I am a Detroit Public School teacher and a DFT member. Thousands of us gave time and money to help you get elected. Since then everything we have seen from your administration and Sec. Duncan have felt like attacks on us. On Sunday we will forced to accept a brutal contract that destroys most of the hard earned rights and protections we have fought over 60 years to achieve. We expected support from you, Sir, not a future of charter schools and Teach for America one-year-and-out wonders. You are losing us, as we have already lost you.
(Length limited by White House website)
04 December 2009
12 November 2009
Hogwarts Apres le Deluge: Chapter 1
Reality and Remembrance
Professor Apres le Deluge leaned back in a battered armchair and deliberately lifted his tired legs onto the scratched and gouged surface of his desk. His feet thudded solidly onto the paper strewn surface. He frowned as he considered how many actions that once required only desire now demanded considerable planning and effort. Once his legs would effortlessly rise and glide soundlessly to rest on a tidier and much more presentable desk. Now the silence was broken by short grunts and his legs refused to elevate properly without discrete tugs on his pant legs. So much had changed.
From the hallway behind him, he could hear the bellowing of the students as they more or less went about the business of changing classes. The ten minute revenge dramas, mating rituals, clown acts, random acts of violence, and efforts at invisibility filled the hallway outside his office every hour. “The Running of Hormones” as it was known by the staff of The New Hogwarts. The noise was louder now, Deluge thought, the students less manageable that when he’d started, than before the war. The tone was different as well. He could hear the anger, the rage barely contained, often spilling over into fights, magical, and increasingly physical. His desk once faced the hallway, his office door standing open, but now the door was closed and locked and his desk was turned to face a window. He stayed in his seat when he heard the distinctive rise in volume and the pounding of running feet that signaled yet another fight. Too many teachers he had known had been hurt or worse, disciplined after trying to stop a fight. He’d had enough. Let them fight. It’s not worth the grief from the parents and the Headmistress.
Deluge had arranged his desk so that by pivoting his head slightly his field of vision contained both the window and a large painting of the very view that lay sprawled out beneath him. Deluge often thought that the artist must have stood exactly were he, Deluge, now sat and looked out this window when he painted the landscape. If so, he’d be stunned to see what sixty years had done to the place.
“Sixty years,” Deluge thought. “Sixty years since ‘The Last Good War.’” Hogwarts had sent its best and brightest into battle. The hallways are lined with portraits of those destroyed in the Great Cause. Looking back, he thought that so many were impossibly young, his classmates who, like him, had fought a desperate guerilla war against the Death Eaters’ Fourth Column that had overrun Hogwarts. Once it filled him with rage to find a vandalized portrait or some idiotic student cluelessly sporting a fashionable Death Eaters’ T-shirt or tattoo. But these days he didn’t have the stomach for rage. Or for late-night pizza, for that matter. He’d moved the portraits of his special friends into his chambers and failed everyone who brought the Death Head into his classes. It turned out he didn’t have to work too hard to do so.
Settling back in his chair, Deluge considered that on days like this, when the pointlessness of standing before the students and looking into those angry, scared, and ignorant faces, who seemed impervious to his efforts to teach them the value of Ancient Runes, Deluge was tempted to stay locked in his office and let the chaos sweep by without him. He sighed and thanked the governments dedication to destroying education, because thanks to their “reforms,” or “deforms” as the staff called them, he had been able to purchase his office and the adjoining rooms. The Education MInistry had discarded tenure, but in the “Ownership Society” property rights were sacrosanct.
After ten minutes or so, the roar from the hallways died down. He leaned back in his chair so he would not see the students slipping out the doors and across the grounds. He slowly turned from the painting to the window and back, trying to match landmarks. It was amazingly difficult. “We did win,” he mumbled. “Didn’t we?” The painting showed steep hills dotted with picturesque cottages organically situated in verdant, yes, verdant is only word for that lush green, verdant fields. The cerulean sky holds several fleecy clouds that wouldn’t ever rain. A narrow gauge railway clung precariously to the banks of gently winding river. Outside the window the scene was completely altered. The war had started the process, but Deluge thought that the victors had done the most damage.
Deluge had spent his childhood in one of the quirky cottages, a grant from the local Lord to the young widow. His childhood was all he’d spent as his family scrapped by on beets and cabbage from his mother’s meager garden and the occasional small animal he and his sister could bring down with their rocks and slings. He doubted he saw his mother with more than two dollars at any time.
Deluge had once worked out the location of the old cottage and had marked an “X” on the office window to mark the spot. When he placed his chair on the spot marked on the floor, his eyes would fix on the “X” and he would stare past the mark, far below and up the opposite hillside a ways, to were the cottage once stood. He had protected the cottage during the war. He and his guerilla band had used it as meeting place. But Voldemort was nothing compared to the unstoppable force of urban sprawl, and the cottage and green fields lay crushed under the conquering mass of anonymous suburbs.
The beautiful river in which he had fished and on which he’d rafted and explored was also changed forever. The gentle, winding path it cut through the valley was torn apart and contorted. Once they’d captured Hogwarts, the Death Eaters changed the course of the river, looping it around the school like a garrote, choking off aid and supplies from the rebels' muggle allies. After the war, the victors were so tired and so disgusted by magic that they simply left the river alone. In a decade or so, the river had shaped the valley to its new path and that was that.
The old narrow gauge steam railway was another victim of the war, of victory, of time. The train whistle was the timekeeper of Deluge’s youth, its call reaching him wherever his wanderings took him. The schedule was ingrained in his mind and to this day he cannot hear a train whistle without feeling that is time to head for dinner or to return to school for lights out. But the train is gone, its tracks destroyed in the long battle for Hogwarts. He himself had executed numerous attacks on them. Now an eight-lane Highway, the A 9 1/2, rolls out of the city, through the cancerous suburbs, and past Hogwarts, mile after mile of oil and blood soaked cracked concrete, jammed continuously with traffic spewing noxious fumes that stain the once clear sky and generating a constant din that ceaselessly vibrates the battle-damaged stones of the remaining great towers of Old Hogwarts, loosening them and periodically sending one or more crashing into the river far below. Deluge much preferred the train.
