Columns & Editorials

America is on fire. Literally. We thought COVID-19 was chaotic until anarchy began in the wake of the death of citizen George Floyd, while in police custody. Rallies and protests have gone international as the world watches and waits to see how America’s leaders will handle yet another instance of an unarmed, African American man dying at the hands of those sworn to protect and serve him. They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing repeatedly expecting a different result. We can only wonder when our nation’s leaders will choose to approach malfeasance in law enforcement effectively.

I don’t know about you, but I’ve been using my quarantime to try and figure out where I went astray in my cleaning routine. Spring cleaning is too tame of a term. Let’s call it cleanageddon. I’ve always been the person who tried super hard to keep a pristine home, southern girl that I am. It’s how I was raised, up at dawn every Saturday morning, with the promise of a shopping trip and Mexican food looming like a carrot over my head. You see, shopping and Mexican food was a late 70’s/early 80’s Saturday constant. My mom, aunt, cousin, and little Grandma Cille would hop in our big Oldsmobile 98 and set out for an afternoon on the town. We loved Big Town. We adored the old Lochwood Mall. There were still iron alligators at Town East, near where the carpeted steps were, in case any moms needed to stop for a smoke break while the kids released some Ferrell’s sugar energy. First, we’d gather at Grandma’s house, and, while we loaded up every inch of space in the Olds – kids had to sit on the hump – my Grandpa would inevitably walk out with a $20 bill. “Cille, be sure you take them to the El Chico.” I don’t remember buying anything. I just remember my Grandma, the original Betty White, in her adorable pantsuit and Yo-Yo shoes, begging us not to tell her Sunday school class about the margarita she planned to order. But, let’s back up. Before the Olds took flight, before I begged to wear baby blue eyeshadow for the day, and before that matriarchal margarita hit the table, we had to clean. If I panned on going, my bed better be made before I set foot in the kitchen with a smile on my face and eyes that didn’t roll. My specialty was baseboards. My sword was a toothbrush. “More baking soda” was my battle cry. Momma released an excellent and driven homemaker into this world. What in tarnation happened?

At a time where the concept of personal responsibility for our actions (or inactions) has seemingly faded like camouflage in the woods, the school setting has become the proving grounds where faculty and families often reach a loggerhead as it relates to students and parents taking responsibility for their actions, behavior and achievement. A recent news clip offered a great example of responsibility deferred.

Last week we dove headfirst into finding a job when everyone else is also job hunting and companies are suffering. We touched on the importance of a well written resume and how crucial it is to follow the details of the job application to the extreme. This week we’re exploring what happens after you’ve landed the interview. We’ll even focus on who’s actually hiring. Remember, if people didn’t commonly violate these rules, they wouldn’t be called rules.

The past several weeks have shown us a lot about our public education system. It has shown us that while we weren’t ready with a nation-wide disaster plan, we were able to flex, morph, compromise and regroup to ensure our students had opportunities to continue to learn. As we plan our return to the classroom in the Fall, I hope to see a new and improved focus on teaching students the value, importance and components of self-sufficiency and responsibility.

Jobless claims have soared to 38.6 million in 9 weeks. The government threw $669 billion at small business, but now realizes even this amount can’t keep mom and pop operations solvent much longer. One economist estimates that nearly half the recent layoffs will result in the permanent loss of a job. Food bank lines, in many states, are days long and the result of the wait doesn’t guarantee you any actual food. States are on the struggle bus with unemployment claims that are breaking the internet and rendering the phone lines useless. I bring you this gulp of sunshine courtesy of the NY Times. What do you do when there doesn’t seem to be anything to do? For many, the first order of business is simple. Food = money = gainful employment = finding a job. This job search, however, will be different than any you’ve ever embarked on. If you’re searching feverishly, let me help. Why? It’s one thing I can actually do. I spent 15 years as an HR Manager/ employee procurement specialist/national trainer for a staffing company. I participated in counseling events to aid people looking for post 9/11 jobs, post Katrina jobs, and post-recession positions. We can do this. But, in order to find our beginning, we have to see where we came from.

There is a formula to life, much like this column, much like a Hallmark Christmas movie. For the movies, it’s simple: girl meets boy, girl and boy are about to express their undying love, random misunderstanding occurs – usually at the hands of the ex who never got the memo, girl and boy flee to opposite corners of the world yet accidentally bump into each other where they first met, everyone understands the error of their ways with lots of kissing and a sunset. See? Same with you and me every week. I tell you about something icky. We laugh. Life morphs around us and things work out just as we knew they would. Sound too saccharine? I understand. It’s just that there is so much horror and disgust organically in this world, I want this space to be love and light and happy endings. Except, it isn’t always like that. I thought I would get real with you today. Well, real-lite, kind of like Coke vs Diet Coke. Here’s a tale about a time things went awfully wrong. No Kleenex alert. You’ll be fine.

