Tag Archives: love

by

She’s Still Teaching

Remember the story of Miss Reed, my first-grade teacher? It started with this one little post I wrote about her several years ago. About a  month ago, I followed it up with this one, about how I finally learned what became of that miracle worker of a woman.  Although she died a few years ago, I was able to contact her son and tell him of the lovely things his mother did for me when I was a little girl. A few days later, he wrote back:

“I apologize for not writing sooner…but each time I sat down to read through your letter in preparation for my reply, I was overwhelmed with emotions.  With each read, I could see my mother stooping over to put herself on a child’s level as she offered her carefully chosen words of encouragement and hope…She would be so pleased to hear that you pursued writing.  It was mother’s dream to write children’s books when she retired.  She believed that if you could nurture a child early enough, that child could later withstand the harsh realities of the world…Thank you for taking the time to share your thoughts and experiences, because through your words and memories I was able to see my mother once again – A priceless gift…”

I assured him that her theory about nurturing children was dead on, and told him how upset I’d been to learn she was leaving our school at the end of first grade. “Your  wonderful mother invited me to your house that summer, to make the transition easier,” I wrote. “I played with puppies in your yard.” He wrote back and said that the family had moved to California that year. Mrs. Reed never did realize her dream of writing children’s books.  Alzheimer’s took over before she got the chance. But right before the end, she returned to her beloved Memphis, and was surrounded by her loved ones when she died.  

Last week was kind of a rough one around here. For days, I’ve been miserably sick.  One of Amadeus’ best friends was diagnosed with terminal cancer. The father of my daughter’s baby daddy died in his sleep the morning of The Boston Marathon. I think you get the picture. But a couple of gray and gloomy days ago, I checked my email, and there was another message from Mrs. Reed’s son. “I thought you might enjoy these,” he wrote. He’d made a little collage, six gorgeous photos of my former teacher, whose unreliable  image I’d been carrying in my head for forty-six years. There were Polaroids of her as a young woman and an old one, as a single mother and a grandmother. A black and white showed  her sitting on a sofa with her four small children, including the one writing me (who’s now a grandparent himself). As I studied them, my heart filled with gratitude and happiness. ”I hope one of these pictures shows the smile you remember,” he wrote.

Indeed, one of them did. Although the hair was a different color, there was no mistaking that expression. It was the one I looked forward to seeing throughout first grade. Wasn’t she beautiful?

Mrs. Reed

I’ve never met the person who sent this to me, and I probably never will. But there’s some sort of love that permeates the online world. I like to think of it as the same kind of love, the same genuine kindness that flows between us during times of tragedy and grief. There may always be bombings and massacres–we share the Earth with people who do unspeakable things. But we also share it with the man who took the time to send a stranger photos of his mom. 

by

A Rant About Reggie

Abby the Spoon Lady and I chatted on Facebook a few weeks ago. She mentioned a news story about some train hoppers who’d been killed in an accident in Alabama. The rail riding community is a close-knit crew, and since Abby has logged her share of miles on trains, she was trying to find the names of those who’d died. Not their real names–train hoppers all use nicknames.

Hoping to help, I looked up the story online and found an interview with one of the survivors (you can click here to view it). Steve McCoy, whose train name is “Reggie,” ended up in the hospital with a crushed foot. He was fine, though somewhat traumatized. Understandable, considering he’d just witnessed three young friends get smashed to death by sliding steel beams as they slept inside a boxcar.

The reporter gave the details of the tragedy, sharing a little of Reggie’s sad background and briefly describing the lifestyle of those who ride the rails. He concluded with a warning about the dangers of train hopping. At the end of the interview, Reggie said he planned to return to the lifestyle he knew, traveling the country and making music, entertaining people on the streets in exchange for occasional tips. “I’ve got the opportunity to make the world better,” he said.

