"Lefty Loosey"

      

            I suffer from a lifelong disability—left handedness. Now, some people write or eat with their left hand, but do other things with their right hands. Not me! I drag the right side of my body along with me as a useless attachment that often gets in the way. My left side dominance dictates every aspect of my body. Not only do I write and eat with my left hand, I also chew on the left side of my mouth, listen on the phone with my left ear, and kick with my left foot.

         My first grade teacher, aka The Battleax, made eradicating my handedness her crusade for the few months I remained in her class. I remember her swooping down the aisle as I diligently practiced my letters with my giant pencil and Big Chief pad. She’d harrumph her disapproval, snatch the pencil from my fingers, and force it into my right hand. My smooth, neat letters turned into illegible, rickety scrawls. When the principal suggested my mother pull me out of school, she took over as the handwriting expert. A lefty herself, she’d weathered the same discrimination as a child. Her handwriting, a beautiful, disciplined script that flowered across the page, became my guideline. My mother taught me to write using a blackboard. With the angle changed, I dropped the lefty hook that many left handed people use. As a teacher, watching me write on the board often disturbed my students. They commented every single time I wrote on the board. As a result, I arrived every morning to place the bulk of information on the board ahead of time. I was one of the first teachers to jump at the opportunity to use a computer and projector in the classroom.

         My left side dominance often causes challenges. I do not always approach the physical world in the same way. Many little things in our lives put the lefty at a disadvantage. Cabinet doors open to the wrong side. As I sit at my desk, the drawers run down the right side to make opening and rummaging easy for the right handed person. For me to access the drawers, I have to turn sideways. My mouse, too, rests on the right. I’ve learned to maneuver it by practicing with games like Bejeweled. I practice every day. For some reason, placing keys in locks often creates a challenge. The angle of approach, geared for the right handed person, means I’m battling the door frame as I insert the key. And don’t forget the ignition in cars or the gear shifts!

         Discrimination against lefties is centuries old. I could rattle off many different taboos associated with right versus left. Also, left handed people live shorter lives because they have more accidents. Check your statistics if you don’t believe me. It’s not because we’re klutzes, but because our entire day we must compensate. I figure all of the disadvantages accumulate over our lifetimes, resulting in the false reputation of being clumsy when we’re not.

         So as you cut your Christmas wrapping paper in straight lines with grace and ease I hope you remember your lefty friend’s struggle with right handed scissors. When you examine the not-so-perfect wrapping on the gift you receive, keep in mind the challenges of snipping and folding for the left handed.

                  

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"If You Can't Say Somethin' Nice"

          Remember Thumper’s Rule? My parents singsong of “If you can’t say somethin’ nice, say nothin’ at all” resounded through our household enough that the line from Bambi entrenched itself into my personal philosophy. I admit, this life paradigm proved difficult for me to follow. My too quick and sharp tongue often engages in slicing and dicing a victim before my better, gentler brain kicks into gear. If I make it through the day without saying something caustic or sarcastic, it’s a major victory for me.

            Whenever I start a new journal, I move first to the last page. I write down personal goals that I can easily flip to daily if necessary. My current journal’s final page carries this reminder:  Be generous. Be gracious. Be gentle. 

            During the last few years, I’ve begun to wish everyone adopted this mantra, or one similar to it. Wouldn’t it be grand if our culture sought generosity in how we treated our children, elderly, and impoverished? Imagine if all of us embraced kindness and courtesy as easily as we slip into derision and division; and gentleness grew naturally from each family and sprouted from neighborhood to city to country to world.

           Ugliness taints our daily news. A foul stench wafts through our society that makes me ashamed because I don’t know how to change things. If I contribute to the maliciousness, I mire myself in the hate.

          If I follow Thumper’s Rule, and say nothing at all, my silence implies agreement.

          I must balance my words and write my thoughts in ways that dispute what’s evil while not using vileness to defend humanity. The battle plays out daily in my mind. Be generous. Be gracious. Be gentle.

          Perhaps I need to add one more—Be resolute.

Copyright 2019 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman  

          

“His Way”

pseudo intellectualism     

demanding attention with parasitic tenacity   

irrational and illogical   

he vomits     

anger   

spewing intolerance and injustice under the guise of patriotism   

he infects and incites   

taking pleasure in belittling   

priding himself on accomplishments borne by breaking others   

he kills   

hope   

in the hearts of those he can’t love   

demeaning those who need because he cannot give   

 Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“America, Love It or Leave It!”

            Out of curiosity, I ventured onto a site the other night that listed real estate in Ireland. I wondered what the dollar (or in this case, Euro) would buy in another country. Imagine my delight to stumble upon a wonderful cottage dating back to the 1880s. I fancied myself strolling through the acre of garden, adding in my mind a bird bath here, a pond there. The site included photographs of the interior of the two bedroom place. Exposed beams enhanced the ceilings while a combination of original wood and tiles decorated the floors. The modest kitchen had “newish” appliances while the miniscule bath proved functional. The total square footage? Just a little over seven hundred square feet. The price tag? About $300,000 American dollars. As I fantasized moving to this rain blessed country, I wondered what I’d do with all my stuff.

