Whoppers

 Whoppers

On Fellowship Street, growing up in the sixties, we had a dinner bell, a steel triangle that is so often featured in old westerns, as you see the cook grab a metal bar and rapidly rotate it within the triangle, causing a continuous stream of loud reverberations.  When Papa grabbed that bar and played a tune, it pealed out over the neighborhood, alerting us to the approach of dinner.  It took a braver lad than I to face my father, and tell him I didn't hear the dinner bell.  

Melanie refers to “our stern fathers” at one point, and that is an appropriate description.  My father was not a warm and fuzzy man.  Though I have not spent one moment reflecting on this fact, my father never said those words, “I love you,” to me.   On the other hand, I never doubted for one second, that he did love me.  He spent his life fulfilling the responsibilities of a man with nine children.  If he did not pause to tell me that he loved me, it was because he had more pressing matters at hand.

One of those more pressing matters, was instilling a sense of right and wrong in us.  We learned at an early age not to lie to Papa.  He could abide just about anything that did not involve injury, but lying was a special pitfall to avoid.  I remember one time when Papa was painting the dining room, including the door jamb. 

Out of sheer boredom, I had come in from the heat (and maybe there was just a little touch of wanting to get a whiff of that fresh paint-I don't know), and ventured into the work area, where I promptly managed to place my hand on the freshly painted door jamb.  Dismayed at the baby blue paint now prominently visible on my fingertips, I quickly noted that my father's back was to me, as he brushed paint on the opposite wall, so I swiveled around and exited the building, stage left.  

Outside, I regrouped and examined my options.  Had I just gone right back in, Papa would probably not have been thrilled, but the three seconds that it would have taken him to run the brush over that one spot would not have been worth the stress.  Unfortunately, I didn't know that.  I just knew that my prints would be on that door jamb, and my backside on the hot seat.

Eventually he noticed the indiscretion on the door jamb and took the step to correct it, but he was in no hurry to pursue the matter.  That is, until later, when I went traipsing past, unaware of recent developments.

“Matt, Noel, Mark!” (It was hard to keep track of all of us.)  “Where are you going in such a hurry?”

“Uh, nowhere, Papa.”

“You got that right.  Come in here for a minute.”

Oh, no.  Why were my hands clasped behind my back?  And more importantly, why had he had to use an oil-based paint, that would not come off without paint thinner, unless you were willing to remove your skin also?  “Yes, Papa?”

“What have you been doing?”

“Nothing, Papa.”

“Nothing?  Do you need something to do?  I have a whole list of things for a small boy to do.”

“I was playing, Papa.”

“Where were you playing?”

“Outside.”

“Where exactly, outside?”

Why did he stress the word “outside?”  “Out by the dirt piles, Papa.”

“You mean you haven't even come in the house once in the past hour?”  

This was it: the moment of truth, or not, as the case turned out.  Eyes wide, expression shocked, voice carefully modulated so as not to squeak.  “No sir, Papa.”

He paused for a moment and then, as if just then noticing my hands clasped behind my back, he asked casually, “Why do you have your hands behind your back?”

Even I knew the gig was up.  It was far better, at this point, to run up the white flag, and throw myself on the mercy of the court, than it was to keep on digging myself in deeper.  Silently, I extended my hands, fingers splayed outwardly.  The tell-tale blue on my fingers gave mute testimony to my feeble attempts to pull the wool over my father's eyes.  “I'm sorry, Papa.”

“What are you sorry about?” he asked.

“I'm sorry I touched the paint.”

“Do you think I'm angry about that?”

I had to admit that he was pretty calm, so now I got confused.  “Yes?” I offered hopefully.  

Wrong again.  I could tell that from his face.

“No?” I added, just to cover all of the bases.

He decided to put me out of my misery.  “I don't don't give a hoot in Hades that you touched the paint.”  He indicated the repair job with his brush, and realization dawned on me.  Pick and choose your battles, I noted, once again, on the checklist of life.  “I care about the fact that you lied to me.  I can't abide lying.”  