The story was sadly sweet, two point five minutes of information that not only recounted what happened, but humanized the riders. My heart went out to the kids who’d died, and to Reggie, who’d lived such a hard life, yet found comfort in the fact that he was giving something back to the world.

Then my eyes were drawn to the comments at the end of the article. There were only two. One said this:

 ”…Now the taxpayers and/or hospitals get stuck with an expensive bill and that is exactly why healthcare costs have sky-rocketed over the years…This Reggie cat ain’t nothing but another loser and drain on society…”

 The next one echoed the first person’s opinions:

“Well it looks like the taxpayers get to foot Reggie’s bill. Return to the lifestyle? CSX (the railroad) needs to press charges…”

My jaw dropped. Had we seen the same news story? Didn’t they just watch a video about three dead kids? Did they not just listen to a homeless guy pour his heart out about a devastating loss? Did they miss the fact that he was dealt a bad hand? That for some, life is so cruel that living on the streets and sleeping in boxcars is a preferable alternative to what they face at home? Is that what they came away with–that this guy was nothing more than a “loser and drain on society?”

It’s been weeks now, but I can’t get those commenters out of my head. If I thought they had the capacity for human compassion, I’d want to tell them this (I went back and deleted the cuss words).

The Reggies of this world must figure out how to survive. They have no loved ones to guide them, no safety net, no one who gives a shit. They’re often shuffled through the foster care system, and we’ve all read horror stories about that set up. Think about how horrendous a kid’s life must be to make living on the streets or hopping a train seem like a good idea.

There wasn’t a word of sorrow or empathy in your comments. Not a shred of compassion for three dead street kids or their friend.

When you look at another person’s suffering, and all you can think of is your own wallet, you’re in pretty miserable shape as a human being. Because sweetheart, it’s only the luck of the draw that got you where you are. Reggie’s way of life might not be your way, and it might not be mine. I can guarantee you that it isn’t the easy way. And in the grand scheme, he hasn’t asked you for much at all. 

When Abby tells the story of her marriage, and the reasons she hopped her first train, I doubt there are many who could listen to the tale and blame her for her decision (you can read about it here). If you search for her on the Internet, you’ll see comments from all over the country, written by people whose lives were made better by a rail rider who learned to clack two spoons together, a woman  who taught herself a skill because she didn’t want to ask for handouts without offering something in return (and boy, does she have a lot to offer).

That’s what Reggie’s doing. That’s what those kids did before they were killed. They traveled, they made music, they harmed no one.

The number of harsh, cruel online comments seems to be increasing every day. People rant about poor people. How they drain us. How they take advantage of the system. How ObamaCare is going to suck us dry and force employers to shut down. I believe it’s bull pucky. I believe we’re being played, big time.

We Little People are being pitted against each other. We’re forced to compete for jobs that pay too little in order to make it. We struggle to keep our children fed and roofs above their heads. A burst appendix or a carburetor gone bad could turn the shaky ground we stand on into a sinkhole. We’re stressed, we’re tired, we’re cranky. It feels complicated and hopeless to scream at those who reap the rewards of our labor. Besides, we depend on them, because they’re the ones doling out the paychecks. So we blame the people a rung below us on the socioeconomic ladder. We post hateful things about them on Facebook. 

I picture the millionaires and billionaires of this country sitting on thrones like Roman emperors, gleefully watching the working class and the poor duke it out and rip each other to shreds. They laugh as we fight and argue and lash out at each other in resentment. It’s so amusing when the Little People blame each other for their problems.

publicdomainphotos.net

Consider this for a minute. Say that Reggie, instead of hopping trains and peacefully going about his business, decided to work at McDonald’s instead. That he traded playing music and collecting tips for flipping burger patties over a hot, greasy grill. He’s a Working Man now, he’s legit. I’m terrible at math, but I tried to calculate how, financially, his life would change. Here’s what I came up with.

McDonald’s employees are paid, on average, $7.25 per hour. Let’s say Reggie is given 40 hours a week. This is very generous of McDonald’s. A lot of employers won’t give their workers over 35 hours, because they’d be required to pay benefits. But Reggie lucked out. He makes $290 a week.

23% of that is withheld for federal taxes, Social Security and Medicare. 23% of $290 is $66.70 (or 9.2 hours of his labor).

$290 – $66.70 = $223.30

Let’s fantasize that Reggie owns his own vehicle, that a magical fairy waved a wand and he has no car payments to deal with. Say it’s a mid-size, with a sixteen gallon tank and that he fills that tank once a week to get to work. Today, the national average for gas is $3.68 per gallon.

$3.68 x 16 = $58.88

He’s down to $164.42. Of course, he’s required to carry, at minimum, liability insurance, and the national average for that runs between $1000 and $1500 per year. We’ll go with the low end.

$1000 divided by 52 weeks in a year = $19.23 per week.

Reg has $145.19 sitting in the bank right now.

Because he lives in Fantasy Land, he’s found a dreamy little apartment and the best roommate ever!! The rent is only $400 per month, and he splits it down the middle. Wow! That’s about $50 a week.

$145.19 – $50 = $95.19

According to a recent Gallup poll, the average American spends $151 per week on food. But Reggie is not an average American. He is a frugal American living in Fantasy Land. Let’s say that he spends $7 a day–$1.50 for breakfast, $2.50 for lunch, and $3 for dinner, which comes to $49 a week.

$95.19 – $49.00 = $46.19

Good job, Reggie! $46.19 is nothing to sneeze at.

Okay, now we’re going to deduct his utilities and his phone, and on top of that he’s going to have to pay for medical insurance so that he doesn’t “drain” society. Let’s also figure in a little cushion, in case he runs over a nail or needs a haircut or a stick of deodorant, because you need tires and haircuts and deodorant to stay employed. Let’s say that he dares take in a movie or goes out for a beer once a month, to celebrate his good fortune.

Oh wait. He can’t do any of that, can he? We haven’t even figured in toilet paper. 

McDonald’s made $24 billion in revenue last year. Jim Skinner, their CEO, made $8.25 million, or $158,653 a week. $22,602 every day of the year.

In 2011, the top five oil companies (who pay about 17.6% in taxes, compared to Reggie’s 22%) cleared $130,000,000,000 in profits. That’s $130 billion. I just wrote the zeros out because I was impressed by how many of them there were. Anyway, that’s $375,000,000 per day that they make in take home pay (after operating expenses). According to thinkprogress.org, that’s $261,000 every minute of every day. I wonder how much of this obscene amount of money goes toward improving the lives of the people they gouge.

I hate sounding preachy and opinionated here, but I truly believe we need to change our mindsets and stop blaming the poor for all of our ills. We have to stop scapegoating each other. We’ve got to show some compassion and love. We need to stop sitting in front of our keyboards and dumping our frustrations on those less fortunate than we are. Yes, we’re all struggling, at least most of us are. Yes, poverty is a problem. There will always be dumbasses out there– messy people with messy lives who bring babies into this world without having the brains or means to support them. There will always be those who take advantage of others, whether they’re the CEOs of major corporations or welfare moms and dads who’ve learned to beat the system. But there are also millions of decent people who simply plug along, trying as best they can to survive, and right now, that system is all they’ve got. It doesn’t behoove us to blast every mom with a shopping cart and a food stamp card. We don’t know their stories.

Reggie McCoy isn’t part of the problem. In a way, he’s a success. He figured out how to escape his circumstances and make his own way in the world, and until this accident, he seems to have asked for little more than a train ride in return. Rail hoppers typically don’t stay in one spot long enough to collect welfare, food stamps or unemployment.

In a kinder society, he and his friends would never have needed to run away in the first place. No child in this country should ever be in want of food, clothing, shelter, safety or love. In a better world, the shamelessly greedy oil industry profiteers would use some of their billions to help the people we keep blaming, to repair the broken social systems that fail us all. You know, to thank those who work their asses off to fill their gas tanks and, in turn, line the pockets of the 1%.

