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Sandy Hook: One Year Later

I wrote this piece last year, a few days after the tragedy at Sandy Hook Elementary School. As I re-read it today, in honor of its one year mark, my emotions still feel pretty raw. Not enough has changed in our culture, but I try to be hopeful. In the end, hope is all we have.

So, it is in that spirit of hope that I ask you to visit the following site: Sandy Hook Promise . There, you will find the inspiring mission of the parents, family, and friends of Sandy Hook Elementary who refuse to just be the latest victims of gun violence and are fighting for change–real change within our country. It’s a powerful approach, as they are working towards sensible solutions, not more polarization of citizens in regard to gun control. I urge you to check it out, sign the pledge promise, and if you can, donate a few dollars. I know money may be tight, I know everyone seems to want donations from you, but we need to band together to effect real change. If you do decide to donate, perhaps choose the $26 option–one dollar for each person who lost their lives that day. Thank you for reading this.

The World’s Greatest: An AMERICAN Tragedy

I am a mountain
I am a tall tree
Oh, I am a swift wind
Sweepin’ the country
I am a river
Down in the valley
Oh, I am a vision
And I can see clearly
If anybody asks you who I am
Just stand up tall, look ’em in the face and say

[Chorus]
I’m that star up in the sky
I’m that mountain peak up high
Hey, I made it
I’m the world’s greatest
And I’m that little bit of hope
When my back’s against the ropes
I can feel it, 
I’m the world’s greatest

–from  The World’s Greatest, By: R. Kelly

Tears sting my eyes, as these lyrics blare through my iPod. I am out for a run on this cold, damp Sunday morning. I begin to weep openly–the emotion becoming too much. I can’t stop thinking about those kids. The innocent victims of another horrific school shooting. This is not the kind of music that I run to, usually. The song happens to be on my iPod because I downloaded it last year for my boys, who were performing it in a talent show at school. We played it every night for about two weeks. As I run, the lyrics take me back to watching them onstage with several dozen other elementary school children, scared and nervous as they performed in the dark auditorium for beaming moms, dads, and other family members. Then, my mind immediately shifts to the school children at Sandy Hook Elementary–the ones who experienced such a different form of fear and nervousness. The ones who lost their lives. The ones who lived– who will never be the same. I cry because none of us will ever be the same.

I am bawling my eyes out as I run on the side of a very busy road, and I don’t care how I look. I am so sad. And this song is making my grief spew forth because the lyrics are so beautiful. The words remind me of a comforting poem that  is often shared at funerals, by a woman named Mary Frye: Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there; I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow, I am the diamond glints on snow, I am the sun on ripened grain, I am the gentle autumn rain… The song now comforts me in that way. I take solace in the fact that these gentle souls, and the adults who lost their lives protecting them, are now a part of a greater good, a larger entity.  Their spirits will live on in all that is beautiful and innocent, like them: a twinkling star, a majestic vista.  They cannot have died in vain.

I have been pretty emotional all weekend. I agree with many things I’ve read on Facebook about not giving this gunman the notoriety our society seems to bestow on the madman du jour. I am so fed up with all of the violence. I am embarrassed to admit that I paid little attention to one of the latest shootings at a U.S. mall. Like many, I’ve grown numb, tired. But this horror, this living nightmare, may be the wake up call this country needs. All weekend I keep staring at my sons, who are both around the victims’ ages. I feel helpless that I cannot shield them from the ugliness of our world. On Friday, as I watched them get off the school bus, wearing Santa hats no less, I was stung by the fact that 20 parents would no longer be greeting their children off the bus. They will never come home again. The Santa hats underscored my boys’ innocence. I thought how, just yesterday, I was hopeful their belief in Santa would last one more year, and now I am concerned that their belief in humanity will last one more year. How could I even begin to explain this event? They know nothing of what occurred in Connecticut–how long can that last? I feel ashamed for even thinking this way when others have no child to explain anything to anymore.

I hit repeat on my iPod. I want to hear this song again. I want to cry my eyes out for all of the victims and their families; I want to wallow in this pity I feel for all of us, for our country. I hear the echo of the singer saying “The world’s greatest…the world’s greatest.” I think about that phrase. I think how Newtown, Connecticut has witnessed the world’s greatest–the greatest examples of heroism, selflessness, and loss of innocence. I think of this land of ours, and how we are supposed to be the world’s greatest–and we are at so many things–including killing. I’m sure you’ve seen the stats by now. The magazine Mother Jones reports 61 mass shootings in the US since 1982. Fifteen out of 25 mass shootings of the last 50 years occurred in the US–the next country in the line up has two. TWO! Why are we such a violent country? Why are we so much more violent in our domestic lives than other countries. The gun control debate is raging with sound and fury now. Mental illness is also being talked about with deserved attention. One of my burning questions: Why does it seem we are more mentally ill than other countries? Why do these gunmen aim at the heart of our Nation–our innocent school children? Is this the price of freedom? How many more schools need to be ambushed before we begin meaningful dialogue and real change?

