A Rich and Rewarding Life

Here are some class photos of my long career as a proud teacher.

Jon Hamm, in Parade magazine: “I got into acting because my teachers kept nudging me into it,” says Hamm, who taught school himself for a few years after graduating from the University of Missouri with an English degree. “The power a teacher has to influence someone is so great. I can’t think of a profession I have more respect for.”
from: Parade magazine

I was a teacher in NYC for almost 35 years. I have close to 35 class pictures to help reflect on my long career. I had read in the UFT paper, "The New York Teacher," about the long career of Regina Sayres, who is now 100 years old. She was a teacher at PS 41M in 1968 during the time of that long teachers' strike. I was a teacher at PS 41M during that time when Ms. Sayres was there, and at a place when she was perhaps ending her career... mine was just beginning.
I looked through all the class photos in my collection, and I selected many for inclusion in this blog. They represent the four schools in which I taught... and the memories come flooding back. (please click on each photo to enlarge)







The year was 1973, and I was teaching grade 6 in a public school in the theater district of Manhattan. I entered my class in an essay contest sponsored by Bella Abzug and one of my students won. She went to Washington, DC to read her essay. I found this photo: Charity goes to Washington. And I also found the (now very wrinkled and faded) letter I received informing us that she won. That was over 35 years ago. It seems like so long ago. I guess it was.

This was my fourth grade class at PS 33 in 1986. The next year, when they were in the fifth grade, these students were chosen by Eugene M. Lang for his "I Have a Dream" college scholarship program. Over twenty years later... I am wondering: "Where are they now?"


And most bittersweet:


The year was 1974. I was teaching at a small school on West 45th Street. I had a wonderful 6th grade class. The students were bright, creative, and they had a real sense of humor. The school was on the same block as the Actor's Studio, the Manhattan Plaza had just been completed, and on nice days I could walk home. I loved going to work.
One day, a student named Christopher came to school a little bit late. I asked him the reason for his tardiness, and he told me that the night before he had attended an opening of a movie in which his father had a role. I asked him the name of the film, and he replied, "Godfather 2." "Oh," I said. I asked, "What part did your father have in the movie?" He replied, "Frankie Five Angels." I did know that Christopher's father was the playwright who had written "Hatful of Rain." But, I did not know that he was in the film, "Godfather II." So! Christopher's father was "Frankie Pentangeli;" interesting... Godfather II, was released and it opened at a Loew's theater on Broadway. It received phenomenal reviews and I couldn't wait to see it.
Soon thereafter were parent-teacher conferences. I am lucky Christopher was an excellent student. I do not think I would have had a comfort level sitting across from that father and giving a bad report. Mr. Gazzo had written a note to me during that school year asking permission for his son to be excused early on an October day and I saved the note. It was not just a signed note, it was an autograph.
A few months later, the Gazzo family moved to Los Angeles. Christopher kept in touch with all of us through letters he sent to the school addressed to me. In one letter, Christopher asked me if I was still singing because I was awful. I was a teacher who sang while she taught? He said he was going to a school 20 times better but he would rather be going to our school because he missed all of us.
I think about all of the students I had in so many classes over the years. Eddie, who died of a drug overdose. David, who fell off the roof of his building one hot summer day when he was up there with his brothers playing ball. Debbie, who was crossing 9th Avenue and was hit by a car. Brenda, whose mother we saved.
Larry David was asked why he still works. He clearly does not need to work. He said his mother had told him many years ago that we all need to always wake up in the morning and have a place to go. I had a place to go.

Didn't Mr. E's secretary leave out the 's' in comprehension in #4? He should have proofread that letter!

my finest hour

The math lesson was "not satisfactory?" Excuse me? Here are some samples of the test based on the material taught in that math lesson, and almost the entire class received 100% on this test.




