Shestories

Several summers ago, one of my colleagues was involved in a terrible automobile accident. She was driving out of her quiet Kempsville neighborhood when an SUV slammed into the driver’s side of her Volkswagon Jetta. She survived, but her pelvis was broken, a rib was cracked, and her spine was fractured. That same summer, two weeks before her car accident, I was sexually assaulted. I had been sunbathing on of our Bayside beaches around noon on a Thursday, when a man jumped on my back. While holding me down with one hand planted on my shoulder, he sat on my back and masturbated. I survived, but inside I was broken, cracked, and fractured.

My colleague had a physical therapist who worked with her very other day. With the help of this therapist, she learned how to navigate around her house with a walker while her bones mended. I had a counselor who worked with me, too. She helped me navigate my way out of the trauma of sexual assault, with the goal that I would return to the woman I was before this happened to me. You see, for about a month after the assault, I could go no further than my own back yard. My house and yard were the only places I felt safe. When I did leave, I was right next to my husband, with my hand firmly planted in his. He was my walker.

And I couldn’t talk to anyone about what happened but my counselor and my husband. It was about six weeks after the assault that I drove the three hours north to where my son was working for the summer to tell just him about it, face to face. He quietly listened, saying nothing, but watching my face for every nuance of emotion it might reveal. When I finished, he had a few questions, one of which was how his father was handling this. By then I wanted to lighten the moment for my son, so I smiled and said that his father wants just five minutes alone with this guy. My attempt at humor failed. His eyes kept a steady gaze on mine, and he said “It would only take me three, Mom.”

I also remember sitting in church that summer, surrounded by people whom I trust – people who have helped my through some rough spots over the last fifteen years. If this man had beaten me up on the outside instead of on the inside, I would be in the hospital recovering from the wounds and these good, good people would be praying for my speedy recovery. But it does not work that way for the victims of sexual assault. My inability to talk was not related to any sense of shame; I was spared that. I could not talk about it because of the pain of sexual assault.

It was not like any other pain I’d known; pains I could point to and say “It hurts right here”. No. This pain felt like an iron-cored mass of heavy ooze slithering along my insides. Sometimes it enveloped my heart, and I could not feel things. Sometimes it lodged in mind for the day, and I could not think. And then, whenever I thought to talk about it, it lodged itself in my throat and I could not speak. I never knew when or where it would be next, nor how long before it would move one.

My colleague returned to work. Her physical therapy was done, her bones mended; she was back to her old self. I am just about back to my old self as well. But when I am in any public place, and suddenly find myself alone, my shoulders tighten up, and I start looking behind me. My hand reaches for my bag and the can of mace I always carry now. My counselor assured me that this fear will also diminish with time, and I believe her. She was right about everything else along this rocky path.

The man who did this to me needs counseling. I suggest that he gets it because as his perversion escalates, he loses control, and then he gets caught. Newspapers protect the victims of sexual assaults, but the paper has no problem printing the pictures of the perpetrators. The paper also puts their name right underneath their picture. Then, everyone knows his dirty secret. That’s when it’s his turn to start looking over his shoulder, for there are some folks that want just five minutes alone with him; there are others who only need three.

My mother died at noon on the day before Mother’s Day. I had spent that Friday evening with her, arriving at the nursing home around six in the evening. She was sleeping, and hooked up to a ventilator across her face covering her nose. It was much later that it was explained to me that this machine was pushing oxygen into the ventilator which helped her to breath. The noise of her breathing was the only sound in the room; it was a steady sound. Around nine on that Friday night, the contents of the feeding bag overflowed onto her nightdress and the sheets. There was a foul smell to it. I called for the nurse, who explained that my mother’s stomach just couldn’t take it in anymore. I left the room for the moment it took for the nurse to remove my mother’s feeding bag.

I nestled my fourth finger into her right hand, securing her fingers around mine with my other hand. Her hand felt a little cold, but I could keep it warm. I watched her. It appeared to me that my mother would not give up till she was certain her job was done. I told her that we were all fine. That she had nothing to worry about. It’s done. You did it all. So well, too. Let go, Mom.

Someone told me just the other day that it is not so much in the letting go, but recognizing that it’s already gone.

I left around midnight, and returned early the next morning to the same sound. Around nine, my brothers and sisters started arriving, and by noon all seven of us were there. We gathered around her bed, and my brother Tom, his own mother’s doctor, removed the ventilator. I remember one last gasp for breath, and then her silence.

We recited the Our Father and three Hail Mary’s. We are Catholics.

I struggle with the resurrection. I do believe in what this man Jesus had to say: his message speaks to my heart. But when the story reaches the point about the empty tomb and the risen Lord, I smell fiction. It seems to me that the writers of this story made some stuff up. I can understand that they only wanted to help us by taking away the fear of death. But I often wonder if there is the need of a resurrection and the promise of an afterlife to dispel the fear of death. My mother told me, one day over lunch in the nursing home, that she was certain that when it was all over, you were just put back into the earth, and that was the end of things.

There was a geranium on the window sill of my mother’s room in the nursing home where she died. I took it with me when I left that Saturday around three to drive the six hours back to my home in Virginia. I could not leave empty handed. But I could not sleep that night,for I could still hear her labored breathing.

Then next morning my husband took our two sons to nine o’clock mass. I stayed home, as I knew I could not face anyone just yet. Besides, I had a lot to do. On Monday we were leaving early for drive to northern New Jersey for the wake that night and the funeral on Tuesday. I got the boys’ clothes together and packed, and then looked in my closet and realized I had no black. I had black and white stripes, but no black. Mom was always pleased when I had something new on that looked good on me. From a very early age, I had known that this gave her pleasure. I would go get something good and black for her funeral. Anyways, by then I thought it might be good to get out for a while.

