another brain cleansing

Okay, I just need to let a few things out. A part of me wants to disable comments, as I am not looking for advice--I just want to get things off my chest and know that I am being heard. That is all. So read with caution, realizing that this is a cathartic post.

La Princesita has had two hard lessons on how unfair Life is this week. First came with the last softball game of the season. I had worked hard on a lineup in which no girls repeated the same fielding position they had in the last game, to give them all practice. She was to play 3rd base in the bottom of the 3rd (3 innings in coach pitch), and the other coach switched her to short stop for some reason. I wasn't certain as to why; I was organizing the other girls. My princesita is a very agile player and can play most positions well just because she pays attention and doesn't spend the game drawing in the dirt with her toe. The coaches know that--but she had played short stop last game and really wanted to play a base during this last game. By about the 5th batter, she was in tears, and it took over two hours to calm her down.

Same general idea last night at her school's annual Sock Hop. She had practiced all year to be able to win the hula-hoop contest for the 1st grade. And she was one of two left--until someone who was walking off after her hoop had fallen knocked my princesita's hoop so that it fell. I was in the audience and yelled, "Hey, that wasn't fair, her hoop was hit by that other girl." Other parents saw and agreed...but what else could I really do? Crestfallen and proclaiming in tears how unfair this was, I dragged her and the Young Prince home...and she finally fell asleep in my bed, about an hour later, exhausted by her laments.

What ought I do? Teach her that yes, Life is unfair. So suck it up and move on.

No, that would be bad of me. I can teach that in a much gentler way. She is only seven years old, and much like her Mama Llama, an extremely sensitive soul. I pray for guidance to teach her strength in the ways of the world.

---

At the sock hop, I ran into some people I don't see on a daily, or even really on a monthly, basis. One of these women is nice enough, but is rather well-known as gossipy and a busy-body. I therefore tend to keep our conversations light and avoid any topics, like my personal life, that I don't care to have spread all over the elementary school community. The first thing she asks me last night? "So are things better with you and Him?"

Admittedly, I was blindsided. First, this was incredibly forward of someone who, as far as I knew, knows nothing for certain about my marital situation. So of course I jumped to the defensive. I demanded to know where she heard this from and why she was asking me. Uncertain as to how to deal with this, I lied and said that no, everything is fine. She said good, and I changed the subject immediately while watching the above mentioned hula hooping contest. Then, without looking at her, I said, "No, we've been separated now in-house for over two years. But I would like to know where you heard that, because I want to know if someone is spreading news about me around this school community." It was then that I learned that He had confided in her husband, who had been previously divorced.

He is not well-known for his, shall we say, discerning judgment regarding who he chooses to talk to. But then again, who am I do judge? I guess that, when I am the one affected by his mouth...

Anyhow, she had some strong opinions about how, no matter what, it is better that we be together, for the good of the kids. I told her that I disagree, that we are not giving a good image of what a healthy marriage is to the children and that my health and happiness need to be factored into the equation...and etc. etc. etc.

I was secretly thankful that Princesita had to leave due to tears...a perfect excuse to get out.

However, this encounter reestablished the fact that I am definitely being painted as the "bad guy" and he as the victim...and although I like to bitch about all the little things that now I let get to me that I used to let slide, I fully recognize that the failure of our marriage took two of us. Not just one.

*---*

My mother. Oh dear, what to say? For those who haven't followed, or known, the saga regarding our relationship, the least I can say is that I am always on pins and needles with her, and she regards me much in the same way. Somebody who wants to know why she can't be more of a part of my and my kids' lives while everything from my pregnancy to my miscarriage has been blamed on me, the news that I bought a home was greeted as if someone close had died, and that I cannot do anything that she expects me to do to make her life complete. I have taken steps back and have come to realize where this stems from in her life, but while she continues to express her great disappointment in who I have become and the fact that I put my children before her in my life, I have a very hard time in trying to maintain any semblance of even a superficially decent relationship.

