The Next Level

Something happened in my heart today. A piece of it sank down to the next level. A deeper, richer, but definitely harder-to-navigate place. 


Let me back up.


It all began last Spring. Over plates of lasagna, we listened to a 23-year old girl outline her vision of what she believed was going to happen in the South Bronx, one of the poorest, most crime-ridden neighborhoods in the US. We sat with our jaws on the table as Sara told us her story of moving to the South Bronx-on purpose. Of sitting on her front steps with plates of cookies and bowls of homemade salsa, feeding anyone who passed by and would care to talk for a moment. Of becoming the object of endless stares, as kids and moms and gang leaders and policemen all looked and wondered the same thing...why? Why are you here? In this God-forsaken place that we can only dream of leaving someday? Why?


But Sara saw the neighborhood differently. It wasn't God-forsaken. It was beautiful. It was filled with children, desperate for healthy after-school snacks and sitting in laps and having stories read to them and someone to tuck them in bed at night. It was filled with moms, young and scared and alone and in need of encouragement and someone to say, "I believe in you. I believe you can raise this child with hope, and purpose, and I believe he will go to college one day, and change the world." 


It was filled with men, who in most cases had made really bad choices. Men who decided that out of the two paths that were presented to them as boys-be poor and helpless all your life, or join a gang and deal drugs and have people watching out for you all the time-it was a no-brainer. Men who wanted to change after the prison sentence was complete, but didn't know how in the world to begin. Men who cried over the kitchen table, wishing they could see a way out.


It was filled with people. Real people, like you and me. People who had been dealt a really hard hand in life. And Sara believed that these people deserved a neighborhood they could love, be proud of, want to stay in. And she believed that with some help and support, she could begin to make that dream a reality.


"How?" we asked. "Where do you start?"


"With the babies," Sara said.


And she swiftly outlined her plan to begin Babies 101, a summer program for pregnant moms. A place to come for advice, encouragement, nutrition information, and the grand finale, a baby shower at the conclusion of the class, with everything you might need for a new bundle of joy.


"I want to grab hold of these kids when they are in their mother's wombs, and not let go until they are college graduates." 


The sincerity and faith and absolute resolve in Sara's voice and eyes made me believe. It might be possible.


"My next goal is to begin a Mommy and Me class, once the babies are born. Starting in the fall, and running the length of the school year, I want these moms to hear about infant development and growth and brain research and how they have the most important job in the world as their child's first teacher. My only challenge is that I don't have someone to lead the class."


My gulp must have been audible. My husband's look at me must have been telling. You see, Sara knew nothing about my background. She didn't know that I love kids. So much. And that I love teaching. And music. And that some of my favorite teaching moments happened with really little ones, including my own two daughters, researching and experimenting with ways that they learn best. And that in every case, I learned that music is a perfect vehicle to facilitate growth.


Fast forward to two days ago. Tuesday, our first Mommy and Me class. Had ten women signed up, and when six actually made it on a stormy morning, I was thrilled. We talked. We laughed. We began to create bonds. We sang. We bounced babies on our knees and one lady cried as she learned her first lullaby. No one ever sang her a lullaby, in her whole life. And it was thrilling to be able to give that gift to her little boys. We read Goodnight, Moon and when I revealed to them that someone had donated board books for each book we would be reading, enough to build their own personal library for their babies, they were elated. I couldn't speak for about an hour, I was so overcome with the beauty that had transpired in this tiny South Bronx room.


I came home on an absolute high, giddy with anticipation for today's class.


I got there early, excited to continue where we left off. One mom came in with her little 9-month old, about 15 minutes late. "It's OK," I told myself. "They'll come back." 


An hour later, another mom arrived. I was glad to see it was the lullaby lady. 


With only 30 minutes left in the class, two more moms came in, one brand new. We welcomed her, and she seemed really glad to be there. 


I did my best to whittle my two-hour plan down to bits and pieces that would accommodate our tiny, sporadic group. And while there were great moments, I felt a strange, sinking feeling inside. 


As we wrapped up and dismissed, an older lady from the neighborhood came in to talk to me. I told her how excited I was to have the new mom join us. She looked at me with knowing eyes, and began to tell me the young mom's story.


She was 16 years old. Her 10-month old daughter's father was 36. And extremely abusive. I remembered the cracked tooth, right in front, when she smiled. And my heart sank.


While we were talking, a mom from the Tuesday class came in. Class had been over for half an hour. She wanted her pack of diapers that we had promised to give at the end of each class.


I felt a little odd, but as I looked at her tiny baby, of course I couldn't refuse. She was grateful, and promised to come next week.