Reggie’s words keep ringing in my ears. “I’ve got the opportunity to make the world better.” Can you imagine? This guy who has nothing? This guy who’s lost so much? May everyone be so kind in spirit. My husband and I are happy to know that a part of our taxes might go toward his hospital bill. We wish him well.

by

The Ripple Effect

By my standards, something incredible happened yesterday–something huge and wonderful and heartstring-yanking and a little mind-blowing. I’d planned to wait a while before writing about it, but it’s 2 a.m. and I can’t sleep, because it just keeps jumping around inside me. I’m going to try to at least begin telling you the story now. I’ll stop when my eyelids start closing and pick up again after sunrise.

This is a probably going to be a bit long and convoluted, but please try to stay with me on this. You may want to grab a beverage and a snack. Oh, and some Kleenex.

On August 30, 2007, I wrote a post entitled “I Love You, Miss Reed,” about my first-grade teacher and the profound way she changed my world. Betty Reed was a miracle in my life, and I wanted to express it. Since I hadn’t seen her since my elementary school days and the chances of ever being able to convey my gratitude in person were slim, I wrote about it instead. Still, I always longed to find her, to tell her myself.

Over the years, I searched for her on the Internet from time to time, when I was feeling particularly blessed in my life and lucky to be here on the planet. I never found a thing–no Facebook page or address, nothing that linked her to the school, which, to complicate matters more, had undergone a name change. The six-year-old me vaguely recalled that Miss Reed left our school at the end of that year to get married, but I was never quite sure if it was true or if I was confusing her with Miss Crabtree on “The Little Rascals.”

Despite the time and attention Miss Reed devoted to me, the rest of my academic career was an unfortunate waste of desk space. My Hebrew school training was a flop. The time I served there isn’t time that I enjoy reflecting upon. Overall, childhood sucked (and I think of my childhood as having lasted decades). But here I sit, happy and healthy and somewhat sane, and though I’m not a religious woman, I am a very grateful one. The one thing about having had a Tragic Upbringing is that you seldom take the good for granted. Every night, I thank the Great Whatever It Is for the people who’ve shown me kindness on my journey. I’ve surely forgotten many of them, but I’ll never forget Miss Reed, as that earlier blog post illustrates.

I’m kind of hemming and hawing here, trying to figure out the best way to go on. The thing is that yesterday, I did one of my once-in-a-blue-moon searches for Betty Reed, mostly to take my mind off of the fact that I was STBW (supposed to be writing). Like a safecracker working to get the locks to tumble, I Googled different combinations of words–her name, the city, the school. No results. Nada. I experimented, squeezing the name of the school and hers between quotation marks. Scrolling through pages and pages, I finally hit pay dirt–a small Google preview that contained both the name of my beloved teacher and the school’s original name. I clicked the link and discovered a newsletter, written by the current dean of my former school, who I must say looks a lot younger and hipper than any faculty member I recall from my days there.

I burrowed into a corner of the sofa and hunkered down to read, hoping to glean at least one little clue as to what became of Betty Reed. The article was on the front page, written a little over a month ago. As is policy on my blog, I’m changing most of the names here. I’ll call my elementary alma mater MFS (Moonbeam’s Former School).

