Sunday, March 25, 2012
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
convergence . . .
When I was five, the French had won the French and Indian War. They didn’t lose until I was seven . . .
Somewhere in the personal archives I still have my third grade report card. I don’t remember which Sister we had that year, which means she probably wasn’t one of my memorable, either way, teachers. Bet my lowest grade was in conduct, in close competition with handwriting. If there had been a grade for recess, there would have been a three-way tie for last place! Head games have always been my strong suit and my head was in active volcano mode that long ago afternoon—even more so after Mommy said Sister was right.
Coming to the defense of all things French was already second nature. I don’t know what I knew at seven. Certainly not that my father’s family opposed my parents’ marriage (don’t send Jimmy’s birth certificate to him), that being a Catholic in the South wasn’t cool (my Catholic home, Catholic school, Catholic church was my universe). But I did know that my mother didn’t talk like my classmates’ mothers, that I’d had to learn, in school, that bushes weren’t buhshes and that vegetables weren’t veh-JET-ables, that a classmate told me that her mother said that my mother should go back to where she came from. I did believe that all things French were worth fighting for. I think I may have even believed that the French, like Mommy, embodied supreme authority, the last word, the final say-so. Apparently not so, at least not at Fort Pitt.
The convergence of those three rivers—the Allegheny, Monongahela, and Ohio—and my life had already begun. Father Sullivan, who heard my first and subsequent confessions and otherwise controlled my wayward spirit, was second only to God himself, in my mind. He—and the nuns who staffed our school, were from Pennsylvania. Yes, Yankees! Ulysses S. Grant glowered down at us from his gilt frame in the school lobby as we struggled to master “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” In the South. In rural North Carolina. Before Vatican II. (I only saw Father Sullivan’s broad back at Mass). Latin became my second language. (My mother thought it wisest that I forget the French I’d learned during our visit to France when I was two.)
I was pretty good at memorizing my catechism (head games, remember?). One year I was given a book of Christmas stories, Catholic ones, that I still treasure—even down to the crayon scribbles added by my “baby” brother. Another year I was sent to the only week of camp I ever attended—a Catholic camp, of course. But there I learned to make a bed and to swim. I rode a horse—sitting behind another camper and holding my breath every second of the excruciating experience—for the first and only time in my life. I was nine. And, in eighth grade, I was awardedthe ultimate, and most coveted, recognition—Queen of the May! I was so sure my new high (bet they weren’t much over an inch) heels would catch in the grate in the church floor! I was such a Klutz. But they didn’t.
The Pennsylvania crew had decided I was a “keeper.” They convinced my parents that, because our local public high school was a veritable “den of sin,” I should attend instead their convent boarding school in Pennsylvania. I did—one year—long enough to study Pennsylvania history with—of course—the details of how and why the French had lost the French and Indian War. I also saw my first—at least the first I remembered seeing—dead person (a nun) and conducted Buddha worship rituals with classmates in my third floor room late at night, when we weren’t out haunting the nuns’ cemetery with its caved-in graves. Classmates from places like Altoona, McKeesport, Johnstown, Allentown, Pittsburgh . . . One was from Aruba. One was from my hometown. African American. We were products of segregated Catholic schools. Our parents allowed us to visit each other’s homes that Christmas, at night, under the anonymous cloak of darkness . . .
My parents soon decided that exposing me to occasions of sin was preferable to losing me to the nunnery. Those next three years are another story for another time . . .
When Father Sullivan eloped with our music minister (Catholic priests take a vow of celibacy), I had to do some serious revising of my image of God. Obviously He wasn’t from Pennsylvania . . . He didn’t walk his matched guard dogs down school hallways. He wasn’t about instilling fear, about rewarding compliance. In the process, and it’s been a lifetime of process, I cast off the walking catechism mentality and forged a comfortable relationship with my God.
But I didn’t cast off the convergence of those three rivers and my life.
I married a man whose father grew up in Pittsburgh. Not that anyone from Pittsburgh actually lives, or lived, in Pittsburgh. My father-in-law’s family was from Coalport. He was Catholic. I could negotiate the Pittsburgh dialect, even the food and the history, thanks to my ninth grade experiences. That was all that would ever connect us—but I guess it was enough so that he didn’t withhold his son’s birth certificate when the time came for us to be married . . .
I don’t know who first suggested Carnegie-Mellon. It may have been my daughter’s flute teacher. Like my mother before me, I shipped my firstborn to Pennsylvania but, this time, to the very heart of Pittsburgh. Unlike her mother before her, she did not come home . . . She married a man who grew up in Pittsburgh—well, in Monroeville, actually. A man whose German mother, like my French mother, suffered the terrors and hardships of life under Nazi rule all those long, long years ago.
