The Story of Scott and Baseball Camp

Gary told me that Scott wanted to go to baseball camp. I’d received a brochure from the YMCA that described various units of day camps over the summer, and baseball for his age group and presumably experience was available.

I signed him up. Eagerly. Summertime with it’s multiple days of either no structure or structure-I-have-to-create is not easy for me. Ever, but last summer was worse. This would be Scott's first experience with full-day day camp and I was looking forward to it like a cold drink after a hot workout.

I dropped him off on Monday and left after introducing him to his coach.

When I picked up up Monday afternoon and asked how his day had been he initially said fine. Yet as the afternoon wore on he was saying he didn’t want to go the next day. I told him that we had made a commitment and that he had to see it through. Inwardly my heart sunk at the prospect of the threat to the time away that I’d been waiting for all summer.

Tuesday morning he didn’t want to go. So when I dropped him I asked the coach if things were going ok with him because he’d expressed hesitation about returning. The coach said he thought he was doing ok; it was clear he was inexperienced and so he was keeping him in the least experienced group. He added though that by Thursday they were going to have the younger teams playing with the older and he wasn’t sure how Scott would do…

That afternoon at pickup Scott was saying he wished he could get sick so he didn’t have to go to camp. This was an unusually strong expression of reluctance: he’d expressed reluctance to go to school before, but never to the extent of wishing himself sick. The dilemma for me was that the next day, Wednesday, Connor was going to a friend’s, and so was going to be the first free day for me in weeks of summer vacation.

Reluctantly I concluded I may have to wait a little while and observe Scott’s camp. I tried to give myself an out, thinking if he didn’t express reluctance again I could feel ok about just leaving at next drop-off.

He expressed ‘reluctance’ again.

So I decided to hang out, ‘just a little while’ (maybe I could linger a half an hour and still have a nice chunk of alone time to look forward to.)
So I checked him in and the coach told him to get his glove and go play catch. Most of the kids were paired up in a long line and balls were flying back and forth. Scott took his pack over to the shade tree where the other children left theirs as the coach and I watched. It took him an inordinate amount of time to extricate his hat and glove from the bag and then it took even longer because he had to put them on first, and then he had to zip the pack completely closed. It was enough out of the ordinary, how long it took, that there was a sort of awkward feel. Then he walked toward the line of children tossing balls, and actually walked right through the flying balls to take his place at one side of the line. He wasn’t hit, but I was astounded that he’d shown such little self-preservation and the coach acknowledged this by kind of laughing. It was hard to get the flavor of that laugh: was it, “boy he was lucky”, or was it because it seemed funny by resembling something from a Charlie Chaplin movie? Was it a ‘god he’s stupid’ kind of laugh? Or, a ‘boy I sure didn’t expect him to do that’ kind of laugh? But I didn’t have time to contemplate the nuances of the laugh because I was watching Scott and my anxiety gauge was rising. Everyone was paired up and he was just standing there. He had an uncertain look on his face, a sort of smile, but his eyes squinted against the morning light. He didn’t know what to do and so just stood there holding his glove. His face looked so vulnerable and I felt compassion at his dilemma in the sharp ache of my heart. The coach busied himself with something else and appeared to not notice. We waited. We waited. Several minutes went by and they were agonizingly slow. I finally said, “He needs help to find a partner and include himself.” The coach immediately singled out one of the helpers, a high school or college kid sitting on the bench nearby and told her to go play catch with him. As she walked out to him I used that opportunity to throw a tennis ball for Riser, our golden retriever who was still alive then, while I continued to observe Scott.

The girl would toss the ball, and it would hit Scott in the face. He did not seem to be able to get his hands positioned quickly enough to catch the ball before it would hit him, and it always seemed to take him by surprise. The girl was not cruel at all and adjusted her style; moved closer to him, made sure his glove was positioned first, threw it more slowly. He still got hit in the face, and he was heartbreakingly brave about it. He didn’t cry, he didn’t yell in frustration, he just dutifully ran to try to find the ball so he could throw it back to her. I saw it hit him at least 3 times.

I realized that it was going to take longer than a half hour for me to evaluate this situation and I sat in the car and watched some more.

The time for catch concluded and now they were going to play some other game that involved wearing a colorful vest of some kind and running. He was given a vest and could not get it on. The other children ran around him and he tried and tried (and tried) to reposition it and get it on correctly. It was upside down, it was backward. There were helper coaches on the field and no one saw that he was struggling, and no one came to help him. I felt like there was a squeezing hand on my throat, and on my heart as I watched. The first round of the game concluded and he hadn’t played at all. The second round began, and this time he walked up to the coach and appeared to have asked for help. The coach bent down and repositioned it. He began to run with the children, but I don't think he knew the parameters of the game; he was just content to run around. I don’t know if I had been an outside observer with nothing at stake if he would have seemed to stick out from the group the way he appeared to to me. To me it appeared there was something that was below the verbal level that seemed to distinguish him from the group in a way that children can often zero in on cruelly. Like Jerzy Kozinski’s “The Painted Bird”.

There was a lull where it seemed a logical place for me to leave. As I drove off I could see that he was turned away from the group, eyes fixed on our car.

Again I couldn’t bring myself to go. I told myself I needed to observe some more, but this time be unobserved in my observing. I drove the car around the block and parked where he couldn’t see me and I had another vantage. At this point the kids had turned to baseball activities again and he was playing catch with the same helper he’d had before. He was off in a smaller group with children more his own age.

At least twice I saw him get hit. I could see that the helper was being encouraging and kind, and again I was heartbroken to see how bravely he endured being hit—how dutifully he’d search for the ball where it had fallen after it had hit him. And how patient he was. Furthermore, even though these were all children his age I could see that no one was struggling like him. And there was the oddity that I’ve since noticed and articulated about him in the classroom: these kids were all aligned along a magnetic field called ‘baseball’. They understood the overall bigger picture of what they were participating in. They ‘spoke’ baseball. Scott…did not. He wasn’t only not on the same page, he wasn’t even in the same book, or in any book at all.

And I realized that this was not the time to stress sticking with commitments and goals once they are made. It was a mistake to have signed him up for this class—whether it was a beginning level or not, he wasn’t part of the basic baseball ‘agreement’ and therefore this was too advanced for him. And it would be unconscionably cruel to keep him there for 7 hours each day til the end of the week.

He was very relieved to see me and I barely managed to keep myself from crying as I took him to the coach and explained that this wasn’t the right setting for him and I was going to remove him. The coach was very nice about it; suggested other possibilities, different summer camps.

A few months later I’d followed up on a suggestion by his kindergarten teacher to talk to his pediatrician since he ‘wasn’t settling down to class the way he ought to be at this stage.’ His dr. suggested an OT evaluation. At this appointment the OT saw that he was not tracking objects with his eyes. He could not follow an object if she moved it from one side of his face to the other. Even something desirable, like a gummi worm.

That explained the getting hit in the face. It’s the reason we’re in vision therapy now.

Months and months later he did not speak of his experience there, though he’d notice the ball field whenever our route took us by it. This last time we drove by he remarked again that he’d had baseball camp there, and this time added, “Baseball is stupid.” I said that he’d had a bad start, and no wonder since his eyes hadn’t been able to follow the ball and he’d gotten hit. Then, he revealed a little more. He said that other children had told him that his peanut butter and crackers he had for snack were ‘gross’ and they wouldn’t let him sit by them at lunch.

This has been six months, and only now am I learning this. Information just can’t be extracted from him directly. It’s like peripheral vision, where sometimes an object looked at directly ‘disappears’. It can only be perceived in the periphery.

This is what I had in mind when I was thinking of the ‘space between’ moments, where there is a whole other world of feeling and experience that is very real, but may never be available to share with another person. I’m sure his 7 hours those two days at baseball camp must have seemed eternal.

Worlds within worlds

We experience and engage the world so much on the basis of appearances. Surfaces appear to be solid; and the moments that make up experience seem to flow sequentially and present a seamless reality.

This was always confusing to me, because I sense a gap between each moment where you can fall into a whole other world. It's like those stories where someone drops into another dimension of experience and is there for years--has an entire lifetime there--and yet when they return to their original reality only a moment or two has passed.

I've been fascinated for a long time by how 'reality' can appear to be so solid, and yet is not.

Growing up in typical white ecumenical protestant communities (my father was in the military, but white suburbia was pretty uniform wherever we moved--sort of mirrors the McDonald's concept) church and Sunday school were obligatory rituals. I saw and heard expressions of reverence around me, bowed heads, a certain 'prayer language' (full of Thees and Thous and "O Lord we worship Thee"s), but it didn't match what I was experiencing underneath. What I experienced was a sort of revulsion to this spectacle of people saying they 'loved' God, when the feeling underneath was so dry. There was no vocabulary to articulate my experience to older people, to ask why what people were saying felt so very different from their words. There were no words to articulate the shades of feelings that shimmered like colors inside--and the contrast with the absolute lack of color in church. (For any of you with children, you've probably seen Ratatouille. There's a wonderful scene in the movie where Remy is attempting to acquaint his brother with an appreciation of the experience of good food. Colors are used as a metaphor to describe the subtle delights.) (It's a great movie, even if you don't have children, by the way.)

Since there was no vocabulary to discuss the discrepancy, and no environment that was conducive to creating such a vocabulary, I was forced to conclude that religious life was a joyless chore that people did because they should. And they 'loved' it because they should. And the extent to which one could conform and stay loyal was the extent by which his/her worth as a person was measured. Love was a matter of will power. Obedience to authority was proof. When I was about 11, I had to admit to myself that I did not love God. Admission of that made me feel horrible, and too ashamed to tell anyone.

I have a sensitivity to unseen suffering. There is something about the act of minimizing someone else's suffering because it is inconvenient that seems outrageously wrong. The term "Collateral Damage" comes to mind. An objective gained, and anyone or anything that is in between is 'a regrettable but necessary loss.' Maya Angelou put it devastatingly when she said, the needle gives way "because the camel can't; the child gives, because the body can, and the mind of the violator cannot." ( in I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings) Someone has decided that their own priorities take precedence, and has deemed that the price that is exacted from the other person is of no consequence.

I suppose in any situation of overpowering, however slight or however egregious, someone has decided that their own priorities take precedence over those of others. And, conveniently, the cost can be dismissed too, as is the realization that it is Others who are paying the price anyway. It's pretty easy to be casual about a price someone else pays.

I'm not quite sure where this post came from...

Back in the classroom

I remember how vulnerable I used to feel returning to a classroom after being away several days. I felt as if I'd gone to sleep and woke to a new world.

Billy's class is in the middle of a campaign. To illustrate participatory democracy a classroom project to elect a mascot commenced. Last week four characters were nominated. Today campaign posters were going to be made to extol the virtues and promises of the candidates.

I wonder if this would have had any meaning for Scott even if he had been in last week. It must have contributed to a sense of disorientation and isolation I think he feels anyway.

Four poster-sized sheets of paper were distributed. One group of children took the poster to a spot on the floor that also happens to be a walk-through. Scott was passing through the area.

Things just happen so fast, and conclusions are drawn so quickly. The children had let the paper slip to the floor, and the current of air it generated ruffled it. Scott was intrigued by this, as the edge floated over his shoes. He wiggled his feet to loft it up again. One boy spoke harshly: "Don't step on it!" and shoved him backward. Then he grabbed Scott's arm and moved him over to trade places and told Scott to 'go over there.'

Scott stared at him, with no hostility on his face. It seemed more like puzzlement. He gazed into Ben's eyes while Ben glared back at him. I walked over and asked Ben if he could find a nicer way to ask. Ben said, "He was stepping on the paper" and I said, "Then your request is, 'please don't step on the paper.' "

I'm looking at the incident as one of those exploded diagrams of machines that illustrate the anatomy and relationships of the whole and parts. I see that Scott was startled by the intensity of the response he'd received and he hadn't reacted to it in anger because he hadn't yet categorized it. He didn't know he had been disrespected. And with an open face he was looking to Ben for an explanation of what had just happened. Ben was all-too-ready to "tell" him: "You're stupid!" He didn't use those words, but there was contempt in his face. The way such a scenario usually unfolds is that child A's intentions are misunderstood, child B speaks sharply (and because child B is protective of his object his first response to a 'threat' is anger, and because he feels anger he assumes the other person is the source. If the other person is the source, then the other person must be wrong, bad, or "stupid." It seems very logical). Child A either 'gets it' that child B thinks he's stupid and gets angry back, or, if he's confused, waits for child B to 'explain'. Child B, still angry, does or says something to make the point clearer, that child B is defective. Child B internalizes this and may become angry in turn. It could come to blows. And it all happens so quickly. Trying to deconstruct it is like trying to separate baking soda and vinegar once the chemical reaction has begun

It occurs to me that there is a fulcrum point there where child A is defining the moment for child B as 'you're stupid and deserve me to talk to you like this.' Which means that on some level child B can accept this definition, or not. What typically happens is that child A's meaning is registered, and accepted, even as it is being angrily denied.

It seems such an obvious conclusion: if we're angry it's because someone else is the source. If we already assume someone is stupid, we're likely to perceive that they're being stupid again. We treat them that way, and their resentment for being treated that way predisposes them to act that way.

What I want to know is, is it possible to slow that moment down where one has the choice to internalize how an Other says we should define a situation? So instead of accepting and reacting to Ben's definition, can we instead say, 'wow, what's eating HIM? I'm not stupid, why is he talking to me this way?'

Too late I wonder if Scott was in a kind of limbo where his interpretation could have fallen in either direction--and by stepping in to correct Ben *I* actually pushed the definition to 'you were just disrespected'?

In lieu of doing the laundry

Gary took the boys to a matinee. This means the first bit of solitude I've had since last Sat. Waste it on laundry? Oh no.

I sensed a major grudging vibe from Gary when they were funneling out the door. Now that Scott is better I think he's forgotten that the effects of the week would still be very much with me. I suppose it would mollify him if I was to do the laundry while they were gone.

I might be willing to do some laundry if my ipod was working. My ipod is not working because Gary disconnected it (by just unplugging it, not ejecting it) while it was syncing the podcast I was planning to listen to. I like to download Diane Rehm's talk show--she has the best analysis of any news program I've come upon yet. When I can't listen to the regular news during the week (say, having a sick child) her domestic and international "News Roundups" every Friday help me feel filled in.

I have a problem with listening to the news as broadcast on the radio anyway. I wonder if it's like the blind-spot that exists in the visual system. There's one in my attentional system too: sometimes when I'm trying to pay attention my very effort distracts me from what I'm listening to and I miss something. It seems like it's usually something crucial to the point of the segment too. With the ipod I can at least replay a section I missed when a child called, or my mind did some associative journeys ("Ramallah, that sounds like Allah which reminds me of Karen Armstrong's book on the biography of God which reminds me of the book my father mentioned by Robert Spencer called 'Muhammed: Founder of the World's Most Intolerant Religion'--guess that's a clue as to the nature of the book, eh?--and now Karen Armstrong is considered to be an 'apologist' for Islam so that nullifies her scholarly status? Wait a minute--what were they just saying?"). Chores don't feel like such a waste of time if I can at least be feeding my mind at the same time.

Scott's ped and I re-thought the plan to delay antibiotics. I went and picked them up Thursday afternoon and yesterday he was skipping.

During his sickness I was reflecting on the fact that not that long ago any illness was a legitimate cause for alarm; any sickness held the real threat of taking someone away.

Teri Gross interviewed a man a week or so ago: Bart Ehrmann. His latest book is called "God's Problem" and it's about the perplexing mystery of the presence of suffering in the world. It was his inability to reconcile it that caused him to leave his born-again Christian faith.

The presence of suffering is the mirror thrust into my face when I consider whether or not the world is a 'safe' or 'dangerous' place. There's a part of me that shrinks inside when I take joy in the 'miracle' of finding an alternative setting for schooling Scott.

It reminds me of a sort of prayer fad some years ago, where the prevailing wisdom was that "God wants you to be happy", and so don't be ashamed to pray for that new car..." Then the voice that scoffed, and really couldn't be dismissed: "You're praying for a car? You're thinking God will get you a car? Do you think the millions of people herded into concentration camps didn't pray for deliverance?"

I suppose the bottom line of that voice is that it's crazy-naive to consider that Life in an intentional way can offer an individual miracles. The voice says with suffering at such a massive scale that it's the ultimate in egocentrism to think that if I can hold a vision in mind (for example, where I want to be and what I want life to look like once this process regarding Gary and marriage and employment and education has moved) that I can trust that the universe will shape itself in such a way to make that a logical outcome.

So the voice does at least 2 things: one is to ridicule me for daring to consider the world a 'safe' place. One is to accuse me of self-centeredness. Another is to attempt to 'prove' to me logically that it's absurd to consider the world safe. So the ultimate function of that voice is to convince me that the world isn't safe and I can't live in trust in it. Is this the same 'voice' that informs those in decision-making places that we must waterboard prisoners to keep us 'safe'? That justifies the domestic spying program, and indeed there are many who say, 'take away my civil liberties; just keep me (and mine) safe.'

It causes me to wonder if this is a sort of primal schism that manifests itself in the organization we see in humans today: authoritarian vs libertarian? Or maybe both poles are about safety and the fundamental disagreement is about how to go about it? Authoritarians seek to preserve safety by doing things the ways that have always been done (stressing obedience to principles that have worked) and libertarians seek safety in innovation and independence of thought?

Do I have to be convinced that the world is 'safe' first in order to come to the midpoint which acknowledges that it is both safe, and unsafe? Intellectually of course I know it, but I think my emotional orientation has tilted toward 'unsafe'. Is coming to that midpoint from a place where more than my intellect, but the rest of me is on board--is that akin to eating of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil?

Day 5

When Scott spiked an even higher temp yesterday afternoon, on day 4, I took him to the ped. She found the source; a secondary infection in his right ear. Told me her philosophy regarding 70% of ear infections healing on their own and the dilemmas of antibiotic over-prescription. Said she'd write me a script and if he still had a fever Friday to go ahead and fill it and treat.

Gary objects. He wants Scott treated NOW: "I'm old-school." ('Old-school' is what my poor friend got subjected to when she came to visit over the Thanksgiving break. 'Old-school' means that any question of his conduct is answered with: "She should have been with her husband." It appears that 'Old-school' means you drive a car according to the way conditions should be, not the way they are.)

Scott's cough, if anything seems worse. He was running a temperature this morning despite having had ibuprofen at 3 a.m. {Me, up, doing the legwork, getting medication and water; Gary directing operations from the bed: 'Get the new congestion medicine' (I've already opened it), 'What about the ibuprofen?' ("I'm going to take his temperature first") 'Where's the water bottle?'--"Would you QUIT"}

I'm second-guessing my decision to have not started antibiotics right away. Could I have spared him this? Is it advisable to wait until tomorrow after all?

And Connor persists in the fantasy that Scott is 'lucky'. No school!

Day 4 or why I hate kids

Back up to last week where I made an agreement with Connor: we can adjust his bedtime from 8:30 to 9:00 if he can demonstrate that he's handling it well: that is, no adverse changes to his overall mood. With a little more discussion we adjusted 9:00 to 9:30 meaning his teeth are brushed by 9 and he can read in bed til 9:30.

The experiment seems to be going well; his mood is good and he's getting his work done for school.

Last night Scott's temperature spiked again so I resigned myself to no school today either.

He woke me early this morning with coughing. Got him a drink of water and some cough medicine, nearly asleep when I heard some noise downstairs. I got up to investigate and found Connor at the TV, preparing to play a video game. 5 a.m. "Back to bed!" "But Mo-o-o-om! Why!" Fortunately it was a rhetorical question and he didn't wait for an answer because my mind was turning: "Why not? Is there really any harm that can come from it?" Video games at 5 am seem wrong in the way that cola in the morning seems wrong, but is there a rational basis for that? "But I'm awake now!" he wailed. "Then read a book". Why should reading a book at 5 am be better than video games?

I go back to sleep with this uneasy dilemma. I got up to find him at the computer around 7:15. He said, "I got up at 5:30." As I walk past the dining room table I see that the Spanish homework I'd insisted he finish last night was in fact unfinished. There was a section with phrases that were scrambled that he was to decode in Spanish, and then their English translation. He clearly had not read the instructions and had merely written the scrambled word on the line--this on the few lines he'd completed. "Connor! You haven't finished this." Voice getting shrill for a 10 year old boy: "I can't do it! I don't know how! It's impossible!" In the meantime I've reasoned that the phrases are probably just scrambled versions of the translations he'd already written above--and I was able to confirm that fairly quickly. So I pointed this out to him and he's still loudly claiming that he can't do it. Scott's sleeping in the adjoining room and I really want him to stay asleep. I'm trying to compose an email for a friend. Connor bitterly complaining. I'm annoyed that he is not even attempting to push his mind forward a bit to meet this challenge and I say, "I don't even speak Spanish and I could figure it out."

He hates me. He wishes I was dead. He wishes he was dead. He wishes he didn't have to take Spanish. I've humiliated him and now he's angry. And now I'm compounding it by telling him that this is evidence the later bedtime isn't working: because he doesn't have the reserves to cope with his frustration. NOW I've made him mad by telling him he's stupid because he couldn't figure out his exercise when I could, and then when he gets mad I threaten to take something away from him.

He's done a pretty good job of describing a negative feedback cycle, except he's missing the seed kernel at the hub: he hadn't fulfilled his homework obligation. I ask him what would have happened had I walked past the table and saw that his homework was complete: Nothing, we wouldn't be having this conversation. Now he's a 'hobo', he's a 'loser' and I don't love him and never did. I like Scott better, and he's too depressed to go to school and can he have a day off? NO? "Scott gets to stay home and have a good time, and all I get to do is go to school and do homework and SLEEP!" He starts 'coughing'. Says he feels weak. I take his temperature. He reads it. "What's it say?" "100". "Let me see it." "I turned it off". "Turn it back on and take it again and this time let me read it." 98.2. He wishes he was sick.

And so on until I could kiss the bus driver, run out in my ratty pajamas and dirty hair and KISS him I'm so grateful he's taking this monster away.

I return to my email. Moments later Scott comes roaring out of the bedroom. Flings himself into the too-tight chair with me. "I had a bad dream!" "It sounds like a doozie." "I had a little brother, and he wouldn't BEHAVE. He wasn't following the hot-tub rules. He put his head underwater. He dumped his drink and his ice in it! AND YOU DIDN'T CARE!!!" Punctuated by hitting me. Yeah, I'm accountable for my behavior in his dreams, too.

I am a little stymied about the personal responsibility teaching moment though. It's as clear to Connor that the morning conflict was generated by me as it is clear to me that his troubles were ultimately self-generated: he hadn't done his homework. To point this out to him garners a blank stare as if I'd just told him that 2 + 2= 5. Or results in claims that I've 'rubbed it in', I've "made" him mad, and he's a total failure as a human being. I suppose there's a place in his development that's incomplete: where he can separate his worth as a person from the recognition that his actions and inactions have consequences. And that being called to account is not the same as being denigrated. And it's futile to try to lecture or shame that realization into him. Still, when I'm face to face with such a situation I feel like he's telling me that 2 + 2=5, and he really believes it.

Funny, there are a lot of adults who never get it either.

Ah, that's why I love to complain. If I do it right, really name the elements of my discomfort, I find the humor. And I don't hate kids nearly so much.

There should be a patron saint for complainers.

The awkward stage of childhood sickness...

At every time of the usual childhood sicknesses there comes this stage: not well enough to send back to school; not sick enough to be docile and bed-bound (read, "undemanding").

Also not sick enough to convince Connor who is in a snit about it being unfair that Scott is home and why can't he, Connor, have a day off too? (And I'll bet he's sniffing out anyone with symptoms at school to zero in on and hoover up some germs so he can too have the pleasure of illness.)

Several days of fever-depression have to be made up for and the chatterbox is wound very tight. "How much does that cost? What does it weigh? I want Optimus Prime for my birthday. Get me a transformer toy."

I bought a little time by having the foresight last night to ask Gary to pick up a couple movies for today.

What to do with this gifted time besides anxiously watch it slip away? Catch up online with some fascinating news segments that were obscured by kid voices when I was listening to them earlier on the radio? Do the checkbook (subtracting this month's sunk expenses, how much of a margin do we have left til next payday?)?

I really want to write, but it's hard to let go and do some satisfying drilling down when I'm waiting for the other shoe of interruption to drop.

I'm still smiling...

I dropped by Maddy's site for a little visit, and to my complete delight saw that she had mentioned me and my blog. And had given me the 'Banana Award for Blog Yumminess'. So, thank you again, Maddy. That's made my last several days a little more buoyant. And I'll display it proudly.

I've needed some buoyancy with Scott coming down with the latest affliction going 'round: some sort of high fever-juicy-congestioned-cough-like-mad malady. That was Saturday afternoon when it hit and his fever was still up tonight. So we're probably looking at a visit to the dr tomorrow if he's not looking a little better in the morning. This one has knocked the starch right out of him. Our usual rule this year is I've kept him home for a fever or diarrhea and right after the bus goes by he's entirely vigorous, energetic, and expecting entertainment. Not this time.

I've been making a little headway on the open-mind project though. I'm a little over halfway through Norman Podhoretz's book: "World War IV/The Long Struggle Against Islamofascism". I found a good quote today by Susan Jacoby, a fierce advocate for secularism in American political culture. A few years back she wrote a book called "Freethinkers", which challenged the assertion that the founding fathers of the US intended this nation to be a Christian nation (at least in the sense that the Jerry Falwells and Pat Robertsons would have us believe). She was distressed to find that the people who came to hear her talk were all in agreement with her already. She lamented the absence of people with an opposing viewpoint coming to hear her out: "To see whether or not the devil has horns."

Podhoretz, on the other hand is blatantly preaching to the converted. He is not attempting to persuade anyone who doesn't agree with him already--he's already assumed a shared starting point that dismisses any disagreement as 'hating America'. He reminds me of a used car salesman who clinches a sale by steering his customer past any flaws so they don't have a chance to look more closely. For that reason his horns don't seem that sharp. I just don't feel that he's transparently analyzing facts and drawing sound conclusions.

What's true is that since this book was written in the fall of 2006 his ilk has largely been removed from places of influence within the Bush administration.

It is interesting to study them though, those far out on the right wing.

Healing is a two-way gift

"I read your blog, and you surely have a lot going on with Scott. I'm sorry it has taken this turn, but I was thinking last night in bed that things like this make life much simpler. It's kind of like breastfeeding. My child needs me. Everything else stops. Everything else falls away. My child needs me. It's like a call that rises above all the other swirling voices in your head. There is nothing to do but answer it. A zen-like, now moment. My child needs me." (My friend Kristin)

"Spirit has a way of setting up conditions that must be responded to..." ? (A quote from Sharon, my mentor and therapist--but I can't remember the rest of it. I suppose it had to do with--what, a new phase of growth, perhaps?)

I think that one of the aims of therapy is to reclaim my disowned and True Self. This involves healing the rift torn when I had to lie about what was true in order to placate the environment I was dependent upon.

Another goal is to catch on to the ways I've participated in the illusion that the world is an unsafe place, and begin to create safety, and beauty.

A corollary of that is to wake up to a world that holds magic, and miracles. A world that I can trust...that I can trust that miracles are being worked and the question is "how" will the miracle come...not if (I will get what I need/want).

When I found Billy's class I thought the miracle had indeed come--that I'd found a place where Scott's needs were met without seriously sacrificing mine. Happily ever after.

Then reality reveals that Scott's needs aren't perfectly wrapped up and disposed of. Over a period of several weeks it's clear that if he is going to thrive, then more of me is going to be required, even in the more nurturing environment of this school.

So then I question miracles and whether trust in them is an illusion, or worse, a delusion. Maybe it's just whistling in the dark. And what of the question that goes way beyond me and my little world? Where was a miracle for all those forced into the most horrific of circumstances in World War II? Millions of people are suffering excruciatingly right now, in this world. Where is their miracle? where was Suzy's miracle? Why do we live in a world where innocence and vulnerability suffer the cruelties of the worst of adults?

Perhaps, suggests Sharon, this situation where I must either respond to Scott's needs or turn a blind eye to them is a place where I either participate in the world being 'unsafe', or create safety. Perhaps it also represents an opportunity of movement beyond the place where I needed at least 7 hours a day to myself. Perhaps that's not what I need in order to do my work now. Perhaps some of this work on myself is now being worked out in being this Presence for Scott. I've needed seven hours a day to work on healing myself; the next phase of healing is to provide for Scott what was not available for me: a loving and intimate voice, navigating with him through the details of a classroom environment. I suppose this is the sort of Presence that we humans have needed and lacked: in our cells we have been very alone and tried to manage as best we could. Some of us better than others. We needed and deserved a loving parental voice, deep inside our very cells, to sustain us and teach us to sustain ourselves in times of stress. Most of us had parents who weren't in tune enough with their own deeper selves to be able to provide that support to us. Even loving parents. Of course, some parents were overtly cruel.

So in a way, providing this Voice for Scott is also providing It for me. In love filling this space inside him, I am filled too. So the reality is, he is also giving me a Gift.

This is a way I create Safety for Scott, and for myself also.

So it's very interesting to reflect back to the image of the dream I had when I returned to therapy with Sharon a little over a year ago. This was the dream where he'd fallen into a stream and was being swept toward the ocean. I was annoyed with him in the dream, before he fell in and I was further annoyed at the prospect that I might need to get wet when I didn't want to. In the dream I'm poised above, paralyzed by the choice of jumping in after him, or running along the top and meeting him where he washes out.

I see that I made my choice. Before I've realized it, I see I jumped in with him some time ago.

Cheating? or Reprieve?

For whatever reason I didn't tell Scott that I would be staying for a while each morning in the classroom. I don't know exactly what stayed my tongue; some sort of caution I guess. That and the general distraction that kept me from thinking through it, and the forgetfulness about bringing it up.

I was planning to talk to him about it on the drive over and got distracted by an interview with the chairman of the American Conservative Union about John McCain. WOW--they really think like that? Hearing the litany of what they distrust in McCain reveals much about them.

It wasn't until we were on the sidewalk heading in to the building that I started a little to talk to him, but didn't quite get there because he didn't seem to be taking it in. I started with telling him that there are times his behavior in the classroom isn't appropriate for the classroom because it disturbs the learning of other children; I told him that he needs to have someone with him in class to teach him when it's ok to be noisy and talk, and when it's time to control himself. I hadn't gotten to the part about my planning to stay that day. When we walked into the room one of the children greeted us with :"We're going swimming today!"

EeeeeeeeeeeeK!

Well, we weren't the only ones without swimsuits, but I'll bet we live the furthest away. Fortunately they don't go until 12:30 so I had time to run back to the house and get it. I arrived at 9:05; it'll take 1/2 hour to get back, and I hadn't told Scott I was going to stay. So how diligent should I be about getting the suit and heading right back?

And, would it be best (for me) to take my reprieve right now and arrive with the suit shortly before they leave for the pool? That would buy me a couple hours now, but would put an interruption right in the middle. Or should I leave now with the suit, tell Billy that I'll start the classroom aide thing tomorrow and be back home around 10:30--therefore having a larger chunk of undisturbed time?

Geez, I jump through a lot of hoops for the sake of this time. I still haven't figured out how to get the inner sensation of the benefit of lots-of-time in the absence of lots of time.

A (fragile) quiet moment

It's Sunday, and timeis unstructured. This always leaves me with a feeling of unease: I'm troubled by thinking there are things I should be doing; that I'd planned on doing during the week, and now I can't remember. I prefer to be writing anyway.

One of the more difficult things that I still haven't adjusted to about parenting is the being interrupted. I tend to love forward momentum in a seamless whole--start at my choosing, not pause until I choose to finish. Having children has completely violated that need--and the problem is the need hasn't gone away, even though (unless they're in school) it's been rendered completely unrealistic.

So when we're all home much of what I choose to do has a provisional feel to it. I live with the threat of interruption at any random moment. So there's a part of me that's keeping alert for that inevitable call for direct intervention in something.

Here's how I strategize: if the boys are otherwise occupied, that's when I do something that can involve sitting still: writing, reading, researching (and expecting to be interrupted). If I'm in the middle of cooking, housework, whatever, I stop the second they become occupied and grab my book. When they are with me needing my engagement I do chores. I figure, why waste a quiet moment with chores? I'm always alert for these openings.

Still, they are like quick sips of air, not luxury. I just can't let down to do some serious thinking or writing. Luxury is when they're in school. So I'm a little sad every time I feel my familiar anticipation that tomorrow's a school day, and then remember that I'm going to be staying in the classroom for a couple hours. Since it's about a half hour commute to and from the school, the window I'm left with is pretty small (as I already whined about ad nauseum).

Writing this down a couple things come to mind: 'Geez, why'd she even have kids?' And a bit of shame at my 'strategy'--reserving my chores for when they're occupying themselves with me is hardly 'being here now' with them. And they deserve my full presence--

Uh oh. Tears and shouts. I'm being interrupted.

More consideration

I moaned about a miracle, about my miracle being undercut (the miracle of finding the school, and the boats). The fact is, though, that Scott’s needs are what they are. And they may require more than 2 hours a day of my presence in a classroom to keep him oriented. It may require more than me being there the entire day every day. But ‘miracle’ doesn’t mean that my child doesn’t have needs, or doesn’t have needs that inconvenience me. But in making the adjustment to meet his needs, I need to find a way to meet mine. What is it about big chunks of time that I need—is there some essence of it that doesn’t require big chunks of time to get? What need does big chunks of time satisfy, and what other avenues are there for giving the same sensation of satisfaction?

Perhaps the miracle is that I have the opportunity to meet his need in a way that means he won’t be burdened with reverberations—secondary damage--when he’s older. Perhaps the miracle is that this school, this classroom are available—that the best place to be supported while he grows through this is this school. And it’s free…we could not afford to pay for private school or tutoring. Perhaps the miracle is that I do have the resources (time) to devote to it.

It seems to resolve the question about my returning to my profession right now. I won’t be doing that for a while. It also resolves the question about leaving Gary right now, I think. Something pretty special would have to open up for leaving Gary to be possible under these circumstances.

It’s not very nice to question a miracle while it’s in process. Maybe realizing that can help me be a more receptive kindee.

Aw heck, life just shrunk again

More evidence that Finding My Soul's True Purpose isn't a Happily Ever After, or an exemption from some of the disappointments inherent in life.

Billy talked long and earnestly with me about Scott yesterday at pick up. The gist is that Scott isn't 'getting' the context of classroom. He doesn't share the same set of assumptions that most children are in harmony with by now in school. He doesn't 'speak school'. Billy recommends further evaluation, possibly an IEP specifically for attention issues, and further involvement of special education.

At the time we were talking it seemed that what was called for was to increase my presence in the classroom, since Scott has done fairly well on the two days I've volunteered. Now I wonder if I prematurely jumped to that conclusion, since I'd been harboring it as a fear: that one afternoon a week wasn't going to be sufficient. It's done, though: I've committed myself to staying for 2 hours every morning when I drop him off. I asked if maybe their special education person could just observe and evaluate for now and serve as a consult for me. I want to carefully consider if there is a downside to getting a 'learning disabled' label--if benefits outweigh drawbacks I'll go with the label.

I'm still harboring a hope that what's needed for Scott isn't so much 'services', but maybe guidance in crossing a threshold the other kids are doing more automatically: negotiating the transition to being a member of a learning community. He's not doing it on his own, and maybe he needs a more present and intimate guide to help bridge this gap. A classroom teacher just can't do this--or maybe could if there was a classroom size of 4-5 children.

So I'm going to try to be that Guide, and see if a more hands-on orienting presence might be a stop-gap while he is figuring out his own self-regulation. I can lend him my self-regulation while he's developing his.

Sigh. The personal cost to me is large...it seems I've been ceding territory a bit at a time. Several weeks ago I wrote about the agony of choices where it seemed that something dear was going to need to be sacrificed. It's clear to me that it's not going to be Scott.

So how does this fit in to the miracle? The elegant solution that seemed like it had met all of the immediate needs without sacrificing any? Does this diminish it? I've gone from 7 hours a day (on the days they have school--it seems this school system has a day off every other week between the long vacations) of solitude (with the exception of volunteering several hours on Wed) to 5 and a half three times a week and 2 and a half on Fridays. NOW it's down to 3 hours 4 days a week, 2 and a half on Fridays. Is the 'miracle' that instead of having a major amputation all at once, I've instead gotten whittlings? A chance to get used to it between whacks?

The resource of time now needs to be rationed and divided up between competing interests: blogging, journaling, transcribing old journals, reading, and trying to keep current with the news. I've chosen blogging right now over showering. Now I'm back to feeling like I'm choosing among my various children (all of this said with awareness that a lot of women in the world would experience having these choices as luxury). This latest adjustment is deep enough to hurt.

One thing I do have in exchange for this time is less anxiety about Scott. Though it looks like he may indeed having learning issues, I think this is a learning environment that will actually help him, not compound his issues. It's also a classroom that I can stand to think of spending 8 hours (or more????) a week in--it would have been unbearable at the other school. This is a very different atmosphere; I don't feel on edge at Trillium.

Back to the perfect position to be a 'kindee'. Which, as I've complained before, is not a comfortable place to be.

Considering anxiety

One of the gifts of raising children is an opportunity to learn what we are trying to teach them. This morning on npr I heard part of a segment about children's play and how its character has changed, and potential consequences of this.

It seems that a basic common denominator of learning, the substrate, is an ability to self-regulate. I think of it as the ability to sustain oneself while waiting through uncertainty. In watching children interact in a variety of settings, and especially with each other I'm able to see when that ability is lacking. I get a sense inside that this ability is what is needed.

I looked up 'anxiety' on answers.com just before beginning this. Over my life I have visited this theme a number of times. Answers.com suggests that it is anxiety that makes us uniquely human.

I'm wondering if we're born with it as a sort of life force; sort of a by-product of having a nervous system...(bwahahaha--guess my system is 'nervous'). The way I experience it is as a call to action--and a drive to know. I suppose to know if something is safe or not. Perhaps 'safety' is a commodity that appears at all levels of the psyche; perhaps we experience it on some levels as 'getting what we want.' I suppose that uncertainty at any level, from will-mommy-come-to-get-me-when-I'm-hungry, to not knowing how to categorize something, to not knowing what the future holds--at any level I think uncertainty spurs a 'potentially unsafe' alert. One way of relieving uncertainty is to have what you want. Now. NOW.

I suppose that just about anything can be threatened; our self-esteem, an idea, a world-view, our way of life, our lives.

One of the difficult things I've found about being around children is the demand to relieve uncertainty. NOW. I suppose part of it is because theirs resonates with mine. So I experience even a ghost of it, and it's uncomfortable, and that's if it doesn't provoke a full-blown case of it in me.

Remembering this scenario: Playdate. Preschool children, parents. A toy that has been lying off to the side undisturbed for the duration suddenly catches one child's interest. Like an electrical pulse suddenly the other children become magnetized to it too. Some child gets to it first. Perhaps as the mother of the first child that headed toward it (and got there too late) part of me inside is suddenly on alert--feeling the pinpricks of my child's heartbreak at being denied tugging on me. Other parents' anxiety levels rising too: will there be a fight? Will my child have a chance to play with it before it's time to leave? Will my child be forced to surrender it prematurely?

Through some transmutation, this toy that has been completely neutral now becomes a heart's desire. Furthermore, the awareness that this is an object of desire for other children suddenly makes it that much more precious to the child holding it. (In my heart while feeling anxiety for my child, I'm also aware that it is a fatal mistake to indicate interest in the object. I can see that my child, and other children, lack the ability to sustain themselves through the pain of uncertainty: "will I get it? Will I be able to have it as long as I want?" Therefore they are helpless before their impulse to ask, plead, demand--thereby putting off the moment when they can get it. Which may make them even more frantic.) I can see that they merely add fuel to the fire of the possessor's desire to hang on; if they could wait a bit the possessor most likely will lose interest in the object and turn to another toy. I also see that the child who can tolerate the uncertainty seems to fare the best emotionally in that case.

It's interesting to watch a roomful of unbridled acquisitiveness. It's more interesting to watch how parents manage their own ambitions for their children (including me). How high do we jump when anxiety pricks? I find myself surreptitiously watching the child...is she about to put it down and if she does will my son be in position to get it? Feeling the impulse to steer him in that direction, then embarrassed that I'm strategizing getting a few moments of play with a coveted object for my son. Realizing the moment is past anyway. He no longer wants it.

And I'm also realizing the ability to sustain myself while waiting calmly inside is a skill that would behoove me to get better at.

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Revisiting "The Road", or Who IS That Guy?

Earlier in this blog I described one aspect of my experience of a book called "The Road" by Cormac McCarthy. It's the story of a man shielding, protecting, and nurturing his son in the aftermath of some sort of holocaust, probably nuclear. What was raising its hand back in November when I read it was the conundrum of choosing/not-choosing. Choice as a dilemma became alive for me.