What follows is what the dean wrote:

I intended to write this column about the National Jewish Day School Conference which I attended…earlier this week. I was going to focus on the keynote given by Harvard professor and highly acclaimed author Tony Wagner about where education is and where it is headed. But when 11th grader Adam Kalen walked into my office on Wednesday afternoon, I realized that the conference would have to wait. There was something more important I had to share. It wasn’t about the future of education but about its past. It wasn’t about imagining what the MFS can be, but about reminding ourselves of what it has always been. Adam told me he had been meaning to come by for a few weeks, and apologized that he hadn’t. He said that he had been standing outside our school building on a Shabbat (Sabbath) morning some time ago, when a man drove by in a pickup truck and asked him for the school office. When Adam explained that the office was closed on Saturday, the man handed him a sealed envelope and asked him to deliver it to the principal. I opened the envelope and found a letter inside. Here is what it said:

Back in the late fifties or early sixties, when I was a young child, MFS hired my mother as a first grade teacher. At the time, my mother was a single parent with four young children and this job was our family’s lifeline. And while this job was a true blessing for our family in and of itself, the people at the MFS also helped our family in many other ways. At the time, I remember my mother saying that the people at MFS treated us like part of their family.

In one particular situation someone at MFS found out that although I needed eyeglasses, we couldn’t afford them. Shortly after that, a very kind gentleman who was an eye doctor made it possible for me to get my first eyeglasses. His office was downtown-‐I think on Main Street. I’m sorry that I don’t remember his name–I was just a child–but I do remember his kindness and that when I was nervous during the eye exam he made me laugh when he instructed me to look directly at his beak–even then I knew he was poking fun at his prominent nose.

Having eyeglasses opened up the world to me, and after getting my glasses I developed a love for reading. And as I grew older, it was from my love of reading and self study that I was later able to teach myself a skill. And with that skill I have been able to provide for my family and to make it possible for my stepdaughter to attend college and I’m proud to say that she is now in graduate school. And with her new skills, she will one day be able to provide for her family.

Years ago, a kind individual’s generosity made it possible for a young boy to see the world more clearly, and I wanted the MFS family to know that the gift was never forgotten, and to say thanks ‐ not only for the kindness, but for everything that a single act of kindness made possible.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Daniel Reed, son of Betty Reed

Attached to the letter there was check. On the check was a post‐it note. It read: Maybe you could help someone else with this! ‐ Daniel Reed.

Daniel: I can and I will. But please know that your thoughtful gift won’t just help a child in need. It will inspire a community.

I read it three times. Big, gloopy tears rolled down my face and so many thoughts and emotions ran through me that I shook like an electrocuted squirrel. Now that I knew Miss Reed’s full name (and that she wasn’t a “miss” but a “missus”), I did another search, and this time a small snippet of an obituary popped up. Apparently, my dear, sweet teacher died nearly three years ago. Once again, I Googled, this time for the dean’s email address, and quickly sent him this:

Good afternoon, Rabbi P-,

I hope this e-mail reaches you, and that it finds you well. I just came across the beautiful story you wrote in the newsletter, about receiving the check from Daniel Reed, and I feel that I have to write you (as soon as I stop crying).

I attended MFS decades ago, from kindergarten through eighth grade. I was definitely not a typical MFS student–my family was very poor and we were not Orthodox. My parents were in an awful marriage and home was a very scary place. My siblings and I were traumatized and quite neglected. We also lived in a very rough part of town, and endured quite a bit of after-school anti-semitism. Needless to say, I kind of stood out from the crowd, for all the wrong reasons. I was an awful student, just awful, and while many of my teachers and classmates were very nice to me, unfortunately, quite a few were not. Still, I credit the school for allowing me to attend (I surely was given some sort of scholarship or aid), and for providing me with the only stability that I had at the time. It gave me firmer foundation, and a glimpse of civility that didn’t exist at home. I just don’t think that anyone knew what to make of the messy, troubled little girl who showed up for class each weekday. I’m sure I was pretty hard to tolerate.

But there was one teacher there who accepted me unconditionally, and that was Betty Reed. No matter how disheveled or exhausted I was, that lovely woman greeted me with a warm smile each weekday morning. Sometimes she even hugged me. Under her tutelage, I was reading at a sixth* grade level in first grade (though I barely passed my other classes). She instilled in me a love for literature and writing that I carry to this day. In fact, I became a writer.