Speaking of schools, another reason I feel so emotional is because I am a teacher. I read the stories of bravery from these others in my profession, and I am humbled beyond measure. I picture myself trying to hide my students and fend off an attacker–or die trying. Could I be so brave? I pray to God, yes. Sadly, since Columbine, we’ve all become jaded. And teachers have an ever-growing fear. I know it scares me. My teaching career has spanned the spate of school shootings. As a result,  I saved my son’s hand-print from an art project in preschool in my wallet–so that if our school was ever attacked, I would have his hand to hold in the end. I have also saved special messages from the boys on my phone, so if I ever think I won’t be coming home, perhaps their sweet voices would comfort me as I prepared for whatever was in store. Why the hell would I think like that? Why? Because too many schools have been subject to such terror. I teach in a wonderful school, in a beautiful town, with the most amazing kids. Many of these tragedies have occurred in similar settings. And as the death toll in schools across the country continues to rise I pray, “Let this one will be the last.”

Just this week, I had the chance to visit my son’s second grade classroom to talk to the children about Christmas. It’s a public school, and this was part of their Social Studies unit–including all of the holidays we celebrate this time of year. My first observation when I arrived at school–one I’ve had numerous times–was the sad commentary of having to be buzzed in via intercom. A sign reads: “Please stand right here when speaking into the console so camera can see you.” Every time I’m buzzed in, I feel like I am visiting a prison. Yet, once inside  I see the joy, I hear the laughter of the children, and I notice all of the incredible work being displayed. It is a happy place. It is a place of energy and enthusiasm. I’m glad my kids can go to such a school. That afternoon, I enjoyed sharing my knowledge of the Nativity with the kids, and I told them what I say to my own students: “I love teaching in a public school because we are all so different, and we can teach each other about our differences. We are different, and yet we are the same.” They understood.

And I guess that’s why I am writing this blog entry: I want to understand. Yet, as I get older, as I seek more wisdom, I realize that there are so many things beyond my understanding. And I know that is how life works. I think of how much I’ve changed in the past decade, as a husband, as a father, as a man. I am the least religious I have ever been (16 years of Catholic school), yet I am the most spiritual, the most peaceful I’ve ever been. I don’t know if I believe in a God the way I was raised to believe in him. I hope there is a heaven. I hope that there is a place where people go where all of this makes more sense. Here is the picture that stirred my thoughts on this concept of religion yesterday. I came upon it online. The caption was in honor of the victims at Sandy Hook Elementary:

“We can’t help but think this is what heaven looked like today.”

heaven

Credit: painting by John Lautermilch

If there is a heaven, then these sweet children and their protectors are certainly there. Now if only they could help those of us on Earth who are left trying to make a better way from all this. Tonight, I pray to them for strength. Strength for all of us.

“I do not speak the minds of others…

…except to speak my own mind better.”

I am a lover of quotations. The brevity. The clarity. So much contained in so little. During the school year, I begin every day by sharing a quotation with my students. It allows me to impart wisdom to these young people that would take me years to articulate. And I can draw on the observations and lessons from men and women who lived thousands of years ago, or are a part of the morning headlines. Such is the power of words.

Take this quote above by the great thinker and essayist Michel de Montaigne from the 16th Century. A simple Google search about quotations led me to the mind of this popular statesman from the French Renaissance. And once I was captured by his words on quotations, I became immersed in many more of his observations about life, love, marriage, human nature…all topics that are timeless and hard to describe succinctly.

My family and I are on vacation this week. So, I thought I’d take this opportunity over the next few days to share with you some observations from what I’ve been reading. These words from others help me speak my own mind better. Indeed.

The first is from a woman whose name I do not even know. Her words appeared in the advice column “Tell Me About It”, by: Carolyn Hax. I have been reading Ms. Hax’s column for over fifteen years now, and I always find her advice spot on–I also have a little crush on her:) The beauty of an advice column is that one can glimpse wisdom and stupidity in the predicaments of others. Take these words from a woman reflecting on a slight that occurred fifty years ago when she was a teenager. Her thoughts half-a-century later:

“Parents need to understand that it is their job to foster love and understanding, not bitterness and hate within their children. Children who find love in the world grow up with self-esteem and self-worth. Those who do not, spend their lives looking for slights wherever they go.”

These words flooded my mind with images of people I know who are always feeling slighted–looking for people to blame for their unhappiness in the world. It only took two sentences to remind me of my mission as a father: to create an environment for my sons where they are able to grow up with self-esteem and self-worth.  It is my job to allow them to find love in the world. That love starts with me. Thank you for the reminder.

Check out more wisdom from Carolyn Hax and her readers at http://www.washingtonpost.com/pb/page/carolyn-hax .

I Know Why the Jaybird Sings

It’s one of the first signs of warm weather where we live. The jaybirds dance on our lawn. Naked, as the saying goes. And by jaybirds, you know I really mean my sons, right? Well, they do. They love to dance “naked as jaybirds.” It happened yesterday, earlier than usual, but the weather was an unseasonably high 86 degrees and that meant water fights.

I am out front doing some yard work–I seem to manage fifteen minute intervals of weeding and whacking these days. And there I am, trimming back some shrubs, when the boys sneak up and attack me with their water pistols. I scream with genuine surprise then delight, and they are pleased with their subterfuge. At this point, they are wearing bathing suits. I give them my usual five-minute warning, this time regarding homework: “Homework in five minutes!” “Okay.”

As they gallop back to the hose, I can’t help but smile. I am thrilled that they took it upon themselves to come out and enjoy the beautiful sun. I left them inside with the babysitter (the television) because I REALLY photo (27)need to trim these shrubs. Watching them at the hose, I become nostalgic. Yes, a form of nostalgia I feel now as a parent that makes me sad for the fleeting memory while I am witnessing it. The kind that makes me thankful to be experiencing this event, but already sad knowing it will be over too soon. The moment quickly fades into a memory on my lawn, to be joined by the previous memories of sprinklers, and slip-n-slides, and kiddy pools of seasons past. I think about how sweet and innocent this time in their life still is, and how just a hose, some water guns, a bucket (and an unsuspecting dad) are all they need to thrill them.

While I continue in the garden, they squeal with laughter, as the cold spray of water shocks their lanky bodies. When I finish, the boys are a bit miffed that I do not want to get soaking wet. “But we wanted to attack you some more.” “Sorry, we have to do homework.” “Can you at least dump this bucket on us?”Owen asks. “Sure!” I say. What a consolation. “But I’ll only do it if you turn around. It’s more fun if you don’t see it coming.” Both boys sit in the driveway with their backs to me, and I proceed to drench them with a five gallon bucket of ice-cold water. This time, they scream with surprise then delight. “Okay, now homework!”

The boys dutifully listen to me. They strip out of their bathing suits, grab their towels and then their book bags. They settle down at the table on our patio and begin their homework–naked! I am taken aback by this and can’t find the words to tell them to dress. It’s as if they do their homework naked every night. They sit sans clothes through reading, spelling and math. I even serve them drinks and snacks. And once again, here I am confronting a situation as a parent that I did not see coming:  At what point does it become not cute or okay for my boys to be running around “naked as a couple of jaybirds”?

photo (17)Naked babies are adorable, naked toddlers are funny, but a naked first and second grader? Weird? Awkward? Unfortunately, they are growing up so fast, but in many ways they are so similar to the boys they were 1,2,3 years ago. Yesterday was the first time I was thinking, “this can’t continue much longer, right?” Yet, what I loved about the entire event was how comfortable the boys were with their natural state. It is a goal of mine for them to be proud and aware of their bodies. I know it is, in  part, my rebuttal to my Catholic roots, in which at my sons’ ages I was already obsessing about the different types of sin (mortal or venial), and where I remember being told to get my hand out of my pants because it was “dirty.”  Well, that set me back a couple of decades. And please don’t misunderstand, I’m not trying to raise little nudist or run a commune. But I love that there is a sense of innocence and acceptance that my sons convey in these situations.

After homework, they begin to chase each other around the backyard. “Okay. Enough. Go inside and get clothes on.” Their two full moons run past me as they giggle their way into the house. A few minutes later, they are at the kitchen counter. Baseball season has started, which means dinner at 5. As I make their meals, Owen says, “Dad, I learned how to write H, E, and L in cursive. So, guess what word I can spell–in cursive!?” “Owen!” I say, acting shocked. “Yep, I can spell the H word in cursive now.” “Well, did you?” I ask. “NO! But I could.” “He accidentally said it twice today,” pipes in his younger brother, Hayden. “You said it yesterday, too.” he continues. “It’s not an accident if you keep saying it,” I tell him. “I’m sorry, but I think I really love curse words,” he confesses. ME, TOO! I think, but I say, “Curse words make you look dumb. There’s always a better word to use than a curse word.” But these words will never make you feel as good as a bleeping curse word will! I think. Boy, this has turned in to quite a day. Doing homework naked. Cursing at the kitchen counter. Should I let them try a beer with dinner?

The moments come often. They are reminders that their innocence is a fleeting phenomenon. Have you been on a playground lately? If so, then you’ve probably heard some six-year-old  singing about sexy ladies a la Gangam Style, or one of Kesha’s latest ditties about playing with your junk. And my sons are right there singing along to some of these choruses. Yet, I am amazed that they don’t know more! I am relieved that they’re only spelling Hell (in cursive). And I want to continue to be a part of the conversation. Not as their friend, but as their father. If I can at least help them understand why something is offensive, then maybe they will think twice before saying or doing it.

Baseball practice is hot. The fields are dusty with dry dirt, and all the boys want to kick it up like it’s their job. On the way home, I inform Owen and Hayden that they have to get a quick shower. They hate showers. We’re lucky if they get one every other night. The whining starts. Hayden begins to cry. “Look, you’re dirty. You smell. You have to get a shower,” I holler to them in the back seat. More protests. As I pull into the driveway, I notice the hose still out from their afternoon frolic. “Fine. You can get a shower OR I can hose you off.” “Hose! Hose!” they insist. They jump out of the car, put their baseball equipment away, and strip down. Dammit, I wasn’t thinking about the fact that they would be naked out here, again. And now many neighbors are home from work and enjoying the spring night. What the hell is wrong with me?

I turn the hose on. The boys are tired. The water is cold. It does not have the same thrill it did this afternoon. In fact, it seems torturous. I regret it the moment the water slaps their skin. I feel stupid. Embarrassed. Pam comes outside and sees this display. The boys are yelling for their towels. I put the hose down, and fetch the ones still drying on the fence from earlier today. We quickly wrap them in the cottony warmth. They head inside. “Honey,” Pam says, “they can’t be naked like that. You know…” “I know,” I say. “I know.” And now I do.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The poet Maya Angelou once said, “A bird doesn’t sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song.” Clearly, I do not have all the answers when it comes to the conundrums that parenting puts upon us. And now, I head into this new season more aware that my jaybirds are becoming fully fledged. But I think of their laughter, their squeals of delight while playing around the yard, and I can’t seem to silence the song just yet. Their nakedness is part of that freedom, that joy.  They are still singing the song of childhood, and I want that chorus to last for a few more years. But I can promise you one thing–no more hose baths at night.

A dad has to start somewhere.

It’s All My Teacher’s Fault

Good news! My first book was picked up! Okay, it was picked up by me–a couple weeks ago. I found it buried in a box of memorabilia while I was looking for Christmas decorations–you know how one box leads you to another, then another, and then you’re looking at crap from forty years ago that has nothing to do with decorating a Christmas tree? Yeah, me neither. Anyhow…I found this book I wrote in third grade–1978!! During that year, my dad had a massive heart attack and my grandmother on my mother’s side died of cancer. It was a very dark year in the Trainer household. And, as I recall, my teacher, Mrs. Deturo, had me meet with the guidance counselor, Mrs. Brent, who encouraged me to write about the experience–express my feelings through writing. The result is the masterpiece that has been digitally remastered for your viewing pleasure below on this very website. So, without further ado, I present to you Nine is Enough.

photo (13)photo (12)photo (11)photo (10)photo (9)photo (8)photo (7)photo (6)photo (5)photo (4)photo (3)photo (2)photoFirst, let me say that this particular brick contact paper used to cover the book was limited edition–sold exclusively at Grants before their closing in ’76. And, don’t worry, I may be trying my hand at writing, but I promise I will never publish my own illustrated book–my gosh–look at those scenes from the story (I find the “Schools” one particularly compelling).

Yet, as I read over this story, I realize that perhaps the seeds were planted in me at a very young age to write about my experiences–to process my thoughts and feelings through writing. A teacher took the time to care about me and have me talk about my issues with another educational professional. I am lucky to have had these people in my life. And, in some respects, I feel I have been drafting the second book in my head ever since.

Music, My Muse

Ever since I started writing this blog, my senses have awakened. I see things more clearly. I listen more. I watch. I wait. One area that has always been a touchstone for me is music. I have always loved songs–and lyrics have a way of transporting me or grounding me–whatever I need at that moment. Now, it seems that every song I love has a hidden meaning of validation for my writing process. When I listen to my I-pod or the radio in the car, I find myself nodding in agreement at the words from songs and artists I have listened to countless times. In the next few posts, I would like to share some of the more profound lyrics that have guided me to continue writing.

Roll Away Your Stone” by: Mumford and Sons

Roll away your stone, I’ll roll away mine

Together we can see what we will find

Don’t leave me alone at this time,

For I’m afraid of what I will discover inside

From the moment I began to type the first words of Dadicus Grinch, I felt like I was finally moving away the stone that had been blocking my cave, so to speak. Writing has allowed the light to get in, and now I see it illuminating everywhere. That which was once scary and dark, now holds less power over me. And I wasn’t so much “afraid of what I will discover inside”. I knew, I’ve always known, but I was afraid of what would happen if others knew. Guess what, putting things out there has made the weight lighter, and so many of the responses and reactions I have gotten have been, essentially, “Everyone has their stuff. Everyone!” Moreover, if we see that we are not alone in our thoughts and fears, it helps others find the courage to begin to roll their own stones away. Imagine if we all did that, instead of operating under fear, doubt, and insecurity?

Cause you told me that I would find a hole,

Within the fragile substance of my soul

And I have filled this void with things unreal,

And all the while my character it steals

For me, the “you” in this stanza is that little voice that constantly tries to creep in to my mind to negate all that I know to be good and true. The soul IS such a fragile part of who we are, and rather then tend to it carefully, we abuse it by ignoring it. We’re too busy to think about such stuff–My soul ain’t gonna pay the mortgage, right? But I would hazard a guess that your soul IS the voice that will comfort you on your deathbed someday. The more you take care of it (him or her sounds nicer, doesn’t it?) the more comfort you can find throughout your existence. “And I have filled the void with things unreal, and all the while my character it steals.” These words are haunting. We spend so much of our time and energy chasing away our demons, letting them have all the power and control. And in our failed attempts to keep the monsters at bay, we neglect the people we truly are and could be–the character of our true selves. Break the pattern. Like a misbehaving toddler, the best way to deal with these aspects of our nature is to ignore them–the less power you give them, the less power they have.

Darkness is a harsh term don’t you think?

And yet it dominates the things I see

Darkness is, indeed, a harsh term. But we all have darkness AND light. When we don’t address the darkness in ourselves, in our past, it will dominate all things in our lives. The minute you start to shed light on whatever it is that is consuming you, the darkness can no longer dominate.

 It seems that all my bridges have been burned,

But you say that’s exactly how this grace thing works

It’s not the long walk home that will change this heart,

But the welcome I receive with the restart

Before I heard this song, I never really understood what “grace” meant–or what i think it means. It’s a word I heard often growing up in a Catholic home, but it’s meaning always eluded me.  In this song, the word finally clicked with me. Grace is a state of being where one completely changes places and perspectives. It is through that change, which is often painful, that one learns to empathize. In order to find grace, we may need to begin anew. Funny, burning bridges always seemed like a bad thing, but what if we burn the bridges to places that always hurt us? What is we burn that bridge to self-doubt, or booze, or bad lovers? What if we refused to keep crossing the bridges that lead us to failure and pain? The last two lines of this resonate, because I feel like I am returning home. It’s just a much different walk this time in how I chose to see the past. The amazing thing about writing is that it allows us to see things more clearly. The most welcome I have felt is from myself–free to give voice to my thoughts and memory.

Stars hide your fires,

These here are my desires

And I will give them up to you this time around

And so, I’ll be found with my stake stuck in this ground

Marking the territory of this newly impassioned soul

There is such a desire in me to continue on this journey. I feel that there is a fire that burns in each one of us, yet society tends to dampen this desire. It is up to us to stoke the flames. Writing has allowed me to discover “this newly impassioned soul”.

But you, you’ve gone too far this time

You have neither reason nor rhyme

With which to take this soul that is so rightfully mine

And so I will continue to find my soul in the words that I write on the page (screen). I will turn off the voices that have tried to make me feel foolish or afraid. At this point, they are powerless–they have neither reason nor rhyme. For this new soul IS rightfully mine.