When I was five, the French and Americans had won World War II. The Germans had lost. Today, Gisèle and Mildred are the best of friends . . .
I fly to Pittsburgh once or twice each year, always with a window seat, always with a smile of warm recognition, almost a sense of homecoming, when the convergence of three rivers comes into view below me. Monongahela, Allegheny, Ohio.
What if the French had won the French and Indian War?
NOTE: Summer 2007 or 2008? for SCRI summer study . . .
 |
A jpeg of a detail of Fort Pitt, Pennsylvania, taken from Plate IV of "History of Allegheny Co., Pennsylvania : with illustrations descriptive of its scenery, palatial residences, public buildings, fine blocks, and important manufactories", by Samuel W. Durant, L. H. Everts, 1876 |
I remember raging home from school that afternoon in tears, a righteous kind of angry, the absurdity of what Sister told the class written all over my I’minthe3rdgrade! self. “Mommy, Sister lied to us. She said you lost the French and Indian War! You gotta tell her she’s WRONG!” |
A large jpeg of a street map of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, in 1795, which includes Fort Pitt, detail from Plate IV, Samuel W. Durant's "History of Allegheny Co., Pennsylvania : with illustrations descriptive of its scenery, palatial residences, public buildings, fine blocks, and important manufactories," Philadelphia, L. H. Everts, 1876. |
Somewhere in the personal archives I still have my third grade report card. I don’t remember which Sister we had that year, which means she probably wasn’t one of my memorable, either way, teachers. Bet my lowest grade was in conduct, in close competition with handwriting. If there had been a grade for recess, there would have been a three-way tie for last place! Head games have always been my strong suit and my head was in active volcano mode that long ago afternoon—even more so after Mommy said Sister was right.
Coming to the defense of all things French was already second nature. I don’t know what I knew at seven. Certainly not that my father’s family opposed my parents’ marriage (don’t send Jimmy’s birth certificate to him), that being a Catholic in the South wasn’t cool (my Catholic home, Catholic school, Catholic church was my universe). But I did know that my mother didn’t talk like my classmates’ mothers, that I’d had to learn, in school, that bushes weren’t buhshes and that vegetables weren’t veh-JET-ables, that a classmate told me that her mother said that my mother should go back to where she came from. I did believe that all things French were worth fighting for. I think I may have even believed that the French, like Mommy, embodied supreme authority, the last word, the final say-so. Apparently not so, at least not at Fort Pitt.
The convergence of those three rivers—the Allegheny, Monongahela, and Ohio—and my life had already begun. Father Sullivan, who heard my first and subsequent confessions and otherwise controlled my wayward spirit, was second only to God himself, in my mind. He—and the nuns who staffed our school, were from Pennsylvania. Yes, Yankees! Ulysses S. Grant glowered down at us from his gilt frame in the school lobby as we struggled to master “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” In the South. In rural North Carolina. Before Vatican II. (I only saw Father Sullivan’s broad back at Mass). Latin became my second language. (My mother thought it wisest that I forget the French I’d learned during our visit to France when I was two.)
I was pretty good at memorizing my catechism (head games, remember?). One year I was given a book of Christmas stories, Catholic ones, that I still treasure—even down to the crayon scribbles added by my “baby” brother. Another year I was sent to the only week of camp I ever attended—a Catholic camp, of course. But there I learned to make a bed and to swim. I rode a horse—sitting behind another camper and holding my breath every second of the excruciating experience—for the first and only time in my life. I was nine. And, in eighth grade, I was awardedthe ultimate, and most coveted, recognition—Queen of the May! I was so sure my new high (bet they weren’t much over an inch) heels would catch in the grate in the church floor! I was such a Klutz. But they didn’t.
The Pennsylvania crew had decided I was a “keeper.” They convinced my parents that, because our local public high school was a veritable “den of sin,” I should attend instead their convent boarding school in Pennsylvania. I did—one year—long enough to study Pennsylvania history with—of course—the details of how and why the French had lost the French and Indian War. I also saw my first—at least the first I remembered seeing—dead person (a nun) and conducted Buddha worship rituals with classmates in my third floor room late at night, when we weren’t out haunting the nuns’ cemetery with its caved-in graves. Classmates from places like Altoona, McKeesport, Johnstown, Allentown, Pittsburgh . . . One was from Aruba. One was from my hometown. African American. We were products of segregated Catholic schools. Our parents allowed us to visit each other’s homes that Christmas, at night, under the anonymous cloak of darkness . . .
My parents soon decided that exposing me to occasions of sin was preferable to losing me to the nunnery. Those next three years are another story for another time . . .
When Father Sullivan eloped with our music minister (Catholic priests take a vow of celibacy), I had to do some serious revising of my image of God. Obviously He wasn’t from Pennsylvania . . . He didn’t walk his matched guard dogs down school hallways. He wasn’t about instilling fear, about rewarding compliance. In the process, and it’s been a lifetime of process, I cast off the walking catechism mentality and forged a comfortable relationship with my God.
 |
| Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania skyline, taken from Mount Washington. At the "tip” is Point State Park, the bridges include Fort Duquesne Bridge on the left of Point State Park and the Fort Pitt Bridge on the right with the Three Sisters are on the left in the distance. The iconic castle-like, PPG Place skycraper is notable at the right. Photo taken by Bobak Ha'Eri. August 29, 2004. Attribution-Share Alike 2.5 Generic |
But I didn’t cast off the convergence of those three rivers and my life.
I married a man whose father grew up in Pittsburgh. Not that anyone from Pittsburgh actually lives, or lived, in Pittsburgh. My father-in-law’s family was from Coalport. He was Catholic. I could negotiate the Pittsburgh dialect, even the food and the history, thanks to my ninth grade experiences. That was all that would ever connect us—but I guess it was enough so that he didn’t withhold his son’s birth certificate when the time came for us to be married . . .
I don’t know who first suggested Carnegie-Mellon. It may have been my daughter’s flute teacher. Like my mother before me, I shipped my firstborn to Pennsylvania but, this time, to the very heart of Pittsburgh. Unlike her mother before her, she did not come home . . . She married a man who grew up in Pittsburgh—well, in Monroeville, actually. A man whose German mother, like my French mother, suffered the terrors and hardships of life under Nazi rule all those long, long years ago.
When I was five, the French and Americans had won World War II. The Germans had lost. Today, Gisèle and Mildred are the best of friends . . .
I fly to Pittsburgh once or twice each year, always with a window seat, always with a smile of warm recognition, almost a sense of homecoming, when the convergence of three rivers comes into view below me. Monongahela, Allegheny, Ohio.
What if the French had won the French and Indian War?
NOTE: Summer 2007 or 2008? for SCRI summer study . . .
my hero . . .
Daddy was my hero when I was a child. But I have to admit that John Fitzgerald Kennedy ran a close second . . .
I was a "Kennedy girl" (still have his age-spotted photo from the hats we wore--white, wide-brimmed, with a green grosgrain ribbon band), distributing election propaganda at his appearance in Lancaster, PA
Two clear memories of that day. The scary one--an up-close-and-personal experience with how it feels to be all but trampled/smothered/erased-from-this-earth by a faceless crowd. And the tell-this-over-and-over up-close-and-personal one: I touched his hand, looked into his eyes, later received his autograph in the mail.
Too young to vote for him . . . but not too young to mourn his passing three short years later . . .
Two clear memories of that day. The scary one--an up-close-and-personal experience with how it feels to be all but trampled/smothered/erased-from-this-earth by a faceless crowd. And the tell-this-over-and-over up-close-and-personal one: I touched his hand, looked into his eyes, later received his autograph in the mail.
Too young to vote for him . . . but not too young to mourn his passing three short years later . . .
"Free, Free, Free"
The words were all mine and . . .who I was at twelve. The title, though, was Daddy's suggestion . . .
My first ever contest entry (not sure which parent suggested this . . . am certain it was not a teacher's idea though).
First place in my division at state level! Laurels enough to retire on as a writer?
What I've remembered most, over the years, is the day, of so many days just like it, that inspired that writing . . .
I think it would have been enough to capture this memory, this feeling, just for me . . .
My first ever contest entry (not sure which parent suggested this . . . am certain it was not a teacher's idea though).
First place in my division at state level! Laurels enough to retire on as a writer?
What I've remembered most, over the years, is the day, of so many days just like it, that inspired that writing . . .
I think it would have been enough to capture this memory, this feeling, just for me . . .
"Ancora Imparo"
Several Christmases ago, just after I was notified that I had achieved National Board certification, my son-in-law gifted me with a small bronze plaque bearing this simple, yet profound, quote: “I am still learning.” The wisdom is attributed to the great Italian Renaissance sculptor Michelangelo who, at the age of eighty-seven, was still humbly aware of how much he did not yet know (Acorn Media, 2009).
