope. Someone is listening.
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