So I learned not to try to try to extricate myself from trouble by lying.  It was a simple concept to understand, that of responsibility, and we learned and watched it in action from the time we could reason.  Everyone makes mistakes, so own up to them when you get nailed and don't make it worse by lying.  Try to get through without telling whoppers.  Leave that to Burger King, and maybe you can get some cheese on that Whopper.

Howie

Howie

Have you ever met Howie?  Let me introduce you.  Two weeks ago Jamal Andrews was gunned down, by another man, after opening the front door of his home.  The reason?  He was black.  Jamal’s life partner witnessed the atrocity.  We owe it her and Jamal’s son, as well as to David and Lucy, Jamal’s grieving father and mother, and to every single person in our community, to embrace this cause.  We need to erase racism.  This is HOW WE must plan to deal with this situation. 

Having gone down to Ukiah for the arraignment of B. Norbury, on February 6th, in Department B, of the courthouse, I was pleased to see an excellent representation of our community in the courtroom.  I have been communicating with a close friend who shares my revulsion that an act of this nature could have occurred in our community.  He had plenty to say about Howie.

He emphasized HOW WE, as a community, could further our cause of extracting appropriate justice.  He explained that it is early in the proceedings, but that pronounced community interest, demonstrated by presenting ourselves at every court appearance, can have a remarkable effect on each of the following: the prosecution, the defense attorney, the judge, the public, and ultimately the jury, if it sees a lot of community interest in the case.

I intend to be there; I want to see B. Norbury and I want him to see me.  In fact, I think we should jam that courtroom every single time the defendant makes an appearance.  I want the defendant-and the world-to see a courtroom full of angry people, black and white people, who loved Jamal and will be watching.  There must be no quiet plea-bargaining off in the corner.  Jamal was one of ours, and we must band together in solidarity, and allow our thrumming thunder to trumpet our cause.

The next court appearance for the defendant is March 1st, in Department B, of the Ukiah Courthouse, at one-thirty.  Of course, information of his appearances are public record and anyone who desires, can phone the Clerk of the Mendocino County Superior Court in Ukiah, Criminal Division, and ask about scheduled court appearances for B. Norbury.  The court also maintains a website that includes court calendars.

So this must be our plan, as to HOW WE confront Jamal’s killer.  I believe that this is the most appropriate response we can make as a community.  That it happened, we cannot deny, but that doesn't mean we have to accept it, or allow it to happen again. I have never been involved in a courtroom trial, that had any personal relevance.  In this most atrocious of cases, I plan to:

see and watch Jamal’s accused killer, and have him see me, every time he steps foot inside the courtroom.

to demonstrate my anger in a civilized manner, unlike the accused, who committed an insidious act.

to see justice carried out, and consequences assigned.

to perform my individual role, with motivation and tenacity.  

to show the defendant, that when he chose to act so savagely, without provocation, that he made a mammoth error.  

B. Norbury hasn’t seen anything yet.  I can be savage in my efforts; I can be savage in my determination; and finally, I can be savage in extracting retribution.  Just watch me.  Better still, join me, and B. Norbury can watch you also.

Our community up here on the mountain, gathered together once before, about twenty-three years ago, and carved a path on the slope of a hillside to our little school.  Now we need to fashion a different type of path, but we have experience, motivation, love for Jamal, and a determination to remove B. Norbury from within our midst-forever.  

No need to bring tools to construct this path. Just bring yourself to the courtroom, and maybe a paperback novel too.  There will be delays, but we have plenty of time.  Oh yes, we have plenty of time, unlike Jamal. And we plan to be there so that B. Norbury knows who we are, and why we want him removed.  It’s more than he was willing to allow Jamal.

Hair's to You

Hair’s to You

Yesterday’s post featured some discussion about the differences between the genders, and that’s always fun to do, especially when you are outnumbered ten to one.  Fortunately, we are not drawing battle lines this morning, so the ratio is a moot point, and I needn’t worry significantly that the eggshells I am treading on, will do anything other than crumble harmlessly beneath my clodhoppers. 

I currently sport a mustache, a resident caterpillar, which has resided on my upper lip, since the winter of 1971.  I’m not proud-after all, it’s one of those “accomplishments,” which actually requires that you suspend operations, in order to achieve success.  By not shaving, I am able to effect change.  It makes me contemplate other possible avenues to pursue.  For example, by not going to work, can I produce similar tangible results?