“It’s not just me who’s worn out,” thought Deluge. “Sixty years of war and recovery has been hard on the land, too. And the survivors, the big names, have all died or moved on. Only the small fry have stayed. We've nowhere to go.” And so he sat, easing into immobility, his chair long broken in to fit his long broken body, molding itself effortlessly around him, leaving with a peaceful sense of disconnected weightlessness. Time passed, the light faded, and Deluge was lost in his memories and the deepening shadows of his office.
Professor Apres le Deluge leaned back in a battered armchair and deliberately lifted his tired legs onto the scratched and gouged surface of his desk. His feet thudded solidly onto the paper strewn surface. He frowned as he considered how many actions that once required only desire now demanded considerable planning and effort. Once his legs would effortlessly rise and glide soundlessly to rest on a tidier and much more presentable desk. Now the silence was broken by short grunts and his legs refused to elevate properly without discrete tugs on his pant legs. So much had changed.
From the hallway behind him, he could hear the bellowing of the students as they more or less went about the business of changing classes. The ten minute revenge dramas, mating rituals, clown acts, random acts of violence, and efforts at invisibility filled the hallway outside his office every hour. “The Running of Hormones” as it was known by the staff of The New Hogwarts. The noise was louder now, Deluge thought, the students less manageable that when he’d started, than before the war. The tone was different as well. He could hear the anger, the rage barely contained, often spilling over into fights, magical, and increasingly physical. His desk once faced the hallway, his office door standing open, but now the door was closed and locked and his desk was turned to face a window. He stayed in his seat when he heard the distinctive rise in volume and the pounding of running feet that signaled yet another fight. Too many teachers he had known had been hurt or worse, disciplined after trying to stop a fight. He’d had enough. Let them fight. It’s not worth the grief from the parents and the Headmistress.
Deluge had arranged his desk so that by pivoting his head slightly his field of vision contained both the window and a large painting of the very view that lay sprawled out beneath him. Deluge often thought that the artist must have stood exactly were he, Deluge, now sat and looked out this window when he painted the landscape. If so, he’d be stunned to see what sixty years had done to the place.
“Sixty years,” Deluge thought. “Sixty years since ‘The Last Good War.’” Hogwarts had sent its best and brightest into battle. The hallways are lined with portraits of those destroyed in the Great Cause. Looking back, he thought that so many were impossibly young, his classmates who, like him, had fought a desperate guerilla war against the Death Eaters’ Fourth Column that had overrun Hogwarts. Once it filled him with rage to find a vandalized portrait or some idiotic student cluelessly sporting a fashionable Death Eaters’ T-shirt or tattoo. But these days he didn’t have the stomach for rage. Or for late-night pizza, for that matter. He’d moved the portraits of his special friends into his chambers and failed everyone who brought the Death Head into his classes. It turned out he didn’t have to work too hard to do so.
Settling back in his chair, Deluge considered that on days like this, when the pointlessness of standing before the students and looking into those angry, scared, and ignorant faces, who seemed impervious to his efforts to teach them the value of Ancient Runes, Deluge was tempted to stay locked in his office and let the chaos sweep by without him. He sighed and thanked the governments dedication to destroying education, because thanks to their “reforms,” or “deforms” as the staff called them, he had been able to purchase his office and the adjoining rooms. The Education MInistry had discarded tenure, but in the “Ownership Society” property rights were sacrosanct.
After ten minutes or so, the roar from the hallways died down. He leaned back in his chair so he would not see the students slipping out the doors and across the grounds. He slowly turned from the painting to the window and back, trying to match landmarks. It was amazingly difficult. “We did win,” he mumbled. “Didn’t we?” The painting showed steep hills dotted with picturesque cottages organically situated in verdant, yes, verdant is only word for that lush green, verdant fields. The cerulean sky holds several fleecy clouds that wouldn’t ever rain. A narrow gauge railway clung precariously to the banks of gently winding river. Outside the window the scene was completely altered. The war had started the process, but Deluge thought that the victors had done the most damage.
Deluge had spent his childhood in one of the quirky cottages, a grant from the local Lord to the young widow. His childhood was all he’d spent as his family scrapped by on beets and cabbage from his mother’s meager garden and the occasional small animal he and his sister could bring down with their rocks and slings. He doubted he saw his mother with more than two dollars at any time.
Deluge had once worked out the location of the old cottage and had marked an “X” on the office window to mark the spot. When he placed his chair on the spot marked on the floor, his eyes would fix on the “X” and he would stare past the mark, far below and up the opposite hillside a ways, to were the cottage once stood. He had protected the cottage during the war. He and his guerilla band had used it as meeting place. But Voldemort was nothing compared to the unstoppable force of urban sprawl, and the cottage and green fields lay crushed under the conquering mass of anonymous suburbs.
The beautiful river in which he had fished and on which he’d rafted and explored was also changed forever. The gentle, winding path it cut through the valley was torn apart and contorted. Once they’d captured Hogwarts, the Death Eaters changed the course of the river, looping it around the school like a garrote, choking off aid and supplies from the rebels' muggle allies. After the war, the victors were so tired and so disgusted by magic that they simply left the river alone. In a decade or so, the river had shaped the valley to its new path and that was that.
The old narrow gauge steam railway was another victim of the war, of victory, of time. The train whistle was the timekeeper of Deluge’s youth, its call reaching him wherever his wanderings took him. The schedule was ingrained in his mind and to this day he cannot hear a train whistle without feeling that is time to head for dinner or to return to school for lights out. But the train is gone, its tracks destroyed in the long battle for Hogwarts. He himself had executed numerous attacks on them. Now an eight-lane Highway, the A 9 1/2, rolls out of the city, through the cancerous suburbs, and past Hogwarts, mile after mile of oil and blood soaked cracked concrete, jammed continuously with traffic spewing noxious fumes that stain the once clear sky and generating a constant din that ceaselessly vibrates the battle-damaged stones of the remaining great towers of Old Hogwarts, loosening them and periodically sending one or more crashing into the river far below. Deluge much preferred the train.
“It’s not just me who’s worn out,” thought Deluge. “Sixty years of war and recovery has been hard on the land, too. And the survivors, the big names, have all died or moved on. Only the small fry have stayed. We've nowhere to go.” And so he sat, easing into immobility, his chair long broken in to fit his long broken body, molding itself effortlessly around him, leaving with a peaceful sense of disconnected weightlessness. Time passed, the light faded, and Deluge was lost in his memories and the deepening shadows of his office.
24 September 2009
Thoughts on Democracy, Detroit, and Mr. Robert Bobb
First, I am a DFT member. Second, I agree that most of what Bobb has done has been good and and needed doing for a long time. Many, most of the financial cleaning up he's done, the DFT has clammered for for years. Lots, there is a serious issue that underlies Bobb's role that needs to discussed.
Bobb's appointment and powers are the result of the collapse of a functional civic society in Detroit. Dave Bing's appeal is that he's a watered down Bobb. When it takes strongman rule to clean things up, democracy and civic responsibility are swept aside. People flop back on their sofas, fat and lazy, applauding the autocrat's broom as it sweeps up the mess the people allowed to overwhelm them. When the autocrat's broom sweeps up some of the people, the others clap and say, "About time."
The problem is that Bobb, as tyrant, gets to decide on his own what needs sweeping up. He decides what replaces the old system. He decides anything and everything. Omniscience is a lot to ask of Bobb - especially when he's busy walking on water.
In a few short months, our heroic Cinncinnatus returns to DC or Oakland. What happens next? Granholm, Duncan, Bing - Democrats all (well, I suspect Bing's a Repub) - have abandoned democracy and want Bobb's sceptre passed to the Mayor. What's missing is any belief that Detroit will ever be a functioning society. They've thrown in the hat. If they're right, then what are we doing here? What's the point? Is laughing at the corpse that amusing a pastime?
Maybe our Democratic leaders are correct and democracy has failed in Detroit. After all, our elections are often the electoral equivalent of jury nullification. Maybe it will take tyrants to make Detroit work. If so, don't complain when the next Kilpatrick treats the city like it's his mother's purse and he's hungry. That's the problem with strongmen, there are always more Kwames that Bobbs.
Bobb's appointment and powers are the result of the collapse of a functional civic society in Detroit. Dave Bing's appeal is that he's a watered down Bobb. When it takes strongman rule to clean things up, democracy and civic responsibility are swept aside. People flop back on their sofas, fat and lazy, applauding the autocrat's broom as it sweeps up the mess the people allowed to overwhelm them. When the autocrat's broom sweeps up some of the people, the others clap and say, "About time."
The problem is that Bobb, as tyrant, gets to decide on his own what needs sweeping up. He decides what replaces the old system. He decides anything and everything. Omniscience is a lot to ask of Bobb - especially when he's busy walking on water.
In a few short months, our heroic Cinncinnatus returns to DC or Oakland. What happens next? Granholm, Duncan, Bing - Democrats all (well, I suspect Bing's a Repub) - have abandoned democracy and want Bobb's sceptre passed to the Mayor. What's missing is any belief that Detroit will ever be a functioning society. They've thrown in the hat. If they're right, then what are we doing here? What's the point? Is laughing at the corpse that amusing a pastime?
Maybe our Democratic leaders are correct and democracy has failed in Detroit. After all, our elections are often the electoral equivalent of jury nullification. Maybe it will take tyrants to make Detroit work. If so, don't complain when the next Kilpatrick treats the city like it's his mother's purse and he's hungry. That's the problem with strongmen, there are always more Kwames that Bobbs.
02 September 2009
Mr. Bobb gives me my job back
Yesterday I was called by the HR people of Detroit Public Schools and informed that I was needed this year after all. They sent me to a school that filled me doubts, but the Principal was looking for a Middle School teacher, so I was sent back to HR. I waited around with 30 or other recalled teachers until another place was found for me. After about an hour, not bad as these things go, I was sent to the extreme Northeast corner of Detroit.
My new school is John Trix Elementary. No, he was not a cereal magnate. He was an industrialist (Brass fittings). No, the teams are not the Trixters (read "Tricksters"). They are the Troubadours. I plan to try to change the name to the Trixters with a coyote, crow, or spider as a mascot.
First impressions of the Principal and staff are good, so maybe this year will be better than last. Come to think of it the only way it could be worse is if an alien burst out of stomach at some particularly inopportune time.
Anyway, thanks to those who expressed their concern. I really didn't expect to be called back, at least not until count day in four weeks, if then. I've never been so relieved to be wrong.
My new school is John Trix Elementary. No, he was not a cereal magnate. He was an industrialist (Brass fittings). No, the teams are not the Trixters (read "Tricksters"). They are the Troubadours. I plan to try to change the name to the Trixters with a coyote, crow, or spider as a mascot.
First impressions of the Principal and staff are good, so maybe this year will be better than last. Come to think of it the only way it could be worse is if an alien burst out of stomach at some particularly inopportune time.
Anyway, thanks to those who expressed their concern. I really didn't expect to be called back, at least not until count day in four weeks, if then. I've never been so relieved to be wrong.
20 August 2009
Mr. Bobb Hammers Detroit Public School Teachers
Bob “the Strong Man” Bobb has lowered the boom on Detroit Public School teachers. Here’s his proposal for the new contract. Oh, since teacher’s can’t strike in Michigan (without each striking teacher risking a $7,500 fine), this is what teachers will be forced to take.
(Disclosure: I am one of the 1,200 or so laid off teachers.)
This information comes from the DFT.
Mr. Bobb wants (and I expect will get):
1) a 5 year contract
2) 10% wage cut
3) 20% employee contribution to health plans (fair enough, but tough when wages are being cut and frozen for 5 years.)
4) 10% employee contribution to dental plans (ditto)
5) elimination of step raises (paving the way for merit pay)
6) elimination of sick bank pay-out upon retirement (expect lots of sick days from those nearing retirement.)
7) elimination of the longevity bonus (A small bonus, I think $250, at the end of the year for teachers with 15 years or more with DPS. - I agree that this stupidity should be done away with.)
8) elimination of oversize class compensation (A small bonus at the end of the year if you are stuck with more students that agreed upon in the contract. - The bonus is a dumb idea and should be tossed. But small class size is crucial for learning, and this move by Bobb, along with the huge numbers of teacher layoffs, makes classrooms bursting at the seams likely.)
9) elimination of lost prep period compensation. (Teachers get paid at their hourly rate at the end of the year for all the preps they lost that were not made up. - Getting paid isn’t the answer, getting the preps is. I went a month and half without a prep period this year. That means you work with 25-35 kids from first bell to the last bell with only a 40 minute lunch break. No bathroom break, no coffee break, no time to call parents, review the day’s progress, evaluate kids, deal with behavior problems, … you get the idea. If the district doesn’t have to pay for the time, expect more missed preps and more stressed teachers.)
10) elimination of maternity leave beyond FMLA coverage ( I’m not up to speed on this topic.)
11) elimination of sick bank to retain gross earnings when out on workman’s comp. (I’m not sure what to say about this either.)
12) No use of sick bank for you own wedding. (OK Bobb, you’re right about this one.)
13) Elementary school teachers lose two prep periods a week. (I am/was an elementary school teacher and I speak for all of us on this, I’m sure. Bobb is so focused on high school, he has made it clear that he thinks we at the elementary level are morons who do little more than babysit.)
14) Limiting job protection to teachers called away to armed service to 1 year. (Reservists called up should have their jobs protected wherever they work.)
15) reduce layoff notice from 60 days to 14 days. (Surprise! In two weeks you’re out of a job!)
16) require principal’s signature during Open Transfer period. (Right now, you have a window of time when you can request a transfer without your principal’s approval. This allows you to escape from the hordes of pathetically incompetent and abusive principals that seem to float to the top in DPS administration. Bobb wants those idiots to have the say over whether or not you can leave the Hellhole they created.)
Well, that’s all folks! And you wondered why the smart kids have not interest in being teachers.
(Disclosure: I am one of the 1,200 or so laid off teachers.)
This information comes from the DFT.
Mr. Bobb wants (and I expect will get):
1) a 5 year contract
2) 10% wage cut
3) 20% employee contribution to health plans (fair enough, but tough when wages are being cut and frozen for 5 years.)
4) 10% employee contribution to dental plans (ditto)
5) elimination of step raises (paving the way for merit pay)
6) elimination of sick bank pay-out upon retirement (expect lots of sick days from those nearing retirement.)
7) elimination of the longevity bonus (A small bonus, I think $250, at the end of the year for teachers with 15 years or more with DPS. - I agree that this stupidity should be done away with.)
8) elimination of oversize class compensation (A small bonus at the end of the year if you are stuck with more students that agreed upon in the contract. - The bonus is a dumb idea and should be tossed. But small class size is crucial for learning, and this move by Bobb, along with the huge numbers of teacher layoffs, makes classrooms bursting at the seams likely.)
9) elimination of lost prep period compensation. (Teachers get paid at their hourly rate at the end of the year for all the preps they lost that were not made up. - Getting paid isn’t the answer, getting the preps is. I went a month and half without a prep period this year. That means you work with 25-35 kids from first bell to the last bell with only a 40 minute lunch break. No bathroom break, no coffee break, no time to call parents, review the day’s progress, evaluate kids, deal with behavior problems, … you get the idea. If the district doesn’t have to pay for the time, expect more missed preps and more stressed teachers.)
10) elimination of maternity leave beyond FMLA coverage ( I’m not up to speed on this topic.)
11) elimination of sick bank to retain gross earnings when out on workman’s comp. (I’m not sure what to say about this either.)
12) No use of sick bank for you own wedding. (OK Bobb, you’re right about this one.)
13) Elementary school teachers lose two prep periods a week. (I am/was an elementary school teacher and I speak for all of us on this, I’m sure. Bobb is so focused on high school, he has made it clear that he thinks we at the elementary level are morons who do little more than babysit.)
14) Limiting job protection to teachers called away to armed service to 1 year. (Reservists called up should have their jobs protected wherever they work.)
15) reduce layoff notice from 60 days to 14 days. (Surprise! In two weeks you’re out of a job!)
16) require principal’s signature during Open Transfer period. (Right now, you have a window of time when you can request a transfer without your principal’s approval. This allows you to escape from the hordes of pathetically incompetent and abusive principals that seem to float to the top in DPS administration. Bobb wants those idiots to have the say over whether or not you can leave the Hellhole they created.)
Well, that’s all folks! And you wondered why the smart kids have not interest in being teachers.
12 August 2009
GM's Volt will get 230 mph in city, GM announces
And they're going to build it right after they complete the Icarus, GM's flying car project.