As she left, I looked up into those knowing eyes, again. Heard about crack addiction. And how the supplies we were giving were being sold at night, for drug money. My heart sank again, deeper this time.


I felt angry at myself...for being so Pollyanna and optimistic that I forgot. Forgot how years and years of one hopeless situation after another could easily lead to addiction and abuse. Forgot how little I understand about these kind of fears: electricity being turned off, because the bill's not paid. Rent coming due, and with nothing to produce, the local shelter is the only alternative. Being unqualified for any decent job, leaving prostitution or drug-dealing as the only viable alternative. 


And I realized, I hadn't really given myself to this. Or these women, or babies. Or this neighborhood. I had soaked in the beauty...the Monday night "family dinners" at Sara's place, where anyone who wanted could come and eat and have someone to talk to...the 5-year old girl who made such an impression on my family that she's become a regular house guest...the pre-teens that trust my daughters implicitly and ask them for advice. These are the moments I chose to see. 


But, while those moments count immensely, my heart had to sink down, lower, harder, to understand what these women are facing, day after day. To really care, I must wear the pain, the ugly, the sad, the incomprehensible. Only then will I be able to make any kind of difference in a life. And while deeper can be scary, it also opens up oceans of perspective. I don't want to live shallow.


So, I will return next Tuesday, a changed person. Still excited about brain research and lullabies. But stronger, and wiser, and hopefully ready to tackle the hard stuff with resolve and unending sources of love.


I'm grateful for the chance to learn about courage from Sara, almost half my age. Here's to diving deep...

Fellow Man Musings

Last week, the girls and I went to the Norwegian Consulate in Manhattan to sign a condolence book for families of victims from Norway's recent tragedies. We entered the crowded waiting area, assuming these people were waiting on documentation or appointments with officials. A kind Norwegian man approached me and I explained to him that we were there to sign the book. With tears in his eyes, he nodded toward the line of people around the room. 


"They have all come to do the same thing. We never dreamed so many people would show up. We have decided to extend our hours for the remainder of the week to accomodate the many people who want to express their concern." 


As we took our place in the long line, I glanced at the others who were waiting. Every ethnicity I could imagine was represented, from young to old, flip flops to business suits, economically challenged to extremely wealthy. All there for one purpose...to show support for a nation in desperate sorrow. I was overwhelmed by this outward display of care for the proverbial “fellow man.”


At one point a diplomat from another country came in. We had been told that when he arrived, he would be taken to the front of the line, as he is extremely busy and couldn’t afford to wait for an hour-plus. But when this offer was extended, he refused.


“I will wait with everyone else. I am no more important than anyone in this room.”


My teenage daughters were listening intently. His words clearly made a mark on them, as evidenced by their conversation at dinner that evening.


“I wish our leaders could act a little more like that man today,” Abby remarked. When asked what she meant, she replied, “Do you think there would be this much arguing over how to pay off our country’s debt if they were saying, ‘I am no more important than anyone in this room?’ Maybe if they cared as much about other people as they do about getting reelected we wouldn’t have gotten into this mess in the first place.”


Then the girls took it a step further, wondering if it were a law in America to do caring acts for other people for at least an hour a week, what would our country be like? What if everyone tried to act more like that man in the consulate’s office? 


I know a 24-year-old woman who replaced her dream of being on Broadway with a dream to transform the neighborhood of the South Bronx. That’s fellow-man mindedness. I know a lady in Nuevo Laredo, Mexico, whose decision to take in four children from the street eventually turned into an orphanage, caring for 100+ children. That’s fellow-man mindedness. I know people who give up days, even weeks of their well-earned vacations to travel all over the globe for various causes...clean water, health care, education...all in the name of caring for their fellow man.


I don’t know about you, but the older I get, the more I want to adopt this fellow-man mentality. It’s so easy to get wrapped up in my own little selfish world. The view’s a lot nicer when I choose to zoom out and notice the lines that connect us all to one another. 


“In nothing do men more nearly approach the gods than in doing good to their fellow men.” Marcus Tullius Cicero penned these words in Ancient Rome, but I can just as well imagine him writing them today in Uganda, or the South Bronx, or a hurting community in Norway...or talking them over with a certain diplomat in Manhattan.

Progress

So, today my 14-year old daughter announced, "Mom, I just finished my grammar curriculum. And I only have one lesson left in my French book. And, don't forget that I'm turning 15 on Sunday."

Wow.

Then, my 12-year old daughter said, "I just have four lessons left in math."

The subject that has been the cause of daily tears, angst, and occasional curse words.

And I looked through all of our curriculum and realized, we are almost finished! A whole school year, almost complete!