Standardized testing throughout history was always a measure of students' achievement and progress in the subject matter. Tests were never used as a tool to determine the effectiveness of a teacher for some obtuse "accountability." There are many factors that are part of how well a student does in school. If a student pays attention in class, does his homework, and studies the material... he will probably perform well on a test.
When I was in school, I always did poorly on language tests because the subject matter was difficult and hard for me to understand and learn. On a language mid-term, I received a 41 on the test. The student next to me scored a 96. It would seem that if tests are any measure of teachers' competence, all students in a class should perform relatively the same on tests. They don't.
Let's make it a bit clearer. At NYU Law School, if all law students do not pass the Bar exam does anybody believe that the professors at the university should be held "accountable?" Why do some students "flunk out" of med school? Are the teachers responsible for their failures? I never heard of the professors discussed as part of the equation when students drop-out of college.
In any class there will be some students who ace tests and do well and some who just cannot cut it and choke on tests. Some pass, some don't... and that's how it goes in school. "Merit pay" is an absurd idea because there are too many variables that filter in to what a student learns and how well he does in school.
There is a learning model in place in the NYC elementary schools that teachers are mandated to follow. There are many educational components that have been designed to achieve excellent results. With this scripted "Stepford teacher" approach, test results should be almost consistent across the board. They are not. So the denouement kills the philosophy. "Accountability" is absurd in an environment where teachers are not permitted to craft what they believe might be more excellent lessons.
In what became the last month of my teaching career, I was rated "U" for a "teacher-directed" math lesson. I was told I could not teach "math applications." The students were directed to sit in groups to discuss strategies for solving math word problems. I was named the "facilitator." And as "facilitator," I was a witness to the end of good education and I was helpless. I retired before I could be stuck in a straight-jacket and carted off by the DOE's Ministry of the Interior. I thwarted the administration's attempt to possibly have me "rubber-roomed" for failure to have morphed into a lemming. After I retired, I completed my "grievance" for the lesson that was rated "unsatisfactory" and I had that "U" over-turned and removed from my file. I produced the class test based on the material I taught during that "U" rated lesson. And almost all the students received 100% on that test. The principal was not able to substantiate her "U." But, I was able to show that the "U" was applied for a transparent insidious and hidden agenda. Many principals misuse their power and evaluate satisfactory lessons unfairly as a way to punish teachers with whom they do not get along or who are not obedient followers or even teachers who speak out against the administration. I won my case!
My case is just one example of hundreds. I had my excellent documentation to prove this goes on. And the principal who rated me "U" is still at that school doing her thing. The teachers drink her special blend of Kool-Aid and time marches on.

(please enlarge the above principal's evaluation letter and the test samples posted)

:-)

Today, I won a "Blog of the Day Award!" Thank-you, Bill Austin and BOTDA!

"i love..."

This was a "Happy Valentine's Day!" card from "Lou" in 1971. Who was "Lou?" The story will follow.

"just as the morning follows the night..."

This was another of "Lou's" romantic cards. Who was "Lou?" The mystery and the plot thickens, indeed.

"i've been thinking of you today..."

This romantic card contained no signature because it had a note attached...

a note to a young woman's heart

sex, lies, and 40 years later... the internet

These greeting cards are pieces of a bittersweet memory from 1970 to 1973, and the messages are quite romantic. I saved the cards to always remember a man I loved named: Lou. But, this was a dark and layered and mysterious "love" because Lou was not just a man... he was my therapist.
Lou looked like Al Pacino in "Serpico." And he was married with several children. I'll be brief...
I began seeing a therapist in about 1970. His office was in Greenwich Village and after just a few sessions I came under the seductive spell of "erotic transference." I grew attached and I was dependent. I fell in love, or thought I had fallen in love. The feelings were not yet mutual. There arrived the day when Lou told me he was moving his practice to Staten Island. I was not ready at all for the separation and I was emotionally devastated. So, I followed him to Staten Island and became a twice a week ferry regular.
The longing for him until my sessions each week was unbearable. I was vaguely aware back then that transference was a common feeling when in analysis. And I had fallen deeply in love with my therapist. Lou sent a real mixed bag of messages; by turns flirting with me and allowing me to believe the feelings were becoming mutual, and at the end of each session he drove me back to catch the ferry. But, in the sessions he would emotionally push me away. He pulled me in and gave me hope and played with my desire, and then confused me by pushing me away with his mercurial whim. He vaguely promised to soon meet me for lunch in Manhattan and then in the next session he told me to find another therapist. I returned home filled with longing and I was confused and desperately unhappy. I was in anguish. I wrote him long love letters in which I poured out my heart.
He sent me greeting cards for Valentine's Day and my birthday... copies hang at this blog (configured with folds to fit.) The saga continued for several years and well.. as it goes with time, the hypnotic spell eventually broke and I ended the "therapy." One day, just like that.
About eight years later, in 1981... I tried Lou's old number and I called. I needed closure. Lou was very excited and happy to hear from me. He was now divorced. He started calling me twice a day. I had to tell him to calm down. So, we had dinner at a Manhattan restaurant. He sat there all pompous and smoking a nasty cigar. We went back to my apartment and well... anyway, when he left he hugged me and I knew it was a good-bye forever. He had not changed. He had told me over dinner his experience with me took him to a place where he made a decision to never allow physical contact with a patient in a session ever again. The man was a fast and quick study!
I look back on this episode of my life now and it is totally meaningless. I am not angry. I feel nothing. I know this goes on. I watched "In Treatment." Lou was verbally unprofessional, unethical, and his behavior was inconsistent. He did not know what to do about me and he could not handle and come to terms with his own feelings. I hope in real life transference is being handled properly by those who have fallen under it's seductive spell. I am happy I saved all of Lou's cards because I am reminded of what I believed to be what Diane Keaton has called "the sweet anguish of love..." in my specific situation in all it's full-blown and enabled delusional glory.

it sticks with me

My mother discovered, when I was a teenager, an all girls' summer camp called: "School of Creative Arts." The School of Creative Arts was owned and managed by Kathleen Hinni, who from September through June, was the modern dance teacher at the The Chapin School in Manhattan.