29 July 2009
The Novel in the Drawer - Chapter 1b
Extended Family
Chapter 1b
[Continued from Chapter 1a below)
Peter’s mother, still half-asleep, hurried up the stairs, tugging at her robe, her slippers slapping on the stairs. Peter followed her into Mrs. McGill’s apartment where his mother turned and put her hands on his shoulders, gently steering him toward the sofa. She ran her fingers through her short, dark, bedraggled hair, then tugged once on the cotton belt that circled her narrow waist. She was a small, slight woman, but wrestling the fifty-pound sacks of flour, five gallon bottles of oil, and large pails of sugar and baking soda at the bakery had toughened her, and made her lean, taut, and strong.
She carefully opened the door to Mrs. McGill's bedroom, and Peter heard her say very quietly, "Agnes? It's me, Mary. I've come to see how you're doing." He heard the door click shut and he sat down to wait. He sat very still on the sofa, his chest tightening and fear welling up from his stomach, acid rising to burn the back of his throat. It felt like last summer, he thought, the horrible summer of 1968 - the arguments between Mary and her mother, her sisters always picking at her, his cousins’ teasing him because he had no father. And then the sudden move to the apartment in Olney. His family’s disintegration getting caught up in the chaos of that horrible year. Bobby Kennedy, Dr. King, riots in the cities, Black Panthers, Weatherman, Rizzo in his tuxedo with a riot club stuck in his cumberbund, nightly casualty reports from Vietnam, some of the numbers included older kids from the neighborhood,gang murders nearly ever day. He heard some people call ‘68, the "Summer of Love.” He had no idea why. He guessed they just weren't paying attention. Sitting alone in the quiet front room, listening intently for any hint of what was happening in the closed bedroom, he felt unmoored, hollowed out, and drifting way.
His mother came out of the bedroom about a half-hour later. She waved for Peter to join her in the kitchen where she flipped through Mrs. McGill's address book which hung from a string attached to her heavy black wall phone. She told him to go downstairs and get her a pair of pants and a shirt that was hanging on the back of her bedroom door. She also needs shoes and socks believe have something to do, to push away the fears and action, Peter ran downstairs and began to gather up his mother's things
When he returned, his mother was talking on the phone to Dr. Sarkis. She asked Peter a few questions about how Mrs. McGill was acting before he came and got her. He answered as best as he could, and she repeated his answers to the doctor. She listened for a while, occasionally making small affirmative noises to indicate that she had understood.
"Germantown Hospital Emergency, right. Yes, I'll take her car. About a half-hour, okay? Thank you, Doctor. Goodbye." She hung up the phone and picked up her clothes that Peter had placed on the kitchen table. "Peter," she said, "I have to take Mrs. McGill to the hospital. She's very sick." She paused. Peter waited. It was clear she had more to say, but was with sorting it out in her head first. "What’s the Harper's number?," she asked. "Who's watching the kids this summer?"
"Mrs. Zink," Peter answered. "She lives a few houses down. She's Joey's grandmother."
"Okay, I'm going to call her and see if you can stay with them while I'm at the hospital. Is that all right with you?"
"Yeah," Peter said. "I'm sure she'll do it."
Peter told her the number. One of the kids answered, and Peter’s mother waited for Mrs. Zink to come to the phone. Mary briefly explained the situation to Mrs. Zink and a look of relief washed over her face as listened to her reply. She said that Peter would be right over, thank Mrs. Zink again, and hung up the phone.
“Peter, everything’s going to be fine. You can stay with the Harper’s until I get back. Go down and get my purse and keys while I change. Be sure to lock the door."
Peter ran back downstairs. He looked around for his mother's purse and found it dropped onto the small barrel chair in the corner of the bedroom. Her keys were on the hook above the kitchen counter. He jammed his pimple ball into his pocket and locked the door before running back upstairs with the purse and keys.
When he reached the top of the stairs, his mother was stepping out of the bedroom dressed and distractedly running a comb through her hair. She went into the bedroom and Peter could hear her softly talking to Mrs. McGill. He could hear low, murmured responses, but he couldn't make out what Mrs. McGill was saying. A few minutes later, his mother was leading Mrs. McGill out of the bedroom, her old woman walking unsteadily and clinging to Mary’s arm. The old woman's eyes were unfocused, and she didn't seem to be aware of Peter.
"Go in my purse and take a few dollars in case you need it. Please don't use it unless you have to, Peter," his mother said. "Mrs. McGill's car keys should be in the kitchen on the key hook. You go ahead of us opening doors and unlocking the car."
Peter nodded, ran into the kitchen, grabbed the keys, and, without breaking stride, wheeled around and ran down the stairs, throwing the doors open as he crashed through them. Mary carefully guided Mrs. McGill down the stairs and over to the car. Peter opened the passenger side door, struggling with the heavy weight of the doors on the two-door Ford Fairlane. He stepped aside as his mother needs the old woman onto the passenger seat.
Shutting the heavy door with a solid thump, Mary turned to Peter. "Be sure to lock Mrs. McGill's door and the outside one. Leave the porch light on. Stay at the Harper’s until you hear from me. I'll call when I know what's going on." She leaned down and kissed his forehead. He wanted to hug her and ask if Mrs. McGill would be all right. He wanted her to tell him not to worry , that things would be okay, but the words wouldn't come. Mary saw her boy frozen in place, not quite as old as he thought he was, and hugged him, whispering in his ear, "Don't worry, Petey. We’ll make it. We always do."
Peter shook himself and looked up at her, a slightly relieved look crossing his face. "I don't have time to drive you, Peter," his mother said as she walked around to the driver's side and slid in behind the wheel. "Will you be alright walking?"
"Sure," he said. "Don't worry, Mom. I'll be okay."
"I'm know you will," she answered. "Remember, I'll be at the Germantown Hospital Emergency Room. I'll call you at the Harper’s soon as I can. Be good, Petey."
"I will. I'll lock up and go straight to Jimmy's."
