Joke of the Day, Except It's Not A Joke Edition

So the teacher e-mails the guidance counselor to confirm the origin of the new new kid.

"You said he's from Colombia. Is that right?"

"No, Hades," she types out just like that. H-a-d-e-s.

I pick up the phone.

"Hades?"

"Yeah, Hades."

(Insert pause full of furious brainstorming.)

"HAITI?!?"

She agrees that the kid is from Haiti. I, ladies and gentlemen, am the one in Hell.

Read More...

Collapse...

and now, for my next act

To anyone and everyone who has ever said, "I don't know how you do it," when referring to my job, allow me just this once to eschew my traditional shrug of dismissal and instead offer an amen. Because me too neither, brother.

It's not that there's anything different about right now compared to always. It's not as if each individual day or hour or moment is really that hard. I throw it together and do what I can and get by, more or less or mostly. And every day something goes right, or somebody learns something, or at least I have a laugh.

But now and then I have a little out-of-body experience as I cope with some normal-for-me that becomes a periodic last straw. I hear myself, on the phone in my typical role-reversal with Guidance at the end of just another nobody-ever-told-me-the-US-constitution-graduation-requirement-was-now-my-responsibility-or-if-they-did-I-was-out-in-the-hall-with-pregnant-girl-number-four-(FOUR!)-day explaining that yes, we will take the heretofore unschooled fifteen year-old Haitian orphan just now transplanted into Missouri, and that yes, he'll be mine, and yes, we'll teach him English, and yes, I'll help you enroll him, and yes, we'll figure it out. It will be fine, I say and mean it in a code that also translates, "I'll take him off your hands."

I will, and I'm glad to, and it is, after all, my job, my ever-expanding-now-what-how-will-I-one-way-or-the-other position. It will happen, this much I can tell you. How? Well. I'll get back to you on that.

Read More...

Collapse...

trouble

She leans forward across the desk that's shoved up next to mine, something on the tip of her tongue. She takes a breath then hesitates.

"I don't feel comfortable saying this," she says, whatever this may be. I have asked her no questions, personal or otherwise, invited no discussion. I'm just sitting at my desk finishing my lunch.

"Then you shouldn't say it," I emphasize, both sincere and relieved. "But," I add lightheartedly, "if there's something you need to ask someone, I have heard it all."

Two days later I hear it again, a different story from a different girl, unless her friend was running reconnaissance. I realize as we're talking, again out in the hall, that I had told a truth to which I've been a little oblivious: I have gotten pretty good at this. I am not indifferent to the dramas and the crises, but I am mostly unphased, at least on the surface at the moment, at least in my expression and tone.

When told about a pregnancy, a deadbeat dad, a lost job, a sudden move, a sheriff's knock upon the door, whatever else can knock a kid off-kilter in one five-day span, I can listen and I can calm. I can tell the truth as I see it and somehow reassure. Once upon a time these conversations filled me with above-my-pay-grade jitters; now I'd feel highly qualified to talk folks back in off the ledge. I don't know if word has gotten around or if they've just no where else to turn; I suspect both might be true. Regardless, I don't seek these troubles out. I just look up, and they're there.

Read More...

Collapse...

in the hall

Once again, we're out in the hall, that public space always more private than a crowded room with three closed doors.

The convoluted details are nearly irrelevant, just one more example of life on the undocumented edge, one more object lesson on the fragility of a life not sheltered by paperwork. Many of us are one false move away from one kind of doom or another; the trip wires are just that much harder to see out in the shadows. Danger lurks everywhere. Story told and retold, he sadly spells out a conclusion that might satisfy the smug: his family figures they might as well return to South America, that for six years of hard work they have nothing to show but a family divided and a younger boy who speaks no Spanish. It's not the whole story, but for now it's the focus. I nod and consider.

Today he looks like an overgrown boy, every bit of teenager bottled up like the gel he has left on the shelf instead of sculpted into his hair. His voice is soft and stripped bare, no pretense, no bravado: "I just wanted someone to tell me it's going to be okay."

So I do.

As best I can, as honestly I can, I tell him what seems to me will happen, which worries of his are legitimate, and which are just catastrophizing. I tell him what I know and what I can guess; I tell him I understand. I hear reassurance in my voice even as I explain that I'm not sure. I feel the trust he has in me, and I try to live up to it.

For a few minutes, we talk, straightforward and seriously, until there's no more to say.

"You know where to find me," I say, and he thanks me, again. In separate directions, we each walk away.

Read More...