What created this latest drama? The fact that she sent a Halloween card, some spare change for piggy banks and stickers for the kids and a Starbucks card for me, received at 4 p.m. Halloween afternoon (right before trick-or-treat time) and did not hear, by the next Wednesday, any verification of receipt of this collection of cards means that I am doing nothing to help her be a part of my children's lives and that she doesn't know if she ought to send Princesita's birthday gift if we had not received what she had sent for Halloween. We had been in contact various times on email over the election, and I had a terribly busy four day weekend with the kids...but she never once mentioned, "Oh, by the way, did you get something special in the mail?" No, I am the Bad Daughter for neglecting to mention what she is hoping to, evidently, trap me into not mentioning by not mentioning it first. No, she won't send it certified because it really has nothing to do with whether or not we received what she sent; it all all to do with a test of whether I will remember to mention and appropriately give thanks in recognition of her efforts.

I think she believes I sit around on my ass all day every day wondering what to do next.

How I would KILL for a day like that. Just one day.

She said in the email (no, not a phone call because she will not telephone me; I have to always call her and am the Bad Daughter if I don't comply in a timely manner) that she is open to suggestions. I suggested a few years ago that she buy herself a webcam that just plugs into a USB port. If she doesn't understand how with following the directions, her handyman up the street can help her. Then I can walk her through the installation of Skype and she can chat and see the kids in what is practically real time whenever she wants.

But that suggestion was rejected. The only suggestion she wants is that I move back west. I am expected to alter my life and go back to her, because all her life she has been abandonded or forced to abandon when she was a child. She doesn't see why people in her life (her mother, her daughters) have always moved on to follow our own lives instead of molding ours around her needs.

If I would be going back to that, there is no way in hell I'm going back. I've never been good enough for her; nothing I have ever done has been good enough. Why put myself through any more? It is easy to say "Well, then don't. Don't let yourself be that in your mother's life." But that is it...she is my mother, and besides my sister is the only family I have left. The three of us. That's it.

So forgetting it is much easier said than done. So, to call or not to call? Damned if I do, damned if I don't. We've been down the same path before, and I have told her in no uncertain terms that she can feel free to call here as well, and that I should not be the only one trying to make her a participant in my children's lives. If she doesn't feel she is, then she needs to do more. I can do better with the thank-you notes. I know she appreciates that, but I do those for major things (birthdays, Christmas gifts). Are Halloween cards now included on that list?

*---*

I'm okay, I'm just feeling a little defeated, yet again, and it will pass. The holidays are coming, which always stress me out, and is a prime Disagreement Season between my mother and I. I feel it coming, deep in my soul, and it fills me with dread.

Flashback Friday

Last year I wrote a series on Japan--what took me there, and the unique experiences I had during my three years living among the rice paddies of rural, mountainous Japan, which is a far cry from our traditional vision of a Tokyo-Japan. This entry was of November 6, 2007. Enjoy!

日本の思い出 ... Memories of Japan

Wow..it has been so long since I have even typed in Japanese that I had to enable the Japanese keyboard on my computer to be able to make the characters.

As the time going into winter is one of great nostalgia for me, I feel it fitting to delve a bit into some of my fondest memories of my younger days. I spend three years teaching ESL at two different middle schools in the town of 中之条. Nakanojo. "Naka" means "middle, center"; "no" is a possessive or, in this case, used as an "of"; and "jou" (long o, two syllables but not always romanized that way) means "road."













Middle of the road.

Just your average little town cradled in the foothills of active and dormant volcanoes where most citizens have rice paddies, know how to dance the yagibushi in the town's summer festival, and have very limited, if any, contact on a daily basis with any 外人。

Gaijin. Literally, the outside (gai) person (jin).

The foreigner.

Somehow Nakanojo and I were the perfect match. *cue rambling mode* I had been to 群馬県 Gunma-ken (prefecture) in August of 1990. I went as a member of a youth orchestra exchange, and spent two weeks with a host family that spoke very little if any English. The eldest daughter was a percussionist in the 太田 Ohta City Youth Philharmonic, the middle daughter played trumpet and the youngest daughter was, like myself, a violinist. I was selected to play concertmaster (we always called it 'concertmistress', the coveted position being She Who Gets to Sleep With the Entire Orchestra...although in those times I was waaaaaaaay too angelic to take that title seriously), which made my family very proud and they wanted me to give Ayumi-chan tutorials each night on her pieces. What struck me most was the fact that we could not look at each other, open our mouths and say anything that could be understood by the other; however, we could look at the same page of lines and, to the untrained eye, seemingly random dots and various miscellaneous markings and create exactly the same sound. This realization blew my relatively naive mind and marked the beginning of my openness to communication in all forms.

