baristas beware

I grew up in the beautiful and hectic city of Chicago. When I was younger, my mother, brother and I tended to move yearly into a new apartment which generally would overlook the great lake, Michigan. Admittedly, we lived in some of the most beautiful apartments that I have ever experienced. Every morning of my childhood there was always one smell in my home that you could count on all day and every single day. At the dawn of every morning there was the pungent smell of coffee brewing.

My mother’s first action in the morning was to make coffee. She would drink a pot before I woke, one after I woke and then throughout the rest of each day. The coffee pots back then didn’t have the cool feature of turning off after being on for a certain amount of time which left my house to smell of cooked, burnt coffee all day. I swore to my mother that I would never become a coffee drinker. I used to watch her drink cup after cup of black coffee and I could not understand the attraction. I think that I somehow associated coffee with maturity and success, but I was still not impressed.

I attended a boarding school for high school and many of my friends started drinking coffee. It seemed like the cool thing to do, but I could not be sucked in. I hated the smell of coffee brewing and was seemingly scarred from the ongoing smell in my childhood home. I resisted becoming a coffee drinker in high school.

I attended college in southern California and many of my newly turned adult friends were becoming regular coffee drinkers. I would watch them in the cafeteria grab their coffee mugs, poor the steaming hot black liquid, add their desire of cream and sugar and look so pleased with themselves. Daily I would hear someone say something to effect of how they couldn’t handle this or that until they had their coffee. I simply did not understand the need or desire. I resisted becoming a coffee drinker in college.

After I graduated from college I moved to the Bay Area and started teaching. Every morning I would arrive at the elementary school that I worked at and all of the other teachers, regardless of their age, held a coffee mug. They would scurry through the hallways and to the staff rooms and refill their coffee between each class. I hated the staff room for the very reason that it smelled of brewing coffee at all times. I was young and I still viewed coffee as something tied to maturity, but I couldn’t force myself to indulge in the caffeinated monster that they called coffee. I resisted becoming a coffee drinker for the six years that I taught special education.  

Once I became a School Psychologist, it seemed almost mandatory that I drink coffee. I was one of the younger staff members and coffee of course is directly linked to maturity and stature in my mind. I tried drinking coffee a few times, but I could not get passed the rancid taste and that damn smell. It made me miserable to even be around it, so I decided to become a tea drinker. I am English so it made sense to me. I bought a coffee maker and loose tea. Each morning I got up to my freshly brewed tea in my coffee maker, poured it into my travel mug, added milk and sugar and headed to work looking like the grown-ups. Nobody was the wiser, except me of course.

What I have failed to mention here is what would happen if and when I drank coffee. Being that I was not an avid caffeine drinker for any other reason than I just wasn’t, coffee had a severe impact on me. I am naturally a very hyper person. Most everyone that I know can attest to this and would prefer that I not intake caffeine which would only heighten my energy level. I certainly do not lack in energy. About once a year I would decide that I wanted to do what all the grown-ups did and I would try to drink a cup of coffee. I always ordered a small or poured myself a half a cup or simply stole sips out an unsuspecting friend’s cup. I would take a few sips and within minutes I was bouncing off the walls and talking without any reservation of running out of breath. Sometimes I would end up jumping up and down, singing made-up insane songs and in general making those around me curious of my mental health status. Of course this was not the desired effect when I considered coffee to be the symbol of maturity and being grown-up. After about thirty minutes of shaking, a quickened heart beat and near psychosis I would start sweating, feel dizzy and ultimately crash. After an hour had passed I was ready for bed. I had worn myself out and was far more tired than when I woke up. Thus, coffee was not the ultimate method of a successful beverage for my need to be productive or remotely act my age. So, I resisted becoming a coffee drinker.

I have often considered the worst job is that of a barista. People that are addicted to coffee tend to need this piping hot beverage in the morning before they demonstrate any resemblance to a nice human being. Given this truth, why on earth would any one person take a job where their sole purpose is to deal with humans BEFORE they have had their coffee? Humans before coffee are evil, grumpy, non-desirable monsters. How could a self-respecting person make the choice to be the one person to deal with hundreds of people before they have had their caffeine fix. My hat goes off to those who have to be the buffer in between a human and their coffee. I don’t understand it, but I sure have respect for those people. I have often wondered if it is scorned barista’s that eventually go to work at the DMV.

It is not that I have been proud in any way that I have never been a coffee drinker. I have enjoyed the leisure of not having to have coffee in the morning or worrying on a camping trip how I will have my daily fix. It is nice on road trips to not have to find the nearest Starbucks the minute I get into the car. Then again, all of the people I have ever gone camping or on a road trip with have been coffee drinkers so that defeats my point.

