Let Go and Let God

It was more than two weeks ago when I started to meditate on violence and aggression. It was, I believe, the story of a teacher's body found in the woods and the arrest of a teenage student for the crime that brought this topic to the forefront. It could also have been my body's reaction to the news of The Kenya Mall Terrorist Attack.

I had this nagging, creeping sense that the level of violence in the world, in my world, had ramped up. Indeed, the newspapers have reported an 11% increase in the rate of violent crimes across our nation. Analysts agree that what was a downward trend, is now surely an incline.

And then, last week Monday, a good friend's body was found in a cornfield with a gunshot hole in his head (this is the newspaper's tasteful description of the homicide. I've been imagining that a shot taken at close range to the head might leave more than a hole). He was a good, good man - executive director of a charity, head of a foundation, father and husband.

There is an atmosphere of violence at my own workplace: intolerance, cursing, and threats.

As a mom, highly-sensitive, empathic type, it's very, very difficult for me to tune out these highly charged situations. I'm finding that I'm making silly mistakes in my work and I even have trouble with word-finding in conversations ("bilingual brain in a pressure cooker").

One of the insults being thrown around is the word "moron." I hate this word, and the others that fall into the category of disrespect toward individuals with disabilities like "retard" and "idiot." I don't use them, and I hate it when others use them in my presence.

On top of all of this, we were waiting for the birth of a family member, a little girl who, the doctors said, would most definitely be born with Down's Syndrome. Mom went to the hospital twice over the weekend, only to be sent home again to re-arrange care and meals for the other 4 children at home.

Baby arrived Monday night - beautiful, perfect, and healthy.

Isn't that evidence enough for me to "Let Go and Let God?"

How The Saga Ends

I didn't really understand football until I became a Football Mom. Not just the game itself, which many women claim to "not understand" but rather the harsh reality that is the career of a student athlete.

Since I didn't grow up in a household with a football player, I'd never seen boys burned and dehydrated by 5-hour mid-day practices in 95 degree heat under the sun. Who are subjected to the same treatment for two weeks running. Injuries, food and sleep deprivation, playing in the extreme cold of Western NY in November and December...

This story began with a boy in fourth grade who wanted to play football. I remember the sign-ups at a local restaurant in February, birth certificate in hand, and the first information session at the park in June (hotdogs and sodas provided by The American Legion).

He was required to lose almost twenty pounds, because in those days boys within the same age range had to weigh in under a certain limit. He wasn't overweight, but he was taller and more muscular than any boy his age (as a baby he was always in the 97th percentile or above). His dad put him on a dry wheat toast and egg white breakfast, light Hot Pocket lunch, salad or cereal for dinner regimen for two months.

He was sometimes so hungry he cried. I ached when I heard him suffering from growing pains at night. I hated the way his coaches spoke to him, with threats and shouts. I hated the way that spectators talked about the players. I tolerated the laundry.

The boys he played with over the last ten years were good kids. Many came from broken homes and "underprivileged" circumstances. One player now lives with his grandmother who is very, very sick.

They don't drink, that I know of, and many of them maintain grades in the 90s or better. I've watched our own boy, for years, working on homework into the wee hours of the morning. He would sleep for a little while, and then wake up in time to attend "early gym" at 7 a.m. (this week he has been waking up earlier to take care of animals for a neighbor).

Over the years there were memorable games and not so memorable games. This year they added in many more hours of time lifting weights and other "state of the art" training techniques. It seemed to pay off. Their record was good enough, by Friday (the last home game), to be in the running for the playoffs.

Two years ago the team lost a teammate to leukemia (the same year our son was injured at the summer's first lineman camp. He walked to his best friend's funeral on crutches). Nicholas was a good athlete and an amazing, funny, friendly, intelligent person. At Friday night's game the boys taped up with orange duct tape in Nick's memory. It would have been his senior year and his last home game too.

For senior night cheerleaders and football players walk the field with their parents through a line of underclassmen. There are handshakes and flowers. One mother, M.I.A. for months, made an appearance for the event.

Our team seemed a bit "emotional," gloomy even. They played hard, and they were largely evenly matched with the rival team.

We could have lost the game with a five point spread and still made the playoffs. The coaches planned, in that case, to move our younger son up from JV for the playoff games (we've never seen them play together on the same team even though they are only two years apart in age).

It was a close game but we lost 31 to 38. One could blame bad calls by the refs in the other team's favor but that road goes nowhere. Our boys lost the game, and their playoff hopes.

The last three minutes of time on the scoreboard clock seemed, to me, a bit surreal. It wasn't about the score or even about the game. It was my son's last three minutes of football on his home turf. Ever.

