“Extended Family”

 

            I worked for the same school district for my entire thirty year career. The younger teachers I know who joined the district during this last ten years often asked how I survived in such a hostile environment, and I found myself explaining over and over again that the district had grown into dysfunction only after we’d gone through a string of narcissistic superintendents concerned more with their personal agendas than with education.

            I told these teachers about the extended family that wove throughout our schools. Husbands and wives, brothers and sisters, parents and children all became partners in educating every child. Our high school won national recognition as a Blue Ribbon campus one year, and became a New American High School in 2000. Our pride extended beyond the football field or basketball court, and the faculty and staff from all of our campuses had a hand in creating a thriving learning environment. We had core educators who mentored new teachers because they cared.

            I described to these newer teachers how our leadership trusted the campus principals to make choices that would benefit the entire learning community. They did not micro-manage. Our principals were given freedom to pull their teachers into the decision making process. Imagine having input over every element of your curriculum! If I needed something to make me a better teacher, I knew I could walk into all of those open administrative doors and simply ask. I couldn’t always get what I wanted, but I know they tried to keep me happy. Because the emotional health of teachers can make or break a school.

            Through the majority of my years in education, I had the good fortune to work with the same core administrators and faculty. And although there may have been disagreements, those squabbles never caused permanent rifts. And “the powers that be” didn’t play god and shuffle administration and faculty around from campus to campus when there were problems. Everyone stayed put and figured out a way through those difficulties. We worked together (sometimes tirelessly).

            We were family.

            We celebrated weddings, births and adoptions. We applauded at graduations and performances. We cheered each other up on the bad days, and rejoiced with one another on the good years.

            We were family.

            We cried over broken hearts, scraped knees, and lost dreams. We mourned together, too.

            Our losses began slowly. But those wonderful educators who dedicated their lives to making me a better teacher are now in their seventies and eighties.

            Yesterday, my extended family lost another member. My heart aches for her family; her husband who reminded me to make my day a good one, her children who sat in our classrooms, and contributed to our district as adults. I grieve because other educators will never benefit from this dynamic woman’s advice and encouragement. And I’m saddened for I fear that the problems within our educational system exist because the bonds among faculties no longer grow into strong ties that pull teachers permanently into each other’s lives. There is no family.

 

Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

“Forgive and Forget”

                         

Over time, the walls of self-defense become chinked with wear  

Overgrown by ivy, flowering each spring with climbing roses,     
The origins for brick and mortar fade in memory    
The enemy’s conniving and manipulation forgotten with each
          passing season    

Over time, the story of the their cruelty mutates     

Into a softer narrative of the human frailty found within their souls  
And the need to forgive and forget their heartless and vindictive
          natures     
Grows because I must repair my damaged spirit     

Over time, the protective barriers seem superfluous     

My internal longings to belong create false hope     
That “this time” will prove different—better     
That somehow they’ve gentled with time     

Foolish me—to pull down the walls, to retell the tale       

To desire their love   

Foolish me—to provide them opportunity, to crush me    

Under the weight of my forgiveness      

Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman  

"An Old Friend"

She’s an old friend,   

just a co-worker now—an acquaintance   

We smile when we pass in the hall   

We share complaints about classes, victories with kids   

Lately, she’s lost her smile   

Her usual elegance fades    

Her eyes, downcast as she walks, miss my smiled greetings   

Someone whispers a rumor   

asks what I know—me, the ostrich with her head in the sand   

I look around   

Suddenly I see her loss   

realize her shock and grief   

Stunned, I see them together—       

as she must see them, too       

He sniffs around the other woman like she’s a bitch in heat       

They drive up in the same car       

step out for lunch       

stand together in the hallway       

flirtatiously laughing       

body language that screams—Couple       

What words can I offer?       

advice, as they say, is cheap   

How do I let her know I care   

without letting her painfully realize—   

I know   

(just like everyone else)   

I can talk to her, try to listen, try to be around just a little more   

Her other friends and I can form a safety net   

but we can’t protect her from anger, loss, grief   

We see it in her eyes  

in the way she moves now   

I remember another time when she had no net   

her loss almost killed her    

So, I’ll stand guard

Copyright 1999 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Have Scissors, Will Cut”

 

            What five-year-old can resist trimming her bangs? I couldn’t. I remember distinctly deciding to cut my hair with my mother’s large, heavy sewing shears. The weight of those scissors meant my hand wavered as I clipped, clipped, clipped. The result? A zigzag of fringe up my forehead and a sound scolding from my mother. I wore my bangs exceedingly short for a few months since to fix my fashion folly, my mother had to cut my bangs back to my hairline.


Notice the crooked bangs?

            Did I learn my lesson and avoid wielding scissors?

            Of course not!

            Over the years, I’ve become a master at cutting my own hair. I have paid for haircuts only three times in thirty-five years!

            Friends can’t believe I’ll snip away until I’ve settled on a new do, but I think it’s rather fun to see the results.

            I never style my hair on a whim. Usually, I debate the change over several days, weighing the pros of my current style, the cons of something different. I may even do something like change the color of my locks before I begin hacking away at them.

            Eventually, the pull of those shears wears me down. Sometimes, it’s simply a little trim to even out growth. Maybe, I just want to see beyond my bangs, so I shorten and feather them softly. Other days, I take the plunge and decide I need a totally new hairdo.

            And so I found myself in the bathroom the other evening, chopping off inches with confidence. If I don’t like my masterpiece? It’s no big deal.

            Hair grows back!!!

 

Cut in 2014

2025 Hair!

 

Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“A Vegetable Garden”

 

            I dug out, added soil, carved out rows, and neatly planted my first vegetable garden the year I turned nine. In my memory, this plot of backyard covered acreage, but I know in reality it couldn’t have eaten up much of the yard. I grew lettuce, green onions, tomatoes, and two varieties of radishes. If I close my eyes, I can see the child I was kneeling on the ground, worshipping Earth.

            When we moved to Texas, my parents delegated a larger garden for my passion. I added peppers, herbs, and even corn to my crops. One year, I planted cucumbers along one section. That summer we ate cucumbers with onions in vinegar, sugar and water. We ate them on sandwiches and within salads. The bumper crop meant we gave them to our neighbors and friends. My mother didn’t want to pickle them (she had extremely limited pantry space), so we made cucumber ointments for our faces. I remember slicing cucumbers into my bathwater!



Flowers instead of veggies!
 

            Making a living competed with my desire to garden; and as an adult, I shifted to herbs and native plants and flowers. I haven’t grown much more that tomatoes in recent years. And I think a part of me longs to sink my hands into rich soil again.

            In the year since my mother’s death, I’ve toyed with the idea of toiling in a vegetable garden. In my mind, I’ve carved out a huge section of our backyard and planted it to the brim with thriving life. I imagine myself outside each day, watering and weeding. I can actually feel my body kneeling in worship of the harvest. 

            This image seduces me.

            But I’ll prepare no garden this spring. I promised myself a year of doing less, of walking away from the “must do” lists that I create for myself.

            I grow a different garden this year. One that allows me to dip into serendipity instead of structure. I hope to nurture creativity and whim not bound by schedules or lists. In the end, I strive cultivate a gentler “me” who’s not so driven to do more, but instead slows down enough to enjoy more.

            Once I’ve gathered my harvest of contentment? Then I’ll plant a vegetable garden.  

 

 

Copyright 2104 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman