Harriet Watson's "So, You're a Teacher?"

With an engineer’s precision, my dad performs the one handed shuffle with our gin rummy cards. He doesn’t look at the cards or at me as he asks question he already knows the answers to. "You’ve ruled out mechanical engineering?" I wonder if he regrets giving me his ancient prized slide rule for a high school graduation present. ""Electrical engineering?" The cards continue to fly into his cupped hand—shush, shush, shush. I’m his fifth child and last hope to follow in his large footsteps. He begins to deal the cards and I realize he’s reluctantly accepted my career choice—""At least be a sanitation engineer!" My dad is the first and most important person I’ve disappointed by becoming a teacher, but not the last. At an all-class high school reunion several years into my brilliant career, I am pleased to share the hotel banquet table with my favorite biology teacher. Nancy not only shared her enthusiasm for her subject, but took us on numerous rips to lakes, snowy mountains, and wild shorelines, and into the undeveloped areas around the school to explore with the neighborhood "Euell Gibbons", an elderly man who knew all about the edible and medicinal local flora. Nancy hasn’t changed much in the 15 years since I’ve seen her—curly brown hair making a halo round her face only just beginning to show silver highlights, wire-rimmed glasses still the same. Nancy pushes fruit salad around her plate with her fork and looks curiously around the room, tables full of 20-, 30- and 40-somethings. "I can’t believe so many of you became teachers. Couldn’t you find anything important or interesting to do with your lives?" I can’t believe she thinks her work, helping young people learn about the world around them and how to live in it, wasn’t interesting or important. Nancy turns to the redheaded woman next to her, whose career choice she approves of—traveling saleswoman for Kodak film. During my life as a teacher, I’ve encountered other attitudes. Although my dad would consider me a "glorified babysitter," I knew at least he was concerned about my financial security, not just my intellectual stimulation. People who think I only need to be a step ahead of my kindergarten students really concern and (sometimes) amuse me. Who would think that someone with the mental capacities and academic skills of a six year old could teach five year olds? Alicia, who because of learning disabilities, accepts the judgment of others that she is not "smart," and her community college advisor who suggests that Alicia could teach kindergarten but couldn’t stay ahead of first graders. My mother-in-law, and my sister’s mother in-law, who hope the two of us may some day be smart enough to teach eighth grade. The school secretary, who says "I can’t find a credentialed substitute for you, or any one who has experience with kids, but I do have a man with two masters degrees and an emergency credential—he should be able to handle it." (After one day in the classroom, he begs to be taken off the sub list.) "Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach." The natural history museum director doesn’t believe this. She leaps around the corner of her desk to embrace me. "You’re hired! I don’t care if your degree isn’t in the sciences. You can teach kids!" Soon I am teaching a class on meteorology. I bring in a teakettle, bowls, ice cubes, slides of snowflakes, paper, scissors and a cardboard carton of other things to demonstrate weather concepts. My students—four and five year olds and the new director of our local National Weather Institute Marine Station, Dr. Martin—add their own moves to our circular rain cycle dance, share their cut paper snowflakes with each other, and chatter excitedly about how we formed clouds right inside the museum. When class is over, the students collect their new meteorological stuff. Dr. Martin looks like he wishes he could explain his clear plastic cup water cycle to his mom and dad, too. He can’t stop grinning. "I can’t believe little kids can understand this stuff! I never would have thought of any of these activities." I think maybe he will call his mom and dad. Otis, my 11-year-old nephew, who currently aspires to be a poet-artist-musician-famous architect, thinks those who can’t, should find a good teacher to help them learn how. He calls his mom in to see his favorite thing on television—a commercial. "Mom, it’s the one where that dad is trying to get his son to pick a job that will help the world, like a doctor. His son says he wants to be a teacher and if there were no teachers, where would doctors come from." Otis sighs with satisfaction, believing that he can create his life and his teachers will help him. I think about all my experiences teaching, the day-to-day challenges of helping students solve problems, the conversations that happen about learning, all the discoveries made about the world and myself, my own attitudes about teaching. I know from conversations that my dad had with his friends before he died, bragging about his children, that he actually could see that as a teacher, I was engineering young minds. Those who can, teach others to do. That’s an interesting and important job, and one I’m proud to do.

Marci Zeppegno's "Hooked"

"Don't cast your line from the dock," my dad instructed my sister and me. Lisa and I stood on the narrow wooden platform awaiting instructions on how to attach the worm to our hooks.

This was our first lesson in our family summer trip to Packer Lake and more lessons were about to unfold. My mom relaxed in a lounge chair reading a Stephen King novel. Her curly hair was hidden under a wide-brimmed hat embroidered with flowers. She glanced over to us now and again with a cautious eye, wondering how our hook preparation was going. She occasionally would forewarn us, "Now be careful girls." and add, "Mike are you watching to make sure they are doing it right?" His reply was always, "Don't worry Kath, I have it under control."

Lisa was a confident and strong willed thirteen year old. Standing with one hand on her hip, she peered down into the white bucket of worms. Lisa boldly grabbed a worm and I watched as it slithered and squirmed through her small hand. I could only imagine how slimy and gooey that worm must have felt to her. She held the top of her hook that had piercing sharp barbed edges up and down the backside of it. The worm constricted, blood pulsed through its body as it hit the pointed hook.

"Remember not to cast your line from here," my dad reminded us again. "We will need to find a more open space to do it." He then turned to help me with my worm. I let my dad push the worm onto my hook because I did not want to be the one to inflict pain on this helpless creature. When we were all equipped with our worms, my dad walked to the edge of the dock and peered out onto the bank of the lake to see the best place to try out our beginning fishing skills.

As his back was turned, I watched as my sister, standing three feet in front of me, lift her pole up into the air above her head and flick the line in a swift, fluid motion. The fishing line flung back in a circular direction. I stood unable to move. Within seconds I could feel the invasive barbed hook sink into the top of my left forearm. I stared down at the hook shocked that I was caught just like that poor helpless worm. I wondered in that moment what had happened to the worm. Did it fly off the hook as Lisa cast her line? Instantly I heard my dad yelling, "What the hell did you do? I told you not to cast your line from here!" My sister's face was like a deer caught in the headlights. She knew she had made a mistake and there was no way of turning back to make it better.

My mom, hearing all the commotion, hurried over to see what had happened. Her voice was calm, saying, "Don't worry, it will be OK," but I could tell from her wide eyes and wrinkled forehead that she was as shocked and concerned as Lisa and I were.

My dad ran to get a pair of pliers from his tackle box. He first cut the fishing line and then told me to hold my arm still. I held my arm out as he pinched the top of the hook with his pliers. To take the focus away from my arm, I looked over at Lisa. Were those tears welling in her eyes? I looked away, her pain being more unbearable than this hook in my arm. My dad gave the hook a slight tug. My arm began to throb like a beating pulse. The barbed edges had clamped into my skin leaving it impossible to remove without tearing out a layer of flesh. "Mike let go! You’re hurting her!" my mom exclaimed. "We are going to have to take her to the doctor." He gently released the pliers and agreed that I was in need of medical attention.

My dad asked a nearby fisherman where the nearest doctor was. He told him that the closest clinic was north of Packer Lake about two and a half hours away. We had no other option but to load up into our red VW van and make our way along the winding cliffs to the clinic. I sat next to Lisa who was consumed with guilt for having caught her own sister. She uneasily glanced over at me from time to time not having the words to express her regret for what had happened. I remember feeling more sorry for her than I did for my own arm.

My mom kept turning back and asking me "How does your arm feel now?" Each question drew more attention to the fact that I had this sharp object embedded in my skin. Surprisingly, I felt little pain; it could have been a combination of shock and a numbness sensation that spread through my arm.

After being in the van for over two hours, we finally arrived. I thought we were in the wrong place because the building looked like an old run down cottage. Yellow paint was chipping off the walls and tall weeds were overtaking the walkway to the door. I thought to myself, 'is this going to be any better than a pair of pliers?' A young man dressed in jeans and a blue and red plaid shirt stood behind the front counter. My mom told him we needed to see a doctor. The man replied, "Well you have come to the right place, what can I do for you?" My mom pointed to my arm. A gentle smile crossed his face and he said, "Wow someone has caught a big fish!" I smiled back as my sister looked to the floor in absolute embarrassment. The doctor put me in a small room and I sat down on a cold metal chair. My heart started beating faster when I saw him pick up a needle filled with clear liquid. The white cotton ball of alcohol over took my senses as he dabbed it around the hook. He said, "I am going to give you a shot of Novocain in your arm to numb the pain." I held my breath and once again felt a piercing sharp object enter my skin next to the hook. The doctor then cut the hook in two, removed each piece with a pair of pliers, and placed a band-aid over the now small hole in my arm.