Writing My Wrongs

Javier PachecoA few weekends ago, a friend of mine, a guy I’ve known for most of my life, was talking to me about my blog. He likes it. He thinks it’s been a good platform for me.  “I think you found your new therapist,” he said. I think he’s right. Writing is very therapeutic. It is a great outlet, a way for one to process  thoughts, ideas, fears and fantasies. Writing this blog has allowed me to do that.

I’ve been blogging now for three months. Recently, I’ve been sitting on a piece that was hard for me to write. And it got me thinking about why I do this…Should I do this?? And the answer I keep coming back to is “Yes!” This blog has been a wonderful experience for me. It has reinvigorated some old friendships; it has brought me many new perspectives; it has connected me with people across the globe and right in my own backyard. If you have been reading it, I want to thank you. Thank you for letting me in, for letting me rant and reveal, pontificate and pester. Thank you for visiting with me—if only for a few moments in your week.

A lot of people claim to like the format of my blog. How I write about an incident that happened with the boys just moments ago, and then throw in a piece from my past. To some, it may seem random, but this blend is purposeful. My past makes up my present. When I see my sons, when I look at the man I am in front of them, I am a father, but I am also a husband, brother, son, friend, student, teacher, neighbor. All of who I am is represented when I parent.  I am the sum of my parts, as you are, too. And I am constantly seeking a better understanding of that. Bringing in the past allows me to do that more, and, hopefully, better.

If you’ve been reading my blog, you know I have been brutally honest about my upbringing and my experiences in my family—both current and past. In talking to another friend, she cautioned me to not forget the good stuff in the past. That is an important reminder, and I thank her for that. I did not start this blog with an axe to grind or out of anger. I am saddened by some of the topics I cover, but they are what resonate with me.  I am not trying to play the blame game or point fingers, I am merely trying to write about my experiences. These are the memories and the relationships I have struggled with.

One of those relationships is with my mother. When I was young, I thought my mother was a living saint. Married so young (21) and 7 kids by thirty. With little means, she made the most of it. She gave us each a spark of her personality. She taught us how to have a big heart and she loved us all the best she could. I was hesitant to show her my blog because I thought it may offend her. However, I did not want to do this behind her back. Around my birthday, she stopped by to drop off a cake for me. We visited for a while, and then I asked her to sit and read the blog. I was so nervous  I went for a run while she perused each entry. When I got back, I was relieved (and surprised) that she loved it. I asked her how she felt about the entries where she may have looked bad. She exclaimed, “Well, it’s all true. How could I be mad?” What a great moment for mother and son. Permission to tell the truth. I recently came across a quote that speaks to this very theme: “The truth hurts for a little while, but a lie hurts forever.” This blog is my truth.

My father also did his best. He lived during a difficult time for men to be alive— they were taught not to show their emotions. My dad was a boy during The Great Depression; he never went to college, yet he was very smart; he never made it passed middle management in the insurance business. He was a staunch Catholic with a strong moral code. He had some bad breaks in his life, like a heart-attack at age 44, and he never truly found peace on this Earth. My father has been deceased for more than a decade and a half. There is some guilt in me for writing about him when he no longer has a voice. I feel bad that he is not here to speak with me about these words I write, but sadly, I think if he was here, and he read what I wrote, he would not speak to me. Perhaps it would be different. Perhaps.

These are my parents, and they are flawed—as we all are. And it is through their flaws that my identity was formed, and that of my six brothers and sisters. And I cannot stop what I have started. I believe in the power of writing and its ability to bring us to a greater understanding. If I ever come across as whiny or petulant, please call me out on it. And please understand that the writing you find on these pages has been developing in my mind for years, decades even. I do not write about the past without having given it much consideration and deliberation.

Finally, some thoughts from the teacher in me. When I talk to my high school students about writing, I inform them that the word essay means an attempt; to try. These essays I write are my attempts. Like all attempts, some will be more successful than others.  Which brings me to my second teacher point. When I discuss the art of argument with students, I explain to them the old adage “Everything’s an argument.”  I tell them that what we are trying to do when arguing is “enter the conversation.” My blog is my attempt to enter the conversation. I have something to say, and I am glad I am finding a way to say it. I have started a conversation and I would love it if you would join me.

What do you have to say? Tell me your thoughts. Let me know what topics you would like me to cover more. If you blog, what scares you about writing? Please let me know what you are thinking. It matters.