I still have a lacy, rather yellowed thank you card that she wrote to me back in 1966. Here is what it said:

“…Thank you for the stationary. I love it because it’s so pretty, but most of all I love it because it came from my very special friend. I love you…– Betty Reed”

You cannot imagine what those words meant to me. Mrs. Reed made me feel valued when no one else did. There were other kind teachers who came along later, but in my nine years at MFA, she had the greatest impact on my life.

For years, I tried to find her, to thank her for all she’d done for me. So often people quietly change the lives of others for the better, never realizing the impact of what they’ve done. I wanted to tell her. It wasn’t until I came across the story in your newsletter that I realized that she too was struggling at that time. It reminded me that life works in mysterious and beautiful ways. For over forty years, I’ve carried the memory of this wonderful woman in my heart, feeling grateful for the goodness she had bestowed on me when I was six years old. I never imagined that at the same time, one of her own children was carrying the same feelings for those who had employed her. The world is a wonderful place.

I did an Internet search after reading your story, and I believe that Mrs. Reed has passed away. I don’t know if you have a way of contacting her son, but if you do, I hope that you’ll feel free to forward him this e-mail and/or my e-mail address. I’d like to tell him how remarkable his mother was, though I have a feeling he already knows.

Thank you for sharing your experience, Rabbi P-. You’ve made my whole week.

Sincerely,

A Former Student

In exactly nine minutes, I received an email back, which said:

Wow. The good keeps going: He made my week, I made yours, and now you’ve made mine again. Thank you.

I do have an address for her son and I will gladly send him a copy of your email. I was wondering whether you might be comfortable with my publishing it in my newsletter and perhaps on my blog as well? If you’d rather I didn’t because it reveals too many personal details, I’d certainly understand. If you are comfortable with it though, I think it might just be the gentle push someone else needs to become the next Betty Reed.

All the best,

G-

Holy shmoly, he signed it with his first name! My, how that school has changed. I told him that I’d need to check with the rest of my family before I could give him the green light on publishing it. The school had been small when I attended. It wouldn’t be hard for certain people to identify us. I needed some time to think.

When Amadeus got home from work, I told him everything. I read him the story in the newsletter, and cried all over again. “That’s beautiful, baby,” he said. My daughter came over a few hours later, read the whole thing, and got a little weepy.

“Wow, Mom. This is amazing.”

I forwarded the e-mails to my siblings (along with a link to the newsletter) and asked if they were okay with my letter being published. My sister texted: “Of course!” My brother wrote back: “What an amazing story…! If it helps others, be my guest.” He added some smooshy stuff about how blessed he was to have such swell sisters. It was a love fest, I tell you.

Later, I mulled the whole thing over. Basically, I’d be giving a stranger permission to share my less-than-spectacular opinion of my years at that school; most likely, several of my former classmates have children and grandchildren who are students there now. But that wasn’t the point. The point was Miss Reed. Mrs. Reed.The point was kindness, something I could have used a bit more of while I’d been there. Maybe the rabbi was right. Maybe it would give a gentle push.

A few hours ago, I wrote back and told him that he could publish my letter. He in turn gave me permission to reprint what he’d written. I have news for him though–there will never be another Betty Reed. But I think we’re both rather astounded by Daniel’s story, and hopeful that some of his mother’s fairy dust will settle onto at least a few people.

So much has been swimming through my mind. About the power of words. About the beauty of this world and the ripple effect of a good deed. About the multi-facetedness of life, and the invisible thread that sometimes seems to connect us. But I’m not going to try to explain it. I have a feeling you already know.

~~~~~

*A clarification: In my haste to write to the dean, I couldn’t remember if I’d read at a sixth or eighth grade level, so I erred on the side of caution. I called my mother and she confirmed that it was indeed eighth, which is what I’d written in the “I Love You, Miss Reed” post.

I’m sorry that this isn’t more readable. I was having major formatting issues, and finally gave up.