Mary turned the ignition key, and over the engine’s load rumble she yelled goodbye and waved Peter. She released the passenger brake and pulled away from the curb. Peter watched her as she drove down toward Tabor and then turned right towards 5th Street. He knew she would take 5th St. to the Boulevard and then head down to Germantown. When he could no longer see the dark green, squat form of the Falcon, he walked back up the steps, checked that the porch light was on, locked the doors, and started toward the Harper’s.
Peter marched mechanically in the direction off the Harper's house, his motions controlled directed by ancient remnants of reptilian brain that only needed a goal and then moved ponderously, but steadily, toward the target without interfering with the later, higher brain that overlay the ancient one. Peter's higher brain was lost in reliving and working through the blur of activity he had just passed through. His limbic system was pumping fear, anxiety, and read into every corner of his skinny body, and he struggled to suppress the urge to run. He didn’t want to run because he wasn't ready to reach the Harper's yet. He needed time to think, to calm down, to keep replaying the actions, examining them, turning them over in his mind until the monsters revealed themselves to be innocuous shadows.
Before he was aware of how far he walked, Peter turned the corner of Second and Clarkson. He could see the Harper's front porch halfway up the hill. The kids were on the porch watching for him, and he heard Jeanie yell, "There he is! I won! I won! I saw them first." She was holding on to the iron railing of the porch and bouncing up and down, crying her victory over her older brothers to the entire block.
Jimmy and Doug had been looking up second toward Tabor. They'd expected him to come the longer way because Jimmy Watson had been on the warpath lately and none of the neighborhood kids willingly walked past his house on Clarkson between Third and American, especially not alone. Lost in his thoughts, Peter had strolled right past the Watson’s filthy, decrepit rowhouse, unseen by Jimmy's assorted brothers, sisters, stepbrothers, stepsisters, and miscellaneous rangy and hungry dogs. When Jeanie’s cries had roused him into awareness, Peter was startled at what he just done, the risk he had thoughtlessly taken. He shuddered and remembered how Mrs. McGill would tell him that God looked out for fools and idiots. Maybe she was right.
*********
Mary sat on a hard, steel chair that was once padded, but now had only a torn piece of vinyl over the metal seat. Mrs. McGill was snoring softly on the gurney next to her, an IV in her arm. The past few hours have been a blur of doctors, nurses, questions, and phone calls punctuated by periods of waiting around, and wondering what was happening. As soon as the doctors determined that Mrs. McGill was stable, she was given an injection after which she quickly fell to sleep. Mary took advantage of this opportunity to find a payphone. She called Mrs. McGill's only child, a son who she thought lived in Cherry Hill. He had a good job downtown, and visited his mother about once a month or so, sometimes taking her to his place in Jersey. Mary had been introduced to him and his wife one time, but she didn't know him very well. He agreed to come to the hospital as soon as he could get away from work, but it was a very busy day and t would be some time before he could get away. He asked her if she'd stay with his mother until he get there. Somewhat reluctantly, Mary agreed. She couldn’t just leave Mrs. McGill there alone. Just feeling it would be some time before she'd see him. She was hungry, but didn’t want to buy anything. Money was tight, as always. She hoped that Peter wouldn't have to spend the money she gave him.
Mrs. McGill was out of immediate danger, and Mary's thoughts turned to her side son. She knew we'd be all right at the Harpers, but she didn’t know them that well, and she didn’t like dropping Peter on them like this. She hated looking irresponsible. It was hard enough raising Peter on her own without her neighbors thinking she was irresponsible. She laughed. How many of her neighbors would think a woman who had been knocked up and was raising the kid on her own was responsible no matter what else she did? That boat had sailed 11 years ago.
Mary also worried about herself and Peter which made her feel guilty. The doctors told her that Mrs. McGill had a small stroke, and they were keeping her in the hospital overnight for observation. They were concerned that a larger, more serious attack could occur. Mary had grown very close to Agnes over the past year. Agnes had nearly adopted her and Peter when they moved into the apartment last May. Before long, the doors between the apartment stood open most of the time, and the place became a two-story house, the three of them coming and going as they pleased. Mary joked that her kitchen had never been so clean, as most of the cooking took place upstairs. It was Agnes who had suggested that Peter stay with her while Mary worked the night shift. Before this, Mary had to take Peter to work with her. He slept on a cot set up in the storage room. The boss hadn’t liked it, but he knew Mary was a good baker, and a good employee, so he grudgingly put up with it. Peter never complained, but Mary knew it wasn't good for a child to be awakened early in the morning to ride the bus home, or be awakened throughout the night by the noises of the mixers and the banging of the large oven doors. Mary felt awful worrying about herself when Agnes lay in the hospital bed next to her. But she couldn't help wondering what would happen to her and Peter if something really bad happened Agnes. She'd be alone again, unless she went back to her family for help. No. At least not yet. Something would turn up. She’d figure something out. She looked at her watch and decided it was too early to call the Harpers. She'd wait a while until Jimmy or Peg was home from work.
Then the adrenaline wore off and Mary gave way to exhaustion. She’d only been asleep a few hours when Peter had jolted her awake. Hungry and tired, Mary folded her arms and dropped them onto her lap, entangling her purse in her grip. She leaned her head against the wall, and her body relaxed, her shoulders sagging, as she fell asleep on the unyielding steel chair.
Chapter 1b
[Continued from Chapter 1a below)
Peter’s mother, still half-asleep, hurried up the stairs, tugging at her robe, her slippers slapping on the stairs. Peter followed her into Mrs. McGill’s apartment where his mother turned and put her hands on his shoulders, gently steering him toward the sofa. She ran her fingers through her short, dark, bedraggled hair, then tugged once on the cotton belt that circled her narrow waist. She was a small, slight woman, but wrestling the fifty-pound sacks of flour, five gallon bottles of oil, and large pails of sugar and baking soda at the bakery had toughened her, and made her lean, taut, and strong.