Coffee is made every day in my house and I cringe each morning as I still despise the smell. I watch people carry around their fancy travel mugs and promote themselves as mature adults with their warm beverage that inherently makes them nicer and apparently I have been convinced. About a month ago, at the age of 36, I decided to become a coffee drinker. I woke up one morning and decided that I now wanted to be a full blown caffeine addict and would drink coffee daily until I needed it daily. I now drink multiple cups of coffee each morning and often in the afternoon. Now, I ask you, WHO DOES THAT? Who decides randomly after 36 years of hating everything about coffee to up and decide to become a coffee drinker? Apparently, I do. I don’t know why I needed another vice this late in my young life, but I have to say, I sure am enjoying it. So suffice it to say, I choose to join the land of maturity and adulthood and have developed a fantastic addiction to caffeine. I am joined the ranks of millions of visiting my local café and torturing barista's for they simply cannot give me my coffee fast enough. Mugs up!

teaching faux pas... feel free to laugh at me.......

In what feels like another lifetime, I taught a severely handicapped class of 12 kids under the age of nine. I was required to teach the class as part of my credentialing program, so I applied to teach a summer session. I was not qualified, didn’t have the appropriate supervision and had no idea of what I was walking into or what to do, so they hired me. I was supposed to teach them, entertain them and give them a solid curriculum for six weeks, four and a half hours a day, 135 hours total. I was terrified.

Two days before the summer session was to begin I was sent a list of twelve names with a disability code next to each name. In special education there are thirteen categories in which a child can qualify for services. These categories do not explain the child’s full self, limitations, strengths or needs. Many of the kids in that class were labeled with Multiple Disabilities (MD), Orthopedic Impairments, Autism and what then was called Mental Retardation. This was all of the information that I was given other than the classroom number in which I would be working in for the next six weeks.

The first day sprung on me like a lightening hitting my soul. I was 22 and greener than the rolling hills in the Sound of Music. 12 children appeared one by one in the doorway with a parent in tow. One of the kids, who I will call Charlie, brought me one of my favorite teaching faux pas stories.

Charlie was an active kid with multiple disabilities and some cognitive delays. He loved the playground! As soon as we would leave the classroom he would bolt off down the hallway, turn right at full speed, bust through the front doors of the school, down the six steps, across the playground and jump head first into the play structure. He was fast. He was quick. He was the bane of my palpitating heart. Charlie terrified me. Most nights I went home thankful that he was not wounded or dead and that I didn’t have to call his parents with this news of his physical demise.

Those first few days of teaching this class were all but entertaining and Charlie was not helpful in this matter. I found that I was constantly saying that phrase, “Charlie, no!” I must have repeated this phrase 350.2 times in 4.5 hours a day in hopes to stop Charlie from doing something. Charlie would hear me say, “Charlie, No!”  and he would look at me, flash his dirty hands at me, smirk and run the opposite direction. He made my 22 year old self so frustrated and angry. He would not stop. I was being outwitted by a damn 5 year old. No matter how many times I told him ‘no,’ Charlie would not stop!

I finally relented and decided that I was going to have to admit defeat and call Charlie’s parents. I was going to have to ask them for help. I could no longer pretend to manage this little boy’s behavior. I was defeated.

That night I went home, grabbed the phone receiver, put it between my ear and shoulder, pulled out the list with all of the kid’s names and phone numbers on it that the principal gave me upon request, found Charlie’s name and dropped the phone, the list and my jaw into my lap. I sat in utter shock staring at the wall. I could not cry, I could not laugh, I could not speak and I could not move. That five year old boy that had tortured me for 7 work days, 31.5 hours, and mocked me when I exclaimed, “Charlie, No!” over and over each day actually had a reason. His name was Charlie Noh.

This was clearly not my finest moment as a teacher. For 7 work days, 7 days of summer session, 31.5 hours this five year old boy simply thought I was saying his name and greeting him. Not once did this child think that I was trying to get him to stop what he was doing. Simply, I was saying, “Charlie Noh!” Simply I was just saying his name. Charlie must have thought I really liked him. Charlie must have thought I was nuts. For 31.5 hours I called his name, over and over and over again … Charlie Noh.

The following morning I took the kids out of the classroom to head to the playground, and Charlie bolted off down the hallway, turned right at full speed, busted through the front doors of the school, down the six steps, across the playground and jumped head first into the play structure. When I finally caught up with him I said loudly, “Charlie, stop!”….. and he stopped.

they cheered as the kid hit the police officer.....

I recently found an old journal of mine from many years ago. I thought I would share this entry about a boy and his schoolmates and their aggression for authority.

It hasn’t been a good day for the education system. In San Diego a student opened fire in a school. Two dead, thirteen wounded and hundreds scarred with the memories and fears.