            When we traveled to Ireland last fall, it didn’t take me long to realize just how plentiful our lives are here in the states. We take for granted our warehouse sized grocery stores stocked with twenty different cereals. Choice. Our entire economy functions on supplying the consumer with a multitude of choices in every product imaginable. We make certain through our constant advertising to convince our citizens that the next, newest, biggest product becomes necessary for personal happiness and survival. Being in another country forced me to realize that we have too much. The gluttony within our country makes us into petulant children whining, “I want” or “Gimme.”

            Our country faces as many problems as it offers opportunities and choices. Frustration floods me when I hear the trite slogan, “America, love it or leave it.” I don’t love everything about my country. Right now, the political landscape makes me wonder what it would be like to escape into the Irish countryside. Then I get angry because those citizens spouting “Leave it!” have an agenda that will take away the strengths of this country. The choices and diversity found, not just on our store shelves, but within our fundamental beliefs become endangered as people like me are painted as being “un-American” when we make critical suggestions for improving our world. These same people who scream, “Love it!” try to impose a narrow interpretation of rights that reflect their personal values and beliefs while excluding others. In their minds, warping our society into their point of view falls into their rights of citizenship; and yet my right for a government not bound by religious views or corporate interests should be denied. No matter how much that little piece of Irish real estate entices me, I’ll remain firmly rooted here because I still believe in the possibilities of our country.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 

“Even in the Beginning”

even in the beginning

your smiles never reached your eyes

your innocuous words disguised your intent

as your fear festered into resentment 

even in the beginning

you ignored overtures of friendship

your instinctive defenses kicked into place

as your panic mired you into an abyss of hatred 

even in the beginning

your radar sounded alarms

your battle instincts honed your cruelty

as your protection of family obsessed you

even in the beginning

your projections became reality

your denials and lies believable

as you rewrote history to fit your views

even in the beginning

your rationalizations rang with sincerity

your bitterness overtaking your soul

as you attacked to annihilate a phantom 

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“What Would Atticus Do?”

            Whenever I hit a dilemma in life, whatever the problem may be, I’ve always found resolution by asking one simple question, “What would Atticus do?” Some may think it silly that I base decisions and actions upon how I think a fictional character would respond, but what better guide than that of Atticus Finch?

            The other day, a friend brought an article from the local newspaper to my attention. The article’s topic deals with the high school drop-out crisis within San Antonio. A colleague I’ve worked with for many years made a very disturbing statement, inferring a link between the high drop-out rate among male minorities and the “high number of Anglo older female teachers trying to build relationships with these boys and they’re not connected. The teachers aren’t culturally responsive on how to meet the needs of these young men.”

            This statement struck such a discord within me that I’ve taken several days to process this generalization. You see, I am an “Anglo older female” teacher. I spent more than half of my teaching career working with minority students. I’m offended that some administrator could possibly believe that I couldn’t meet the needs of my students.  On one hand, administrations promote litanies on The Almighty Test Score, requiring teachers to disaggregate data in a multitude of ways. Eventually, individual students get lost in the numbers and highlighted codes. Yet somehow, classroom teachers hold onto the most important piece of information—the names, and faces, and needs of each student.

No administrator knows how often I sat one-on-one with a student to come up with an alternate assignment. I didn’t tell my principals every technique I used to reach troubled students. They didn’t know about a deal I made with one student a few years ago. This young man turned in nearly perfect work day in and day out—if it was an assignment completed during our class period. Any work assigned at home? He never did it. By the end of the first six weeks, I noticed his barely passing grade could have been an A if he would only do homework. A private discussion revealed that he worked six to eight hours each night and lived in his car. I made a deal with him. He had to continue to do high quality work during class time, and he could forget about homework until he had a place to live. Of course, I talked with his counselor to make certain she knew his situation, but I never stepped into the administrator’s office. I didn’t realize that I should have made certain those in the office knew that I was “culturally responsive on how to meet the needs” of this young man. I can recount similar steps taken for many students for every year I taught, and I know other “Anglo older female teachers” whose devotion to their students’ successes makes my efforts look minimal.

Students drop out of school for many reasons, but I don’t believe the age or ethnicity of their teachers ranks among the top causes. Students come into the classroom carrying luggage loaded with unbelievable items. Yes, the “Anglo older female” may not have personal experiences living for six weeks in a car. We may never sit at the dinner table and do lines of coke instead of eating the evening meal. We may never deal with a parent in prison and all of our male relatives in gangs. We may never have been forced to kneel on gravel until our knees bled. However, I didn’t have to personally experience the horrors endured by my students to understand the compassion necessary for me to do my job. My age, race or socioeconomic status had nothing to do with my ability to stand in another person’s “shoes and walk around in them.”

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman