Let Them Eat Big Macs

I'm not sure I have the energy. Then again, I'm not sure she's worth my time. Keith's got the gist, here, and honestly the prospect of picking through all the logical flaws, willful misunderstandings, and inconsistencies in Missouri state rep Davis's objections to the Summer Food Service program just hurts my head. I don't even know where to begin. Perhaps she is similarly flumoxed by her work as the Chair of the Committee on Poverty, considering she doesn't seem to think it exists.

An ass-centric (or is that ass-oteric) list of What Mary Learned in St. Louis

As a variation on my sporadic travelogue Top Tens, a list compiled from an old friend's return home from The Big City:

1. Corn husks are not for eatin'.

2. Sometimes you have to touch the bellybutton to get what you want.

3. Ass crack is back.

4. American League? Vote for the Canadians.

5. The International Space Station is, believe it or not, in Space.

6. Two shower heads are not, after all, better than one.

7. The bartender at The Tin Can does everything half-assed. Literally.

8. "I'm a brother, as you can see."

9. Cinco de Mayo is Spanish for, "the cab is never gonna come."

10. Something funnier, but I forget.

Packers 2009

There was once a day when I reserved a Green Bay hotel room for every home game once the schedule came out. I just wanted to ensure lodging for the one game I would eventually attend.

Perhaps it's a sign of the post-Favre times that I barely took notice when the schedule came out today. Or, more likely, it's a sign of my enthusiasm that my son will reach the top of the season ticket waiting list in his late 50s, which will be the new 30s by then. That I'll require a handicapped seat is actually a plus!

More immediately, I'm sure tempted by the Bishop's Charity Game on Aug. 22 when Freddy Jackson and the Buffalo Bills visit Lambeau Field. Though, damn, I've seen enough real games that preseason football doesn't much appeal to me, Freddy is likely to see a lot of action as he looks to be the Bills' starter at running back for (at least) the first three real games.

Then again, I saw the Coe College product excel in a real game last season in Kansas City. Buffalo returns to Kansas City in mid-December, but it's the same day the Packers play in Chicago. Granted, I wasn't in Kansas City, but I didn't have any luck the last time I tried following the Packers in Missouri.

As for the Pack, they open at home against the Bears. Jay Cutler cuts his NFC Norris teeth at Lambeau Field. It's a nationally televised Sunday night game, which I'll be content to view from my couch in high-def.

Then it's Bengals (no), Lions (NO!), Vikings (hmm), Cowboys (HMM!, but nationally televised, so, no), 49ers (ho-hum), Ravens (Monday Night Football!), and Seattle (no more). Maybe I'll reconsider my pre-season opposition.

The road schedule offers two national telecasts. A Monday nighter at the (former) Dome of Doom in Minnesota and Thanksgiving in Detroit. (Guess I should host this year.)

Road games within reach include St. Louis in late September and Chicago in mid-December.

But, wait. The "regular" season ends Jan. 3 at Arizona. Bet it's a lot warmer there then it will be here.

moving

Three bedrooms, 2 baths, a 2-car garage: a split-level American dream.

"It's over in those rich-people houses," explains a classmate, with a wave of her arm. I picture her home and know she's sincere.

But I am pleased for whomever it is I am pleased for, the aunt, I believe, of a now-former student, a kid I have taught for only a few weeks. This new home is outside of our boundaries--one catch on their happy new day. I have met but do not know the new owners; I do know the type: an extended family, working hard, making do. And now it seems they've made it pay off. A house! And not a rental. An accomplishment here almost unknown. A nice house, in a nice neighborhood-- on a cul-de-sac, honest-to-goodness. A deck and a pool in the yard. I catch myself beginning to picture the looks they may have already gotten in that suburb built by white flight, but for now I shrug the image away. Such thoughts and such people are, in the end, irrelevant. Perhaps that's the lesson of the day.

"Buena suerte," I say, and shake his offered hand. I feel hopeful as I wish him good luck.

my fellow Americans

Numbers are easy to argue against; the unknown has no gaze to meet as you make your case, theoretical consequences are easily dismissed. But when a statistic becomes an individual, and that individual becomes your friend-- your friend, or your student, or your neighbor, perhaps, a real person who's part of your world, doing, like you, the best that he can--well, then, it's different. The sharp truth of experience can puncture puffed-up principle, but what happens next is the tell.

Noe Guzman, is, by most measures, a thoroughly American kid. He has lived, worked, and gone to school here for nearly all of his life. His English is surely fluent, his interests the same as his neighbors'. Noe had no idea, he says, that he was not an American citizen until the Marine Corps discovered the Social Security card his mother gave him was, in fact, a fraud. So much for enlisting, so much for college money, so much, it seems, for his American dream. Enough people vouched for him that his deportation was thwarted, but at this point, he's just here, not legal--the same non-status he'd unknowingly had since he crossed the border at the age of 4, the same non-status as so many others.

"That's not fair!" said his friends.

"He should have a chance!" was the community consensus. I do not disagree. I share their indignation, but I aim it a little wider. Noe is just a name to me, no one I'll ever meet. But I do know dozens of others who, save for the shock of belated discovery, share that same complicated story. They live in Missouri because their parents moved here, or because they were sent to an aunt or an uncle to strive for a better life. They live, and they work, and they go to school. They are part of our communities, and largely, they are stuck.

The realization that doors were closing on Noe has rallied his community around him; to them he was not an unknown and threatening alien, but their neighbor, their coworker, their friend. They want him to succeed, to be a Marine, to go to school. They believe he deserves it, regardless, not because of, his documents. Even their Republican state representative has been recruited to the cause:

Said state Representative Charlie Schlottach, "We have a young man who wants to fight to become an American; a young man who has met and surpassed the American standard ofwork, willing to obey this country's laws. A young man who has the support of every teacher, school administrator, fellow student and community member I have encountered. … I offer my whole-hearted support to Noe and his quest to gain American citizenship."

Ironic then that Rep. Schlottach voted for the current Missouri law that denies Noe and others like him the "benefit of post-secondary education." While federal law does not prevent undocumented students from going to any state college they can afford, Missouri HB 1549 does. A year ago Noe could have paid the inflated international rate as a down payment on his dream, but that's not an option today. If he tried to do what he's been raised to expect, what he planned and hoped and wished for--what his community thinks he deserves--he would be turned away. I imagine that Rep. Schlottach may not have known of Noe when he voted; even today he may try to claim one situation is not like the other. The catch is that it is.

Noe is not the only kid trapped by circumstances. He's just the one whose newspaper connection and agitating friends may give him a shot at a private bill granting citizenship. It's a long shot, but it could happen. Still, it's no solution; it's only a patch. If I were to go to New Haven, Noe's current home, or Rep. Schlottach's office, and share the stories of people I know, match up each accomplishment and effort, could they now see the connection? Could they admit that the system is broken, that the issue is not the exceptions, but the rules? From here, that seems the first step. My dream is that we take it.

Commutin' Music

In honor of the fact that this week is never. gonna. end.

a bad plan

"You have to swear not to tell anybody." He's standing in front of four people.

I raise an eyebrow and look, guessing what's coming. I make no promises. The story bursts out, regardless:

"So we got pulled over yesterday and I had beers under my seat."

"You understand how many things are wrong with that sentence, right?"

"I know! My whole life flashed before my eyes!"

"I guess so! Were you driving?!" Seventeen and unlicensed, he says no, and gives me the name. His partner in would-be crime is equally familiar. "Was he drinking in the car?!" I exclaim some more at the wrong, wrong answer. He doesn't object but rattles on, compelled to give me the blow-by-blow of the run stop sign, and the tickets, and the maybe-not-idle threats of the cop, until he gets to the very best part:

"And then he said, 'Let's call Ms. P!"

"What?!"

He said, "She'll get us out of this!" I laugh, and I laugh, and I laugh.

Oh, to have the power these typically idiotic boys wish I had. I'd have locked them up myself.

What Kansas City has taught us. Or, It's Deja MO All Over Again

Kansas City is indeed on the border. The border between Washington and Texas.

A Residence Inn is a Residence Inn is a Residence Inn. But what happened to the Alamo view?

Bread pudding is to KC as doughnuts are to Seattle.

There's no full like barbecue full.

Lamb ribs. Seriously.

Coffee-flavored beer has it all over coffee.

Peace and tranquility can be found sleeping in the middle of the street.

Nothing is more exciting than Pottery Barn Kids.

$68 can buy a Hall(mark) ornament that you actually want.

Everything isn't bigger in Texas.

You say shuttlecock. We say cockrocket. We laugh a lot more than you.

The Electric Light Parade is a lot longer than we thought. Either that or Cinderella's happily ever after has fallen on really hard times.

One more for the road

Iowa--Ames, Iowa City, Waterloo. Los Angeles, San Francisco, Austin, Brooklyn, Jersey, Indianapolis. Chicago. France. Italy. Winnipeg. Washington, D. C. Our new friends from Toronto. And that's without even trying, just the hometowns of the fans who happened to be right near us, on the floor or in line. I'd almost swear besides the local sports columnist, Tony LaRussa, and Mrs. Bob Costas my friends and I were the only locals there--and we all live in Illinois. Such is the power of Bruce. Especially at the end of the tour, maybe, especially when the rumors are flying. Maybe Clarence is not well, maybe Max will be tied down with Conan. Maybe things are about to change forever. Or, rather, change some more, given the passing of Danny. Regardless, how remarkable to be surrounded by people from everywhere, all in town to see a band. But not just any band, but the heart stoppin', pants droppin', earth shakin' love makin', Viagra takin', legendary... E STREET BAND. And though we were quite late to this party, now having crashed it, we totally get it, and can't believe there's not a time machine to be found. Ah, well. It ain't over yet. And at least one of us is in Kansas City, crashing with folks from Toronto, sitting with their friends from Ames.

Road Trip

Bright sun at my back. Open blue skies. The Hold Steady loud through the speakers. Noticing that trooper--thanks, guy in front of me--before I hit 80. No construction, no traffic, just wide open interstate stretched out for miles. Feels like summer. Feels like freedom.

I'm clearly still asleep.

It's just past six-thirty in the freaking morning, and I'm headed back to work.

just sad

I never watch the TV news; I just don't need the hype. And I suppose I am out of the loop. I've pretty much lost track of which blonde belongs on which local channel and which weather guy and/or gal stands in front of which highly sophisticated radar map. I am not, however, uninformed. I read all kinds of news though there's no paper involved, even when I bother to bring the one in from the driveway. It's just easier to click, even when, like this, it's hard. My thanks to the reporter who somehow wrote the story gently, and my thoughts and prayers to the family, friends, and teammates.

News?

Considering I have checked the story 14 times today--it played out on a former coworker friend's short street, and I was trying to make sure she was okay, or, frankly, that her husband had not lost it--I'm a little fuzzy on the facts. But some typically bizarre suburban tragedy unfolded today that involved a car fire, and a shooting, then a standoff, then the gunman's house burning to the ground and maybe an explosion. I think that covers it. The still unnamed bad and/or crazy guy seems unaccounted for, but two cops are wounded and a 22 year-old firefighter is dead-- killed by a bullet as he got out of the fire truck to do something about the car fire--and in response the local paper has posted a direct link to the kid's Facebook page in a virtual front page headline. His profile was public, not restricted to his "friends", so apparently he didn't mind, you know, yesterday, when he was alive and maybe hoping to meet some girls. Today posting that link--which I didn't click--feels a little sick, or at the very, very best a lot lazy. What do they want people to do, write their own human interest stories?

naturally

No, I wasn't at that Cardinal game. I can't remember if the minor league ballgame we fondly refer to as the Tornado Game was that night or just a similarly dreadful July evening, but I don't have to look at the calendar to know that it's time to try it again. The weeks of freakishly beautiful weather--so perfect for baseball--have vanished, the thunder and lightning just crashed hard enough to rattle a lightbulb out of its socket and the weather boxes say there's no let-up in sight until Independence has been duly--but please, not dully--celebrated. Meanwhile, tonight we have tickets with the same friends who expected to Duck and Cover for real and intentions for Fireworks at the Ballpark--the best of both worlds--and then tomorrow Fireworks On The Golf Course in town--reclining on the fairway is the only decent use of any such grass. Except it's gonna rain out the holiday, as it usually does when it's not hellishly hot. I don't mean to complain, given the meteorological destruction of the Spring, but it does almost make me wonder what God might say about the current state of America.

Opening Day '08

When the parking scalper hands you back money, take it as a sign. Or better yet, advice. And find somewhere else to put your car, regardless of the hour or the scarcity of spaces. Because otherwise you may find yourself saying, "I wouldn't mind sticking around to see if they play, but I'm afraid my car, assuming I can find it again, may be starting to sink." Take it from the girl in the plastic bag poncho.

No harm, no foul, not even a game, officially. But it was Opening Day, and I saw what I came for, even if I had to learn never to park quite that far under the highway again--especially in a rainout. What is it with this downtown and its near total lack of solid pavement? My friend and I had a fine time, once we were soaked to the skin, concocting the Cardinals' next slogan--Catch the Fever! Yellow Fever!--as we sloshed through the concrete gullies that surround the stadium and pictured the coming mosquitos, but perhaps it seemed more contagious to us in the same way that an $8.5o margarita seems like a better deal than a $9 beer.

But that was later. After the Clydesdales. After the ushers greeting, "Welcome back to Busch." After the motorcade, after the crowd cheered for "Louuuuuuuuuuuuu." After Red Schoendienst bumped knuckles with players too young to be his grandkids, after Mr. Stan Musial, God love him, appeared and took swings. A crowd roused and contented by local traditions, common marvels. Bob Gibson, 40 years past 1.12, looking like a human dare to those anonymous pitchers. A local boy taking his first steps onto a major league field as a pro and as a Cardinal, family and friends and 50,000 well-wishers in the stands. A first pitch thrown out with a Missouri FOOTBALL (if only it had sailed over the plate).

What more could we ask for? Oh yes, the baseball. And for three innings we had some. Line drives. A sweet catch. A walk on four balls, naturally. A Pujols home run. Technically, none of it counts, and they'll try it again tomorrow, and then 161 more times. I won't return for the do-over, though my ticket is good. I'm going out of town, and I've too much to do. But that's okay; I'll give it away and won't feel I missed much. This was Opening Day, and I saw everything I wanted to see: I got everything I came for.

timing is everything

It was Brown Night at the Chuck E. Cheese; impolitic to say but true. For certain federal funds to be disbursed to schools the government requires an annual parent meeting of the ESL students; it's almost like Miranda-- these are your rights, these are our procedures, this is what we'd like to do. The guidelines don't mention pizza, but nothing brings them in like free food, unless of course it's tokens. It's nice in a way to offer these families dinner and games in exchange for a signature and a few minutes of attention; I don't begrudge any positive associations, the ease in any parent's budget, or any child's fun. I can't, however, help but calculate that the price of this endeavor for the 177 who attended was more than has been allocated to me and my classroom for the past six years. Total. And yes, that is indeed pitiful. Such are our priorities. Or someone's or no one's, the latter probably more true and more maddening.

Speaking of which, next week the great state testing window opens, No Child Left Behind in all its infamous glory. For reasons unexplained and possibly irrational, my school is now leaping out of the gate immediately. The upshot is that I'll be mingling with 6,000 other ESL teachers in New York City while my 10th and 11th graders will be mired in science and math. Sucks to be them--and possibly me as I try to get them accommodated before I get out of town. (Insert your own "leaving them behind" joke about here.) I have minimal hope that my instructions will be followed, but at least whatever happens won't be my problem, or at least I won't be a witness. Or, bottom line, at least it doesn't really matter. "Do your best, don't stress," I tell everyone affected. They look doubtful. The tests are daunting, and no one likes to feel stupid. "I'll try to find someone we trust." They remain unconvinced. The subs are strangers, and no one likes to be embarrassed, most of all a teenager. They're just accustomed to me. And it's such a long, stupid and pointless day. Mostly no one wants to do it, their teacher included. "Or if nothing else," I tease, begin to embrace the gift of running away, "be good and I'll bring you a souvenir."

In his own words

My current classroom is an anomaly: top to bottom, it is the exception, not the rule. Walk the halls of this entire building, and you'll find no other student space with carpet, mood lighting (I don't know if the switch is broken or the overhead fluorescents, but I thank baby Jesus for the lack of glare), and cabinets instead of closets. It is so quintessentially ESL. My space also has three doors: one of which I've disguised with a giant collage ("That's not a door," I say, and they believe me.), one of which leads to the warren of band rooms, go figure, and one of which is strong enough to lead to a bomb shelter intead of the main hallway. Needless to say, no window, so there's always a little air of mystery whenever we say, "Come in."

At my house I almost never answer a knock or the doorbell without peeking through the curtains. Here I'm denied that caution, but at least so far the Attendance Office does screen for Jehovah's Witnesses and magazine salespeople, and besides, no one here hesitates. A knock is just a gesture. Everyone who knows me walks in as if he's at home, and, more or less, really, they are.

This week that heavy door swung open to reveal two pleasant surprises, visitors who were entirely unexpected. Both former students had been in fairly recent touch, either by telephone or e-mail, but in-person is always better. No substitute for a smile or a hug, or even just making the effort. One of those day-brighteners left behind a commentary he wrote for his high school paper; I expect he still may be keeping a copy editor busy, but he's come a long way, and I'm pleased for him and for me, too:


Living la vida Latino

“Americans, what, nothin’ better to do? Why don’t you kick yourself out? You’re an immigrant too. . .”

--The White Stripes

Growing up Latino can be one of the greatest things in this world, but it can also be the worst. Being Latino to me has been the greatest gift that life has given me, because it allows me to stand out in any way, shape or form.

What makes a Latino so special to me is not just our food or our margaritas; it’s our culture, our language, our hometowns. It’s the rhythm that we have running through our blood, the passion that we have about what we’re doing in a specific moment, and last and most important, the love that we have for our families.

But besides all of the good things that make up a Latino, there’s another side that most Latinos have to face everyday, and that’s not being able to have human rights in a country full of opportunities.

To me, growing up as a young Latino has been the hardest thing I have ever lived with, because what sets us a part from typical Americans is fear. It’s the fear of seeing your favorite relative being taken away against his or her will, or not being able to see your best friend ever again just because of a bad mistake. It’s the fear of having your babies grow up in a place and then being forced to leave this country, and go to another place with worse conditions than the place where they were born.

I’m one of the few who is eligible to be living here with the proper requirements. What makes people who aren’t eligible to be living here mad is that our government is gambling with the lives of Latinos and their rights to stay here by threatening us with an immigration law. I believe this immigration law is just another of many other cover ups to make all Americans forget about the war in Iraq, which is much greater than any other problem this country is having.

You might think that immigrants are here to stay because they want to, but that’s wrong. They’re here because they have families to take care of, they have loved ones that are sick and need the kind of money that their healthcare won’t pay. There are many other reasons why illegal aliens have to leave their countries. You may be complaining that they’re taking every single job there is, but if immigrants won’t do them, just tell me who would. You might be complaining about them not paying taxes. Trust me they pay them, but since they have to have a fake Social Security number to be able to work in this country, they don’t even get a penny back. That money just disappears; either that or the government just keeps it. But it is up to us to find a solution to this confusion. Just imagine if the solution was reversed. What would you do? You would do the impossible to survive, which is the only reason they’re doing this.

The government knows what’s up by not getting rid of immigrants that they desperately need. Plus they don’t have the resources to kick them all out.

What I’m trying to say is that it’s not just a “Mexican thing,” it’s an “every single immigrant thing,” whether you’re Italian, Venezuelan, Asian, or Australian.

$49 million. Or not.

Lies, damned lies, statistics. Politicians with hay to make, axes to grind. I'm certain, however, if these needs were literal, if there were fields to reap, tools to sharpen, that the labor would be farmed off to some low-bid worker, regardless of what creased cards may or may not be found inside his wallet, except, perhaps, in an election year.

The headline in today's paper, Steelman: Illegal workers short state by $49M, introduced what was not even a story, just a summary and then contradiction of a little press release, but the headline is the key. Because it wasn't State Treasurer Twists Numbers to Suit Her Purpose. Or, State Treasurer Cannot Read. But instead: Forty-nine Million Dollars. Whoa, big number. You know how they are.

According to the press release, Treasurer Steelman figures that illegal workers cost Missouri in income taxes they don't pay. Except that, the anonymous AP reporter was diligent enough to point out, the Pew Hispanic Center, Steelman's source all her numbers, says 65 percent of the undocumented immigrants in Missouri are working. Steelman jacked that percentage to 90, and called them all adults. Hardly. She also decided to claim that none of them are paying income tax, an assertion that's just laughable. Does she think that all these national hotel and restaurant and meat-packing chains are paying everybody in cash? I know immigrants who file, and immigrants who are scared to, and immigrants who use the special ID number set up so those without a SSN can do so (perhaps you've heard of it, Steelman?). I'd never argue that it's not a convoluted disastrous mess, but when taxes are withheld regardless of whatever, the government gets the money.

I know it's shocking, a politician that manipulates. Especially one who won the the Phyllis Schlafly & The Eagles Forum God/Family/Country Award. It's right there in her bio, along with her crowning achievement as a state senator, putting the Sanctity of Marriage Act on the ballot. Mutter. Mutter. Mutter. But perhaps I shouldn't cast aspersions, make the assumption that her whack-job Republican politics influenced her calculations today. Perhaps she's just a Treasurer who can't do third grade arithmetic. Either way, I'm still glad to live over here.

all for one

Where to sit. What to wear. Whether to do homework or not. Everyone knows every teenaged decision is a complicated calculus that factors what everyone else is doing. If she does, then I will; if he does, I won't. If they will, I can't possibly. Why didn't you tell me that he won't? We preach at kids to rise above, sing the virtues of independent thought. Do the right thing regardless of whatever, whomever. It's so simple if not always so easy. Just do it. It's what we expect, or at least hope for.