I can still hear my dad telling us to not cast our lines from the dock. I can see the barbed hook stuck in my arm. But most of all I remember the remorse that spread across Lisa's face when she realized what she had on the end of her line.

Terri Verkler's "Nine Months"

"Here, pull over here!" I roared at my husband as we approached a gas station. Only an hour had passed since our last stop but my bladder could care less. I jumped, well actually I struggled to pull myself out of the car. It was a delicate process. First I had to attain some leverage by angling my body out the door while grabbing hold of the seat back and dashboard. Then with a few forceful heaves I could make it into a standing position.

Between the weight of the baby hanging from my front and the weight of my increasingly large rear end, you would think that my body would reach a balance. As I took my first staggering steps out of the car any one observing this spectacle would quickly see that balance was not a characteristic I held. Step by step, I waddled across the hot asphalt covered parking lot of the gas station to the dingy, side bathroom. I was not looking forward to this.

Rounding the corner of the gas station, I was disheartened to see a line of half a dozen women in front of the restroom. Their perspiration soaked hairlines and shifting stances told me they had

been waiting there for a while.

A woman, my mom's age, at the front of the line waved me to the front.

"Oh honey, here. You go ahead."

"Are you sure? I'm all right," I replied awkwardly. This had never happened to me before.

As I looked down the line of women, they all shook their heads, encouraging me to go first.

"We've been there," A woman said with a knowing smile. "You need to go more than we do."

This was really my first experience as a publicly acknowledged pregnant woman. Up until this point, depending on my clothing choice, I was in that awkward stage where people were not sure if I was pregnant or just chunky around the middle.

Now, my pregnancy, my body was part of a larger public experience. People, both male and female, acknowledged my state and I am amazed at the openness they have shown.

This has been most evident with women. Women that I have just met or barely know will tell me intimate details about their birth experiences. I have never been a part of a group of women that so openly discuss their vaginas and uteruses. It took some getting used to. Now it does not surprise me to have women unknown to me walk up to me and describe their labor pains, episiotomies, and breast feeding experiences. In fact I relish these experiences as part of some larger female collective.

During the school year, a fellow teacher shared story after story with me about her pregnancy. We hadn't been particularly close, in fact I hardly knew her. She began checking in with me daily and I really enjoyed this new relationship. I wonder now, if I hadn't been pregnant, would we have become friends? She shared her stories of a tough pregnancy including heartburn, high blood pressure, and weekly ultrasounds.

One day in the teacher's lounge before school started she asked me if I needed a breast pump. I hadn't even thought of it. I'd never even seen a breast pump before.

"Ah... Ya, I guess. That would be great," I stammered.

She began a vivid demonstration of the how the breast pump worked and what it was like. She was loud and highly animated and not at all shy about belting out the directions for attaching the nursing pump to each nipple. She even demonstrated with an imaginary pump over her blouse. I was looking around embarrassed to be having this vivid discussion in such a public place. Teachers and aides were walking in and out of the room making copies, putting their lunches in the refrigerator, and checking their mail boxes.

"Sometimes, if you take the pump off too early the milk just comes out and will shoot right across the room." She demonstrated this by pointing from her breast in the direction the milk would shoot. I could hardly believe it. I had a hard time digesting that my body would soon be experiencing this abundance of fluids. At times uncomfortable, I value these frank discussions. How else would I know what I was in for?

Grocery shopping has become a new adventure. Now I only shop while pushing a cart, that is ever since one of the women stocking shelves shared with me the dangers I could be inflicting on my body by lugging around a basket that you carried in your hands.

"Oh, honey! You know you really should get used to using a cart," she advised me while I was looking at the shampoo selections. "Really, let me go get you one." She was gone before I could protest or thank her for her thoughtfulness.

"You know I just couldn't help it. You could really hurt your back. Or strain yourself," she said as she returned with a cart and carefully loaded my groceries into it. She was so sincere. I thanked her and moved on.

After waiting in line, I carefully unloaded my cart onto the conveyer belt that fed the groceries into the hands of the cashier. I watched as each item was scanned and accounted for. Before I could reach for the paper bags to start packing, I was shocked to see the cashier reach for a bag and actually begin packing my groceries for me, a rarity in the natural foods stores.

In the parking lot a man approached me and asked if he could take my cart. I assumed he was going to use it. I looked back and noticed that he didn't use it but simply put it away for me. He just wanted to save me from having to walk across the parking lot. After years of shopping at the same natural foods store, it is now a different experience for me as a pregnant woman.

In addition to these experiences with strangers friends that I have known for years try to protect me from environmental hazards and dangers. I actually have people who offer to come over and scrub my bathroom walls or paint my bedroom. I'm no longer surprised to have friends block me from picking something up and lift it themselves. They apologize and pat my belly when they use profanity around me, as if my 34 week old fetus can understand them. They form a human cocoon around me, impervious to harmful substances and I love them for it.

People show that they care in different ways. While some people show their concern by packing my groceries or telling me birth stories others resort to criticism. I have gotten used to the caring, heartfelt concern of others, but the ongoing public scrutiny of my life is unwelcome and often hurtful. I get the evil eye from people when a six pack of beer is seen in my shopping cart (for my husband, of course!). Loved family members who were so supportive in the beginning question our decisions about diapering, bottle feeding, housing, transportation, and the list goes on.

On Mother's Day, my mother-in-law announced that she had heard a new study about breast feeding on the news. She proudly announced to everyone that babies who are breast fed have a higher I.Q. level than those who are bottle fed. My sister-in-law happily agreed, having raised her two children without a bottle. I was astounded. They all knew that after six weeks of maternity leave my baby would indeed be bottle fed part of the time. Did she mean to say that we were bound to have a less than brilliant child? Was this a personal attack? What did she mean? I, of course, took it as a direct encroachment on my choices for raising my baby.

Off-handed comments like this have led me to listen to advice and "research" with special protective filters. I will do what I believe is the right thing. The input comes from all directions, and I have realized that I am not just carrying my child but their grandchild, niece/nephew, cousin, or great-grandchild and I better get it right.

The shared moments with other women, the public concern for myself and my unborn baby, the criticisms, all have shaped this incredibly unique experience for me as a pregnant woman. Had I not been pregnant, I would not have come to know the many layers of this stage in my life as a woman, a pregnant woman, a mom.

Mauro Staiano's "Confessions"

The mass-murder of the crusades and the Spanish Inquisition, the persecution of Galileo and other scientists, and Pope Pius XII’s willingness to turn a blind eye during the Holocaust. Huge stores of priceless artifacts stolen from the Egyptians and hoarded in the Vatican vaults, covetously kept by the Catholic church even in times of crisis, despite its primacy in the world’s poorest countries. Years and years of corruption and greed, popes vying with emperors for supreme power, selling indulgences, committing and covering up crimes hundreds of years before the current sexual abuse scandal. When you look at the list, a partial one at that, it is easy to see just why there are so many former Catholics out there.

Martin Luther had gotten this message by 1517 when he tacked his "95 Thesis" to the church door and began a split that resulted in his own wing of Christianity, a wing he humbly named Lutheranism. Who can blame him? The baggage attached to being Catholic is certainly weighty. The years after Luther’s bold move have given us a myriad Christian offshoots, some even offshoots of Luther’s own creation. And though the basic tenets are similar, non-Catholic Christians are quick to point out that Evangelical, or Protestant, or Baptist, or whatever splinter-group of Christianity they belong to is NOT Catholicism and they should not be in any way associated with those culpable Catholics. The Unitarians with their short, innocuous history, married ministers, and generally untroubled ministry must be feeling particularly smug as the Catholic Church reels from its latest scandal.

Yet not all disillusioned Catholics flee to the welcoming arms of a non-Catholic congregation. Probably since the time of Christ himself, there have existed "lapsed" Catholics, overwhelmingly common in Catholic communities today. Much of the Roman-Catholic side of my family falls into this category. The lapsed Catholic still claims to be Catholic when asked, but rarely if ever attends mass. These "Seasonal Catholics," notorious for their attendance at mass only on major feast days like Christmas and Easter, often assuage their guilt by giving generously to the offering plate. My father’s contributions always took the form of an impressive check slipped into an envelope once a year at midnight mass. Lapsed Catholics often complain about the church, pointing to their liberal views on abortion and contraception or their conservative views on the death penalty as evidence that the church is behind the times and should change. And yet they do not leave it entirely. Perhaps because they are so near the unquestioning belief of other Catholics (often their parents as in the case of my father and uncles), or maybe because they recognize the fallibility of all organized religion, they remain Catholics.