HIgh School Rivalry

It's one of the longest running rivalries in the country, a series started in 1920 between the Purple Eagles and the Mustangs.

We live in the home of the Purple Eagles (during home games, when a touchdown is scored, the announcer calls out " and the eagle has landed!" Corny and endearing at the same time).

Last weekend our team eeked out a narrow win over a school located in a a well-to-do suburb of a nearby big city (one of the more "entitled" players made a death threat against my son. Can you believe that?! Let me talk to his mama). Instead of celebrating their win during the bus ride home, the boys begain to plot their strategy against the Mustangs, this weekend's game.

When I was little, I would arrive at the family cottages, break open the car door, and run across the driveways chanting "Purple is #1!" A great uncle, a retiree who didn't even live in either school district, would yell back "Go Mustangs!" It was summer, not fall. I was 9 or 10.

I didn't even understand football then (I'm not sure I understand it now) but I loved the friendly competition and the good-humored jabs. I miss those days.

I understand now that my boys suffer aches and pains at the expense of football. They sacrifice to do their homework late into the night after practicing and lifting into the late afternoon. We go four months without family dinners while we run, and run, and run to and from school.

The skin on one boy's knee is so beat up it oozes. Their arms and shins are covered with bruises. They are very, very tired.

They represent their school, our town, and a tradition held for almost 100 years.

It's the oldest boy's last home game. They will recognize seniors and their parents.

I think it would be great fun if the whole town really did come to watch and support the team. That's what Wikipedia says happens. Wikipedia. Wrong again.

American Noise

"American Noise" by Skillett



Lyrics

Angry words and honking cars
Satellites and falling stars
Distant dark blue radios that whisper down my boulevards
Ghosts and chains rattle in the attic
Broken headphones filled with static
Lonely room you’ve got nowhere to run


3, 2, 1 for all and all for 1


Times will be bad, times will be good
Things I wish I hadn’t done and some I wish I would
Cutting through the American noise
You’ve got a voice and a song to sing (and a song to sing)


Drink deep in the morning
Drink deep in the morning
See what the day will bring


La da da da
Lift up your voice
Let love cut through the American noise
La da da da
Lift up your voice
Let love cut through the American noise


Lady Gaga has a hit song called "Blah Blah Blah" (???!) The day's news programs are filled with endless bickering between Republicans and Democrats about who is to blame for the U.S. government shutdown. 500 channels and nothing worthwhile on the the radio.

Evey time I move my computer mouse a new ad pops up. Images fill the top and bottom of any website I visit, flashing animated lead lines at me like "miracle belly fat loss" or "find Latina girls here."

How can I help my children and my students cut through this American Noise? So many worthless distractions...

The boys' orchestra conductor, just this weekeend, mentioned this. People these days, he feared, tend to surf and dabble. They never seem to study (or listen or think) deeply. Even their relationships are distant and superficial. People become, like information, something to tune into for a short time and then file on a shelf for later or throw away all together.

Help me Lord, to have the wisdom to tune out the noise, and to tune into my family and friends. Help me to know the difference between what is worthwhile and what is merely a distraction that drains my time and energy.

School of Rock Spirit

It was homecoming last night in our little town. It's a BIIIIIIG deal. Everyone comes. The mayor, the entire police department, alumni, students, parents, grandparents, cousins, cousins of cousins (I was especially grateful that our church family came and surrounded us...with cookies:).

One of our boys, who sings the Star Spangled Banner for sporting events(or is it The National Anthem? Or are they one in the same and I'm too dizzy to know that right now?)sang the school's alma mater before the big game.

It was a tough crowd to sing to. The people in the stands were ready for some football. He himself was ready to finish singing and head over to the pit band, where he would loudly bang a drum for the duration of four quarters (he recently joined drum line, leaving his saxaphone in the cupboard for orchestra).

The football players wrapped their ankles and the tops of their shoes in pink duct tape to promote breast cancer awareness. It was a very cool thing to do.

The Eagles fought hard, beating the visiting team by a spread of over 30 points.

At the end of the game Mr. WestBerryWorkingDad and I took a photo of our four footall players out on the field in front of the goal post. It was a proud moment.

There were many, many memorable, wonderful moments this week. N (age 15) made All State Chorus. For celebrity day he dressed like his Forensics teacher, who, in turn, dressed like him. I never thought I would see the day when this child looked up to a science teacher.

Personally, the proudest moment of the week was when J (a senior) dressed like Jack Black for school. It brought me to tears.

I would have been good with Jack White too (see this article about Third Man Record's attempts to preserve music history).