The Road from Higher Education

My daughter attends a highly ranked high school for gifted students. (I believe all children are gifted at something, but that’s a topic for another post.) She and I are talking about one of the teachers at the school who was a student there years ago and that his two siblings were, too.  Girl #2 (her blog post ID) mentions that the teacher’s brother substituted there once or twice.

“Hmmm…” I utter.

I say to my daughter, “I wonder if he’s unemployed.”

Okay, I’ll admit it. I have this image of very smart people men working as business owners, lawyers, engineers, doctors, university professors, writers, politicians, etc.; or even as actors, comedians, producers, artists, and journalists. If they’re not doing something akin to one of those professions, then something must have gone wrong along the way.

Women…we get an out. Why? Because we have babies.

After this brief, non-feminist—perhaps—thought process, I continue my conversation with Girl #2.

“The reason I wonder about his occupation is because all the kids in his family must be smart and he’s substituting.”

I begin to think about other very smart people and add, “Mrs. Smith was number one in her class at WestPoint, got a law degree, practiced, and now she’s a stay-at-home mom; been one for years. People thought she had wasted her education; some probably still think so.”

Girl #2 says, “So if you plan to become a mom, then do you say, ‘I’m not going to get an education.’ What if it doesn’t work out; that you don’t become a mom?”

“Good point,” I respond.

(Girl #2 was—maybe—thinking of women who want to be stay-at-home moms.)

­_ _ _ _ _

I often hear kids ask things like, “Why do I need to know that X² is the same as X times X? Who cares! When am I going to use that in my life?”

It’s a valid question that has a good explanation that I won’t try to give. However, how many of us majored in one thing and worked in the respective field a short time and then began to do something entirely different. Same thing with trade schools; learn it and then decide, “That’s not me.” A lot of businesses have quickly gone by the wayside, too.

So, have we “wasted” time and/or money when we change our minds about what we want to do? Do we take a seat in a classroom from someone else who will perform the skill indefinitely?

I’ve heard people ask questions and express opinions to others in a tone that suggest disapproval, like:

- All that education and you are still so fickle!

- When are you going back to practicing law?

- You have a nursing degree. Why aren’t you working as a nurse? There’s always a need for nurses.

- What are you going to do now that you have your doctorate degree?

- Are you going to be a career student?

And to young stay-at-home moms—the list is endless, but here’s a few.

- I thought you wanted to do more than to just have babies.

- You went to college but you have no intention of becoming a teacher?

- When are you going back to work?

- Why did you go to college?
_ _ _ _ _

This is another time of the year when I question the energy parents spend in trying to direct the future of their children. The last of the high school graduations just happened. The college graduations were last month. Another round of kids are catapulted onto the roads of their various destinations—places where Mom and Dad will give the thumbs up to and feel that all their child guiding energy was worth it; or, to places where Mom and Dad will wonder, “What happened?”

With a curious eye, I have studied the lives and occupations of many people, trying to match their college choices and education (or lack of) with their occupations and successes (or lack of). I have concluded that the gifted are not always doctors or do gifted-people-worthy jobs, and the so-called average people are not always blue collar or servers. And being a stay-at-home mom (or stay-at-home dad) is not determined by how much education you have.

My oldest daughter, Girl #1, will be a senior in the fall. My friends have already warned me about the overwhelming college preparation process and because they know what they are talking about, my husband and I are going down a few avenues to get help and advice. It’s not easy when it’s your own kid.

This post is a sort of part II to my post titled, “What DoYou Want to Be When You Grow Up?” written three years ago, where I divided parents into three categories: the “Go-Getters,” the “I Just Want My Kids to Be Happy”, and the “Sports families”.  No Serena Williamses in my bunch, so I find myself split between the first two types of parents. Three years ago, I was amazed at the competitive nature of getting educated.  Nowadays, I’m used to it.

Currently, Girl #1 has not chosen schools she’d like to apply to. It’s possible that the colleges most of the neighborhood kids attend are not high on her list. I am happy to report that I am not stressed, believing that it will come together.

I have a friend who is employed at a large corporation as a manager. She has a master’s degree and a lot of letters after her name. A graduate of a local university, she told me that she works in the office (or was it a cubicle?) next to the guy who received his degree from the Wharton School of the University of Pennsylvania.  Their different roads from higher education led them to the same place.

Hmmm…

Are our recent grads benefiting more if they earned a degree from a top ranked university versus one ranked much lower?