Sharon illuminated a larger field by suggesting that there is a new Self, mine, being born into the world. There's a part of me that is debating whether or not to kill It now, to prevent Its suffering in the world. A world, by the way, I see as bleak, perverse, malicious. She proposed the question I've been asking myself since, "Is the world a safe place, or is it a hostile place?"

Reflecting back on the 'stages' referred to on the northwest therapy project website, the notion of birth is compelling. The whole idea of being birthed from the old and familiar and into the new applies to the various stages.

And who are these Guardians at the Thresholds?

And why, lately, am I so acutely aware of the suffering in the world? The prospect of suffering physically at the hands of others horrifies me. The thought of people just living their lives and then events and circumstances overtaking them so they're forced to make horrible choices: between suffering themselves, or allowing someone else to suffer in their stead--that makes me shudder. I feel acutely aware that the stability that we enjoy in the United States may be more fragile than we think--our well-being dependent on the availability of cheap oil and power, abundant resources.

I've been haunted, in my dreams and fears, by a Shadow, a man. I encountered him directly, a year ago. It was precipitated by a realization of the lack of love between my husband and me. I had an experience of total desolation. It was the experience of an abandoned child, alone and at the mercy of a malignancy. Years ago a man kidnapped and killed three children in two separate incidences. The first 2 were brothers. He described in detail what he did in his diary, and he took pictures.

There was a time when I would have liked to 'do' 'weird': things like astral-projection, visions, out-of-body experiences. Time convinced me that I'm not mystical material and that I cannot suspend my disbelief. So it was extremely unusual for me to have an experience like that--it shook me to the core. Alone in my house I experienced myself as one of those children, crying and begging for my life and longing so much for my parents and not understanding why they weren't there. And I also became the parent of one of those children. For me the horror rested in knowing how terrible-alone my child would have felt. And the question would be, knowing that such a record exists in the world, of the death of my child ...I would need to see it, and perhaps in some retroactive way, be there for my child. That somehow it would be wrong to turn away from my child's suffering. But could I... writing this I'm crying and feeling a ghost of the experience a year ago where I cried like my heart was breaking and touched this alone place in my Soul.

Who is this Shadow? Is he a Guardian? Is he a personification of the mercilessness, sadistic, violence that human beings have shown over and over again that they're capable of? I don't think he's a Guardian--Guardians may be fearsome but I don't think they're profane.

Perhaps this all represents a debate inside that's been raging for a year--or longer. Is it best to stay 'unborn' where it's 'safe', or to be birthed into a world that appears to be...bleak, perverse, sinister?

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Needing Orientation

Sometimes there's just a need to pull back perspective a bit, and try to get an idea where you are in the larger scheme of things. I was feeling this need in regard to the therapy I'm doing. Its formal name is Archetypal Pattern Analysis.

So I googled it and came up with a site for therapies available in the Pacific Northwest: http://www.nwtherapynetwork.com/about_therapy.html It's a pretty nice summary of what's available out there; uses a case study of one person's shyness to exemplify the approach of each type of therapies.

Here is the summary I found:

Archetypal Pattern Analysis:

All who want to reclaim their true identity and find their soul's purpose must undertake a deep journey.
There are specific archetypal stages in this transformational journey. These stages are not linear. They can be fluid, overlapping and sometimes fold back on themselves. The step between each stage is a choice to remain where one is comfortable or to open to an new, larger complexity in life.

The Ten Stages of the Journey of Archetypal Pattern Analysis.

• Hearing the Call To Transformation The individual is embedded in an ordinary world which is usually static but unstable and is called into a ‘special world’. The call itself establishes the goal of the special world.
  
  
• Wrestling With the Call and Accepting or Refusing The journeyer grapples with the call and their own openness to change. There are individuals who jump at the call and there are those who are more reluctant and sense the Guardians of The Threshold.
  
  
• Crossing The First Threshold This is a commitment to go forward and enter the special world. One agrees to really face the problem inherent in your specific call. This stage includes a decision that the truth of your own being is more important than aligning with your ego's idea of life. This inspires a stronger, deeper commitment to the journey.
  
  
• Allowing Oneself to be Mentored The energy of the mentor’s wisdom is called forth from crossing the first threshold. It becomes a patterning force that carries one through the journey. This unfolds into a deep vulnerability and allowing oneself to be known.
  
  
• Facing Tests, Obstacles, Allies and Enemies, Both Inner And Outer There is an encountering of new challenges, tests and learning the rules of the special world. You encounter the limitations of your own persona and shadow and cultural and family imprinting.
  
  
• Surrender and Commitment There is a deepening into a commitment to going forward, realizing you cannot go back.
  
  
• Wrestling Here a series of obstacles and challenges surface, and the individual is asked to face deep fears and defenses. It is an experience of finding your way through the eye of the needle. This is done to strengthen the individual in preparation for the final ordeal ahead.
  
  
• Surrender & Receiving Gifts A new level of commitment to the journey is attained as the Journeyer is poised on the crest of facing the great challenge of the final ordeal. This Stage includes commitment to the Self in the face of de-embedding from one’s old system. Gifts are given to be able to continue the journey, such as insight into limitations, complexes, and blocks to an open system. There is also optimism, excitement and magic as one experiences Archetypal Pattern Analysis succeeding and the awe of the psyche’s power, knowledge and guidance.
  
  
• Final Ordeal Contacting the Self releases large obstructing forces. Deep patterns surface, followed by claustrophobic fears and attempts to evacuate anxiety. The birthing process of the final ordeal comes in many forms, such as facing death, a personal sacrifice, horrendous villains, a crisis of the heart, individuation, finding one’s authority and facing one’s greatest fears.
  
  
• Returning with the Gift and Sharing The transformed individual integrates the experience of the final ordeal and the mentoring force and is now able to gift their community with this integration.
  Their life is now navigated by their soul's purpose.

OK. That was very helpful.

My cousin...(you know who you are)...

...to whom I owe the impetus to launch this blog 'tagged' me, last week, or maybe even longer ago. I am still so innocent about the workings of blogs and blogger society that I'm not sure what to do.

First, have I committed a faux pas by having not 'played' yet; that is listed a number of quirks about myself and then tagged a number of other bloggers (see, I can't even do *that* right. Duh, I forgot...). Should I have said something to her on her blog, offered an explanation? But where? In reply to her latest posting, in which case it probably wouldn't have anything to do with the content of that post? Back on the one where she tagged me, but that one's so old by now she's probably no longer checking it for replies. E-mail her privately? I'm probably thinking wa-a-ay too much.

I wanted to explain my 'problem', which is that I don't have too many blogs I visit on a frequent if not regular basis. One of them is my cousin's (weebleswobblog.blogspot.com) (I recommend it, by the way). She tagged me; I guess I can't really turn around and tag her back. Of two others I visit, oh make it 3, these are people who know me in the real world. Not intimately, but enough to make me feel a little uncomfortable about what they might be reading.