The answer is yes, of course, only those results are more immediate, and pressing, such as the gnawing hunger when it comes to dinner, and there is no food in the house.  An empty stomach may seem intangible, because of lack of substance, but do not underestimate the presence of discomfort.  

Viewing facial hair from the perspective of gender differences, is interesting, if somewhat limited as to depth of examination.  Guys want it; gals do not.  The difference is in the amount of effort required to achieve the respective goals.  I do nothing, and people can’t help noticing the results.  Note that I did not say, people admire the results.  

Gals who have to deal with this issue may spend much time on it, just to be able to tread water.  It doesn’t come up in the conversation much, because it’s one of those unmentionable topics, that really has no socially redeeming factors.  It is clearly a case of not doing something (growing hair) being more difficult than doing it.

I, on the other hand, have spent a lifetime, allowing my facial hair to create an image, that broadcasts vast unlimited amounts of information about me, before I ever open my mouth.  In the late sixties, trying to fit in with the political climate, I was forever letting my sideburns creep down my face, long before the caterpillar took up residence on my lip.  The grocery store* in which I worked, had strict rules about facial hair that were hard to misinterpret:  NO FACIAL HAIR.  

I annoyed the daylights out of my boss, who used to grouse at me, but ultimately had too much appreciation for the O’Neill work ethic, to terminate our relationship.  My older brother Brian was the assistant manager, a business major at Cal Poly, Pomona, and the penultimate conservative guy, whitewalls and all.  If Augie were annoyed at me, he would plant a bug in Brian’s ear, who would come home and complain about it at the dinner table, and my father would get involved.  He, of the WWII flattop era, had no tolerance for my antics.

I went from this setting into the military, where I engaged in a series of machinations, in order to retain possession of my “Unauthorized Pet,” becoming the only guy in a company of 200 recruits, to wear a mustache, simply because I had one when I had my military identification picture taken.** 

As a student at San Jose State University, (the EIGHT years after being released from the military) I wore a raging red beard, and allowed my hair to relocate, outside of my scalp, by the same process of inactivity which works so successfully with facial hair.  The downside was the inevitable reaction when encountering people who did not know me, sort of an unease, despite the presence of backpack and SJSU t-shirt.  Lots of men were hair guys; I didn’t invent the look. 

As a teacher, after working for about five years, I allowed my hair to grow out, and I had a prominent beard, more to demonstrate the adage, “You can’t judge a book by its cover.”  Of course, I also wore dress slacks and a tie to work Monday through Thursday, so there was balance to my act.

Now I keep my hair short, primarily because a whiny shoulder does not allow me to braid it any longer, and it’s just simpler that way.  I do have my mustache, which I began on April 5th, 2010, and which I hold responsible for the Giants winning the World Series that year.  I figure that if my mustache has that kind of panache, I may as well hold out for winning the lottery.  I won’t hold my breath however, because that could be hazardous to my health.  If I don’t asphyxiate myself, then I better be careful I don’t trip over it, because it may be a while.  And oh yeah, it might help if I bought a ticket.    

* I wrote about my tenure in the grocery business in Sunrize Market, which I posted in August, 2011.  

** There are two short, comical pieces of writing, one entitled Rat Fuzz, and the other The Unauthorized Pet, taken from my Military Madness work, and posted in October.

As the SALON Doors Swing

As the SALON Doors Swing

I have determined that change is good, especially if I am only on the fourth installment of As the Salon Doors Swing.  I decided that “saloon” had connotations that implied we were having a little too much fun, and whereas I do enjoy myself immensely, if I’m going to get blamed for the dirt, I’d like to have had the pleasure of wallowing in it first.

Henceforth, the doors shall swing from the door jamb of a salon, and not a saloon.  My [brand new] New Oxford American Dictionary gives the historical definition of salon as “a regular social gathering of eminent people (especially writers and artists) at the house of a woman prominent  in high society.”  That sounds grandiloquent enough for me.  There’s nothing like a smidgen of pomposity to lend credibility to our lounge.