There are still others, and I count myself among them, who have forsaken the church altogether. We are the "recovering" Catholics. How exactly did I become a recovering Catholic? It certainly is not like becoming a recovering alcoholic. My fall from grace was not precipitated by a deterioration of my social and family life, academic failure, debilitating relapses, or fits of rage. There were no twelve step programs or Catholics Anonymous meetings. In fact, my withdrawal from the church began gradually, almost imperceptibly, before I was ten.

I have pleasant memories of Sunday school, catechism classes and even of church services from my childhood. My eager face among many, turned toward the priest telling bible stories at the alter, struggling with sleep at the rare pleasure of church at midnight with the promise of presents afterwards, playing Joseph in the Christmas play… A bit later, I still recall enjoying church and looking forward to classes, but the images mostly involve girls: the brunette with the long lashes who played Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer in our ever so pagan Christmas play one year, the red-headed, freckle-splashed twins in confirmation class, the beautiful blond rich girl who always seemed to sit three rows up and to the right. The irony here is that while I can rustle up many memories like these, most are simply memorable moments in a child’s life. There are no instances of religious ecstasy in my past. The clearest recollections I have of church involve my butt protesting silently against the hard wooden pews of the Carmel Mission. Surrounded by hundreds of year old adobe, religious artifacts, and pungent gardens, I methodically scanned the rows for a cute girl to stare at or someone fat or ugly or strange to ridicule later with my brother who was equally preoccupied. After church we’d walk through the mission museum which shared the lives of benevolent friars who, devout despite sleeping in five by five cells on hardwood pallets, ministered to grateful Indians. But not even their shining example could raise in me some sort of religious sentiment.

This lack of sincerity in fact seemed to permeate my youthful religious experience. Thursday nights without fail I convinced my father to spend his evening shuttling me back and forth to the youth pastor’s little house near campus for youth group. Though we still attended mass fairly regularly at this point, my father was not so concerned with my immortal soul that he easily sacrificed his evening. So I usually suffered through two silent fifteen minute car rides, one there and one back, wrung from my father so I could spend an evening of devotion with my peers. We read the bible, even memorized parts, played together, prayed together. Of course there were girls there, lots of them, and they respected us for our piety. I remember little of the religious instruction that went on there. Instead I remember that often the girls who chastely held our hands during discussions of celibacy, often later held our hands less chastely at keg parties or even spent meaningful moments communing with us in the back of the family van.

My confirmation classes also somehow lacked religious significance. These classes leading up to the most solemn of early Catholic rites often seemed nothing more than some sort of Catholic-themed meat market. The classes which were supposed to prepare me for the day I would confirm my faith and permanently accept Catholicism as my religion, in a year introduced me to several crushes and at least one girlfriend. Yet somehow, despite my preference for girls over God, I was still in class on the day of confirmation. I even got to choose a name for the occasion: Anthony, after Saint Anthony, though I still don’t know what Anthony is the saint of or what he did to deserve such grace. The priest carefully conveyed the solemnity of the rite and made clear we should not accept confirmation if our faith was unsure. And yet, each and every one of my fellow students and I, doubting Thomases all, took that solemn vow and claimed our shiny new names before a church full of beaming family and friends. Two years later, my brother facing the same choice, made the honest one and decided not to be confirmed because he did not believe. And though this was exactly what they asked of us, his choice caused a furor at home and in class. As both sides pressured him to go through with the ceremony, their hypocritical message became abundantly clear to both of us: observance of tradition and form outweigh true belief. This realization was perhaps my first conscious step away from the church.

This same empty faith echoed through the halls of the Catholic boys junior high and high school I attended. Guided as it was largely by celibate Christian Brothers teaching classes like Marriage and Family and underpaid, non-credentialed teachers, my academic and moral education suffered. Those six years, however, were far from devoid of learning. From Brother Lefevre, an elfin little man in possession either of a wicked sense of humor or a dangerous sadistic bent, I learned that adults, even "holy" men can be jerks. He liked to creep up behind an off-task student with a needleless syringe of water. Waiting for the appropriate moment, he would tap the offending student on the shoulder, and, as the student turned expectantly, shoot water into their open, unprotected eyes. Here was an upstanding man of God we could all emulate and did. In government, we learned through extensive year long trials that Billy’s flatulence could indeed peel the puke green paint from the back wall. In chemistry, I carefully determined just how hot to heat a penny on the Bunsen burner before it would stick fast to the linoleum. Biology offered the opportunity to study the eating habits of the teacher. When we had determined her favorite candy, my friends and I would stealthily slip it into our loose, Catholic school slacks on our lunchtime Safeway run. Fifth period we watched gleefully as mousy Ms. Chandler unknowingly sinned eating the stolen sweets gave her as gifts. And in religion class, each of us was the architect of our own service which our fellows were forced to attend. Showing a flair for bullshit even as a tenth grader, my mass centered around the Metallica song "Fade to Black." As my friends scrunched on the carpet of the small dark chapel suppressing giggles, I intoned somberly on the subject of teen suicide. In my hands, the heaviest of heavy metal bands spoke for tormented teens unable to reach out for God’s help. With an A on that project I began to glimpse the great catholic tradition of rationalizing. Clearly if a 15 year old boy with no interest in religion to speak of could make Metallica seem pious, imagine what adults versed in thousands of years of religious history could do. Repeatedly, my school experiences reinforced what I had learned from my brother’s confirmation experience. What goes on behind the scenes is unimportant. What matters is what’s on the surface.

By the time I left for college, from Sunday school to catechism to youth group to Catholic school, I had been immersed in Catholicism for 18 years. Yet when I finally struck out on my own, I did not seek out a church to join, a religious community to embrace. No, I went cold turkey, though not consciously. Maybe because I had finally started paying attention and actually doing my reading, academia lifted a veil from my sight. The texts in my undergraduate history showed me a history I had never known. Sociology and psychology provided insights into human behavior. Literature offered alternative lifestyles and beliefs and warnings to the church from hundreds of years ago, ignored then as they are now. Against this backdrop the Catholic church’s many mortal sins began to unfold. I began to see a link between my own disinterest and the church’s history of oppression. The same church that fostered the crusades and followed popes of dubious moral character and belief, fostered my own indiscretions and accepted my own lukewarm faith. In two thousand years, the church had not changed.

When I met and became friends with Christians, some of them Catholic, I began to combine my new knowledge with 15 years of Catholic school and bible study (I was surprised how much had actually stuck). Jennifer and I spent many hours in her car, windows steamed from our hot breath, the car rocking not from youthful frolicking, but with verbal combat. Evening after evening she argued the case against homosexuality, premarital sex, and birth control, defending her church dogmatically, always trying, I think, to save me. I had only begun to grasp the origins of my disillusionment, and, though I didn’t know it at the time, these battles, first with Jennifer, later with anyone who would pick up the other end of the rope, even the Jehovah’s Witnesses who came to my door, were outward signs of inner struggle. I wanted desperately to best these people in a battle of wits, to take their faith, Christian, Catholic, whatever, and grind it slowly under my boot heels.

Over time, and with reflection, my attitude has softened. I no longer engage in bouts of religious wrestling. Believe what you want as long as it does not infringe on my right to believe what I want is my motto. I will not join the Catholic Church and most organized religions in their biggest fault: an unfailing belief in their own truth. I cannot believe that most of the world is going to hell simply because they have chosen the "wrong" faith out of so many seemingly similar faiths on offer. So I have not gone back to the church, any church.

Yet much like an alcoholic will always be an alcoholic, I will always be a Catholic, though a "recovering" Catholic. The issues affecting the church I grew up with still weigh upon me, though presumably not as much as they weigh upon Catholics who have not renounced their faith, and I cannot ignore them. I cannot attribute the Catholic Church’s faults to history and another time and place, cannot swallow official apologies offered a hundred years after the fact, do not understand the Pope’s unwillingness to address overpopulation and the AIDS crisis by lifting the ban on contraception. I will no longer accept a male-only priesthood or the persecution of homosexuals, sweeping it under the rug with mumbled comments about how the church is simply behind the times, slow to change. Ironically, I could accept the sexual abuse scandal. After all, the numbers are not any worse than those of the general population. While the crime is reprehensible, it is not one that breeds only in the church. But the church’s fault is clear: a failure to address the issue honestly. The ponderous Catholic bureaucracy has again proven incapable of prompt decisive action. So as lapsed Catholics everywhere pull the bandages from festering, guilt-induced stigmata, we recovering Catholics publicly celebrate our Pyrrhic victory, tempering our own guilt by loudly criticizing our former church.

Patricia Raleigh's "Weather"

This is not autoethnography in the traditional sense. Instead I have attempted to do two things: 1) share several important elements/events that helped form the basis of my personal cultural heritage and character development, and 2) have a good time completing this assignment. I found the best way for me to accomplish these objectives was to write you a short story.