Closer to home, a seventh grade student hit a teacher in the face with the cast on his arm. He hit the teacher several times. The teacher didn’t fight back. He tried to put his hands up in defense of his bloody face. The child taunted him and kept swinging at him. The boy yelled profanities at the teacher and called him names. “Pussy! Chicken! Asshole!”

One of the other teachers called 911. You could hear the sirens coming from a mile away. The squad car squealed to a stop at the front of the school. The boy continued to hit and chase the bloody teacher. The boy didn’t respond to the police officers.

The officer kept yelling for the boy to stop and drop to the ground. Suddenly, the boy ran up to the officer and hit him twice in the face with his cast. He kept swinging until the officer finally was able to get the boy onto the ground. The boy continued to scream and try to fight the officer.

All of this occurred at the end of the school day. The bell rang and the entire student body exited onto the playground as the officer took the boy to the ground. He was trying to control the aggressive boy. The students laughed, some cried, but most cheered for their fellow student to continue to try and hit the officer. Some jumped up and down and screamed “oohhss” and “ahhhs” when the boy squirmed out from under the officer and managed to hit him in shoulder. The kids clapped and cheered. 

I was stunned by the how the authority figures had fallen in the eyes of the children. Children do not hold the same beliefs about teachers or police officers that they did when I was growing up. Never would a student hit a teacher. Never would it be expected by the staff either. It has been as sad, sad day.

(written in 2000)

a childs horror story.....

Several years ago I worked with a young girl. She was bright, a little overweight and fraught with sadness. Some of the days she came into the room and said that her name was Betty. It was forever unclear if the young girl suffered from Multiple Personality Disorder or if she just created Betty to avoid dealing with her own pain. Betty was cruel. 

I worked with her for two years and she had regular meltdowns which resulted in her crawling into a ball in the closest corner and scream wails of inner pain. If anyone came near her she would scream, “Get away from me daddy. I don’t want you to touch me anymore!” Her pain was blasted through the hallways. Tears streamed from her face creating a puddle on her clenched hands that were wrapped tightly around her knees. She rocked back and forth and would swat at anyone if they got too close to her. She sobbed and screamed, sobbed and screamed, sobbed and screamed. 

It would take at minimum twenty minutes for me to calm her down. Once she was calm she would climb to her feet, slap a smile on and everything would be happy and okay again. I called child protection agencies on numerous occasions, but they never did anything for this young girl.

Day after day she would come to my room and tell me of some horrible sadness or wrong that was inflicted upon her. Betty, her imaginary friend, often would hurt her. She would show me bruises and cuts that were supposedly inflicted by Betty. I spent countless hours documenting her pain and making calls to local agencies, but nobody ever came to her aid. 

The girl was never afraid to share her hurt. It was obvious to me that her inner pain was taking over her entire being. One afternoon she wrote me a letter. To this day I wake up at night sweating and worrying about this young girl. I don’t know where she ended up or if she made it out of her own personal horror story. 

I have an imaginary friend named Betty. Betty messes up my room and then blames me. She is my sister and my imaginary friend. She is five years old. She deletes files on my computer and that is what really burns me up.

My dad is attached to me. I don’t know why. He was my primary caregiver when my mom was away (at work). My mom and dad don’t get along. When it happens sometimes I am cranky because I can’t sleep because of the arguing. It makes me sad. 

My mom goes over to other mens houses. She is kissing them and hugging them like they are her own husband. 

My mom spends a lot of time out of the house. I have two sisters. One is older and one is younger. I like them. We talk about when our parents fight. Betty usually makes raspberries at me and I have to hit her to make her stop. It makes me sad, like I will never be cheerful again as long as my parents fight. 

I like writing stories. 

Betty and I fight about who sleeps on the top bunk and who sleeps on the bottom. One night she snuck up to the top bunk and pushed me off. Do you know what happened? I broke my leg. A year ago, one day just for fun I kicked Betty down the stairs and she broke her leg and I said “revenge” real loud.

(names and identifying information have been changed to protect the children involved)

the Culver green...

I sent a text to my creative writing teacher this afternoon and asked her to text me a writing prompt. She responded, "Green." My first thought was..... ya thanks buddy. After a few minutes I realized that in fact it wasn't such a bad a prompt at all. 

Green. A sea of green people, or rather a sea of small children wearing green shirts. I watched as a large group of younger children stood in military formation for the practice parade wearing their green shirts with the Culver logo on the left side above the breast. In front of them stood a slender, blond, tall young man. He spoke to them with an authoritative voice, but he exuded kindness. You could see the stern look on his face, but you could feel his dedication. The boys looked at him from their attention stance and listened. It was obvious they respected him.