She carefully opened the door to Mrs. McGill's bedroom, and Peter heard her say very quietly, "Agnes? It's me, Mary. I've come to see how you're doing." He heard the door click shut and he sat down to wait. He sat very still on the sofa, his chest tightening and fear welling up from his stomach, acid rising to burn the back of his throat. It felt like last summer, he thought, the horrible summer of 1968 - the arguments between Mary and her mother, her sisters always picking at her, his cousins’ teasing him because he had no father. And then the sudden move to the apartment in Olney. His family’s disintegration getting caught up in the chaos of that horrible year. Bobby Kennedy, Dr. King, riots in the cities, Black Panthers, Weatherman, Rizzo in his tuxedo with a riot club stuck in his cumberbund, nightly casualty reports from Vietnam, some of the numbers included older kids from the neighborhood,gang murders nearly ever day. He heard some people call ‘68, the "Summer of Love.” He had no idea why. He guessed they just weren't paying attention. Sitting alone in the quiet front room, listening intently for any hint of what was happening in the closed bedroom, he felt unmoored, hollowed out, and drifting way.
His mother came out of the bedroom about a half-hour later. She waved for Peter to join her in the kitchen where she flipped through Mrs. McGill's address book which hung from a string attached to her heavy black wall phone. She told him to go downstairs and get her a pair of pants and a shirt that was hanging on the back of her bedroom door. She also needs shoes and socks believe have something to do, to push away the fears and action, Peter ran downstairs and began to gather up his mother's things
When he returned, his mother was talking on the phone to Dr. Sarkis. She asked Peter a few questions about how Mrs. McGill was acting before he came and got her. He answered as best as he could, and she repeated his answers to the doctor. She listened for a while, occasionally making small affirmative noises to indicate that she had understood.
"Germantown Hospital Emergency, right. Yes, I'll take her car. About a half-hour, okay? Thank you, Doctor. Goodbye." She hung up the phone and picked up her clothes that Peter had placed on the kitchen table. "Peter," she said, "I have to take Mrs. McGill to the hospital. She's very sick." She paused. Peter waited. It was clear she had more to say, but was with sorting it out in her head first. "What’s the Harper's number?," she asked. "Who's watching the kids this summer?"
"Mrs. Zink," Peter answered. "She lives a few houses down. She's Joey's grandmother."
"Okay, I'm going to call her and see if you can stay with them while I'm at the hospital. Is that all right with you?"
"Yeah," Peter said. "I'm sure she'll do it."
Peter told her the number. One of the kids answered, and Peter’s mother waited for Mrs. Zink to come to the phone. Mary briefly explained the situation to Mrs. Zink and a look of relief washed over her face as listened to her reply. She said that Peter would be right over, thank Mrs. Zink again, and hung up the phone.
“Peter, everything’s going to be fine. You can stay with the Harper’s until I get back. Go down and get my purse and keys while I change. Be sure to lock the door."
Peter ran back downstairs. He looked around for his mother's purse and found it dropped onto the small barrel chair in the corner of the bedroom. Her keys were on the hook above the kitchen counter. He jammed his pimple ball into his pocket and locked the door before running back upstairs with the purse and keys.
When he reached the top of the stairs, his mother was stepping out of the bedroom dressed and distractedly running a comb through her hair. She went into the bedroom and Peter could hear her softly talking to Mrs. McGill. He could hear low, murmured responses, but he couldn't make out what Mrs. McGill was saying. A few minutes later, his mother was leading Mrs. McGill out of the bedroom, her old woman walking unsteadily and clinging to Mary’s arm. The old woman's eyes were unfocused, and she didn't seem to be aware of Peter.
"Go in my purse and take a few dollars in case you need it. Please don't use it unless you have to, Peter," his mother said. "Mrs. McGill's car keys should be in the kitchen on the key hook. You go ahead of us opening doors and unlocking the car."
Peter nodded, ran into the kitchen, grabbed the keys, and, without breaking stride, wheeled around and ran down the stairs, throwing the doors open as he crashed through them. Mary carefully guided Mrs. McGill down the stairs and over to the car. Peter opened the passenger side door, struggling with the heavy weight of the doors on the two-door Ford Fairlane. He stepped aside as his mother needs the old woman onto the passenger seat.
Shutting the heavy door with a solid thump, Mary turned to Peter. "Be sure to lock Mrs. McGill's door and the outside one. Leave the porch light on. Stay at the Harper’s until you hear from me. I'll call when I know what's going on." She leaned down and kissed his forehead. He wanted to hug her and ask if Mrs. McGill would be all right. He wanted her to tell him not to worry , that things would be okay, but the words wouldn't come. Mary saw her boy frozen in place, not quite as old as he thought he was, and hugged him, whispering in his ear, "Don't worry, Petey. We’ll make it. We always do."
Peter shook himself and looked up at her, a slightly relieved look crossing his face. "I don't have time to drive you, Peter," his mother said as she walked around to the driver's side and slid in behind the wheel. "Will you be alright walking?"
"Sure," he said. "Don't worry, Mom. I'll be okay."
"I'm know you will," she answered. "Remember, I'll be at the Germantown Hospital Emergency Room. I'll call you at the Harper’s soon as I can. Be good, Petey."
"I will. I'll lock up and go straight to Jimmy's."
Mary turned the ignition key, and over the engine’s load rumble she yelled goodbye and waved Peter. She released the passenger brake and pulled away from the curb. Peter watched her as she drove down toward Tabor and then turned right towards 5th Street. He knew she would take 5th St. to the Boulevard and then head down to Germantown. When he could no longer see the dark green, squat form of the Falcon, he walked back up the steps, checked that the porch light was on, locked the doors, and started toward the Harper’s.