Now, for all of you lifelong teachers, this is most likely second-nature for you. Of course, after a whole year of lessons, labs, demonstrations and tests, it is of course time to wave goodbye to the past school year and begin planning for the next. But for me, the freshman homeschool mom who decided that being a music teacher qualified me to teach my own middle and high school children, this is a monumental day. After a year of high hopes that often dwindled to thoughts of, "Well, at least she is young for her age...if she ends up having to repeat a grade level, no one will even know..." this is a great day. We are actually completing some things. And while I didn't always work in the applicable field trip at the right time ("What??? We're already to the Rise of Rome and we never made it to the Ancient Egypt exhibition at the museum??) I can also see that we've actually made...dare I say it...progress.

We know a lot more about Shakespeare. And fractions. Predicate adjectives, and complex sentences. And while it might not have been on our standardized tests, we've also figured out how to transfer to the express subway train when it makes sense. And when to stay put on the local because the crowds are so bad, you might get squished to death. We know our way around Central Park. And we know a lot, LOT, more about each other.

Progress is a funny word. Defined as, "movement, development or growth," I realize that we have, indeed, made a lot of progress over this first year of homeschooling, despite all of my shortcomings as a teacher. I will never forget these days of learning, both inside our little apartment walls, and within the wide boundaries of this great, great city.

My Abby will be leaving next year, to make her way at LaGuardia Arts High School. I will miss her greatly, and admire the independent learner she has become.

My Emma will remain with me at least another year, and I am extremely happy about this. I think Piper, our puppy, would have emotional distress if both girls went away to school at once. (OK, it's me that would have the emotional distress.)

Off to plan how to get through those final four math lessons...

Here's to progress. Cheers.

Never Say Never

I've never been much of a pet person. Growing up, that was my sister's job. I am not exaggerating when I say that she would gladly throw herself in front of a bus if it meant saving a fuzzy, four-legged creature. At any given time in our home, you might find hamsters, cats, dogs, rabbits, guinea pigs, and during one season, a cage full of tiny white mice, crawling all over each other. My sister was rarely seen without a dog sleeping next to her, or a cat draped around her neck, or a rodent scurrying up her arm. She was clearly born with the animal-loving gene, and I decided early on that I was not.

My husband was even more animal-averse than I, so when we married in 1991, we jointly declared that our residences from that point forward would be animal-free. Don't get me wrong-we would pet furry friends along the way, and thought they were really cute...but we could never comprehend why you would voluntarily sign up for cleaning shedding hair off your new sofa, finding sticky accidents on your lovely wood floors, and paying for shots and food and medical check-ups...wasn't it hard enough to do those things for the humans in the home? I remember friends agonizing over the decision of whether or not to have their pets put to sleep when they were old, or ill, and watching the pain they endured after losing their dear companions. I wondered why anyone would subject themselves to such trauma-was it really that worth it to have an adoring fan who would greet you at the door each day?


These were some of the arguments I gave when Cameron first brought up the puppy possibility. Along with the fact that I would, without question, end up being the one to remember to feed it and walk it and clean up the messes. And what happened to you, anyway? You were with me every time the girls approached the idea...when did you turn to the dark side? Remember how we failed miserably during our two brief pet attempts? The fish who catapulted itself out of the bowl and the rabbit whose skiddish claws scared our daughters so much that they wouldn't take him out of the cage? When did you decide that this family was fit to train and raise a living, breathing puppy?


But in the still of night, when the snow plows were so loud I couldn't sleep, I began to think about the soft fur of a baby puppy. I remembered watching our Texas neighbors out in the front yard with their brand new Lab puppy, rolling balls and playing fetch, spending hours becoming life-long companions. I began to google youtube clips of every imaginable breed, reading up on which ones do well in apartments, get along with kids, are easier to housebreak...I was becoming obsessed.


And then, one afternoon, Cameron had the audacity to email this to me.

A picture from the breeder. A tiny little maltese girl with an Alfalfa-esque sprig of hair that still, to this day, will not lay all the way down. And that was all she wrote. This was our new baby. Little Piper. The sweet bundle of tomboy and princess all rolled up into one precious ball of fluff. The tiny tongue that kisses you like you're the greatest person God ever created. The proud prancer who carries her teething bones across the room like they're made of 14-karat gold. The sweet little friend that loves all four of us in completely different ways. We've had her for two months now, and we already can't remember what life before Piper was like.

I never dreamed we would have wee-wee pads, crates and exercise pens taking up so much real estate in our little apartment. I never dreamed my girls would actually get up in the middle of the night to take a puppy to the bathroom. I never dreamed I could love a dog so much.

But as I'm learning more and more the older I get, never say never.