Collapse...

whine

Sunday night is so Monday morning, never more so than when the Monday promises to lead off the first five-day work week in three. I'd say I'd barely remember what I need to do, but that's not true: I'm just trying to forget. Crunch time is here: paperwork deadlines and meetings, curricula to cover, big state tests, final exams. Between my shoulders I feel the tension that pulls between the three weeks remaining being too short and five days being eternity. Alas, the forecast says fifty degrees: too warm for snow.

Read More...

Collapse...

P-T

I always work it in.

These four words are part of any initial exchange I have at my daughter's school: "I'm a teacher, too." As in, "So I know what you mean," as in, "I can relate," as in, "Don't try to pull one over on me." Except for the many for which I make an exception, I'm not a great respecter of teachers, at least without proof. Mostly it's the off-putting attitude that seems bundled with their certificates, that vague, "You're not, but I am." So my claim is some reverse psychology playing field leveler; it's likely all in my head, but I don't care. It can't hurt.

Tonight, meaningless mission accomplished, I immediately turned parent as I listened to the trio who spend near as much time with the girl as I. I smiled as I digested the praises that were sung by the Comm Arts teacher who really does seem to appreciate her. And then I laughed-- though not in disagreement-- at the former cheerleader who proclaimed the girl, "an eccentric young woman" (quirky had already been taken). "What a nice way to put it," I said, meaning, "is that the best you can do?" as I pictured what opinion I'd be putting a front on if I trotted that phrase out to a parent. It's an experience, being on the other side.

As I left I was satisfied that these strangers know my child well enough and will do all right by her; in my mind, it's mostly up to her. Of course, a glowing academic report makes it easier to assume that they'll do no harm and might help her. Flattery works even on skeptical me.

Read More...

Collapse...

nothing

It's a fine line down the slippery slope that separates doing from did or intended or used to back in the day. Out of the habit, I am struggling mightily to write here. The back side is littered with fragments of thoughts, incomplete drafts, the detritus of can't-quite-make-it-work. I try and fail, try and fail, try and fail. And yet, I have not quit, though you'll have to take my word, being nothing here to prove otherwise. I suppose this is strategery 432, writing about not being able to write in the hopes that it leads to writing. Not yet, anyway.

Read More...

Collapse...

Happy Birthday, Stan the Man

Happy 89th birthday to a St. Louis treasure

by Bernie Miklasz

Eighty-nine years ago today, Stanislaw Francizek Musial was born in Donora, a small mining town in western Pennsylvania. His father Lukasz, a Polish immigrant, almost immediately began to call the boy "Stashu."

Later, after the young Musial had grown up to become one of the greatest baseball hitters who ever lived, he'd be known by another nickname in every ballpark in America: "The Man."

When he retired in 1963, Musial owned 17 major-league records, 29 National League records, nine All-Star Game records. If you grew up in St. Louis, by now you know the math, which is so familiar that it must have been taught in the public and private schools: seven-time batting champion, a three-time MVP, and a 24-time All-Star, .331 batting average, 3,630 hits, 475 homers.

In St. Louis, Musuial is an icon and a treasure and our most beloved citizen. And given all of the impromptu harmonica concerts he's given through the decades, Musial probably ranks second on the list (to Chuck Berry) of our most famous musicians.

Musial represents a sweeter time in America and a softer, gentler side of our sporting culture. He never turned down an autograph and was always a gentleman to his fans. He didn't draw his hitting prowess from a syringe. Baseball wasn't a job; it was a reason to smile.

The Man isn't as nimble as he used to be, and he's cut down on travel. Every now and then a rumor goes around that Musial is enduring a serious illness, and is in trouble. But it turns out to be a false alarm, and Stan bounces back again, just as he did in 1962, when he batted .330 after a lot of folks thought he was done.

Musial is doing amazingly well. He still goes to the office of Stan the Man Inc. every weekday to be with his friend and business manager, Dick Zitzmann. Musial stays for an hour or two, signing autographs and opening mail that's arrived from around the world. And then Zitzmann and Musial usually head to lunch.

Three or four times a week, Stan and Lil — his extraordinary bride of 69 years — go out to dinner. Sure, The Man has his share of bad days, but he's rarely scratched from the lineup. The brightness of his eyes hasn't dimmed, and the laughter hasn't stopped.

"I'm often asked what keeps Stan going," Zitzmann said. "The answer is, 'People.' He just enjoys being around people. He lights up. Stan loves his fans as much as they love him."

So today Stan and Lil will celebrate his 89th birthday with family members and close friends. There will be terrific food, and a beautiful birthday cake, and lots of memories.

And Musial, as always, will be surrounded by love.

Which means it will be a perfect birthday.

Has any athlete — ever — felt as much love, and given as much love, as Stan Musial? There will never be another like him.

Every new day with Stan Musial is a blessing. Happy birthday, Stan

Read More...

Collapse...