Peter marched mechanically in the direction off the Harper's house, his motions controlled directed by ancient remnants of reptilian brain that only needed a goal and then moved ponderously, but steadily, toward the target without interfering with the later, higher brain that overlay the ancient one. Peter's higher brain was lost in reliving and working through the blur of activity he had just passed through. His limbic system was pumping fear, anxiety, and read into every corner of his skinny body, and he struggled to suppress the urge to run. He didn’t want to run because he wasn't ready to reach the Harper's yet. He needed time to think, to calm down, to keep replaying the actions, examining them, turning them over in his mind until the monsters revealed themselves to be innocuous shadows.
Before he was aware of how far he walked, Peter turned the corner of Second and Clarkson. He could see the Harper's front porch halfway up the hill. The kids were on the porch watching for him, and he heard Jeanie yell, "There he is! I won! I won! I saw them first." She was holding on to the iron railing of the porch and bouncing up and down, crying her victory over her older brothers to the entire block.
Jimmy and Doug had been looking up second toward Tabor. They'd expected him to come the longer way because Jimmy Watson had been on the warpath lately and none of the neighborhood kids willingly walked past his house on Clarkson between Third and American, especially not alone. Lost in his thoughts, Peter had strolled right past the Watson’s filthy, decrepit rowhouse, unseen by Jimmy's assorted brothers, sisters, stepbrothers, stepsisters, and miscellaneous rangy and hungry dogs. When Jeanie’s cries had roused him into awareness, Peter was startled at what he just done, the risk he had thoughtlessly taken. He shuddered and remembered how Mrs. McGill would tell him that God looked out for fools and idiots. Maybe she was right.
*********
Mary sat on a hard, steel chair that was once padded, but now had only a torn piece of vinyl over the metal seat. Mrs. McGill was snoring softly on the gurney next to her, an IV in her arm. The past few hours have been a blur of doctors, nurses, questions, and phone calls punctuated by periods of waiting around, and wondering what was happening. As soon as the doctors determined that Mrs. McGill was stable, she was given an injection after which she quickly fell to sleep. Mary took advantage of this opportunity to find a payphone. She called Mrs. McGill's only child, a son who she thought lived in Cherry Hill. He had a good job downtown, and visited his mother about once a month or so, sometimes taking her to his place in Jersey. Mary had been introduced to him and his wife one time, but she didn't know him very well. He agreed to come to the hospital as soon as he could get away from work, but it was a very busy day and t would be some time before he could get away. He asked her if she'd stay with his mother until he get there. Somewhat reluctantly, Mary agreed. She couldn’t just leave Mrs. McGill there alone. Just feeling it would be some time before she'd see him. She was hungry, but didn’t want to buy anything. Money was tight, as always. She hoped that Peter wouldn't have to spend the money she gave him.
Mrs. McGill was out of immediate danger, and Mary's thoughts turned to her side son. She knew we'd be all right at the Harpers, but she didn’t know them that well, and she didn’t like dropping Peter on them like this. She hated looking irresponsible. It was hard enough raising Peter on her own without her neighbors thinking she was irresponsible. She laughed. How many of her neighbors would think a woman who had been knocked up and was raising the kid on her own was responsible no matter what else she did? That boat had sailed 11 years ago.
Mary also worried about herself and Peter which made her feel guilty. The doctors told her that Mrs. McGill had a small stroke, and they were keeping her in the hospital overnight for observation. They were concerned that a larger, more serious attack could occur. Mary had grown very close to Agnes over the past year. Agnes had nearly adopted her and Peter when they moved into the apartment last May. Before long, the doors between the apartment stood open most of the time, and the place became a two-story house, the three of them coming and going as they pleased. Mary joked that her kitchen had never been so clean, as most of the cooking took place upstairs. It was Agnes who had suggested that Peter stay with her while Mary worked the night shift. Before this, Mary had to take Peter to work with her. He slept on a cot set up in the storage room. The boss hadn’t liked it, but he knew Mary was a good baker, and a good employee, so he grudgingly put up with it. Peter never complained, but Mary knew it wasn't good for a child to be awakened early in the morning to ride the bus home, or be awakened throughout the night by the noises of the mixers and the banging of the large oven doors. Mary felt awful worrying about herself when Agnes lay in the hospital bed next to her. But she couldn't help wondering what would happen to her and Peter if something really bad happened Agnes. She'd be alone again, unless she went back to her family for help. No. At least not yet. Something would turn up. She’d figure something out. She looked at her watch and decided it was too early to call the Harpers. She'd wait a while until Jimmy or Peg was home from work.
Then the adrenaline wore off and Mary gave way to exhaustion. She’d only been asleep a few hours when Peter had jolted her awake. Hungry and tired, Mary folded her arms and dropped them onto her lap, entangling her purse in her grip. She leaned her head against the wall, and her body relaxed, her shoulders sagging, as she fell asleep on the unyielding steel chair.
You Can't Go Home Again (without getting really upset)
I stumbled across this video of the house in Olney where I grew up. The place is completely trashed, but I could not stop watching as the camera moved through the rooms I can still see so clearly in my mind after thirty-seven years. What a strangely compelling and horrible experience.
Kidspeak and I drove past the house in the late 90's, about thirteen years ago, and the place looked great, even better than my family left it to be honest. The porch was still enclosed, but the ugly, gray fake brick siding had been removed. An Indian family was living the house and it was immaculate. We only saw the exterior of the house, but I'm certain the interior was well-maintained. I wish I'd taken a picture of it then.
Kidspeak and I drove past the house in the late 90's, about thirteen years ago, and the place looked great, even better than my family left it to be honest. The porch was still enclosed, but the ugly, gray fake brick siding had been removed. An Indian family was living the house and it was immaculate. We only saw the exterior of the house, but I'm certain the interior was well-maintained. I wish I'd taken a picture of it then.
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