I maintained contact with my host family during my subsequent four-year tenure at University. I completed a double major, one of which was Spanish, and a double minor, one of which was Japanese, and could basically write notes and send them and, obviously, be somewhat understood in my efforts to master at least the two basic phonetic alphabets.

Upon returning from studies in Guayaquil, Ecuador, in the middle of my junior year of University, I felt at a great loss of direction. Indeed, my time in such a poor area made me yearn to go back and idealistically solve the world's problems but also armed me with the knowledge that such goals are impossible to achieve. Best to better oneself so as to be capable of offering more. But how?

In Senior Thesis hell, required for both my International Studies major and my Honors degree, I also started teaching ESL in a local school district, which also meant moonlighting as a social worker and translator. I spent countless hours transcribing interviews my primary thesis advisor had conducted with a variety of female migrants for a book she was authoring, not to mention my own interviews I held with legals and illegals alike regarding their perceived assimilation and acculturation experiences. Fascinating. But leaving me feeling, still, without a defined direction. Life without school? How could I consider my next step, post-University "real life"?

Long story short, I was told I should apply to the then rather selective Japan Exchange and Teaching (JET) Program(me). I figured I had nothing to lose, so I did, interviewed and was offered a position along with one other from my University. As I had previously visited Gunma prefecture, that was where I was again sent, but this time out to rural Gunma perhaps due to the fact that I had, in comparison to some applicants, a decent base of Japanese upon which to grow and actual ESL teaching experience and, of course, living abroad experience.

I arrived in Tokyo in sultry July, spent three days in whirlwinds of conferences, getting to know other 外人 being sent out to my same prefecture, everyone "testing out" each other's Japanese levels in a meager effort of reassurance. The bus ride out to Gunma was interesting in that we were given a crash course in how to accept a business card that is presented to us, as was to occur following a ベントlunch...

You must bow. Try to bow lower than the person you're bowing to, as it's probably going to be your supervisor. But don't fall over. Don't bump heads, either (don't laugh...it did happen to me once!...but fortunately not that day). Don't act overly enthused; keep all nervousness and excitement undercaps.

You will be presented with a business card. That is the way people meet here. You don't just take it and stuff it in your back pocket. You accept with TWO hands and bow. After retiring to your place you keep the 名刺 (meishi) out, in your hands, "study it" or at least feign interest and admiration...a lot of money goes into each individual's 名刺 and you will also soon receive your own set.

And with that, we were off...

Three men came the prefectural capital city of 前橋 Maebashi to greet me and take me back to my new home. The gruff looking Mr. Nakazawa was the Superintendent of Schools for Nakanojo Town. He was also a musician, and brought some of his favorite Stephen Foster scores for me to look over as an ice-breaker as we settled in to a small café for an aisu co-hi (iced coffee). The other two men, Morita-san and Iyoku-san did not speak any English and appeared rather shy; Iyoku-san would, in fact, become my papa-chan, as I so affectionately nicknamed him, as he would take care of all my day-to-day issues while demonstrating worlds of patience for my developing Japanese skills, and we did a lot of things socially together as my Japanese really took off and I could communicate well. There had been two foreign teachers preceeding me in Nakanojo, so although the routine was somewhat familiar it was still far from set in stone.

That is where my stay in my dear Nakanojo begins...

dona nobis pacem

Dona nobis pacem
September, 1992
Belén, Ecuador

An old chapel built into the side of a mountain in this Andean town located on the picturesque road leading to Cuenca caught our eyes when we stopped to take a rest on the long drive from Guayaquil. A beautiful stone-colored dome sat atop the main edifice; it was unlike the many very colonial structures we had seen in the city.

We entered, quietly, carefully, always as if our gringo steps were as awkward in such places as they were on the dance floors of the discoteques when surrounded by suave latino feet.

The altar was stunning in that the backdrop was literally the wall of the mountain; indeed, the church had been build into the mountain, as if a most natural extension of God’s creation, not an ostentatious display of Catholic riches and worldly gold held as an offering to a Supreme Being that is supposed to see beyond such superficial shows.

I snapped my fingers in a mere test of acoustic quality. The echo of this simple sound reverbrated throughout the hall. Three of the seven of us were musically trained, in voice as well, and our eyes met. I began the rondo:

Dona nobis pacem, pacem
Dona nobis pacem.