Are you one of those rare people who is doing something that relates to your college degree or field of training?

Skeletons in the Closet

I have a skeleton or two in my closet; who doesn’t? Of course, it’s all relative. Things I’ve done or said that I’ve locked in the closet are things that other people consider mild and part of their daily lives. Those same things may cause other people to criticize. Who’s the judge?

Recently, I was reading a blog and left a comment admitting that I told my daughter, who was three at the time, to “shut up.” A year or so prior to me saying that direct, harsh little phrase, I’d heard a relative say it to her child. I looked at the relative—puzzled. She read my mind and responded with a smirk that suggested, “You just wait until your children ‘pluck your nerves.’”

Ohhh, but I’d always said, “Be quiet please,” to my daughters until that day when I was backing out of the garage, late, trying not to rip off my side view mirrors, my two kids strapped in car seats, pregnant with another one, and Girl #1 began to whine, threatening to set off Girl #2.

I couldn’t blame PMS… hmmm…

Anyway, the disgusting, chewed up little pacifier that she was addicted to, stopped bobbing and hung from her mouth like a cigarette as she stared at me in disbelief—the mother who taught her not to say “shut up.”

I took a moment to apologize and to explain how adults don’t always act mature and calm and that I’ll try not to say it again.

That episode—a very small skeleton, was put into the closet in order to maintain the perfect mother façade like some of my compadres had… and they still do. It amazes me how I still hear a gasp here and there when women are gossiping  talking about someONE who’s done someTHING considered bad, as if they’ve always had halos glowing around their heads.

Okay, so I’ve probably been guilty of that, too… once… maybe?

Why do we do that? (Guys, too.) Remember the bible scripture (paraphrased), “He who is without sin, cast the first stone.”

I don’t see any need for people to air their dirty laundry unless they want to; or unless they’re a politician or pastor or something. And even then, it depends on what the dirty laundry is. Shouldn’t we be allowed to live in the present and to anticipate the future without the mistakes of the past haunting us. Do we need to recall over and over what we should or should not have done? Does that help us avoid making the mistake again? Maybe it “wasn’t” a mistake, but something that others would disapprove of.

As privacy is important to me, the minor “shut up” skeleton is about as much as I will post on a blog, if it’s indeed, a skeleton at all. As I’ve grown older, I feel that skeletal incidents require major offenses, and only those warrant a strong opinion. I’m not planning any of those incidents as my trajectory is faring well.

Thoughts?

Image found here.

Calm

 

Very tall and very thin, stud earrings line her multiple pierced ears. She dresses in long, colorful peasant skirts, fitted T-shirt tops, and sandals—a hippie look—complete with long, dark, wavy hair that contrasts with the lightest blue eyes.

Leanna keeps knitting needles and yarn in her sack, along with diapers, snacks, and trinkets for her young children. Sitting in the foyer of the piano studio waiting for our children’s class to begin, I ask her what she’s making.

“It’s a sweater for the baby.”

“Oh, pretty,” I respond, “I learned to knit when I was about eight and made a couple of easy scarves.”

Leanna says, “I’m teaching my girls to knit. I think it’s important for a woman to know how to keep her hands busy. When my husband is watching TV, I can sit with him and knit.”

I think that’s sweet, however, I change to feeling that I would take that time to do something that I want to do if I’m not interested in the game or whatever show my husband is watching.

Over the years, I’ve grown into a person who always has to be doing something. It has to be necessary, like cleaning or bill/home management; physically fun, like walking with friends or horseback riding; or mentally stimulating, like reading, writing, or doing puzzles. I watch TV, but it’s the news or talk shows, and even then, I’m working in the kitchen or having a meal. Once a week, though, I might sit and watch a show with my husband or the kids or have a phone conversation with a good friend or my mother; still I’m on the cordless phone—multitasking.

In a nutshell, the art of “calm” often escapes me.

The conversation with Leanna was about five years ago. I enjoyed seeing her and her six children and was intrigued by their lives. A homeschooling family, they lived on land where they raised chickens and owned a horse or two. She loved the recipes in Southern Living magazine and baked bread. She seemed peaceful, an amazing feat with six children (all born at home) competing for attention, though they mostly got it from each other. I remember someone incredulously asking her, “When do you have time for yourself?”

Calmly, she replied, “The kids are not allowed in my bedroom before 9 am and after a certain time at night. It’s the time my husband and I have our private time.”

I’m thinking of Leanna today as I sit in bed sewing my daughter’s swimsuit. Sparing the details, it is about a fifteen minute job. No one is home except Layla the dog who lies at my feet. It is quiet and I hear her breathing as I watch her chest rise and fall in dog unevenness. The house cracks. A plane flies over. Birds are chirping outside my window. A car turns around in my cul-de-sac. The air conditioner kicks on as the temperature rises, disturbing the white noise of my surroundings.

My mind is not racing or trying to concentrate on something. Simply, my hands are busy. I am calm.

Leanna knits. My husband and friends garden. A male neighbors tinkers in his garage. I get it.

What do you do to “busy your hands” to make you calm?

Image photographed by Anita

 

Another Part of the Flag

I’m hungry.

I am too.

Where are you going? You just passed the mall!

I KNOW I just passed the mall!!

Well, where are you going!!!

Be quiet. I KNOW what I’m doing!!!!

UMPH! I mutter as I uselessly tap my breaks.

Looking in my rear view mirror, I see him pull out. He drives behind me as I try to convince myself that he’s not following me; knowing that he is. As I approach a turn lane, bright blue lights begin to flash on his vehicle along with that dreaded sound, “WEEEOOO WEEEOOO.”

I remain in the turn lane with my gear now in “park.” I turn on the hazard lights—why, I don’t know. He’s right behind me so no one will be blowing their horn at me to tell me to move.

Now at my window, in a slight tough guy voice, he says, “Ma’am, do you know how fast you were going?”

No. I was too busy yelling at my kid and I’m hungry.

His voice becomes normal as he says, “License and registration, please.”

“I hope I have it,” as I fumble around in the glove compartment. I pass it to him and say, “Thank you.” What am I thanking him for? Duh.

He goes to his car.

He’s back.

Have you had a speeding ticket within five years, Ma’am?

“Noooo, I’ve never had a speeding ticket”, I say in my “turn on the feminism” voice, hoping, uselessly again, that somehow he can tear up the ticket that is already written, knowing that he can’t.

As he explains the ticket and strongly advises me to go to court and to take the online driving school course so that I won’t incur points, I am still seething. But then I look up at his face again, for more than a split second. He is boyishly handsome; young enough to be my son. And because he has seen my license, he knows that I am old enough to be his mother.

It is the day before Mother’s Day. In a kind and sympathetic voice, he says, “Don’t let this ruin your weekend, Ma’am. Drive safely."

I’m not going to say which of my three daughters (affectionately named Girl #1, Girl #2, and Girl #3) caused me to get the speeding ticket, for the witnessing of her mother being pulled over like a common criminal (in her mind) is punishment enough. She is very upset and naively offers to pay the fine.

Actually, it is not her fault and I tell her.

It was my fault, honey; I was speeding and got caught. (Actually, I wasn’t until there was a simultaneous surge of pressure on the gas pedal with the surge of my blood pressure during our little exchange over our meal search.)  I should’ve eaten before we left home so that I wouldn’t have gotten irritable.

We go to the mall, eat, and have a peaceful shopping time.

This little life episode was a couple weeks ago. Today is Memorial Day. As I was hanging our American Flag this morning, I thought of our military—my father and stepfather being veterans. I also thought of a cousin who lost his life in Vietnam. A vision of The Uniform entered my mind along with its representation of protection and service. And then I thought of the young police officer  who risks his life daily. I imagine he’s alive and well, so hopefully, he gets a chance to eat something from the grill today, and gets occasional recognition and thanks for what he does.

Memorial Day thoughts? Traffic violation thoughts? Other thoughts?

Private School

 

“I ‘know’ families have their reasons for sending their kids to private schools, but our neighborhood schools are ‘good’ schools. What do you think Linda?”

That was my question to a friend who has children close to the age of my oldest daughter; children who attend(ed) the same public schools as mine.
_ _ _ _ _

My husband had the job of finding a “good” neighborhood in a “good” school district when we were ready to buy our first house together. He grew up in the area, making the assignment his. Narrowed down to two areas, we chose the one that has the “way out in the country” reputation as opposed to the one that has the “affluent” reputation, yet having fairly equal test scores—those numbers that are thought to determine your child’s entire existence.

Three children later, Girl #1 was ready for kindergarten. After a brief period of nervousness—wondering if the private school at our church would be better for our little angel who would be taught by people we knew instead of people we didn’t know at the big, bad public school—Girl  #1 made her debut at the high scoring, reputable, neighborhood elementary school.