Here there were one hundred shades of green the color gray and rain always rain and again rain and then again more rain coming. Here when the children played in the back yard digging holes to China they couldn’t because three inches down they'd hit water. Here worn out towels were turned into discarded cleaning rags, saved and then hung up by the backdoor to wipe off the dog. And here when the neighbors cat left its own yard to come into your's it, squatted stiffly because here small animals often suffered from arthritis and expensive ultimately incurealbe upper respiratory distress. Here where wool was worn and wood was burnt year round the people smelt damp because they couldn’t prevent it.

"Get some air down there," yelled Marlene. "Get some heat down there, don't be putting no jackets in that back room closet. There's no air down there. You kids open that door and get some air in, you want to be raising mildew?"

Oak and madrone burn slow. Hardwoods. Pine is for kindling. Pine pitch snaps and runs in the fire. Daddy Joe used to chew it. He'd pull it right off the kindling, right while making a fire. He'd stick it in his mouth and chew it. "Give us a kiss Marlene," he'd say. "Hell, Marlene it's just a little kiss."

When they got below half a cord, Marlene would get worried. She'd come down the hall and open the door. She'd let in some air. She'd let in some heat. And in the light of day she'd go to that room and move those jackets around looking for mildew.

Now while it was true that Marlene could and would go down the hall into her kids closet no child ever went into Marlene and Daddy Joe's room. "Off limits," said Joe. "Every grown man needs his space," said Joe.

"Not fair," some child whined. "Mama comes into our room."

"I pay the bills here," Joe said. "When you pay the bills you can go any where you like"

Daddy Joe worked hard. He worked in the mill pulling green chain, sometimes setting choke but mostly pulling chain. One month he got lucky and set choke for two weeks running, counting over time. That's when he bought the new T.V. set, just for the adults. It came from Sears. A small colored one. It fit on the shelf above Marlene’s dresser. He put it up there so as after dinner, after the dishes, Marlene could lie on top of the bed, relax and watch in comfort. Joe was a good man and he tried to show Marlene that when he could afford to do so. He'd bought her a new quilted bedspread from Sears the same time he got the T.V. set. After all a fellow never knew when he'd be getting more overtime.

At first Marlene had a hard time relaxing with the new T.V. "What about the kids Joe?" she'd said. "It don't seem right to me."

"Hell, Marlene don’t worry about the kids,"' Joe said. "They can just watch the old one in the front room. Besides what you going to do about that damn dog? Invite him in too? You know how he piles on top of them, thinks he's a damn human and what'll that do to your new spread? The old sets got a bigger screen anyway. You want that damn dog up here Marlene?"

When Daddy Joe plugged in the new set something in the trailer house snapped and crackled, a bit like pitch on the fire. The sound on the big set stopped dead. The picture held true but the sound stopped dead.

"Well, that's just a fine deal," said Marlene. "You all know I can't be having that damn dog setting up here half the night, not on this new bedspread."

"Hell," said Joe. "I sure ain't going to buy another T.V."

"I didn't think so," said Marlene.

"Relax," said Joe . "Just relax Marlene, they can just watch the old one in the front room with the dog. We'll just keep the sets on the same channel and turn the volume up."

That Friday night the rain beat down on the roof. It came down so hard you couldn't hardly hear to talk let alone listen.

"Head 'em up, move 'em out, Rawhide."

"Turn it up Mama, just a little."

"All the things I'm missing. Fiddlers, love, and kissing..."

"Please turn it up."

"Soon will be waiting, waiting at the end of my ride."

"Just a little louder Mama."

The whip cracked. Gil Favor moved in closer. The rain pounded down. Look out! Stampede!

"We can't hear it!" yelled the kids.

The dog couldn't take it. He started to howl.

"Hell," said Joe. "It can't go no higher. Hell, I bet the neighbors can hear it. Someone do something with that damn dog."

"Deal with it Joe, just deal with it," said Marlene.

In the next commercial a kid put the dog out, and that's when the trouble started. Outside, in the wind, at the dry end of the wet porch, where the wood was piled the dog found the neighbors cat. Oak fell, madrone fell, kindling flew.

"Damn it," yelled Joe. "What's going on?"

The next day the wood had to be restacked. Marlene called the neighbors. "Get yourselves a cat box," she told them.

"Tie up your damn dog," they told her.

It rained more. Fourteen days before Christmas the big bridge on the South Fork washed out. The power went out. The power came back on. The neighbors had to move the cars they'd been working on back out to the street because the tires were sinking too far into soft grass. Water kept raising. It rained some more, then it rained again. Less than one half mile away, down in the bottom land, on the poultry farm, down there where the road passed the dairy and dead ended at the beach, just before the dump, it flooded. Turkeys ran around in a circle with their mouths open and drowned.

"Paladin, Paladin, where do you roam?" The rain on the roof never let up.

"We can't hear it, Mama."

"A fast gun for hire is a man called Paladen."

"Just a little bit higher."

"A knife without honor in a savage land..."

"Louder!"

"It can't go no louder," hollered Marlene. "And what is that damn dogs problem? Joe will you do something about that animal!"

In the rain in the dark up against the oak and the madrone at the end of his rope the dogs teeth glistened and light contact was made. A stick of oak hit the cat leaving a little bite of blood.

The neighbors put on their wool and came out yelling . It became unpleasant. Marlene found her self more affected than Joe cared to have her. Late that night Joe was still trying to calm her down, trying to get her to appreciate the situation. "They looked pretty damn funny standing out there getting wetter and wetter. Now, Marlene, you just gotta smile at that."

"No I don't," Marlene told him.

And who could blame her for not fully appreciating the situation? How could she when all the worn out rags were gone, used up before dark, and the dog had to be wiped off with a perfectly good old towel, perfectly good except for now, besides that frayed spot down by the hem which she'd been planning on mending, it was always going to have be a little bit of a blood stain and so now, now why bother? The set would just have to be broken up, a hand towel with just a wash cloth. Well, it didn't really matter it wasn't like company was coming, but still what did the neighbors think, that they were made of money?

"Hell I hate this damn weather," Marlene said.

It rained again and then some more. Heavy. Hard. Forty-seven straight days and nights, longer than in the Bible. In the hills above the sawmill, above town the second growth couldn't hold and soil slipped. The South Fork Times biweekly afternoon addition reported that a mud slide coming down an old clear cut closed U.S. 101 running north and that may have contributed to the cause of a two-car pile-up leaving one person dead and seriously injuring another passenger in the same vehicle when the driver of the second car lost control on the curve and crossed over the double yellow line.

"Hell," said Daddy Joe. "They'll be waiting a long time for a funeral. Just look out there Why that is so soggy you couldn't bury a thing without it floating right back up to the surface."

It rained again. Displaced forest animals came down close to town looking for shelter. On garbage day Joe came back with both cans still full. "There's been bears seen on the beach," he said. "Country closing the damn dump. The man said its too damn hard to keep it covered with all the rain. Said we should sign up with the city service. They'll come get the cans every Wednesday night. It'll cost us fifteen dollars a month and that's the cheapest pick up you can get."

"No way" said Marlene. "I'll make a compost pile just like in one of them garden magazines. We got to think if we’re not going to spend unnecessarily."

The neighbor's cat got into the pile. The kids had to drag the dog off of it. "That's a vicious dog." The neighbors shouted and waved their arms around pointing at Marlene. "Compost attracts wild animals. It ain't safe. You’re kid could be mauled by a bear. There's bears been seen on the beach. What kind of parents are you people?" they yelled.

"That's why we got us a dog," shouted Marlene.

"I keep my eyes wide open."

"He is singing, Mamma. Turn it up!"

"Because you’re mine, I walk the line. Hello I'm Johnny Cash."

Down at the end of the porch, on top of the newly stacked wood pile on top of the hardwood just out of reach the cat went by, slowly. The dog howled. "That's cruel," said Marlene. "That's just teasing cruel, that's what it is. Joe where you going?"

"I’m going to let the damn dog off. Sure as hell don’t have to put up with this."

"Now Joe," Marlene said. But before he got there, before he had even got out the door, the wood had fallen. The hardwood, the oak, the madrone, and the kindling. There was a tremendous crashing and there was a tremendous howling and bowling. Then there was a scream, sort of like a woman's scream.

"Damn it, what the hell was that?"

The neighbors came pounding on the door yelling something about the cops. "We are calling the cops," they shouted. "We told you compost attracts. Now maybe you'll believe us. Just take a look."

Joe did come and look, not because of the neighbors but because of the tracks.

"Well, it weren't no damn bear." Joe said.