 The "school" was located on Martha's Vineyard. It had opened in Oak Bluffs in 1949 with twenty girls from the ages of six to sixteen. Later, it moved to the former Whitney House, "Hedge Lee," in Vineyard Haven. The school remained for four additional years at that location. During those years Regina Woody wrote: "Ballet in the Barn," a children's story based on the school. Eventually, the school moved further north on Main Street to West Chop, and was housed in a huge old barn style mansion with three floors, thirty rooms, and porches all around the outside of the house. On the grounds were about twelve small one room cabins where the older campers lived. The house was near a steep bluff and the cabins were surrounded by trees. Days were filled with classes in dance, drama, music and the arts.

So, off I went to spend four consecutive summers (1959-1962) with a load of girls my age, many of whom were from very different backgrounds. These girls were "socialites;" some from families listed in the "social register." They had "coming out" parties at the Waldorf Astoria, private planes, and parents who summered in the south of France. I learned the meaning of "old money" from Cynthia Wainright, my bunkmate, who later went on to become "Debutante of the Year," and was a guest speaking about the topic on the David Susskind Show. What did I know from this? My mother played canasta during the summer at Capri Beach Club in Atlantic Beach, Long Island. We danced on the bluffs with Charles Weidman, had classes with Merce Cunningham, sang opera with Lotte Lenn and folk songs with Burl Ives, and we were treated to special performances by Pearl Primus. Ms. Hinni, who was called KT, made us dance to Bloch's "Concerto Grosso" so many times we literally collapsed in exhaustion (in the rain) outside the ballet barn.

Margaret Bourke-White spent several summers at the school during the time she was writing a book. I remember those hot days she would play jacks with me under the trees to increase her mobility because she was suffering from Parkinson's disease. Her photos decorated the living room of the great house where the many younger girls lived.

There was a boys' camp next to ours, and sometimes we would go to the fence to see if we could catch the eyes of some willing participants in some mischief. One night, we arrived back at our cabin to find scrawled in red lipstick on the dresser top: "Tonight we come to get you." Needless to say, we all ran screaming to the main house and the police were called and we hovered in the woods until it was safe to return.

The school was run in an old-fashioned strict way and KT's rules were unbearable. We called the school: "Pure Hell at St. Trinian's." KT starved us. We seemed to never have enough to eat. She provided a lettuce wedge for dinner one night. And it was served with no salad dressing! We were so hungry there were times we ate toothpaste. On a beautiful Sunday afternoon, we had baked chicken for lunch. The food was served family style and for some reason on that day there was one mouth-watering piece left on the tray. The counselor asked if anybody wanted the second piece of chicken and I, of course, said I did. She lifted, with silver tongs, that mouth-watering piece of chicken and placed it on my plate. I grasped my knife in my left hand and and my fork in my right hand and began to cut the first piece. Just as my fork touched the chicken, along came KT and she pulled the plate right out from under my nose. She said, "No seconds." And there I sat, holding a knife and fork not over a plate filled with baked chicken but over the empty table space in front of me.

My new friend Cindy (name changed) had a terrible time that summer of '61. She ached to go home to be with her boyfriend. He looked like Frankie Avalon, and when he drove up from Long Island one day she snuck out of camp to meet him on the main road at the time they had planned in one of their letters. She came back and later that day swallowed many pills. She was taken to the hospital, but when she recovered she was not sent home. Even though she was clearly troubled, she returned and stayed for the final few weeks left of the summer.

I promised to keep in touch with Cindy, and met her a few months later, during the Autumn, in her Long Island hometown. We had lunch at a local pizza place and then we went our own ways.

In the late 60s, I was looking through "Newsday" and I read about a married woman who lived in Mineola who had smothered her infant boy. I recognized Cindy immediately. I still have that newspaper clipping, now yellowed from the passing of time.

During the daily afternoon naps the wind rustled the leaves of huge oaks while down below the bluff the ocean waves crashed to the shore. These sounds seemed to increase our feelings of unhappiness. The common denominator was that we all hated the place and we were so homesick we sometimes made ourselves literally sick. Yet, for so many summers we returned. We always went back.

