My nine year old daughter hijacked my blog for this post. It is to Dr. John B. King, Education Commissioner of the State of New York. I copied John Hildebrand at Newsday.

Dear Dr. King

      Hi my name is (redacted) and I am 9 years old. I just finished the ELA stat test. The test was really hard and confusing. I always work hard and feel smart all the time. I always get B and A's. But when I took the ELA stat test I felt dumb and stupid. I felt this way because I didn't know what they were talking about. Why are the questions so confusing?  Other kids in the school was crying because they didn't finish the test and it was so hard. I think you should space out the test. I think this because 3 days in a row of tests is tiring , frustrating , and hard. I am frustrated. I finish 3 test then next week we take 3 more tests in a row. I think it's unfair. thank you for your time reading my note and I hope you do something about it.  

Comment: This letter was my daughter's idea. As you can tell, I did not edit it. It is truly her voice. 

Burying Somebody

Truly a brutal day, just the start of a brutal three days. I went to work today and of course, my heart wasn't in it. This afternoon I got my beautiful, wonderful kids off the bus and we hung out and did homework together. At six, I loaded them in the car and drove them 25 miles to the home of friends and dropped them off, then drove five miles back to the funeral home to the wake of my wife's cousin. He was the only boy and had four little sisters. They were, of course, distraught, and the pain was palpable. A steady parade of family and well wishers lasted more than two hours. I didn't have the heart to tell them that burying their beloved brother tomorrow is going to be worse.

I shepherded my wife to the car and we drove back to our friends' house to collect our kids, who feigned sleep as my wife and I decompressed with a bevvy or three. Margy is one of my wife's closest friends and my wife's pain spilled out. Racked with sobs, she sat at their breakfast table and tried to make sense of a senseless act. I didn't have the heart to tell her that tomorrow is going to be worse.

Later today (Thursday), we will be celebrating a mass in Keith's honor, a service in a religion that may condemn him for taking his own life. After that, we will mournfully follow his body to a plot of earth where he will be buried, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. This is when shit really gets bad.

How do I know this? Just over eleven years ago I said goodbye to my brother. We had him cremated, held a memorial service for him at his place of employment, and took his ashes to California a month later. We held a party in his honor with friends and family and then, the next morning, spread his ashes on a beach along the Pacific Coast. Spreading his ashes was the goodbye, the burial. It was the worst day of my life.

That's what they will be facing today.

It's particularly poignant for me. While Keith wasn't my cousin, I did know him. I didn't know him well, but my kids played with his kids. He was a father, like me, he was a son, like me, he was a brother, like me. And his sisters, like me, will have to say goodbye to someone they loved.

Then, they go home. Without the possibility of ever seeing him again, alone with their thoughts. No more wakes, no more funerals, no more celebrations. Just the rest of their lives without their loved one. That's what happens after the funeral. It's over.

Except for those special occasions when you get to remember the departed. Like the anniversary of their death, or their birthday. And you all get together again and rip open the scabs and let the pain bleed out of you again. Or, you just rip open your own scabs and let the pain bleed out of you all alone and revel in the melancholy, wondering what if.

Later today, I will watch my wife's family go through this and I will remember doing the same thing for my brother. Later today I will be clenched in my own pain at watching them go through what I have gone through. Later today, I will have flashbacks to that walk on the beach, spreading my brother's ashes, and I will cry inside. I will cry inside because I know what they are going through. I will not cry because I know it is their pain, and not mine. But, I will know that pain, because I have felt it, because I feel it. Later today I will stand by my wife and tell her it will get better, even though I know that it won't. Later today I will help bury their beloved brother, son, and cousin.

And then, tomorrow, alone, I will celebrate my brother's 51st birthday without him.

My wife's cousin killed himself yesterday. He was from Long Island but had moved to North Carolina with his wife and kids. He became estranged from her and his kids had chosen sides. He was a long way from home and felt isolated. Having grown up on the West coast and living on the East coast, I had always been concerned about him. While I'm not estranged from my wife and kids, I know how dark it can get being in an alien community and feeling alone. I didn't know him well, but I recognized a kind and gentle spirit and I'm rocked by his decision.

I doubt an early exit is ever the right decision. It's such a flagrant dismissal of all those that love you. But, who can know the depths of depression that can lead you to such a rash and violent act. It has deprived his kids of a father, his sister of a brother, and his parents of a child. From the survivor's point of view, it's a selfish act. But, who can really understand the pain that leads to the early check out.

Of course, my life isn't wine and roses, but whose is? It just reminds that all of the crap that I am going through in my day to day life isn't really that bad. I lost my brother in 2001, and yes, I did look on top of the fridge - he wasn't there. But he is in my heart and I keep him there. Of course, my brother was 39 years old and I have a lot of memories to keep him alive. I wonder about his kids? Do they have enough to keep him alive?

What a waste.

Spike

Connecticut, Really?

Just trying to make sense of the shootings in Newtown and I am coming to the conclusion that we cannot. We cannot figure out how a person can kill innocent children. We cannot figure out why a mother of a developmentally disabled child would own assault weapons. We cannot figure out why that man would target eight year old children. We cannot figure out how the parents of the children will go on with their lives. We cannot know how we can make sense of this tragedy. We cannot figure out how Robbie Parker can possibly offer condolences to the parents of the shooter. He is a parent who lost a child, Emily. We cannot fathom his forgiveness, his compassion, or his empathy.