Later, before they turned out their bedroom light, Marlene had to ask him again. "Joe," she said. "Joe, you awake? Joe, you think they'll call the cops?"

"You worry too much," said Joe. "Told you it weren't no damn bear. You could tell that by the tracks. Cops ain't coming' out here for just a mountain lion, Marlene."

Saturday morning was the day Marlene set aside to clip coupons. After breakfast dishes, she'd get a fresh cup of coffee, sit down and clip coupons. " Looks like a real good sale down at the new Longs Drug store," she told Joe. "T.P., Toothpaste, three for the price of one. And there's Wella Balsam Saint Ives shampoo with natural elements and almond protein. Half price."

"Fancy stuff," said Joe. "Longs is an extra trip. Just give me the list, Marlene. Day's being wasted. Hell, just look at this damn weather."

Marlene heard the truck pull up before she saw it. Too early for Joe, she thought. He'd better have gotten that shampoo. Longs wasn't that far out of the way. Going to send him right back, thought Marlene, walking swiftly to the front room door. It wasn't Joe. "Humboldt County Impound Van, Humane Society." That's what it said. Right on the side of the van. Marlene had to catch her breath. God, it’s the government!

"Afternoon, ma’am," said the nice young man. "We’re from the SPCA. We’re out visiting in your neighborhood, talking with the folks, letting people know about some of the potentially dangerous situations that have arisen because of the unusual environmental conditions we’re currently experiencing."

"It's Saturday," said Marlene. "The government don’t work on Saturday."

"Well, ma’am," smiled the nice young man, "we’re really not the government."

"I know that," said Marlene.

"As I was saying," said the nice young man. "Recent flood conditions have forced some of the local wildlife out of their natural habitat, bringing them closer towards the city limits in search of food. Ma’am, these wild animals usually want to avoid us as much as we want to avoid them, but as you know, if you’ve watched the six-o’clock news, the Forest Service has recently issued a warning regarding brown bears. The Forest Service is advising people to sign up for the city garbage service, if you don’t have it already. We are asking everyone to close up any open outdoor containers. These are the types of items that the bears will explore when they are hungry. Thanks for your time, ma’am. You have a good afternoon," the nice young man said turning to go. "Oh, one other thing, ma’am. The SPCA recommends that you keep your dogs and cats inside the house as much as possible until the flood conditions subside. There is a lot of run off coming down these hills, especially in this part of town. This water isn’t that clean, and small animals could bet sick drinking it."

"We don't have no pets," said Marlene.

"River boat ring your, bell luck is the Lady that I love the best... Maverick is a legend of the west." James Garner was in the bedroom. This wasn’t so unusual for Saturday night. What was unusual was the weather. The rain had stopped. Both of the T. V. sets were on, but the volume was almost normal. The dog was quiet, so quiet that they forgot all about him until bed time.

"Put him out," said Joe. "He needs to do his business." The dog went out.

The dog didn't come back. "Hell with him," said Joe. "I’m going to bed."

After Marlene turned off the porch light, she stood there at the window listening into the quiet night, watching. That’s when she heard it.

"Joe," she hissed. "Joe, you awake? Joe there is something going on out there. Joe, I heard some one crying. Joe! Joe, the lights are on. All the neighbors’ lights are on, even the backyard floods. Hey, Joe! Joe, it looks like they’re carrying something, e maybe a shovel? Joe? Joe, are you awake?"

"I am now, Marlene. Come to bed, Marlene. Mind your own damn business, and come to bed."

Marlene did come to bed, but she wasn’t the only one who had been watching. The dog had been watching and in the quiet of the night, down at the end of the porch, down behind the hard woods, the dog had seen the neighbors bring out the shoe box and bury it.

At two a.m. the baby woke up, and when Marlene went down the hall to take it a bottle she made sure to leave the door wide open to get some air in there, to get some heat in there to keep mildew from growing. "Joe, we got to get some more heat in the kid’s room," she said. "Joe, are you awake? Joe, it's like an icebox down there. Mildew is going to grow."

Joe didn’t answer. Marlene found she could not sleep. She found herself awake at two thirty, at three, at three forty-five. At five o'clock she heard something.

"Joe, wake up. Joe, there's something on the back porch, Joe. Are you awake? Joe, wake up. Joe, damn it, there's something on the back porch."

"Hmmm," said Joe. "Hey, what the hell, Marlene, move your elbow."

"Joe, go see if it's the dog."

"Ah, hell, Marlene, it’ll just be the damn dog."

Joe stumbled out of the bed into the front room and opened the porch door. "Jesus Christ! Jesus Christ! Jesus H. Christ!" yelled Joe.

Marlene snapped on the lights. She'd never heard Joe use those words before. Damp earth covered the dog's body, damp grass stuck to his paws. Left over rain drops beaded up on his fur. The dog gleamed. The dead cat hung out of his mouth.

"Joe!"

"Damn it, Marlene!"

"Joe!"

"God damn it, Marlene!"

"Joe!"

"God damn it to hell, Marlene! Where are you going?"

"I'm going to put it back, that's where I'm going!"

"Put it back? Put what back?"

"I'm going to clean it, Joe. I'm going to wash it, dry it, curl it, and put it back rolled up in a half circle on their front door mat. And in the morning when they wake up, that's where they'll find it. Dead, from a heart attack."

The natural elements of balsam and almond protein filled the kitchen sink with softness and manageability, promising to restore and rejuvenate even the most damaged hair. Together, they washed and dried the dead cat. Together, they slip-slid over the wet grass to the neighbors. Together, they put it back, curled up on the front porch mat. Together, they returned home and picked the last of the wet cat hair out of the sink.

"Joe," Marlene asked. "Do you think they’ll know?"

Joe looked out the kitchen window. It was raining again. "You worry too much, Marlene," he said. "Hell, I hate this damn weather."

Nancy Schafer's "Arizona Agonies"

I was awakened by the buzz of hummingbirds and squawks of blue jays. Here in the Northern Arizona mountains, the morning air was crisp and clear as white wispy clouds floated across the sky above the lake. The day greeted me with a brilliant display of colors outside my window, from the deep greens of the Ponderosa pines to the blue of the sky reflected upon the still water of the lake. Nestled among the trees, I could spot the fiery red clay along the unpaved roads winding among the cabins and the bold splashes of yellows, reds, and blues of the summer’s array of wild flowers. When I came downstairs that morning to start breakfast for the tribe of relatives, I thought the day would follow the usual pattern.

During our week together, my older brother Doug and I had settled into a routine of hiking every day in search of the elusive arrowhead while our daughters gathered and dried wild flowers. As I descended the last few stairs that morning to enter the living room of the family lodge, I spotted Aunt Martha and Mom silhouetted in the bay window as they sat in their overstuffed chairs sipping the first brew of coffee. I decided to grab a cup of tea from the kitchen and join them for a few quiet moments before the crowd started to assemble.

"I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings," Aunt Martha, my Dad’s sister, was saying to my mother as I plopped down in one of the chairs alongside of them. Uh-oh, I thought. The chill in the conversation clashed with the warmth of the morning sun floating down upon us through the window.

"Oh, it wasn’t that you hurt my feelings; you really offended Glenn," Mom replied. When I heard these words, I cringed. Mom, did you really mean to say that?

"Wow! Look at the time! I better get the bacon started!" I blurted and quickly spun around to escape back into the kitchen. With Mom’s words playing in my mind, I knew this was not going to be another relaxing family-vacation day.

My eleven-year-old daughter and I had looked forward to spending these two weeks with my parents, two brothers, and all our relatives on Dad’s side. When Mom and Dad announced their annual trip to the old homestead on Stoneman Lake near Flagstaff, Michelle and I gladly hitched a ride because we knew Bill was not going to be able to go anywhere with us again that year. Having made the trip the previous summer, Michelle and I were looking forward to more of the laughter and good times. Last year, we had hiked Oak Creek Canyon, perused the view from the Apache Maid lookout, and scouted the Ponderosa pine and mesquite for arrowheads and heritage. Every afternoon we had watched the thunderstorms roll over the rim of the Stoneman Lake crater, and we had stayed up every night to count the falling stars. Whenever my brothers joined us, we could be assured of continual entertainment with Jeff’s dry wit and Doug’s hilarious stories. The banter between our cousins and us was continual from the first cups of coffee until the final poker hands at midnight.

This summer we had the usual crowd, which only Stoneman Lake could accommodate. Over twenty years ago, Aunt Martha’s husband had devised the ill-fated scheme of turning the old ranchhouse into a bed and breakfast inn. The inn never made it, but the lodge has proved handy for family reunions. At one end of the homestead, off of the old dining room, he had knocked out the screened-in porch and added a two-story lodge with a huge living room downstairs and six bedrooms with baths upstairs. Along with the three bedrooms in the original home, we could easily host the entire clan including five cousins and their families.