I’m not sure I had much choice in the matter of being a lifelong learner. In my childhood home, education was second only to God. My parents, neither of whom had the opportunity to attend college or even, in my father’s case, to complete high school, sent me, their first-born, only eighty miles yet a world away from home, to Duke. They sacrificed much to provide me this opportunity—and I must admit that my grades there were not worthy of their sacrifice. But I came away from Duke an inquirer, a questioner of the status quo, a lifelong learner.
I came away from Duke eager to learn about life, even and maybe especially life outside the realm of academia. Learning to drive was my first goal—yes, learning to drive at twenty-one—and one of the more challenging goals I achieved. In those early adult years at home with my children, I taught myself how to play Beethoven’s “Sonata Pathetique”—the adagio (?) movement—on my almost-antique Wellington (?) upright. I grew dahlias and roses and herbs to die for . . . taught myself to crochet afghans, doilies, baby blankets, Christmas ornaments. I made all of my children’s clothing and most of mine. I read voraciously—those were the mystery and Gothic romance years. I cooked, as my mother had never allowed me to in her pristine kitchen: mostly French cuisine. I dreamed of being a writer. Someday . . .
Mine was not the first National Board certificate in our family. Mine was not the first Ph.D. We were all programmed that way: to learn and to learn and to learn and to never be satisfied with our learning. In my thirty years’ experience in public education, I learned how to teach high school French (not especially well, I must admit, but I was just twenty). I learned how to reach learners with varying learning challenges and gifts. I worked with preschoolers (they cry: I don’t handle that well) and elementary grades children (they cling: I don’t handle that well) and high school students (they don’t need their teachers enough: I don’t handle that well). Eventually I discovered my niche: middle grades students (never the same two days in a row and I so love change) and their teachers (never the same two days in a row and I so love a challenge). Even in this setting, where I have spent most of the second half of my career, I am still learning.
I would say that the sorrow of my professional life is that I have not yet come into my own as a writer. Some say I have a gift for writing, that I should make more judicious use of that gift. I should. Perhaps I will. Yet perhaps the most judicious use of that gift is what I do here, in this moment in time—using writing—an impromptu personal philosophical essay—as a catalyst for inspiring those in my tutelage to dig deeply for their own core beliefs, to use their gift for writing to share their learnings about themselves with the world.
I am still learning . . .
Bibliography
"I Am Still Learning Plaque | Acorn Online." Acorn Online | British TV and Movies | Unique Home and Garden Gifts | Collectibles. Acorn Media. Web. 01 Nov. 2009. . This is the actual website from which the plaque I received was purchased. The information attributing the quote to Michelangelo in his 87th year was included in the item description. I should probably confirm this information in other sources before using this J
NOTE: created Monday, November 02, 2009, for use as a as a student model for/example of a personal philosophical essay
NOTE: created Monday, November 02, 2009, for use as a as a student model for/example of a personal philosophical essay
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
what others see . . .
Writing has always been an essential part of who I am--so essential, in fact, that I've never been able to distance who I am from what I write. Which is why I am not a writer.
Being a published writer has been on the to-do list--well near the top of that list, in fact--all of my life. Accepting that I have chosen not to follow that path has taken most of that lifetime.
Among my greatest pleasures are the writing achievements of two of my children. The third, as did I, came to write as easily as she came to breathe--and, as I did, chose to write for herself, not for the world. For my oldest and youngest, learning to write was a more visible process. Yet they are the ones who chose career paths that hinged on their ability to write professionally--clear, crisp, yet thought-provoking technical pieces that would have sorely tasked my wordiness, my love of long winding streams of thinking on paper.
My oldest child's second book is being released on Friday--but my Amazon pre-order arrived late this afternoon.
I burned my dinner.
I was in tears.
This is what all mothers and teachers dream of,
in their heart of hearts.
Tucked away, on page iv . . . my name . . . and this:
--for being my sounding board, cheerleader, teacher, cemetery-traipsing buddy, and friend. But, most of all, for being my mother.
Mother and teacher and friend of a published writer? What greater accomplishment is there?
I had to smile through the tears at the cemetery-traipsing buddy, remembering our rain-drenched pilgrimage at the close of last year, remembering North Carolina cornfields in the fall and gonebutnotforgotten Silas and Henrietta with the elusive last name, remembering Johnstown and Crespieres, remembering cemetery traipsing with friends from Chapel Hill to Charleston, remembering (if dimly so) Sunday visits to baby brother Jimmy Mike, remembering Daddy . . .
What others see . . .
. . . and remember.
Memory chains linking us all.
Thank you, Kimberly!
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