So, I can go fishing. And I did do some of this. One is a blog an e-pal of mine linked me to: a British ex-pat with 2 autistic sons and a grown daughter. She recommended a number of other blogs to go to, which I did. In fact, I'd like to go to more of them but I keep getting interrupted. I see there's a dance in the blogging world: I post, but I also visit and read. So I see that there's a commitment. (by the way, I will recommend this woman's blog, but I think I'll ask her first.)

Though I've been reassured that it's ok to tag someone (by way of self-introduction), I can't get past this feeling that I need to 'get to know them' a little more first.

The cool thing is that I sense this is leading me down a fruitful avenue. Something about visiting these other blogs heightens my feelings of getting 'warmer' in terms of deepening my own writing. So, thanks, Cuz, for opening a way. And, how about you tag me a little farther ahead in the future? I'd like to play, I just need a little more time to get ready.

Learning plan

For some reason I keep wanting to write "lesson" plan, which really is very different from "learning plan".

The worst I feared happening was receiving confirmation from Billy that Scott was not bringing with him to the classroom the most basic-of-basic foundation of readiness to learn. And if that was true, then what? I suppose the implications I dreaded consist of these strands:

1) the possibility that school really HAD done more damage then good, and it was going to take an exhausting effort to undo--and that's my fault too because if I'd have volunteered in the classroom last year I'd have seen sooner that this was wrong for him and I'd have acted sooner 2) the specter raised again of homeschooling 3) more evidence that Something's Wrong--is it our marriage that's having such an adverse effect, and how can I convince Gary of that: or is there something beyond immaturity in Scott? 4) prospect of having made a Big Mistake in moving him from his other school (especially since he'd been crying and saying he wanted to go to the other school) 5) prospect of having been deceived by my powerful sense that the other school wasn't meeting his needs, and my strongly positive feeling about Trillium: CAN I trust that the Universe is 'conspiring' to help me to meet everyone's needs? Or is all the work I've been doing with Sharon bullshit? 6) the prospect that the way I've been raising him is totally misguided and I'm shielding myself from responsibility by blaming the school; that I'm 'in denial'.

While waiting for Friday and the meeting I was cowering, bracing myself to hear the worst. I was in tears within the first 5 minutes.

And I suppose I should have taken a clue from the fact that this meeting was intended to include Scott, and to set up a learning plan. An Individual Learning Plan, which each child in the classroom has. It's a plan for each quarter of the school year, goals that the child hopes to reach, a listing of interests, passions. The thrust of the conversation wasn't that Scott didn't belong in the classroom; it was how best to match his learning plan with his style of learning. I'm not sure how much of a true participant Scott was, because I think it was too abstract for him, but he did say that he'd like to build an eyeball (like the model in the optometrist's office). He also is fascinated with the lofts in the classroom and wants to build one. So, those are his goals.

Billy noted that Scott seems to need to engage objects tactilely and that this is part of his learning style. A friend (you know who you are! ;D ) pointed out to me that tactile learning is a distinct and recognized style of learning. At her suggestion I googled 'tactile learning' and found a list of traits that describe Scott very accurately. I see that he was a tactile-learning child with a teacher who teaches to a visual and auditory learning style. I could see that the behaviors that produced reprimands in such a classroom (and an overall tone of disapproval) are part of the very foundation of who he is. Since the standard of behavior for Billy's classroom is friendly for children who aren't auditory/visual learners, hopefully he'll be able to reverse the bad start he got since being himself is not something that will be frowned on here.

But, he cried again this morning when I left him. He said he preferred getting on the bus, because that wasn't sad for him. But it is sad for him that we separate in the classroom. We've got to find a way to work around that.

P.S.

The other 'project' I'd signed onto was to investigate "Gorelick's Wall". If I'm understanding correctly, the memorandum that's been given that name had the purpose of raising a standard for information sharing within the FBI--not between the FBI and the CIA. The FBI has an intelligence-gathering branch, as well as its criminal investigatory branch. To successfully prosecute a criminal case, the procedures have to be carefully followed. Any appearance that evidence in a criminal case had been influenced by information from the intelligence-gathering branch could result in a case's dismissal. Thus the raising of the standard to prevent the appearance of misconduct.

I was listening to an interview with Phillip Shenon, a reporter who covered the 9-11 Commission investigating the terror attacks. After the Commission concluded he continued to follow them and did further research that resulted in a book: "The Commission: The Uncensored History of the 9/11 Investigation. He said that John Ashcroft, then attorney general of the United States was expecting to be questioned rather harshly by the commission and so declassified Gorelick's memo. His purpose was to claim that her policy had so hampered communication between the law enforcement agencies they could not function effectively--to deflect any question of inaction or indifference on his part. He also cast doubt on Gorelick's membership on the commission, whether or not she had a conflict of interest.

The entire bipartison Commission, according to Shenon unanimously stood behind Gorelick.

I feel fairly satisfied that the issue of Gorelick's Wall is smoke and mirrors.

I haven't forgotten about my project

The one I signed onto publicly, in this blog. To challenge my basic stance in this world.

I've spent quite a bit of the last year musing about the nature of authority, and authoritarians. Authoritarians aren't necessarily those who wield power; some are submissive and loyal to it.

Authoritarians stake a claim on 'Rightness'--that they represent and are champions of 'the Right Way'. This "right way" is the ability to adhere to a certain code and tradition that is imposed from the outside. To the extent that one is unable to conform, one is Wrong. Will power is the strength to maintain conformity to the Right Way and is considered a measure of one's moral character.

I dutifully did my best to conform. And to all appearances I was doing a pretty good job of it. I was compliant, obedient. I was a born again Christian. But slowly over the years grew in me a novel idea (for me): a notion that Authority instead of being imposed from without could organically grow from within. That the notion of authority-imposed could be replaced with a kind of responsive awareness. For years I assumed that was the 'devil' attempting to lure me away from the Right Way and I redoubled my efforts to be loyal to the Code.

Nationalism is a key feature of the Code. A sort of aggressive nationalism which assumes that we Americans somehow carry a legitimacy as a people that others don't possess and thus we can exempt ourselves from standards we hold other peoples to; that we have a 'mission' that is God-given and increases our legitimacy. We are told to 'love' our country. To question the practices of the powerful in this country resembles disloyalty and therefore is considered disloyal.

Podhoretz's book (World War IV/The Long Struggle Against Islamofascism) is grounded firmly in this kind of nationalism. It has an internal logic that's convincing from it's own internal viewpoint.

To attempt to balance this somewhat, or at least place nationalism in a larger context I'm also reading "America Right or Wrong/An Anatomy of American Nationalism" by Anatol Lieven. He points out that nearly every nation has seen itself as somehow exceptional, and as having a mission. National identity was a characteristic of old-world imperial Europe and particularly of conservative elements of those socieities. He posits that having endured the destruction and devastation of WWII many of these older countries have tempered their nationalism somewhat, having experienced first-hand the end result.

So the project proceeds, but slowly. I interrupt it periodically with the books I'm reading for my book reading group. February's is "Any Human Heart" by William Boyd.