One day around sunset Mom and Dad, Doug, Jeff, Michelle, and I sat on the front porch of the old farmhouse laughing our way through childhood tales and adult dilemmas. Jeff and Doug competed in recounting the most dangerous adventures on the ranch, always managing to tattle on the cousins who so often chickened out in our childhood escapades. Dad recounted other stories, taking us way back to the early days of rounding up cattle on the range. With Michelle comfortably curled up on my lap, I thought to myself, "This is what family is all about." We talked until dusk when the mosquitoes came buzzing at us in droves. This was what I expected of this vacation, a time to relive memories and reunite as a family. Unfortunately, that was obviously not going to be how this visit played out.

Mom’s sniper words that morning were the culmination of a season of anger. About a year ago, Aunt Martha and Uncle Art had brought Dad’s cousin DeeDee to visit us. After entertaining them for a week, my parents discovered several pieces of Mom’s jewelry were missing. Upon thoroughly searching the house, they concluded that DeeDee must have taken them. Finally, after numerous telephone conferences with Arizona, Dad and Aunt Martha confronted DeeDee who denied everything. In Mom’s mind, DeeDee should have been stricken from the bloodlines. However, only a few months later, my aunt and uncle sent her a cheery Christmas card. When Mom found out, she was furious. In her mind, that card represented one more glaring example of how Dumas family loyalty took priority over her feelings. When I stepped into the conversation that morning, I knew Mom was seeking her revenge. Unfortunately, her ploy did not work out as planned.

Breakfast had people scattered throughout the kitchen and dining room. Of the more than fifteen people dining that morning, no one knew what had happened except Mom, Aunt Martha and me. Only I could sense the tension hovering around their forced smiles and polite chatter. Soon after breakfast, Doug and I prepared for our daily foray into the mountains. As our daughters dressed, I returned to the dining room to retrieve my tennis shoes and came upon another conversation.

"Glenn, I had no idea that Christmas card would upset you so much. Will you ever forgive me?" Aunt Martha whimpered as she slapped down card after card in her solitaire game. Geez, she is pouring it on a little thick, I thought.

"I don’t know what the hell you are talking about! I don’t care what you do," Dad replied. "I wish Diddy wouldn’t put words in my mouth! Let’s just forget about the whole thing." Dad was pacing back and forth in front of the table, obviously uncomfortable with his distraught sister’s sniveling.

When Doug came down with the girls, we scurried them out the front door as Martha and Art exited out the back on their way into Flagstaff. I hoped that with them gone all day, everyone would have time to calm down. By this time, Mom had disappeared upstairs, and Dad had left to take a walk. When I told Doug what was going on, he feared things might escalate into atomic proportions. We were especially glad to escape on our hike up the ridge that day onto the open expanse of the pines beyond. As our daughters wandered here and there, we tried to decipher the family history and discern what we might need to do next if word got out to the rest of the relatives.

Later that day, when I was sitting by myself on the porch, Dad came out the front door and offered, "Let’s go for a walk."

Heading down the road, he confided, " I need your help."

"Sure, Dad, what do you need?" With Dad’s hand conspiratorially placed around my shoulder, he guided us down the road and away from the house. Dreading what might be coming next, I walked with my head down and my hands stuffed in my jeans pockets. Obviously, he wanted to get out of earshot of any windows before he began to talk.

"Your mother has opened up a hornet’s nest! She is putting words into my mouth, and she is going to do some irreparable damage. I need you to talk to her. Help me keep a lid on this thing." As we walked further, he continued to give me his version of what took place that morning. Since Dad had never confided in me before, I was not sure I liked this new dimension to our relationship with me as his counselor and confidante in a difficult situation. Although I promised I would do what I could, I wasn’t at all sure I could accomplish anything.

What on earth could I say to Mom in this situation? She and I have always been close. We could talk for hours about anything -- life, religion, philosophy, politics, society, etc. Although we giggled secretly about some of the things our men and other relatives did, we enjoyed sharing our frustrations and supporting each other as we worked through our individual problems. What if this uncomfortable pact with Dad damaged my friendship with Mom?

Mom had remained hidden in their bedroom ever since breakfast. Taking a deep breath, I went upstairs and knocked on her door. "Mom? Can I get you a soda or some lunch?"

"We need to talk," Mom replied. Didn’t I hear those words from Dad? I tensed knowing I was going to get further embroiled. She went on, "I have had it! I have put up with over fifty years of this family and of your father taking their side on every issue. Not once has he ever defended me. I am finished with this marriage."

"Mom, calm down. It can’t be that bad," I muttered.

"It can’t? Your father just ordered me to keep my mouth shut. Well, I’ll show him! I am not going to say one word to anyone but you or Doug for the rest of the trip. See how he likes that!" She declared viciously.

The angry words continued to flow for over a half an hour. Evidently, after Doug and I had left that morning, Dad had yelled at her. I sat stiffly on the bed with her, listening to her anger pour forth. Soon she was sharing details of their marriage I did not want to know. The more she spoke, the more uncomfortable I felt. Mom was crossing the boundary lines of our relationship, lines formed early in my childhood.

My parents had always been a united team before us kids. Even if they disagreed about some decision they were making, we never knew. We only saw the outcome, never the discussions, and we could never play one off of the other. By the time all three of us hit college, we knew that Mom and Dad did not always see eye to eye, but we would have never questioned the solid foundation of their marriage. They were always mom-and-dad in our view. Now Mom was splitting those hyphens right in front of me as if I were a partner to the decision. Surely, I could and would support her if I only knew all of the years and details. Unfortunately for her, I had too much respect and love for Dad to be able to suddenly turn on him with the force of her bitterness. Although I tried to share ideas and to lighten the mood, Mom would not hear of it. She was an angry dog, with her head lowered and her teeth showing menacingly, ready to lash out at Dad or any Dumas who dared to come too close.

When I left her room, I snuck out the back door in hopes of avoiding Dad, and I took a long walk around the lake. Halfway around, I sat down upon a large granite rock warmed by the sun and listened to the sounds around me in hopes of hearing some secret wisdom. One lone hawk floated upon the air just above the crater’s rim. I could hear the afternoon breeze playing among the pines as I watched the faint ripples upon the lake’s surface. Amidst this incredible Eden, my heart was in turmoil.

Mom’s conversation with Aunt Martha kept echoing in my head. I knew Mom never intended for her to go groveling to Dad. Mom had thrown a sneaker punch, hoping to gain just a little bit of advantage. Ah, but Aunt Martha is no fool either, having had years of experience manipulating men with her own husband and five sons. She had taken the jab and sent a crosscut at Dad’s heart, and he in turn spun around and kicked the dog, so to speak. The dog, my mother who had been known to retreat in the past to repair her dignity, was ready to bite this time. All the words and events swirled in my mind as I watched the ramifications of those few choice words continue to unfold with every new conversation, just as the ripples spread from some bubble bursting upon the lake.

Although I had come to enjoy the adult dimensions of my relationship with my parents, I had never expected to be asked to take sides or to be the peacemaker in any of their squabbles. Somehow, they now assumed that I had become mature enough and objective enough to mediate their differences. I was not sure I could make such a quick role shift in our relationship. It did not seem so long ago that Dad had held me on his lap when I was crying over engagement spats, and Mom had helped me make career choices and other difficult decisions. These parents had supported me when I had separated from Bill once and did not want to know the details so that they could support us. Could I hug my mom and say, "Hey, Mom, I’ll help you find a lawyer"? I cringed. I wanted to take us back to that afternoon on the porch, back to those wonderful family memories, back to the innocence of not knowing what went on behind their public lives.

Having sat upon that granite rock long enough to watch the crater shadows creep across the lake, I got up and slowly made my way back around the other side of the lake. I needed to get dinner started before Uncle Art and Aunt Martha returned from Flagstaff; I needed to laugh and chatter with anyone who might join me in the kitchen. I knew too that I needed to hug my daughter and call Bill.

Vincent Peloso's "Childless at 50"

I

Family Romance

The decision was made before puberty

at a time when love could still fill my heart

to the brim of imagination

before overflowing down to my groin.

My mother was my bright star.

Best friend. Partner. Soul mate. Love.

She was everything I ever wanted.

But I was not all this to her.

In the back hall, one afternoon, together

we met my father returning from work,

the three of us joyous to as one,

she falling into his arms,

he enfolding her body completely,

me dancing around their joined hips

shouting, "Me too. Me too. Me too."

She laughed, looked down and smiling,

her face alight with bliss, said

simply, "Me first."

From that moment on, I did not want children.

If she would not have mine,

I would have none.