A few days ago, I had the good fortune, (Divine intervention), to run into a former student and his family. He is a young man with severe behavior problems and has difficulty in the school setting. When I met him, he was in fifth grade, he could barely read or write and was at least three grade levels behind academically. Now, he’s about 20 pounds heavier, a few inches taller, about five grade levels behind academically and still cannot read or write very well.

Public schools have demonstrated an impressive ability to move and flex with the most trying times. The abrupt end of the school year and transition from the classroom to online learning has had its snags and hiccups, but the reports I’m hearing are increasingly positive as it relates to smooth instruction and student satisfaction. Student “attendance” is spotty and many students don’t attend their online class tim. However, those who do seem to like, or at least not mind, connecting with their teachers virtually.

My late father was a house prestidigitator. He could turn anything into a home. Looking back, I realize it was his presence and demeanor, more than anything, that made 4 walls feel like a sanctuary. To a little girl, however, it was just good old daddy magic. Most of us can live an entire lifetime and never know anyone who moved a house, releasing a house from its moorings and physically relocating it to a different place. My father did this twice. I entered the world in 1967 and waltzed into a used singlewide trailer on a 3 acre tract of land in an unincorporated Bermuda Triangle of real estate that was not quite anywhere. We lived in that trailer until I was 4. A couple of years prior, my dad was in Pleasant Grove buying supplies for the laundromat he owned. That’s how I remember the story. Maybe he was grabbing a burger from Griff’s or taking us to eat at his favorite restaurant, Charco Broilers. Regardless, while driving down Buckner Boulevard, he noticed a large sign tacked onto the front of an empty church: FREE – TO BE MOVED. Daddy had the brain of an engineer and the passion of an academy award winning actor. He had the church moved to our corner of paradise and spent 2 years morphing it into a home. Seven gables turned into 3. The stained glass windows were removed. Salvage materials were used on the interior. Who wouldn’t want red indoor/outdoor carpet or blue paneled walls? I don’t remember trailer life. I just remember the childhood that dreams are made of in that church turned house, with a mother who taught me to sew and a father who cast spells that made odd mismatched things look beautiful and new. The trailer became our own self-storage unit. I was terrified of it. “DD, that ____ is in the trailer. Will you go get it?” The trailer meant weird smells & mice. The trailer was where the failed magic tricks lived: broken hair salon dryer chairs & old commercial meat slicers from Daddy’s bacon slicing phase. I was not a trailer fan.

The Coronavirus has done quite a job shaking up education in our nation’s schools. In the unprecedented move to close schools 2 months early, what appears to be the lack of a national education disaster plan has forced education administrators to explore creative ways to ensure students are receiving instruction. The good news is, it appears we have discovered there are things we can do with and without in our schools in the COVID-19 season. The following are ideas that may need further exploration when we return to our post-virus normal, if there is such a thing.

2013 was a banner year for us. We bought a ramshackle little bungalow with a 5” leveling issue from corner to corner, and I quit my job. I only knew I was tired of flying out on Mondays and flying home on Saturdays, only to get up and start the process from scratch. When I approached my boss about doing more work in Texas proper, she added Colorado and Florida to my Minnesota, Louisiana, Illinois, & Texas territory. What I didn’t know is that I would receive the blessing of getting to know my father again, shepherding him to the VA for doctor appointments, and losing him in 5 years. I became a SAHD (stay at home daughter). Every moment was cherished. You know what else I did the moment I stopped traveling? I watched every single episode of I Love Lucy, in order. Sorry, all you Friends fans. Monica, Rachel, and Phoebe may be funny, but they’re hen scratch compared to Ethel & Lucy. There is a Lucy episode relative to every stage of life. What’s my favorite episode? Vitameatavegamin? Madame X? The serial killer and the watercress sandwiches? Grape stomping? John Wayne’s footprints? I can’t pick a favorite. My life took a turn this week, though, in a 50’s parallel of unprecedented proportions. Remember the time Lucy was furious at Ricky because he wouldn’t pick up after himself so she staged their living room as a hillbilly haven complete with overalls, a chili bowl hairdo, and live chickens? Turns out that was the night Look magazine was coming to do the cover story on the Ricardos at home. Sometimes, you can’t win for losing.

As we inch closer to May and with the declaration that schools may be out for the year, many seniors are facing the reality that they will miss many traditional senior rites of passage like proms, dances, graduation ceremonies and graduation parties. Seniors, I have great compassion for you. You’ve worked to get to this point only to have a virus cheat you out of the grand prize. No matter how you slice it, that stinks. At the same time, I hope to encourage you to use this disappointing loss as part of potentially lifechanging lessons.