I have no problem classifying my writing colleagues as eminent, and I have no problem with the setting being at a woman of high society’s home.  Having worked in the field of education, predominantly female in our district, I am familiar and comfortable in this environment. I choose my battles wisely, and prefer to be a “community contributor,” rather than a leader.  

In looking up the etymology of salon and saloon, it does not surprise me that they share the same origin, nor does it surprise me that the word is French in derivation.  It has always seemed to me that the French culture has found the most efficient manner to blend the best qualities, of both the saloon and the salon, in her history.

Having dispensed with this critical logistical piece of housekeeping, I will now move on to the grist of today’s post, which is there are more women blogging than men.  I know that that will come as a shock to you, but research indicates that, whereas men may have a lot to say, they generally keep it to themselves.  Gals are more sociable, and tend to put the word on out there.

It’s all good with me; I mentioned that I worked in a field which easily had a five to one ratio, of women to men.  I found out that if I had a disagreement with a gal, the battle lines got drawn up in a completely different manner, than that to which I was accustomed.  

I want to digress for one minute, while we visit Tangled Lou’s site yesterday morning, and Sebtown asked, “What is it with 12-year-old boys and their need to put up their dukes and fight like a man?  Answer me that one Marcus Vespuci.”  [One of my nick-names] My response was to say that I was never that guy.

Though I do not fit the normal pattern, I do believe that JT has pegged it.  When two dudes square off, in the non-workforce world, frequently one punch to the face settles the issue.  When two women square off, battle lines might be clear, but the behind-the-scenes maneuvering is intense.  I had two different conflicts with two different-and very powerful/influential women on staff, and I learned that I was completely out of my league, and not even within shouting distance of theirs.

In both instances administration opted to let us solve our own differences, the first time because of inexperience, the second time because of too much experience.  The principal at that time, was a guy I had teamed with for ten years in the classroom, and the gal was a colleague.  I thought of it as a squabble between siblings, with another sibling being asked to moderate.  Right.  That always works.

By the time we actually got to the point, where we sat down and hashed it out, using direct, even, and respectful language, the sides were clearly delineated: me against the universe, because I did not get my ducks in a row.  That did not prevent us from resolving our issues, but it made it a far more daunting prospect, than if we had just gotten it over with immediately.

I do not mention differences in dealing with conflict, because conflict exists, but merely as one difference between the genders.  The similarities are striking and consistent though, and I see evidence of these consistencies everywhere.  Therefore, I am going to make three impartial observations that seem to form a foundation for our blogging community.  There are countless more to be made, but at a later time.  

To begin, all posters are equal, be they first-time players, or have 200-plus followers.  Reasons vary why writers begin posting, or why they are suddenly able to elevate their game.  Why does someone go from posting two or three times a month, to writing every day?  Or conversely, why do some writers have so much to say, that they post twice daily?  Writers post for a variety of reasons, and no one reason outweighs another on the validity-meter.  If a reader is not interested in today’s offering, it’s hit the back-space key, and on to the next site.  No harm-no foul.  Don’t shoot the waitperson because you do not like the menu.

All posts have validity; everyone has the right to make an observation, pose a question, insert a photo, or simply announce today’s plan of action, without having to make a disclaimer.  Of course, the fun usually comes in the form of that disclaimer, because we know the personality involved, and the humor is usually wry, and at the expense of the poster.  It inevitably produces smiles all around.

Finally, as Judy pointed out, posters are non-judgmental, one of the most key components, because of the two reasons stated above.  If all posters are equal, and all posts have validity, then there is no forum for criticism.  What this combination of theorems produces, is an environment that encourages a healthy exchange of ideas, in a non-threatening environment.  And top-shelf entertainment.

This has worked out well, because we are saving ourselves the salary of a moderator; maybe we should take the loot we are saving, and throw ourselves a party.  I know just the place, in the salon.

I see that I am going to have to name my salon.  I’ll get back to you on that.

Let it Go

Let it Go

I attended a school district inservice about ten years ago, in which the instructor began the event by presenting the concept of “Let it go.”  He asked us to consider the myriad of possibilities that occur daily, that annoy us.  Many of those items are unavoidable, and yet we let them gnaw at us.  He asked us to take our hands and place them in front of our chests, and push them together, palms pressing against one another, and simply thrust our arms outward, while expelling the words, “Let it go.”

In this literal manner, he was asking us to tackle these irritating daily occurrences head-on, and demonstrate it with the two-handed gesture.  Our middle school staff adopted this symbolic symbol of acceptance, employing it regularly during the course of the remainder of the school year.  Whenever things got tense, or complicated, someone would break the mood with the sign, and the rest would follow suit.  We found it very effective as a tool for admitting that something was complex, and letting go the stress, without abandoning the project.

Three little words.  No, not those three, but “Let it go.”  So much happens arounds the house, on a daily basis, that would be better if simply ignored.  In some homes it might be the presence of a ring on the table, where a coaster was obviously missing in action, or it might be the presence of the dirty cup itself.  Nonetheless, you’ve seen it there a hundred times before, and you fear you’ll see it a hundred more times, just like the pile of discarded clothes on the bathroom floor.

Of course, in a perfect world, these bad habits will not have been allowed to develop in the first place, but my world is not perfect, and neither, I fear, is yours.  Therefore, it is imperative that we recognize that, and act accordingly.  Bad habits can be corrected, but it does not require that we blow a head gasket doing so.  Part of the process is accepting the fact that there are going to be obstacles in the way of perfection, and not the ones you keep tripping over.

No, the obstacles have more to do with how consistent we are as parents.  Do we model the expected behavior?  Are our expectations realistic?  All of this gets jumbled together, and out of the resulting morass is a pattern of behavior.  Knowing this in advance, allows us to see that when things do not go optimally, we do ourselves a service by being able to accept that fact.

Note, I am not suggesting that we pick up after our kids, in order to retain our good spirits, only that we not be too hard, on either them or ourselves, when the pile-ups occur.  And of course, I didn’t even mention the things that we find it advantageous to accept about our spouses, in the same spirit of acceptance.

“Let it go.”  It’s sound advice, because, if you let it go, voluntarily, then it’s less likely to sneak up and bite you in the backside.

As the Saloon Doors Swing

As the Saloon Doors Swing

I find it captivating that common themes materialize at the different blog sites I visit.  When Judy posted her “Confession” piece (now doesn’t that sound provocative?), she did so on the same day that I re-posted a piece on my friend Mahlon.  I never hesitated to post something written previously, even though it had only been last October when I originally posted it.  My logic is that, if you had already read it, you would go on to the next post; if not, then it’s all good.

The beauty about blogging, and the aspect that originally attracted me, is the “No Rules” agenda.  Even better, it’s the make-up-the-rules-as-you-go-along approach, and there’s not really anyone to tell you that you can’t.  Not inspired?  “Take the morning off, my Dear; you owe it to yourself.  Kick off your shoes and relax.  Don't thank me-that’s OK; I’m just that sort of guy.”  I’m thinking of sporting a tee-shirt that says, “No Rules?  Make up your own...”

Oops.  You wrote the second coming of Crime and Punishment this morning, and you seriously think anyone has time to read it?  She might, or she might make a mental note to drop in later, when there is a break in the action, and a few minutes to immerse oneself in someone else’s opus.  There is no timetable, and there is no framework, into which you have to shape your reading or your response, if any.  I have seen instances when a one-word response was perfect, or even a symbol, such as a smiley-face.

On the other hand, I have also waxed on eloquently in the comments section, and realized afterwards, that I probably should have just done a post.  You are all so very patient with this long-winded word-nick.  Or if there is a topic presented, for which I do not have a frame of reference, the last thing I want to do, is add some inane claptrap, and have it appear as such.  I mean, it’s OK to share claptrap, so long as it has “substance” and “depth.”  It’s like Bette Midler’s statement, in the middle of one of her variety specials, “I don’t do shows in bed no more, Honey.  I’m an artiste.”

When I first started branching out and visiting other sites, I visited one in which a reference was made to “it just being us girls here,” while a chick-topic was being bandied about, and I got real nervous.  What would “they” do if “they” found out I was lurking around at “their” sites, being of the male persuasion.  What to do?  (See how effectively-or impertinently-I can piggy-back on S. Stauss's "Them" theme?)

I checked with Sebtown (What are sisters for?) about the propriety of emailing Masked Mom, to ask for advice.  Jt’s response was, that if Masked Mom's email address were posted on her site, then she was amenable to that approach.  So I did just that, and Masked Mom was not only nice enough to set my fears to rest, she gave me some excellent advice.  It boiled down to simply using common sense.  

Just because I happened to venture to one of the Versatile Bloggers Award sites recommended to me, and it happened to be dealing with feminine issues, did not mean that I should choose that moment to spring onto the site with a pithy comment.  Maybe, I should just revisit and wait to see if there weren’t other topics discussed at later times.  It proved to be most valuable advice, because the connection I established is priceless to me.

I meet people from different parts of the country, and get the opportunity to view for myself, if what I have always believed to be true about a particular region is accurate.  Melanie intrigues me, because she is dispelling beliefs each time she posts, that I have held about the South, my entire adult life.  I am ashamed to say I let the film Easy Rider influence me far too much.

And how’s this for instant action?  Ever since I posted “To Gingst or Not to Gingst,” I have not had one single misfiring on the verification word (VW) “firing range.”  Not one.  I do not know if my brain has taken to regrouping the letters, or if my post makes me more aware, or whether it’s just blind luck.  Of course, I haven’t encountered any of those plaid, graph-paper models, either, so I may be speaking prematurely.  In any case, I have no logical explanation, except that I do keep a running list of the letter-groupings I encounter, for when I write my next installment of “VW’s available-cheap.”  And why do I not have to do VW's at Lynda's site?

 Finally, as so many of you have noted, our community, ever diverse and expanding, has such infinite capacity for unconditional support.  I maintain that this past week has been a rough one, but not so much for me, as for the members of my global community.  I have an avenue I pursue each morning, that allows me to insert various thought into the spinning dryer of my brain, and see what emerges.  I am never certain that what I write is noteworthy, but I do feel an easement in my soul.  

 Yes, the saloon doors swing both ways, as do the emotions encountered on any given morning. One day she is light and breezy, the next dark and somber.  Those peaks and valleys emulate life, and all we can do is hang on and keep our seat belts fastened, until the vehicle comes to a complete halt.  And then, maybe, add a comment.

Back at Boomer's

Back at Boomer’s

My attendance at the benefit for Jamal Andrews, down at Boomer’s on Sunday night, marked my debut into the Laytonville public eye, since my emergence from my mental tunnel, eighteen months ago.   I wrote about Jamal on Sunday morning, in "Not enough Words."  Despite the sad circumstances of the occasion, the event itself was galvanizing.  Casey and I had gone down to Lito’s house, about two minutes from Boomer’s, and we had been informed that we had better go in and get our wristbands.  

“Seriously, Dude?  That many people?”

“The band that’s playing is I Chronic, and it’s going to be a good show.  One of the band members is a cousin of Jamal’s.  They were in London the day before yesterday.”

“Jamal lived in Redwood Valley, so there are going to be people from all over Mendocino County here tonight.”

“It’s amazing that they, whoever “they” are, were able to round up the band in two days; after all, they only announced the benefit on Friday, and the event is being held on Sunday.”

Boomer’s is the local bar and restaurant in Laytonville, a venue far more familiar to my adult sons than to me.  The one and only time I have been in Boomer’s was March 15, 1992, almost twenty years ago, when a “pink-slip party” was held there, to mark the fact that fifteen district employees, including me, had received notification that there was nothing secure about our jobs for the following school year.  Realistically, we knew that the district was not going to fire fifteen teachers, and it was all about politics, but the fact that a pink slip must be distributed before any other action took place, was disconcerting.

Now, as we arrived, the front car-lot was jammed, and so was the parking all across the back.  We ended up in the parking lot on the far side of where we had come in, and that spoke volumes right there.  The crowd spilled out into the adjoining blacktop, as the ordinance concerning smoking now put all bars in California off limits for smoking.   I expect that is the case most everywhere in our country, but do not know that for a fact. 