II

His Story / Her Story / Our Story

But the decision was never that simple. Decades later, yet before I married, I did fantasize about having a large family, siring kids, parenting many, fathering children, an adult among babies. Yet I have become a childless man, father of none, an adult among babies not mine.

If I had done so at the same age as my father did when he and my mother had me, I could be a grandfather by now. Whole hordes of children could have already passed through my life, my babies could have grown up and left.

But the decision was never that simple. In the beginning, charity and the advertising industry played its part by indulging my fantasy. By subliminating a dream I seldom if ever shared, never mind explored, I was able to parent myself through this complex process.

As newly married students living in low-income housing on the edge of campus, my wife and I found entertainment wherever we could afford it. We didn’t own a television. Our families lived far away. One of our only forms of daily amusement and exposure to the outside world was reading the mail. And even we got junk mail.

I don’t remember which international children’s charity she represented, but at least once a month we received a letter with Elizabeth Dass’ picture on it. Cute young ethnic waif in need, her face always accompanied a postage paid response envelope waiting to enfold our generous check. At first I laughed over the idea of having any money to send. Then as the months and what seemed like years went by with Elizabeth never aging, I began to think of her as mine. And I started asking aloud, "Where are you, Elizabeth Dass?" Where are the children I once imagined having? Where are the children we were? For each of us, parent or not, was a child once.

Economics, of course, played its part. With no job skills to speak of, little idea what we wanted, living in rural poverty during the post-Viet Nam, post-graduate school baby boom world - all food stamps and student loans - having a child felt like the embodiment of today’s caloric indulgence, a commitment to something much more dependant than our used VW bug, an extravagant extension of our own subverted upwardly mobile middle-class yearnings - all health benefits and retirement plans. No one is ever prepared.

Sure, we had friends with kids. Friends who got off the pill, got married, got pregnant and then decided to keep it, name it, baptize it and raise it. And we’ve kept in touch with a few of these friends over the years. Their eldest is now out of college, perhaps "playing house" as we once did and continue to do.

Politics also influenced us. Not that either was of us was ever very politically active. However, we did once vote for McGovern as we recently voted for Nader, another in a long line of futile yet sincere attempts to undermine the patriarchy on a national as well as a personal level. Of course we didn’t know that this was what we were trying to do at the time. But we did know about patriarchy. We did have fathers.

By the time I hit my late teens my father and I were re-enacting the Cold War on the domestic front. He was Archie Bunker. I was Meathead. A smart Meathead perhaps. A Meathead with good grades, a college scholarship, and a bright future. But Meathead nonetheless. If not for my own crude attempts to articulate a meaningful foreign policy based on the lyrics of Jagger and Richards, then for my less than effective interpersonal communication skills practiced around a dining room table laden with tasty home-made food prepared by both the women and men in my family.

For I was raised in an Italian-American household in an Italian-American neighborhood by the children of Italian-American immigrants. And if this didn’t give me enough reasons to reproduce, I went to a private Catholic high school ruled by Benedictine monks who ironically provided me with my first real glimpse of how to live a full and interesting life without children. I never ran my own private school, but I do work in schools. My children come to me. And I get paid for whatever parenting I do.

But all of this is hindsight. In the early seventies in rural Western Massachusetts, Feminism was sweeping through each undergraduate seminar and syllabus like Jonathan Edwards swept through the same region more than two centuries earlier. We were the converted. And though I wore no bra to burn, I cheered on those who did. For, breast fetish aside, it is clear to me now that Feminism was and is one of the strongest factors shaping both the men and women of my generation. I’m talking Feminism as an outgrowth of the anti-war movement which grew from the civil rights movement, and ushered in the gay rights movement, the ADA, OSHA, and The Endangered Species Act. This was a Feminism which changed the way we thought about sex, power, and people. Before Madonna there was Ms. And before Oprah, there was Gloria [Steinem] and Betty [Friedan] and Simone [de Beauvior]. The personal became political while the political is and was entertainment.

Science played played its part. Birth control pills were thought benign. Sex did not mean children. The winning sperm did not need a name. STD’s were treated with antibiotics. And antibiotics worked.

Of course, it would be disingenuous, though perhaps still popular, to blame it all on the sixties. In many ways, my own upbringing, not to mention my wife’s, greatly influenced our decision not to have children. As an only child I did not have much contact with babies when I was young. And as a boy I was not particularly encouraged to show much interest in those other babies of my youth: cousins, neighbors, friends. I was a big kid, a smart kid, and a shy kid. Physically slow, if not actually awkward, I don’t think the adults in my family every truly trusted me to hold or play with their precious newborns. And I grew up feeling somewhat afraid of babies. They were delicate, unpredictable, inarticulate and valuable. I looked on from distance and wondered what all the fuss was about.

By the time my wife, not only a girl but also the eldest of six, went off to college at seventeen, she had already experienced close to fifteen years of child rearing. Her mother worked. Her father worked or went to school. And she took care of the family. When we married at the age of twenty, her youngest sibling was three. Up until then, she had spent her almost her whole life surrounded by children. And for much of the time, she was responsible for them. To hear her tell it, she did almost everything but conceive, carry and deliver them. And although she could not articulate it at the time, at twenty she was, I believe, ready to live her own life.

Biology also played its part. After our initial enthrallment with the Pill, we used other forms of contraception - diaphragms, condoms - always knowing that all worked only if we used them. Yet sometime during our late twenties/early thirties we used them less and less. Our biological clocks were ticking. Although never actually trying, for many years there was an unspoken agreement between us that if she did get pregnant, we would welcome the addition. But she didn’t. And our curiosity finally got the best of us. I got tested and discovered my sperm count was low. "Not impossible," the doctor informed me, "but highly unlikely."

With modern medicine being as resourceful as it is, there were, of course, procedures we could have taken to increase our chances. But after more than a decade of child-free life, when faced with actually making a decision to at least try, we didn’t. Individually and collectively, we agreed. Having a child of our own was not a priority.

Society played its part. At the time, we were living in San Francisco. My wife sold real estate. I worked as a waiter. Our best friends were mostly gay men and immigrant food service employees. Some had families, but all worked nights. And San Francisco was almost an island, surrounded by cold water, wet air, and unstable tectonic plates. We didn’t know many children. We didn’t have a backyard. Our days off together were Thursdays and Fridays. We went to a lot of movies.

Again, politics played a part. Two of my wife’s clients were foster parents. And we reasoned, "Well, if we’re not going to have kids of our own, let’s at least try to take care of other people’s kids, the ones who need care, the ones already here." We went to the meetings, looked at the forms, but we never filled them out. Or more accurately, I never filled them out. If children had scared me when I was young, parenthood scared me now. And my wife was too smart to take this on alone. She had the experience. I did not. Together, both our lives led us to this.

Not that fear or avoidance have ever been the strongest motivations in my life. Underneath the fear has always lurked desire. If not for a family, then at least for offspring. If not the cats, then at least my poems. Each one a literary heir in its way, each one with a life of its own. Each a child I have sired, each a babe in my arms.

For I am a father of poems, not children. Words, not flesh and blood. Reversing that wonderfully evocative image from the Gospel of John, "And the Word was made flesh," I have given my own flesh to them, my own breath to their making, my days and weeks and years to this ever elusive, ever seductive art. I am a Gepetto of verse.

Although my children are rejected more than accepted, my babies rest silent and still on my desk as I write this - obedient, loyal, and loved despite whatever faults they may have, because of whatever faults they may have. I love them as I imagine my mother loved me when at around the age of five I asked, "Mom, why don’t you have more babies?" And though she admitted always wanting a big family herself, she then said when she first saw my inquisative infant face, she knew I would be enough. "I love you enough for six kids," she said. And I believed her. I always have.

III

Never Better than This

What should I say to the woman in tears

over being rejected for the third time

by the scholarship committee at the community college

where she goes to school and I work?

Should I speak of the years devoted to art,

the hundreds of poems rejected, the

letters beginning, "We regret to inform you...,"

the money wasted on contests?

"I will not," she pouts, "let money stop me.

As long as I am in school, I will

keep the three part-time jobs

I currently must have to live."

Should I speak of working for twenty-two years

while trying to write at home? Shall I

mention the children I have never regretted not having

because I had poetry?

She is young enough to be my daughter.

I am old enough to let this fact pass.

We stand in silence facing a view

into which both our lives shrink.

An egret unfolds its wings.

She admits to feeling somewhat better.

I do not say it may never get better than this.

I do not say it. And neither does she.