From time to time, after sleep I open my eyes and I am startled to be here... and not there.

memories of capri beach club

In the late 50s, my family shared a cabana at Capri with the Lowensteins and the Garfunkels. For three summers, on many hot beautiful days, Arthur Garfunkel reclined on the chaise lounge next to me. I think the girl in the next cabana, Ina, had a crush on Arthur. My mother would sit for hours playing Mah Jong. The men sat playing gin rummy and smoking cigars. Toddlers played in the sand with pails and shovels. And my sister stood in the cabana for hours swinging a hula hoop around her hips. The cabana boys flirted with the teenage girls and the newest Frankie Avalon song could be heard coming from the teen club. Memories of those lazy glorious days return every June. I think Capri was torn down and in that location are now condos. What I would give for a nice dip in the cold water of the middle pool followed by a walk to the snack bar for a delicious ice cream sandwich.

"joe's camp," 1956

I grew up in Valley Stream and summers were hot, long, and boring. The parents found a guy named Joe and paid him to supervise a day camp twice a week that met in the backyard of a family house. One summer, my mother volunteered our home because we had a large yard and patio. Joe organized creative games for the many campers and I always managed to put some mischief into everything. But, for my friends and me the highlight of those balmy days was "snack time" when the parents rolled out the juice and cookies. I was going for the laughs, and I had a great idea. I told my friends that when Joe poured the juice they should never say "when." Instead, I told them to just abruptly pull the cup away and let the juice spill all over the patio. (And it was my patio!) It was so much fun. And Joe never seemed to catch on because every day at juice time he carried over that full pitcher of pink juice and he repeated the same question. "Say when" he would innocently ask. And much like "Groundhog Day" we always pulled the cup quickly away when the cup was half full and the Hawaiian Punch would fall onto the patio and form a sticky puddle every time. We were gleefully delighted when we could finally say: "Oh, look ants!" Was Joe playing along and having his own brand of fun or was he a complete idiot? He must have been disgusted, because at the end of the summer my mother told me he refused to ever have a "Joe's camp" again. (I think in this photo I was telling Joe to "kiss my ass," much to the amusement of the other campers and to the delight of the counselor, Marie)

scenes from "joe's camp"

These photos are incredible because they capture in the background the old house and barn that were torn down. Look closely. In front of the barn is a cross... and it appears that it was a burial site.

the desoto on the block

I found this old photo from probably 1957. It shows me and my friend Sharon standing on the street in front of her house while her father gets something out of the trunk of his DeSoto. The block looks weirdly barren and like it was built in a Greenpoint studio for some sequel to "Back to the Future." That was Long Island in the 1950s, and the suburbs were so new even the sidewalks smelled of fresh paint.

simple games

The photo is of me with my sister and the sister of a very well known NYC agent who actually grew up in the house right next door to me. The agent used to babysit me and my sister. Look at the game we are playing: "London Bridge is Falling Down!" Games were a lot simpler back then...

me and the milgram experiment

I was part of the Milgram Experiments in the mid 1960s while I was attending C.W. Post College on Long Island. I was recruited for this role in my Psychology class. Person A: the teacher (me) was instructed to ask questions to Person B: (a student) who was in another room. If my student answered incorrectly, I was told to administer shocks. The level and strength of the shock was my decision. Oh by the way, in order to gauge how that shock machine worked, at the beginning I was given the lowest shock. How rude! And there was a person (experimenter) in the other room reminding and encouraging me to give high strength shocks for wrong answers.

I will be very honest. I realized when I was introduced to Person B before the experiment began that she was not really going to be shocked. (Yes, we saw our "victims/students" before the questions and "shocks"). And during the experiment, the person giving the instructions was weak sounding. I was not surprised at the end of the experiment when my "student/victim" and the "experimenter/voice" came out of the other room laughing. I thought the whole thing was a transparent farce.

I wonder how many other participants realized it was phony. I figured it out right away. The participants were both lousy actors. In spite of the transparency, I gave minimal shocks and I did not become a torturer, perhaps foiling their predictions. It was just so not my thing.

a great hair day

It's all about the height, and the hair here: teased to complete perfection... I was happy.

puerto rico, 1965

I took the photo. My sister opted in this time. It shows she copied my daytime hairstyle: rollers to prepare the hair for the fancy and humid San Juan nights at the La Concha Hotel.

fashion forward

These photos were taken during a family trip to Puerto Rico in 1965. My sister and I walked around all day with rollers in our hair, making sure we would have good hair nights.

fashion wishes

I was way ahead of anything going on at Bryant Park; I was a total fashion trend-setter.

memories of the singers

It was in 1968 that I first met the lovely and kind Mrs. Frances Singer. We were both teachers at PS 41, on West 11th Street in NYC's Greenwich Village. I was in my first year of teaching and I was assigned a K-1 class. Mrs. Singer was there to help. We became fast friends and she seemed to want to cultivate an out of school friendship with me.
Mrs. Singer was married to a highly respected physician and they lived in a brownstone on a leafy and quiet street not far from the school. Mrs. Singer invited me to lunch at her home on a school holiday and I accepted. This experience is another that sticks with me and today... on this unusually warm winter Saturday, memories are flooding back to me.