As we made our way into the foyer, to pay the twenty dollar entry fee, various young adults greeted me, as I walked with Casey into the establishment.  My appearance is pretty much the same as when I taught, with the exception of my mustache, which extends down past my chin, the tips of which will actually touch my belly button, if I incline my head forward, just a smidge.  I had it braided for the occasion, and with all of the dred-locks in evidence this night, I fit in pretty well.  Many of the people, with whom I made conversation, felt compelled to either comment, or reach out and touch, as I made my way around.

I tried to be aware of the fact that for some, it might be their worst nightmare, to see their old middle school language arts teacher in the local drinking hole.  However, as many were to assure me over the course of the evening, I was remembered fondly, and enthusiastically, by every single individual I met.  “William” put it pretty much the same way as others, when he said, 

“Mr. O, you’re the only teacher I ever had, who got up on the tables, and ran around the classroom.  That was so sick.”

He was right, of course, I did that every year I taught, at least once, to demonstrate an action word, a verb, and maybe to distinguish action verbs from linking verbs.  I believed that seeing me, dignified Mr. O, with his dress slacks (no Levis) and tie (every day but Fridays) up on the tables, would make the lesson stick.  William proved me correct.

“You also busted a ruler over a table one time, and a piece of it whistled past my ear.”  I remembered also, breaking a couple rulers;  If I felt that the volume level in the class was surpassing acceptable levels, I would take a meter stick, and slam it down on the table, creating, of course, a sound like a rifle shot, thereby bringing instant-and total-silence to the room.  Even the kids used to be impressed.

“Yeah, I probably did a few things that could have gotten me in trouble...”

“Well, that is what made you such a fun teacher.”

And Arturo was waxing on eloquently, (after I had shaken his hand, and then politely asked him who he was) how much the kids respected me.  His mustache made it impossible for me to be able to pare ten-twelve years away, and see the kid who had sat in the classroom.  Actually, I could recognize almost no guys, and only rarely, a gal.  Also, I was unwilling to fix my gaze on any of the gals there, because I was petrified that I would be thought of as hitting on the young women.  Annie had opted out of the night’s event, because it was starting after her bedtime.  It was starting after my bedtime as well, but I had taken the necessary precaution of a two-hour nap, late in the afternoon, so I was good to go.

As far as the issue of respect went, it was a two-way street.  I gave the students respect initially, and they gave it back, ten-fold.  I have said in the past, that discipline in a classroom of thirty-plus kids, is either your biggest or least problem; there was no in-between land.

The band was supposed to begin at 9:00, but it was close to eleven before that happened.  Up until then, Leo had been putting on the music, some of it Jamal’s, and some of it Moeses’s.  Moese was another former student who had been huge in the music industry, who had lost his life in an off-road vehicle accident.  His music was also featured during the warm-up to the band.

It was my first exposure to live reggae music, and I was hypnotized.  Some of the band was composed of Jamaican-born musicians, who were ecstatic to be in "Cahl-lee-for-nee-a."  The music was so loud, it rattled the floor, and the crush of humanity was omnipresent.  Eighteen months ago I could never, under any circumstances imaginable, have even entered the building, let alone enjoyed myself.  It was a cathartic experience.

The message of the band was identical to the one I had posted that morning: violence is unacceptable, and everyone needs to both respect and revere all forms of life.  We have to continue to emphasize and value the unique worth of all human beings, and then, maybe, we could avoid further tragedy.  How else does a community deal with a senseless killing, that was motivated by race?  Inconceivable.

The sad part about the show is, that so many people mused as to why we always seem to have the ragers, to mark something bad, that has occurred in the community.  We need to change that, so that more often, when we gather, we can celebrate the good things also.  

Jamal will be missed; that is a fact.  No sense of closure will ever be possible, without the passage of time.  Pain, so deep and so permeating, does not vacate the premises in a timely manner.  The gathering of the community helps deal with the immediacy and the sharpness of this pain, but only time will ease it.  Time and an ongoing effort to teach those around us, to value individuality and diversity, two characteristics which should attract people, and not repel them.