By the way, the beautiful yellow bus picked up and dropped off practically at my front door. If I were driving to the private school, that I don’t recall having a carpool line back then, somehow I would have had to get Girl #1 into the building, while holding the hand of 3 year old Girl #2 and carrying 1 year old Girl #3, let alone just getting them out of the house. That vision helped me to erase the “big, bad, public school image” and get back to the “good” school image.

Anyway, all three girls were eventually at the elementary school doing well. Linda and I would share thoughts and conclude that our children were on a good path, so when we’d hear of a neighbor transferring to a private school, we’d wonder why.

The homeschoolers—we understood. They want control over what their children learn and how they learn it. The city dwellers—we understood. Most of their schools don’t have those high test scores and are not considered good schools. It’s the suburbanites like us, who purposely moved to the neighborhood for the schools, who we didn’t understand. Why did they send their children to private schools?

Well guess what? I have a kid in a private school. How did “that” happen?

In a nutshell, Girl #3, an A-B student, lacked a spark at our elementary school. She worked hard, was adored by her teachers, had friends, liked school, etc.; however, the lively, witty, creative personality at home was not the one that went to school. She was complacently going through the motions.

As the third child, it occurred to me that I might not be giving her as much of my energy as I was giving the other two who were beginning to cover new and more exciting ground. Everything with her was a “been there, done that,” experience, sooo… Darling Husband and I decided to fork up the bucks and give her an adventure for 4 years in an all-girls middle school.

Just as I once did, people ask why she is going to a private school. They often assume that she has a learning problem or lacks self-confidence; neither of which is the case. The 80 girls at the school are there for different reasons. Some do need a confidence boost, as we all do on occasion, but the majority is there because the school teaches more creatively and is big on diversity in people and in learning. A lot of the girls are the city dwellers that I mentioned; a few are scholarship recipients and the rest are suburbanites like us who drive and carpool into the city.

Girl #3 is happy to be there.

_ _ _ _ _

Now that my children are in middle and high school, I find myself paying more attention to what goes on at public school board meetings and other meetings concerning school budgets and the direction each school is on. Good friends of mine stay up-to-date and are adept at interpreting the jargon and reading in between the lines. They are always willing to discuss and share.

The private schools have their versions of this ongoing melee, too. The necessary dollars for teachers, computers, field trips, and every resource imaginable eludes most of these schools, too.

As my eyes continue to widen (the more conversations I have with parents), I understand more about the “choice of school” decisions they make. A few days ago, a parent who sacrificed to send her children to one of the best private schools in the area, told me that she will be sending her son off to the University of Notre Dame. That’s what they wanted, so I suppose it was all worth it.

It’s all about the numbers (dollars and test scores)—or is it?

If you are a parent, what are (were) your school preferences? Is (Was) it different for different kids in the family? What was your school experience growing up and its impact?

Image found here.

The Southern Accent

Florida resident Renee Durette solved the Wheel of Fortune puzzle, “Seven swans a-swimming,” but was ruled incorrect by the judges. Dumbstruck, along with the other two contestants, she watched her money disappear from the screen as the woman next to her won the puzzle by repeating the same answer… or was it? The host of the show, Pat Sajak, explained to everyone that, “…she kinda did it in the vernacular and left off the “G”.

Swimmin’—Who knew that the non-southern G would cost her $3,850 and possibly thousands more?

Swimmin’—I hear it a lot in Virginia—along with eatin’, cookin’, sleepin’, writin’ and so on. I wonder if I dropped those Gs somewhere in my past, or even now. Probably.

During my youth, I never thought much about how I sounded. My parents corrected bad grammar when they caught it, but as for my accent, no comments. Not until college did someone notice my pronunciation of “really” that made me listen to myself. I said to my friend something like, “It’s really cold.” Instead, he heard, “It’s rilly cold.”

He laughed.

That was the beginning of my occasional work to “lose the southern accent.”

It took years to leave behind some of the words and expressions that were passed down to me from my parents and grandparents; from the whole community of native Virginians—though each part of the state have their own form of Southernisms and degree of drawls.

Apparently, I wasn’t trying hard enough when I smiled as I was leaving a group of office workers in Manhattan and said, “Y’all have a nice day.”

They laughed.

That was my last bonafide “Y’all.” I was 25 years old.