We want justice. We want to blame someone. We want to blame mom or dad for not recognizing their kid was wrong. We want to blame them for not knowing this kid was going to blow up a school, to go postal, to slaughter innocent children, teachers, and parents. How could they not have seen this ticking time bomb. How could they not have taken action?

I hugged my nine year old. I hugged my six year old. And, I am mad. I am beyond mad. I am pissed. And here comes Mr. Parker, to show me humanity, to show me humility, to show me empathy. He's not mad. His eight year old daughter is dead, eviscerated by the bullets of a madman, but he's not mad. Imagine the image, his 80 pound daughter ripped apart by bullets from a gun bought legally, intended as an assault weapon. Imagine the havoc wreaked by those bullets on that innocent child.

But, he's not mad. He forgives. He is a child of god. Reverend Rocky Veach took advantage, talking to Anderson Cooper. Forgiveness was his message. He understood. Clearly Robbie Parker had been drinking the same Cool Aid spooned out by Reverend Veach. I just don't get it. In Romans 12:19, God says, "vengeance is mine."

What vengeance is satisfactory to the parents and loved ones of the 28 or 29 dead in Newtown Connecticut? The only vengeance, I think, is the existence of hell. I hope it exists, and I hope that sorry piece of feces rots there.

Unfortunately, I don't believe in heaven or hell. So, all we can do is hope those kids passed quickly, and that rat bastard suffered. I'm sad that he didn't get to experience the American system of justice, where he would have been isolated and assaulted on a regular basis. I had great compassion for Dahmer, but ultimately justice was served. I'm just sad that Mr. Lanza won't experience similar justice.

So, I guess I'm a piece of crap. but I'm sad that asshole didn't get justice.

 I sent this email today. Oops!

And I deleted it today, oops!

National University and MFA Programs

I'm currently enrolled in an MFA program at National University and I am, for the most part, very happy with the program. But, there are inherent issues with an online program, and I am here to tell you about those issues.

The English electives are but four weeks long, and I normally don't see that as problematic, except that the university seems to think that it is acceptable to require students to read 125 pages of scholarly articles and digest them, each week. My experience is that it would be best to read five pages and to tear those five pages apart and kick them around a bit. But, NU has decided that quantity is better than quality.

The second issue is that the creative writing classes are eight weeks long. That means, in eight weeks you should write new fiction, submit it, have it work shopped, revise it, and re-submit it. This is ridiculous in an eight week class. You should really write it and then take six weeks before touching it again.

One of the most ridonkulos situations is the survey regarding a professor. They require you to assess the effectiveness of a professor by the Friday before your class is completed. How can I possibly assess a professor when I only have 15 percent of my grade? Fifteen percent of my feedback.

Now, remember, I have my teaching credential from National University, and a MA in English from National. I'm a loyal customer. But assessing a professor with less than 15 percent of grades provided is ridiculous.

Just saying.

Spike

KIDS!

KIDS!

When I was young, my brothers and I swam at a public pool in Ashland, Oregon where the Lifeguard would walk out to the end of the low diving board and yell "KIDS!" She was only trying to get our attention to admonish us for "picking the tar out of the bottom of the pool." But, my brother, sensitive to tone, came to believe that "KIDS!" was an epithet, a bad word not to be repeated. Later that same year, he would sneak out onto my grandparent's porch and yell "KIDS!" and run back in the house, convinced that he had gotten away with something nefarious.

Now, kids has a different connotation to me. I find it the most appropriate label for when my kids do or say something that amazes me. I'm fortunate that I have the opportunity to mutter "Kids" often. Sunday was no different, and today, I again had the chance to mutter "Kids." On Sunday, I took my kids, nine year old Lala and six year old Buddy Boy to Five Guys for burgers. It's become somewhat of a routine for us, after soccer, Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, or any other child centered event when I want to spend some time with my kids.

My son, the six year old, was enjoying his burger and I asked him a question.

"Buddy, do you like that burger?"

"No Dad. I don't like it."

He then paused, smirked and added, "I love it. In fact, I want to marry that burger.

"KIDS!"

Tonight was my daughter's turn. My wife gets the kids out in the morning and, understandably, it's often a bit chaotic and confused. Tonight she asserted, "Tomorrow will be different. We will get up early, take our time and be prepared on time without the chaos.

Lala:     "That's a legend."

Me:      "What is a legend Lala?"

Lala:     "Something that is allegedly true."

Me:      "What's a myth?"

Lala:     Something that isn't true.

Me:      "So, is it a legend or a myth?"

Lala:     "Us getting out on time with no yelling, that's a myth."

Later, Lala outdid herself, in my eyes. Mom is and always has been a bit of a klutz. In college her pledge name was Spaz so it was no surprise tonight when she stumbled over the dog gate and rolled her ankle. What was a surprise was Lala's response.

"Mom, you are a hot mess."

KIDS! indeed.

Spike