B took up a tenor line when the rondo came to him, then A followed suit with the final third of the trio. We knew instinctively what to sing, what to do, the perfection of the tones and the resolution that particular round offers blending together in an echo that spiraled, slid up the mountainside, found its way up to the top of the dome.

Noemí, our profesora/chaperone for this trip, sank into a pew in tears. The others sat, mesmerized by the beauty of our offering. We were certain we could be heard. This is the voice God would want to hear!

Dona nobis pacem

The first time singing this refrain was in a mass concert that featured the Vienna Choir Boys, that I was honored to be a part of when I was in late elementary school. That was also the first time I can remember ever having felt truly moved in my soul by music. Music like that could create peace, I was then convinced.

A great part of the lack of peace I feel in my life right now stems from the fact that I have no true music. I tried being involved in music at church, but my eyes were opened to a certain elitism that exists and to which those who participate are privy; namely, if what comes out of your mouth when you raise voice in honor to God is not worthy of God’s ears, then it is preferred that you shut your mouth and let the ones who know how to sing do it for you. I have let my violin’s bows go and they both are in desperate need of rehairing if I ever want to pick my beloved instrument up again. Time is hard to find, although easier now that I am working in the home. In my idealistic 20s, when I wanted to change the world and erase all ills, my purpose for playing or singing was much more outwardly focused than it is now. I feel that now I need music to assist me to feel the peace that I used to feel in my soul, to return to me an element of who I used to be and what took me so many places and permitted me to know and understand and learn on a level different than mere logic will take me.

Dona nobis pacem

Grant us peace. But I don’t need someone or something else to grant me this peace. I need to grant this to myself, to find my way and only in that way will I know true peace--of mind, of soul, of heart.

Dona nobis pacem. This was written for Blog Blast for Peace 2008. I am not savvy enough to come up with my own "seal" so I just use the one above. In my mind I sense peace when I look at that.

May you sense peace in your own way, in some way, today.

The tenacity to ride a rough road

Some of this have this tenacity, others do not.

I tend to think myself as a type who blooms where planted. I have to. However, if there is something I feel could create a more fertile soil for my well-being, I want to pursue the possibility.

Wanting, however, is different than doing.

Today I feel like an absolute failure in Life. From the morning, every single thing I have attempted has ended in failure, all accentuating, of course, the Great Failure of my marriage.

I do not fail. I never fail. So how could I permit this to occur?

Perhaps my destiny as a failure is just now surfacing. Early life successes were to disillusion and to create in me a false optimism that anything is truly possible if tenatious enough to pursue that end. I am growing increasingly pessimistic (or is that realistic?) as my days continue forth.

*---*

I am now more censored than before in what I can write here. Perhaps it is getting to be time to leave mapiprincesa behind forever and, if I were to continue to write, continue forth completely anonymous. I am not yet certain what my next step will be--it is hard to believe that I used to believe myself so strong and now I am letting someone else rob me of my voice.

Tomorrow will be a better day. It can only be better. Such are the rough roads now. Am I tenatious enough? I suppose I am learning that each day as well.

Part II: Animalistic sense

My second entry this week on yesterday's theme (don't worry ladies, I'm merely writing as the Spirit moves me--I do not have a planned writing for each day of the week!) has to do with what not only I but most women I have experienced when either bearing or having been a caregiver of young.

A heightened sense of awareness surrounds us when pregnant, as if our modern selves have assimilated a past trait, dormant until released by hormones, that creates in us an almost animalistic sense of who we are, what surrounds us and how we must protect that which grows deep inside of us. Some of us develop a very acute sense of smell, while others' hearing becomes extremely sensitive. I found myself wondering, at various points throughout my 2 1/3 pregnancies, how much of this was part of evolutionary design; just as our ancient relatives had to constantly be aware, sense danger, protect themselves from nature, flora and fauna that we present-day homo sapiens likewise have an innate sense of survival unlocked while childbearing. It was, in fact, the disappearance of this heightened sensitivity that signalled for me the end of the pregnancy I miscarried; my body told me it was over before modern medicine did.

My husband could not seem to comprehend this heightened sense of smell, as he would bring the stinkiest gyro sandwiches filled with onions, peppers and garlic; or organ meats grilled to perfection by his African classmates, and then wonder why I would run from the room with my hand over my mouth.

Just protecting me and my baby.

The basic senses return to normalcy following pregnancy, only to be replaced by learning to discern need from want from the tone of a cry, to be able to spot a lost child in a crowd of people and assist appropriately, and to become more patient toward children who cannot be quiet when inopportune to be, well, noisy children! Remember how loud we thought our newborns cried? Now we hear a newborn and think their cry is so tiny and precious, while we reassure the new parents that we are not bothered and that such a sound is so incomparable to what we now live with!

Our senses have adapted and evolved with our experiences.

I was reminded of this last night, when dining with my children in a small restaurant. A young child had cried out, squealing with what I heard was delight--I never even turned to look, as I didn't want the parents to feel they were bothering me. It was a family place, not a formal adult restaurant--taking setting into account, I could choose to go to a different place had I not wanted to be bothered by children's squeals. Yet my children had other opinions. Young Prince remarked, "Gee, it sure is noisy in here. Why is it so noisy in here?" while La Princesita, trained by her Mama Llama in tolerance etiquette, merely looked at her plate and continued eating silently ("When nothing nice to say, say nothing at all."). I explained with a siloloquy of reasons of which I am certain my 4 year old understood (or rather, listened to) 25%. However I knew, without even having to turn my head to look, that these were happy sounds.

This is not a gender-defined issue, but rather a skill that we all possess, some more inclined than others, and it is our choice to learn to hone this skill or not. We sense and, consequently, we learn and grow. Sometimes that is the key to survival.

The ability to sense and learn new ways

The diamond-shaped girdle of Venus prominent on my right palm says that I have a very highly developed sixth sense. My Mars line is also prominent on both hands, dictating a high degree of sensitivity to my surroundings that is not only innate (left hand) but that I am living up to my potential (right hand).

I am sensing and sensitive, and sensibly so.

Open to new ideas but with my code of ethics intact, I enjoy stepping out of my comfort zone to stretch my senses, to experience all of that which Life has to offer and to discover ways of keeping that spark lit. I have allowed that spark to be extinguished once, and I suffered a complete breakdown. Never again will I permit my spirit to be dampened by another. Yet that agreement with myself comes with a comprehension that only I have the power to maintain, nourish and permit that spark to grow into a fire that pushes me into new experiences and out of comfortable complacency.

I cannot depend on any other to make me sense Life; others can only strengthen or discourage this power, depending on the positive or negative influence they exert over me.

I can give pages of examples of when my sixth sense has told me that somebody close was in grave danger, or has saved my life. Some stories I have to tell I may, one day, weave into a perhaps rather narcisstic short story collection. I can experience physical manifestations of pain and the great trials of my loved ones, those with whom I share a multi-leveled bond. In my musician days, I permitted that the music would enter my being and carry me; indeed I was not a master of technique but instead it was my ability to sense and learn to make others feel the music I could offer that made me a good musician.

I allowed my senses to empower me rather than to hold me back. Yet there is a certain degree of maturity and being open to learning new ways that must accompany this sensing. And I cannot speak for all here, as we are all following different paths, but the numbing of my senses through medication or a dictatorial brainwashing of right vs wrong that does not jive with my inner being creates in me conflict so great that I feel forced into hiding, away from that which I feel is a true danger to the good in my soul, to the marvelous and unique creation that I am.

If I inhibit, or allow the inhibition of, my power to sense, how will I be capable of feeling?

Trusting my senses guides me, most often than not, toward a path that I might not normally have taken. The free will of decision still exists, but that intuition exerts great influence over which steps I take next. This often is the fabled "road less traveled" so alluded to by Frost, but I have seen from an early age how that does, in fact, make all the difference.

*---*

In a combined thematic writing effort shared with The Quest for T and The Exception, this is the first theme put forth. I had so many thoughts I first typed, then deleted, then tried again. Some of those thoughts might come forth later--we shall see. This topic will be discussed throughout the week, I am sure, in posts and comments; for any parties interested in becoming involved or posting on this same topic, please link in so we all can derive the maximum benefit from each other's points of view.

my greatest teacher

I always knew that I wanted to be a teacher.

Constant example was perhaps key in this decision. My father was one of the best-known and well-respected teachers in the school district in which I was educated. I was thus raised with an awareness of the hours of behind-the-scenes work that teachers must employ to create magic in their classrooms, the exhaustion that follows a full day on your feet working to make that one lightbulb in the eyes of that student in the back corner desk to flicker on and to capture that child's attention, and the extras (the coaching, the extra-curricular activities) that all help to boost a teacher's salary so as to be able to financially raise a family, pay a mortgage, and live comfortably...on a meager teacher's salary.

I was thus raised with a high degree of respect, before I fully even understood the concept, for all my teachers and all they do--just for me.

I remember the names of each and every teacher of mine, and hold in my heart an enduring memory of each of them. Yet it was my father who was my first teacher. He taught me by example, not by endless lecture. He taught me of the qualities I would need to nurture in my soul to be able to be a truly great teacher, and that I can do anything I wanted, as long as my heart was in it. This lesson did not come through words; it came through a set example and implicit expectations.

Both my sister and I were pretty much straight-A students. I fell to one B+ in geometry Freshman year of high school one quarter, and that ruined my chances for any state school scholarships. Yet I was never chastized for grades; I was instead taught to take anything in which I may not have excelled and learn from it...indeed, often one learns more that way than through the mere memorization to be able to excel for the grade.

Cheating was unacceptable, and that was a question that would never cross my mind. Knowing that one of the class valedictorians, going off to Hahvahd in the fall was sitting with his jacket over his notebook page with calculus equations so he could move it with his foot and look made me lose all respect for him. It's not the school or the grades; it is the ethic you use to acquire the necessary information and apply it. Now, looking back, I feel bad for him--I know his mother put a huge amount of pressure on him to get the grade "or else". I know because she called me one night to complain to me about a B we had received on an Honors English project--so received as her darling son chose NOT to attend that class. I called the principal--evidently, so did she, and succeeded in getting his grade changed.

I have written on ethics in the educational workplace that do not jive with the simple ethic of teaching with which I was raised. It became increasingly difficult for me to mesh with an educational system that places higher priority on factors other than the ability to teach the students well.

Education has become an ego-driven profession, rather than one in operation for the best interests of the students. We see this now in so many ways:

Parents push for their students to be in the classes of those who teach for the test instead of those who teach--well, to teach. They fear that their child will be categorized as "stupid" if not in a GT program, or that they will not go to college if not pushed hard enough by grade 3. They forget that we all did just fine...without having an hour's worth of homework a night pushed on us until at least 5th or 6th grade, if not later.

Teachers feel the need to teach to the test for fear of losing funding, in *some* schools for a better salary as the teacher's salary and test scores are intertwined, for fear of parent fall-out when their children don't make the cut for GT programs, and for ensuring good student evaluations at the university level. The last parent night I attended left me disappointed at the highly defensive tone of my daughter's teacher; it was apparent to me that she felt need to defend her way of educating our children. I am in tune with my daughter and can see she is not only learning but also enjoying her experience, that couples education with a great emphasis on citizenship. Thus, I trust her teacher is doing a fine job.

When leaving the university two years ago, I was stunned that I had students who had the gall to say that they expected grades to be "given" if they complained loud enough. A close friend and colleague left Tulane for that same reason--this was a trustee's daughter who flunked and this professor was asked to "reevaluate" the grade. Evidently, these students have learned something from their parents...

Yet my father taught me that, when you love something enough, you will learn to capture your students and teach them in a way dictated through your passion. When he died, I had been teaching for almost ten years already, in some form or another. I didn't realize how many lives he had touched with his style, influence and humor until his funeral. The large church was filled with colleagues, recent students still in high school and even some of his very first students from 1967. He was lauded for his laughter and his ability to relate to the students at the junior high level--a true feat, learned from one who has taught middle school for three years. He was loved because he loved to teach.

Last night, my private student told me that he could always go find another Spanish class but that "you just don't find teachers like you." I am remembered and I am deeply honored when that occurs. I know people who are quitting their jobs, going back to school and earning their teaching certificates because they want to teach. That usually comes with a huge financial sacrifice. However, ask any teacher and s/he will tell you that we don't teach for the money, we teach for the love.

I can feel my father still guiding me in many steps I take daily. He taught me to ride a bike, to drive a stick and to not be afraid of the ball. He taught me to stand up and face consequences when I err, and to gracefully accept recognition when honored. I am blessed to have had my father as my greatest teacher, as were so many others with whom I shared my father.


Today is Blog Blast for Education. There is so much about which I could write. Instead, I ask that today you take a moment and think about the teacher who made the greatest impact on your life. And give thanks.