I remember it was on a Tuesday afternoon when I walked down from Chelsea to visit the Singers for lunch. I rang the bell and the door was answered by a member of her staff. I had never been to a home with a butler before, but he took my coat and showed me to the drawing parlor, where I waited for Mrs. Singer. She entered and she was wearing exquisite formal attire. She greeted me and Dr. Singer entered to be introduced. He shook my hand and he apologized and said he would not be joining us for lunch because in an emergency he had to see a patient.

Mrs. Singer asked me if I needed to use the washroom and she told me it was on the third floor on the left. I climbed the two long steep flights of stairs and entered an elegant bathroom that appeared to be her personal boudoir. There was a chaise lounge and dressing tables filled with creams and perfumes and dusting powders. On the back of the door hung feathered robes and dressing gowns. And next to the sink were pink guest soaps in the shape of seashells.

I descended those long stairs and I was seated in a dining room at a table that could easily have fit 20 people. Mrs. Singer rang a bell and her cook entered to serve the appetizer. We dined on some fancy prepared gourmet meal and I had "pate." Mrs. Singer was very attentive to my level of comfort, and every time I made a request she would ring the little soft bell and her cook would appear and handle all the needs.

We discussed teaching and we discussed life. Mrs. Singer spoke about her daughter who was about my age and who she adored. We talked about many things. It was the first time I had been surrounded by such elegance.

It has been about forty years since that day. Aging has me Googling around all over trying to find out where some of the many people are with whom I crossed paths during my long career. Today, I sadly learned Mrs. Singer passed away in 1999 and her husband passed away in 2004.

Manhattan was a quieter city forty years ago. There was a less rushed and congested atmosphere. People were less angry and not as confrontational. There was less noise. There was less rudeness and people seemed to treat each other more kindly. People took time to breathe.

a place to go

The year was 1974. I was teaching at a small school on West 45th Street. I had a wonderful 6th grade class. The students were bright, creative, and they had a real sense of humor. The school was on the same block as the Actor's Studio, the Manhattan Plaza had just been completed, and on nice days I could walk home. I loved going to work.
One day, a student named Christopher came to school a little bit late. I asked him the reason for his tardiness, and he told me that the night before he had attended an opening of a movie in which his father had a role. I asked him the name of the film, and he replied, "Godfather II." "Oh," I said. I asked, "What part did your father have in the movie?" He replied, "Frankie Five Angels." I did know that Christopher's father was the playwright who had written "Hatful of Rain." But, I did not know that he was in the film, "Godfather II." So! Christopher's father was "Frankie Pentangeli;" interesting... Godfather II, was released and it opened at a Loew's theater on Broadway. It received phenomenal reviews and I couldn't wait to see it.
Soon thereafter were parent-teacher conferences. I am lucky Christopher was an excellent student. I do not think I would have had a comfort level sitting across from that father and giving a bad report. Mr. Gazzo had written a note to me during that school year asking permission for his son to be excused early on an October day and I saved the note. It was not just a signed note, it was an autograph.
A few months later, the Gazzo family moved to Los Angeles. Christopher kept in touch with all of us through letters he sent to the school addressed to me. In one letter, Christopher asked me if I was still singing because I was awful. I was a teacher who sang while she taught? He said he was going to a school 20 times better but he would rather be going to our school because he missed all of us.
Larry David was asked why he still works. He clearly does not need to work. He said his mother had told him many years ago that we all need to always wake up in the morning and have a place to go. I had a place to go.

feh!

I saw the film "Atonement" yesterday. Before the film even began, the theater reeked from a combination of feet, farts, and garlic. I always carry a small bottle of my favorite perfume, Clinique Elixir, so that in situations like that I can spray some onto my wrist and take quick hits when I get nauseous. I never put my head back on a high theater seat. It's a good way to catch pediculosis. I drape my coat over the back of the seat and rest my head on that. The guy in front of me in the theater had a raging case of dandruff and I felt bad for the person who would follow him into that seat.
I also have taken to going to the movies with a hefty bag. I am not a bag lady and I do not sit there wrapped in it while I mumble comments to the characters in the film. I use it to cover the seat. I find it gross to sit in an upolstered theater seat that somebody sat in (for over 2 hours) just 20 minutes earlier. I notice on buses when people get up the seat is sometimes moist from toches perspiration, but on a metal seat the moisture evaporates... maybe leaving a toxic residue, but what can you do? In an upolstered seat, all that toches perspiration gets absorbed into the seat. I do not want to sit in that hot mess, so the hefty bag serves as an extra measure of protection. Then when the film ends, you gingerly pick it up and throw it away.
The film was long and I had to leave to use the bathroom. How come women who stand to pee do not lift the seat? They spray all over it and then they do not follow the rule: "please be neat, wipe the seat." It is uber-gross if you are a sitter and sit down on a wet seat.
I was riding in a cab yesterday and an inch from my left shoulder, on the outside of the taxi window, was a load of fresh bird shit. Oh, and never send food back in a restaurant. I heard they spit in it. I once saw a chef in a restaurant blow his nose on his shirt collar and then proceed to make a salad. Once I ordered lean corned beef on rye in a diner with an open kitchen. The chef coughed into his hand and then proceeded to let the the beef he was slicing drop into that same hand.
Have you ever strolled the city sidewalks and stepped in gum, spit, or dog shit? I have. I have thrown away many brand new pairs of shoes due to that disgusting stuff. Once, I was walking on West 45th Street and I was wearing sandals. I was talking and laughing and stepped in a fresh pile of horse manure. It happened when I was still teaching and I ran back to the school and the custodian hosed off my foot in the school playground. I threw the sandals away (changed into a spare set of mocassins) and a teacher took the sandals out of the trash and kept them and wore them the next day! Can you believe her habits?
When I was an active teacher, a kid spit on the staircase bannister, and I hold onto that railing as I walk down the stairs. I caught a handful of fresh saliva on my way down to the gym.
Once on the bus I had just come from the hair salon and a person sitting directly behind me sneezed right onto the back of my head. I touched the back of my hair and it was wet with sneeze residue.
How come in apartment houses residents use the laundry carts to take down their dirty laundry? I don't want to remove my clean laundry from the dryer and use one of those contaminated carts. I saw a guy washing his sneakers in one of those machines! And his dirty underwear, spread out on the table, could have first used a nice cold water hand soak.
Now we have to worry about bedbugs when we travel! This is a new hazard! Good grief!
My habits are impeccable, but I see many people do not follow common rules of sanitary behavior. It is very disconcerting and gives me pause for thought on this Monday night.

little stays of execution

As one ages, the declutter process begins. We throw out "stuff" so that the load is lighter. It serves to streamline life. As I was going through some papers, I found a photo taken (in about 1974) on a Sunday in broad daylight on 7th Avenue. There is not one person on the street. I found an issue of "Poet" magazine that had published one of my poems in the Winter of 1992. I was called a "New American Poet." Imagine that! Here is the final stanza:

LAST MORNING ON TWENTY-THIRD
As I hear the sound of the rain begin
to assault the old, tired, faded fire escape-
I start to pack.

In 1991, I won the contest to find "the funniest teacher" at Stand-up NY comedy club. A few years earlier, at The Eagle Tavern, Jon Stewart had spent 20 seconds of his act imitating me. And that year a parent visited me during the school conference night and told me that her daughter set up her room to resemble a classroom and spent part of the night being "Miss Levine" as she taught her imaginary class. I look at my many former students in old class photos. I have a class photo from 1969 where I am wearing a Mary Quant dress and Correge boots and my hair is in a bouffant artichoke.
We tend to go through life thinking we are immortal. I studied Buddhism with Robert Thurman, and many of the lectures were spent discussing mortality. We all have a death sentence. But wait! If we get the right tests and then the recommended procedures, we can get a little stay of execution. It's about those little stays of execution along the way.

the housecoat

I finally did it. I succombed. Recently, I drove to the Newport Center Mall and walked through the mall past Victoria's Secret and Frederick's of Hollywood (not that at my age and with my body I would even give consideration to walking into those stores). I knew where I was going. I had direction and I was on a mission. I headed to JC Penney to check out the housecoats, or as they are sometimes called: "dusters."
I am of that age now when I want to be able to sit around my apartment in a housecoat and be able to wear it to both leave the apartment to throw out the garbage and to go down to do the laundry.
I did not like the selection in JC Penney because they were all only hand washable and I must be able to machine wash my clothes. So, I headed over to Macy's, but they had nothing.
I decided to stop at the Food Court. I dined at Burger King and washed my lunch down with a McDonalds's chocolate shake. Then I noticed a new ice cream joint in the corner by Kohl's and I went in to look at the flavors. They had blue ice cream! It looked unappealing, so I settled for a medium dish of toffee. I was sitting on the bench and was feeling very relaxed. I got a text message from this guy William who I don't even know but he keeps text messaging me about nonsense. I deleted the message and went into Kohl's. I ran out because they had nothing larger than a size 12.
I headed to Sears. Wow! I loved their large collection of beautiful dusters. I got three: one in red plaid, one with blue flowers, and one with pink stripes. I was delighted!
I came home and washed them because I always wash before wearing. Today, I am sitting here at the computer and I am wearing the red one. It is very comfortable and it should serve me well since I live in an apartment house. I can wear it in the hall and feel quite appropriately attired with proper decorum.
Little finds can bring such joy into a day. And it is very important to be mentally ready and prepared to pass through life's stages in terms of dress. One day you can be all sexed out in black lace lingerie from Victoria's Secret and the next day you can be a fat slob in a red plaid housecoat from Sears.
It's all good. I compliment the look with two rollers in the top of my hair (for height). I found my smile.

me and my baby teeth

Dentists are always surprised when they examine my teeth and find I still have three baby teeth. They just never fell out. There may be no permanent teeth under them which might be the reason they are still in my mouth. I love them. I have had them for sixty years. I fear I may have a huge cavity in one of my baby teeth because it has been sensitive and it hurts. It was explained to me that the tooth cannot be refilled with amalgam because very little of the tooth structure remains. They cannot do a root canal on a baby tooth and it cannot be capped. It might have to be extracted. My fear is exacerbated.
Nobody ever guesses my age. I look much younger than my years. For real. I am also very puerile and immature. I have the joie de vivre of a much younger woman. Are you with me here? Are you following this? You got it.
I fear that when I lose my baby teeth, I will rapidly age. A few short days after my baby teeth are extracted, I will look like Hecate; all wrinkled, bent, and wizened. And my youthful sense of self-deprecating humor will disappear.
I allude to a Biblical story. Samson's hair is what made him so strong. Delilah found out it was because his hair had never been cut. When his hair was cut, he lost his strength. Also think: "The Picture of Dorian Gray," but not quite...
Yes, my baby teeth are my Fountain of Youth. They keep me young. They may in fact contain Botox. They may drip collagen into my system. Maybe they even produce a quickly absorbed Retinol. But what concerns me most about the loss of my remaining baby teeth is that my blogs will morph to boring, droll, and trite pieces. No longer will my fans be sweatin' Da RaPpIn' EDuCaTor. They will be reading the prose of Mrs. Odettes.

font felonies

I was banned from TelevisionWithoutPity for not beginning a sentence in a reply with a capital letter. Last night, I dreamed I was back at TWoP again. I was posting and I was unable to stop violating the "dos and don'ts." I had to appear before a panel of mods who would decide a suitable consequence. After a brief recess, the verdict was rendered. I was found guilty of font felonies and sentenced to wear mittens after I logged in. I was devastated. I woke up in a cold sweat and I was so upset I did not know if it was morning or evening. I immediately looked at my hands and I was shocked to see on the middle finger of my right hand a strange looking ruby thimble. I tapped it three times and said: "There's no place like internet forums" and the next thing I knew I was eating potato latkes at the old Famous in Brooklyn. Then, I really was awakened by a loud banging on my apartment door. It was the super with the exterminator. Nothing like a swift NYC reality check to break a technicolor fever dream. And instead of latkes, I grabbed a pop tart and went down to tumult with the doorman.

walking sideways on a spiral staircase

The retired teacher closed her eyes and remembered back to the day when, as a young twenty-two year old rookie, she approached a student and timidly asked to see the homework. The student turned and laughingly replied, "Suck dick, bitch."

That night she called the student's home to discuss such outrageous behavior. The student answered the phone. The young teacher asked to speak to a parent and the student called, "Ma, my teacher wants to talk to you." In the background, the teacher could hear the mother say in a low voice: "Tell her I am not home."

The teacher did not know then that it was going to be a very long thirty-four years. There would be days where she would catch handfuls of spit left behind on staircase bannisters for the purpose of grossing out the unsuspecting victims of the nasty and foul prank. There would be days she would be so tired she would want to go home in an ambulance. Yes, the years were filled with sagas.

I am that teacher and those years were my years... and I so own them.

"good teachers" and "learning"