Vincent Peloso's "Babies' Breath"

Once upon a time there was a summer writing workshop, which met in a room once a hospital nursery before this building had been converted to classrooms. This place was the town hospital. And now this room where babies once slept is the temporary home for a small group of teachers who come here each day to teach and learn about writing. None of the babies who slept here could write. None of them could even read. Yet each one had a story to tell. And each told it in the same language--incomprehensible, but understandable--passionate, if nothing else. They were totally into the stories they told. They were totally into sharing. These walls absorbed every one of their voices. This room cradled their breath. When I am here, I breathe in this air. I breathe in their stories, their voices, their dreams. I am a baby again.

Todd Pahl's "Going to the Store in McKinleyville Can Be an Adventure"

"Why don’t you go shopping and I’ll stay here with the cats and watch football," I said.

"You have been on the couch all day watching football with the cats. Get off your butt and let’s go get the groceries," Nicolette replied.

"Oh, alright, I’ll go if I don’t have to change clothes," I said.

"Well, shorts and a tank top are cummfy. Aren’t you worried about someone from school seeing your tattoo though?" asked Nicolette.

"I am sure it’s no problem. And besides, we are going early enough in the afternoon that it shouldn’t be too crowded," I responded.

As a teacher in McKinleyville, I am aware of the "prime times" to see parents and students whether it is in Safeway, K-Mart, or even the gas station.

" If you think so? Let’s go," Nicolette said.

As we arrived in the Safeway parking lot, Nicolette said, "Hey there’s Mrs. Turner? Isn’t she David’s mom who is in your class this year?"

Mrs. Turner is our school’s Parent Teacher Organization president and knows almost all the parents at our school. I had somewhat forgotten how small our "town" of McKinleyville can be. Seeing Mrs. Turner reminded me of all the parents who I know and of all the parents I haven’t met who know me as their child’s possible future teacher. "You are right. Let her drive by and then we can go in when she leaves," I commented.

As we entered the store, I suddenly realized that perhaps being a teacher with tattoos could be misunderstood or even looked down upon by some conservative parents from our community. Being a male elementary school teacher has social stigmas already attached. But, a male elementary school teacher with tattoos might cause some unrest with those parents who are skeptical about me as their child’s teacher. The stereotypes of someone with tattoos can include a person who doesn’t respect their bodies, a person who likes to party often, or even a person with "low" moral standards.

In fact, I had a parent ask me what form of discipline I used in the classroom. Was she assuming that a male teacher might be stricter? Was she assuming, as in some families, as a man, that I was in charge of the punishments? Was I a proponent of spanking a child if she or he misbehaved? Are they thinking, is my child safe with a man? Does having tattoos add to this uncertainty or questioning?

I do consciously modify my behaviors around children. For instance, I will "offer" a hug to a child, but not assume that I can "take" a hug from a child. I will hold a child’s hand if offered, but I will not take a hand to be held. If I am alone with a child, especially a girl, I will make sure that all doors and curtains are wide open. And sometimes I will not even let this scenario materialize, if I can help it.

* * * * * * *

"Nicolette, quick move over! I see Mr. Alves from my school by the broccoli!" I exclaimed. "Damn that took about 3 seconds!"

"I’ll cover for you. Just grab some bananas on the way past," Nicolette commented.

"If we can just make it past this aisle we will be home free," I predicted.

"That was close. Do you think that parent would have cared if they saw your tattoos?" Nicolette asked.

"I am not quite sure? Let’s go down that aisle for some cat food. You know how persistent the kitties can be if they don’t have food to eat," I said.

I thought about whether Mr. Alves would have cared if I had a tattoo or not. Perhaps we live in an era that is more accepting of tattoos, piercing, etc. Maybe it’s not a big deal to have a tattoo, and parents and students wouldn’t care either way. As I thought about it a bit more, the concern began to grow. Parent trust and support in our small community is so important to teachers and the school system. Teachers work so hard to meet the needs of both kids and parents, and we are often recognized for our successes. But, that success is somewhat tenuous and can quickly be lost if parents feel threatened in any way. Could something as "innocent" as having tattoo threaten the trust of parents. I began to remember that Mr. Alves was a more conservative and protective father. It hadn’t occurred to me before, but he just might be one of those parents that could cause some unrest in our parent population. Mr. Alves and the term "moral turpitude" seemed to be synonymous in my mind.

A few moments later, as I was lost in thought and before I realized what had happened, we turned down the canned food aisle, and I saw Tommie from my class with his mom. They were walking right towards us, and my exposed skin was now more obvious than ever! I had no time to turn, run, or hide. I decided to meet them as I would any other time and say hello.

"H-hello Tommie and Mrs. Benson. How are you two today?" I stammered.

"We are doing well," Mrs. Benson replied. "How are you and Nicolette today?"

"We are great. Hi Tommie!" said Nicolette in a hurried manner. I think she was trying to get us by as quickly as possible.

Suddenly, I realized that Tommie had said nothing this entire time and had his gaze fixed on my shoulder in the exact spot of my tattoo. What did Tommie see as he stared at my tattoo? Did he see skull and crossbones with menacing red eyes staring at him? Did he see a gigantic battleship with guns blazing? Did he see a monster truck? Through his eyes was I suddenly transformed into a biker with leather, chains, and a bottle of Jack Daniels in my hip pocket? He was smiling, as was his mom, so total horror was not in their thinking…I hoped.

* * * * * * *

"Well, we have some more shopping. See you tomorrow in class, Tommie. Bye, Mrs. Benson," I said as we proceeded down the aisle.

"Good bye, Mr. Pahl. Good bye, Nicolette," Tommie finally said, still smiling.

As we moved away, I could hear Tommie excitedly saying, "Mom, did you see Mr. Pahl’s tattoo?"

"Yes, dear, I did see his tattoo," she replied.

* * * * * * *

I guess it was a little too late to rethink whether there would be any issues about having a tattoo. I wondered what was going through their minds? Were they shocked, worried, or perhaps they didn’t care at all? Starting with Mrs. Benson, were the ripples of unrest already starting to run through our parent community?

"Well that went better than I thought it would," Nicolette replied. "They are a favorite student and mom of yours, aren’t they?"

"Yes. Tommie’s cool and his mom really cares about him and school. She seems pretty liberal. Actually she works at Humboldt State, so she has to be liberal. Doesn’t she?" I wondered aloud.

As we neared the end of the pet supply aisle, it occurred to me that we might be on a collision course for Tommie and his mother. We could possibly be doing one of those patterns that cause us to keep meeting them over and over until we have shopped together on every aisle in Safeway. Well, no use fighting it, I thought to myself.

Sure enough, as we turned onto the next aisle, there they were shopping the same isle that we were shopping. From a distance I could see that Tommie was talking to his mom in a quizzical manner. She seemed to be shopping as usual and calmly fielding the discussion with her son.

As we approached, I could tell that Tommie was still talking about the tattoo that he had seen on my shoulder. Suddenly he became quiet as he realized we were almost right next to each other. His mom was still calmly shopping and smiled as we approached.

"Tommie seemed surprised that you have a tattoo. He thought that you must have just gotten it because he had never seen it before," she commented. "I told him that you very possibly could have had it for many years, and it was probably not new at all."

"You are right. I have had it a while. It isn’t new at all," I responded.

"Well, I like it a lot and told Tommie that many people have tattoos," she said reassuringly.

* * * * * * *

When I use the word reassuringly to describe her tone in our conversation, it was on many different levels. First, she seemed to be supportive of tattoos on people, even on third grade teachers that have a huge influence on her child. Also, she was very calm in her responses to Tommie’s questions about me and my tattoo. She didn’t give a reaction that would cause concern or alarm for her son. Finally, she was even complimentary to the fact that I had a tattoo, and that was a huge relief. I then remembered a very important fact about Mrs. Benson: she enjoys riding Harleys and is a regular participant in the Redwood Run and similar events. Do you think she minds if I have tattoos and am her son’s third grade teacher? Her "favorable reaction" is a bit understated! I felt like I had nothing to worry about with Tommie and his mother in regards to my tattoo.

"Well bye again," Mrs. Benson said with a smile.

"Goodbye again. See you next isle," I replied.

As we walked down the aisle, I couldn’t help but laugh to myself and a little out loud. The reactions that were unknown were now known. They were, in fact, favorable reactions. The worries and questions I had about this encounter were answered. But, what if this had been "conservative" person like Mr. Alves? Or, a parent such as Mrs. Turner who knows many parents? What if I had no history with this family? What if they were a future family who didn’t know me and were not willing to "give me a chance" as a teacher? Sometimes parents tell me that their kids were worried and intimidated about having a male teacher in third grade. Then by the end of the year, we laugh about it as we are hugging and saying goodbye with tears in our eyes. What would parents who don’t know me think if they had this teary eyed scene as a preview of their child’s third grade teacher? A teacher who had tattoos?

Going to the store in McKinleyville can be an adventure.