I felt my eyes welling up with tears as the young man gave instructions to the gaggle of boys. My heart was filling with overwhelming pride. I felt chills racing to edge of my skin. Green symbolized Division 6 at Culver Woodcraft Camp. Green and the number six were very important to each camper and counselor in that division. For me, green is the memory of watching those boys and their leader.

I spoke to many of the counselors that Sunday evening and they all shared with me how motivating the young man was when he worked with them. I had the amazing opportunity to speak to several of the parents of the kids that he worked with and learned that each set of parents had an incredible amount of respect for the young leader. They referred to him as wonderful, amazing, a natural leader, and born to work with kids. A few of the parents explained how the young man had changed their child's life.  The kids, the kids were the true gold medal. Each of the kids spoke about the young man with such kind words and understanding of his passion for them. He had earned their respect, their love and most of all their trust.

I stood and watched the young man as tears were slipping from eyes. Before me I saw  a leader, a grown man, a genuine human who was capable of making a positive difference in peoples lives. I saw a man standing before those boys as they stood at attention, who had such passion, compassion and the ability to truly reach adults and children alike. In that moment, with adoration in their eyes, the boys in green shirts stood before a man that I was seeing as an adult for the first time. Those boys in green were standing and listening to my baby brother. 
 

San Francisco Giant's Win the World Series, but there's more to it

The Giant's Win. The Giant's Win! San Francisco WINS!

Two hours ago the fireworks sounded and screams could be heard throughout many people's neighborhoods. My front door was positioned open as the ruckus began. The sounds flooded into my living room as the Californians rejoiced in the win of the Giants. After game four of the World Series, the Giants took what they call a sweep and the best of seven games drew to a close. The Giants won game one, then two, then three, then four and the sounds erupted for all to hear the happy cries and the beer bottles crashing together in celebration. 

Personally, I am not much of a baseball fan, but the game was on in my living room. I sat quietly working at my computer as the Fox Network took pride in airing the Giants battle the Tigers tonight. I looked up at the screen at the end of 10th inning, Giants 4 and Tigers 3, when I heard the announcer state the Giants were one strike away from winning the World Series. I watched the final pitch to Buster Posey. I saw the ball release from Sergio Romo's hand and land perfectly in Posey's glove. The Pitch was so perfect that Miguel Cabrera couldn't even see the ball well enough to take a swing. Buster jumped to his feet threw his arms into the air with fervor, chucked off his mask leaving it to fall behind him as he took off running toward Romo in the epitome of utter victory. Playbacks were shown of other teammates in the exact moment in which they realized that they were the 2012 World Series winners. Each player was shown exhibiting their own pure external release in the single most successful moment in their life. The Giants win!

I was moved by the excitement of the players. I could genuinely feel their victory through the expressions on their faces, the movement, the shouting, the jumping up and down and the sheer glory displayed as a team. I am always a sap for these types of things. I am happy for them. I truly am. However, I am always overly aware that there will be one demonstration of this victory in each game as there is always one winner and one loser. I also tend to feel a level of sadness for the losing team.

As the Giants fans celebrate, scream, cry, drink, dance, and apparently set fires in San Francisco, I sit thinking about this enormous level of success that the players are feeling. I found myself sitting on my front porch trying to decipher if many of the kids that I have encountered over the years have ever felt a great win or victory, personally or within a team. I know a few have, but more have not. I am not talking about winning the World Series per se, but rather a level of accomplishment that awards a person in the moment with such a magnitude that it is not comparable to any other in their life. This moment in time is not only reserved for professional athletes or winners of elections. This moment that I describe can be one of achieving any major success in life. 

So many of the children that I have worked with or known have experienced such a level of personal distress and tormented lives that they have not had access or been afforded the luxuries of high level success. Most of the kids have spent their waking and sleeping hours worrying about  basic needs, survival and safety. Surviving has been their major life success. This whole experience tonight has made me ponder how to incorporate the success of luxury achievements into their lives.

As the last two hours have unraveled, I feel like my thoughts have come full circle. In that moment that the final pitch was delivered to Buster Posey's glove and he jumped up with arms in the air in victory, we all were part of the success, achievement and win. Every adults and child watching tonight experienced that success just as I did when I saw the outfielder's face light up, his body fly into the air and his feet running as soon as he landed in order to meet his teammates in the infield to celebrate. In that one second the Giants allowed everyone to see success, achievement and victory. This would have been the same had the Tigers won. We were all exposed to something great, something outside of ourselves, something real and something that should give us the strength to help others find success in their lives. I don't think I had ever really understood professional sports and the obsession of the fans, but tonight I felt what many people might feel at every win of their team. People have found a way to feel success through the victory of their favorite teams and in that second that I realized that, I found a reason to become a fan of the national pastime. The final game of the 2012 World Series has truly made me a baseball fan.