I recently was involved in a discussion with a man who used the expression "good teachers." That same day, a woman said it was "tragic" that students did not want to learn. That gave me a good laugh. She must have forgotten what school was like. I openly admit I never went to school "to learn." I don't remember any kids liking school. I hated school and so did all my friends. We loved summer vacations, snow days, weekends, and holidays. We loved when the teacher was absent. We tortured subs like all kids do. We all signed "Maynard G. Krebs" when the substitute passed around the attendance sheet. We never connected school with "learning" and like all kids, we wanted fun during school hours! I can remember sitting with my friend Roberta in the school cafeteria. We bought 8 Hostess Sno Balls that had pink and white tops. Just as lunch was ending, we "scalped" the Sno Balls and left the tops on the lunch table to annoy the teacher who was on lunch duty. We had such innocent fun in school back in the 60s. But, we also turned a chemistry room into total pandemonium when the bunson burner accidentally exploded in the teacher's face.
So what's this hand-wringing shtik about kids going to school these days and not "wanting to learn?" Most kids never connect school with learning. I think adults have to accept that scenario and also stop thinking that learning should be fun. The "fun" has to be taken out of the daytime equation. Schools should be like that old TV documentary "Scared Straight." Anything else sends the wrong message because in the 60s for me it was all about American Bandstand and today it is all MTV. School is not reality TV.
The latest hogwash is for school to be run like a model from the corporate business world, where the teachers who don't "produce" are "fired." That is an even bigger laugh. Obviously, none of those who advocate that agenda have ever been in a school in the role of a classroom teacher. One day in the classroom would be their total cure. They seem to think it is all about crafting excellent lessons where students sit quietly and attentively soaking up the subject matter like dutiful sponges. They believe that students regurgitate on standardized tests what they were taught and thereby show a teacher's merit. They do not understand that there are variables involved such as paying attention, studying and learning the material, and doing the assigned work to reinforce the lesson.
And the most important element of what makes a "good teacher" is the ability to handle and manage what often may be a difficult class with several disruptive students. The teacher needs to be able to manage the schedule of subject time blocks and to execute mandated mini-lessons that are easy to understand and follow. She must communicate with students and parents in a professional manner in soft and measured tones and never never ever "yell. " Yelling is considered corporal punishment.
The teacher has to handle many noneducational tasks and interruptions each day... such as students going to the nurse, parents coming to pick up students, the need for the bathroom all day, notes from parents, fights, missing books, students' needs (the sun is in my eyes, it's hot in here, it's cold in here, he took my pencil, my brother expects his notebook now, my mother told me to call her at 11:00, etc.) And then the class phone will ring and the school secretary is asking for a child to be sent to the office immediately with work for the week because he is being placed on an in-house suspension. During the call, everybody starts talking and when the call ends the teacher has to use all her energy to quiet everybody down again. Two minutes later, the principal booms into the class loudspeaker that a monitor should bring down the class record box. Then a fight from the hall spills into your classroom and the school security guard trips over the students while she is trying to break up the fight.
There are constant disruptions to be handled such as the nurse coming in with notes for immediate distribution, the art teacher returning unfinished paintings, the speech teacher picking up her group, the resource room teacher giving you IP reports to fill out, the computer repair guy coming to class, the principal asking for report cards, the school secretary asking for immunization record reports, administrators who march in from the district office and check bulletin boards for posted standards, the school-based team asking for student assessments, the custodian coming in to deliver new equipment, the testing digiteks arriving which have to be returned within an hour, your planbook is overdue and you didn't list the aim of every lesson, the science teacher comes in and wants your projects for the fair, the music teacher busts in and wants the chorus, a kid vomits in the back, a kid goes to the closet and rips a down coat and feathers fly all over the room, a kid chases another kid into the hall, the AP returns a kid who ran out of the room and she tells you it was because your lesson was not motivating... whew, can we come up for air?
And yes, indeed the teacher will be blamed for everything. There is not one incident for which the teacher cannot and will not be blamed. If an 11 year old student trips on his way to the bathroom, the teacher will be asked by the principal why she did not make sure his shoes were tied before he left the room. If a student does not eat his lunch during the lunch hour, the teacher will be asked why she did not realize the student was not hungry before the lunch hour and send him to the guidance counselor. If a student does not do his homework, the teacher will be blamed for not making the homework more interesting. If a student fights with a sibling on the weekend, the teacher will be blamed for not assigning more reading to provide more weekend distractions. If one student pushes another student on the stairs and they fall, the teacher will be blamed for allowing them to be near each other on the class line. You get the picture. The teacher will be blamed for everything that happens... even if she is not even there. And the teacher must value "instructional time" more than fasting on Yontiff.
Wait! I omitted the most important point for the evaluation and determination of who are "good teachers." She should be a good interior decorator because principals love love love rooms that look like super sweet sixteen parties. Her bulletin boards should have cotton and glitter and pipe cleaners and three-dimensional pop-out technicolor doilies and ribbons. And they must be covered in more plastic than my Aunt Sadie's Brooklyn sofa.
And if anybody asks about the school... teachers must always reply: "It's good," even if it resembles the prison in "Midnight Express" because TPTB hate hate hate whistleblowers. Teachers, be prepared to kiss principals' asses in Macy's window until retirement! OK, how do we determine who "good teachers" are? Well, at the least level she should certainly be able to multi-task! And on a few days along the way be prepared to go home by ambulance. :-D
That was the last fur coat I ever wore. Nobody should wear "Bugs Bunny."

going home

“When you finally go back to your old hometown, you find it wasn't the old home you missed but your childhood”--- Thomas Wolfe

I may not be able to "go home" again, but I can close my eyes and still hear my mother (at 5:30) every evening calling us for "supper." Then, I open my eyes and walk to Whole Foods for an organic chicken and I wash it down with a pint of chocolate Haagen-Dazs. Then I watch some reality TV and wait for the next day to arrive. In retirement, it's "Groundhog Day!" Or is it?