What is it about the southern accent that is so fascinating? Or, disliked? There have been many times that I’ve seen a host of a TV talk or game show laugh at, mimic, or patronize the southern guest while she (usually it’s a woman) smiled and probably thought, “If I had a dollar for every time someone mentions my southern accent…”

On the other hand, most people who have a strong New York or Boston accent evoke a different reaction and they (who have the accent) seem to be proud of it.

As a child, people in my community believed that anyone who had an accent more southern than theirs was “country.” If it was more northern than theirs, they’d say, “They talk proper.”  Somehow, there was no thought given to the speaker being articulate or if the speaker mangled the English language; it was all about the accent.

I’d like to think that most people know the difference; that an accent does not determine how well you speak.

As for my current accent—Well, it’s a hodgepodge of dialects acquired from my native Virginia roots, along with remnants of living in Maryland where I worked with a hundred relocated New Yorkers who sped up my speech, and from living in Michigan.

Nowadays, I don’t feel that I have to lose whatever southern accent I have, because when you think about it—what’s wrong with it?

By the way, I like listening to all people and have fun guessing where they are from.

What do you think about the various accents in the United States, or in your country?

To Give or Not to Give

My kitchen sink full, I turn on the small countertop TV to occupy my mind while doing the mindless chore of washing dishes. Five seconds later, TV talk show host/comedian Steve Harvey says, “Broke people are broke for a reason.”

Six Years Ago:

Walking through a department store at the mall, I see a big grin on a face behind the jewelry counter that looks familiar. “Where have I seen her?” I wonder. As I walk closer, she says, “I’m Carolyn. You’ve seen me at church!” Hence, the beginning of our relationship, which is me saying hello to her and making small talk at the mall for 5 minutes each time I’m there walking through her store (about every  other month) and for 10 seconds at church as I’m racing home to have a meal.

Four Years Ago:

Carolyn calls me at home. “This is different,” I think. “I wonder what’s up.

Basically, she’s broke and needs money to pay her car note. The car has been repossessed and she needs it to get to work; to a job that she is trying to leave when she finds a better job. Carolyn is humble and forthright in telling me the woes of her situation; i.e. low paying job, daughter in school, etc. Then she tells me how much the payment is; says that others have given her most of it and that the small amount left is what she would be grateful for if my husband and I can give it to her.

So we do; we even round it up.

Carolyn is very happy and wants to do something for us. “Can I call you when there’s a sale going on at the store? Can I pray for you?”

Three Years Ago:

Carolyn calls me at home again.  I don’t have to wonder what’s up. I just listen to the story and wait for how much. She has gotten married to someone who is as broke as she is and who goes to stay with a relative (without her) when they get evicted. There is no way that we will fund her with the money that it will take to get “back on her feet,” but we give her a small amount that she can use for gas or groceries. We feel sorry for her because we see that she is trying. Now she works two jobs.

Two Years Ago:

Carolyn is living in a hotel (or motel) that is set up for people who need temporary housing because of financial difficulties. She calls me to say that she is alright; that she is comfortable, but still needs help. This time, she asks me to fill out forms that verify the monetary gifts we’ve given her—I assume, to prove to the state that she has not been able to thrive on her salary. I suppose she is applying for food stamps or some other financial assistance.

I get the form in the mail within a couple days, fill in the minimal information and mail it back.

A Year and a Half Ago:

Yes, I get another call. The car has been repossessed again.  I tell her that we can’t help; that we are helping my father-in-law who is sick and bedridden, that we’ve given to others, and that we have to limit the amount of money we give.

Carolyn says she understands.

Today:

It’s been over a year since I’ve seen or spoken to Carolyn. I hope she’s gotten her life together.

Thoughts:

I’ve never had to ask for money and have never borrowed money from anyone; excluding car and house loans from banks throughout the years. So what does that make me? Lucky?  Frugal? Wise? Blessed? Maybe it’s just that I’ve lived within my means.

What happened with Carolyn? What is her reason for being “broke?”

Some may think that we shouldn’t have given her anything; others may think differently. I’m comfortable with the decisions we made; however, there will be another Carolyn, eventually, and we will have to decide if we should help or not.

If my husband and I lost our income or suffered a health crisis, could we be in a position to need or want financial help from people we know? Bad things do happen to good people. I’m trying to relate, but somehow, it's hard. And maybe that’s a good thing.

Do you give or loan money to friends and relatives? Have friends and family given or lent money to you?