One would think, then, or at least I would, that overpaid, overeducated men and women might be capable of at least the same effort, at least for one yes-or-no decision, whenever it has to be made. Apparently not, according to the early morning evidence, at least when precipitation and state funding are involved. Snow days are all about peer pressure; it's worse than the school cafeteria at noon. I'll close if you will; I won't if you don't. That MUST be what the big boys are saying, for nobody goes it alone. I've learned to check the closing list for three districts not mine in order to judge the odds of a phone call. The forecast doesn't change, neither the radar, but no one is closed and now everyone is, and only at the very last minute? I know nobody wants to look like an idiot, especially twice in a row, but six inches on top of sleet plus wind? Do these people really need their hands held?

the time and the place

I have a date tonight with a bottle of vodka; throw in some cranberry, call it a threesome. This was not my original plan. But given the emotional rollercoaster that has just lurched into the station, I see no real alternative. Today the Marine funeral that shared space with my school was compounded by two extremes. The morning began with Rachel's Challenge, a school assembly program inspired by the first person killed at Columbine, dying unnecessarily young being the theme of the week. The presentation lost me a bit when it started transforming her notebook sketches into signs or symbols--then again, the target audience eats that stuff up, and what do I know, perhaps she did have a vision--but the underlying message, in so many words: be nice to each other, show compassion and kindness, is something that cannot be too often repeated. Perhaps even, perhaps especially, to the war protesters who decided to show up today, as if a family's last goodbye is an appropriate space.

I cannot conceive of being more opposed to this war than I am. It is a waste, a sham, a horror shamefully conceived in a lie. I could describe in detail my frustrated convictions, but this is no more the time or the place than it was for those unconscious objectors today. Surely their goal was not truly to persuade anyone; even I could see opposing heels dig in to the mid-winter muck. The same kids who were struck silent the day before yesterday were offended, roused from both apathy and opposition. Think of those actually invited to the funeral. For despite the flags, the uniforms, the horse-drawn carriage, and the salutes, today was primarily about a person--a friend, a brother, a son. A boy. To claim to them, right then, that he didn't know what he was doing. . . I throw my hands up. The only word is despair.

When I teach civics, I feel most American when I go through the first ten amendments and notice how much more I value those freedoms than my students do. Can't say that I explicitly thought about it until I began teaching it, but I seem to take them quite personally. My rights to say and do and be me. I've had Mexican kids ask why the U.S. constitution doesn't mention the family as theirs does, and I wonder how they've not noticed this isn't a collectivist culture. I say what I want, and so do you. We each say whatever, regardless. I believe in that, too. But today what I wanted to say, perhaps shout into the wind, was shut up, put your cause down, go home.

shock and awe

My knock against these kids today, one of my reasons for preferring my polyglot outpost to the standard mainstream, is the absence of respect. They-and I realize They is a fabrication, an imaginary construct, so many teenagers being individually great, the object of much pride-seem so often not to respect themselves, each other, let alone a grown-up. Try to point out that there should be a difference between the street and a school hallway and be met with consternation at best, a dismissive shrug more than likely. And thus I retreat to my United Nations of Allison. They are not always good to each other, but the differences are still striking, and some problems I will never have (I'm ignoring the other exchange rate).

So today, when hundreds and hundreds of students exited the building and went out to line the streets, I wondered how it would go. I did not expect egregious behavior. I'm sure there was much lecturing, and they are not, after all, bad kids. But people, you know how they are. Even the signs at the Mission that indicated silence and respect didn't shut the good Catholics up as we waited outside the door. This morning, however, out in the cold, one sound from the lead siren is all that it took. Then silence. Dead silence. Until every car in that motorcade passed.

I have never, in all my years in that building, witnessed total cooperation before. It did not require a reminder, a sharp look from a teacher, a threat, a warning, a consequence. All it took was the uniformed body of a former Warrior, a 2005 graduate, passing in a hearse.

Most of those kids didn't know him, only the Seniors would have shared the hallways, but the war that has been waged since the freshmen were fourth graders--think on that--was finally made all too real. What a tragedy. May I never again have reason to see those kids behave like they really do know how.