There was a flower shop next to the first store that I went to. By now, it was around one in the afternoon. A little girl of about five emerged from the flower shop with her father. She wore an egg-shell blue dress that fell just below her knees and was softly gathered in the back with a string of lace. Her long, silky blonde hair hung down her back, and one hand was in her father’s while the other held a bouquet of flowers. She was having what looked like a serious conversation with her father about their next errand as they moved toward their car in the parking lot.

Then it hit me. My God, it’s Mother’s Day. I looked around and realized that the parking lot and sidewalk were full of men and children busily going about last minute shopping for their wives and their mothers. I took a deep breath, and kept walking.

There was nothing good and black there, so I returned to my car. As I drove to the next set of stores down the road about a mile or so, I thought perhaps I had lost it, and should not be out and about on my own. This was crazy. But no, I reasoned, I really had to do this. I had nothing to wear to my mother’s funeral. The next set of stores was also full of the same last minute shoppers, so I concentrated on the job at hand.

I spotted a black silk suit. I picked out my size in a jacket, blouse, and skirt, and walked toward the dressing room. The saleslady spotted me, and as it was an expensive suit, I guess she thought she could help me or should help me or ..maybe I looked as bad as I felt, and she was suspicious. I don’t know. I put the suit on to see if it fit. The saleslady asked if everything was ok., so I opened the door to show her that I was ok. She looked at me, and then she said “ And of course, you can tuck the blouse in, too, you know.”

I had not taken the time to do that, I just wanted to see if it fit. It did, so I told her I would take it.

After I paid for it, I watched as she put a plastic bag over the suit so I could carry it home on a hangar. At the cash register, she had been trying to make some small talk with me, but I was not responding. As she handed the hangar to me, she tried one more time. She said it was a lovely suit, and asked if it was a special gift for Mother’s Day. I managed a smile, and said no – no special occasion. I remarked that it was a shame she had to work on Mother’s Day, and she replied that when she got off work that evening at five, her husband would pick her up and then their children would have dinner ready for all of them. She was smiling by then at just the thought of it. I told to have a great evening, and walked out to my car.

Then the thought occurred to me that what I had just done was a good thing. I could have said it was for my mother’s funeral, but then I may have ruined her Mother’s Day. No need for that. And then I realized that it was my mother who had taught me how to do that. What I’d just done. A good thing.

That geranium has presided in my dining room window since 1998. I tend it regularly with great care. Why are we mothers so concerned with the growing of flowers? Why do sweet little girls in egg-shell blue dresses bring bouquets to them every Mother’s Day? Could it possibly be that each spring, as the cold dirt of the earth is warmed by the spring sun, the flowers inch their way up and out for a breath of air? And could it possibly be that it is the world of our mothers in those flowers, their world that slipped into the grave with them, which comes back in those vivid blossoms for a few precious weeks of spring to remind us once again that we are here to do good things?

Could it possibly be there never is an end to things, Mom?

Anna, my oldest sister, was twenty on the day I was born. With twenty years between us, clearly we are from different generations. But our two lives have magically crisscrossed right from the gitgo. In fact, at every major intersection of life, Anna and I have been standing on the same corner. In preparing my remarks for today, I gave this a lot of thought – and the extraordinary place Anna holds in my heart. I found three reasons for this, which is what I would like to share with you today.

The first reason I am so fond of Anna is that at an early age she taught me an invaluable lesson. Anna taught me integrity. When I was a sophomore in high school, in 1970, Anna was my American History teacher. For the final exam, we were given a broad statement regarding democracy and required to substantiate it in a 500 word essay.

The day came for Miss O’Dea to return the final exams. I can still remember her coming into the room with a look of anger on her face. She proceeded to severely scold the class for not answering the question. She went through the quote, paraphrasing the question for her students, making it very clear what her expectations were and how we had so miserably failed her. Then she ended this scolding by announcing that one student, and only one, had managed to answer the question, and that this student would now come to the front of the room and read her essay to the class.

“Susan O’Dea, come up here please.”

I had been thinking, as she worked through the paraphrase and delineated what her expectations were, that I had done that. But never did I dream that she would single me out as the one who had answered the question right for I was not by any means the brightest student in that class. I had no choice but to get on up there and read my essay, which I did. It was really not until later that I fully understood what an enormous decision that had been for my sister. She knew what my classmates would think – my being her sister. She knew what some of her colleagues might think – my being her little sister. She even knew what her principal might think – my being her sister whom the principal had suspended for three days earlier that same spring. But Anna did it anyway because it was the right thing to do. I wrote a good essay. I still have it! And what Anna did, – that’s integrity.

Anna was engaged several times before she met the right guy. I watched Anna go thru some very hard times as did a lot of you sitting here today. When she was in the throws of planning her wedding to Mr. Right, David Morris, I myself was in the first stages of breaking my own engagement to a Mr. Wrong but I had not yet shared this with my family. I was sitting in the dining room at Mill Street when Anna arrived to the house full of bridal wedding talk. I was to be her maid of honor and she needed to set the date, and I was being wishy washy about if I was going to be around. My Mr. Wrong was in Ireland and I was headed over there but I was not sure about what was going to happen next. I think Anna sensed all of this because on that day, my sister pinned me down.

Susie, Dave and I want to get married next summer, so you just tell me when you will be able to be here. July?

Maybe, I said.

Maybe…..well what date in July. Early July? Late July?

I dunno.

Well, Susie. Do you think you can be here July 26? Would that be good for you?

I looked at her. Maybe.

Susie. I am not getting married without you there. I want my sister, I want you there with me.

I realized then, it finally got thru my thick self-centered twenty year old head, that my sister was planning the most important day in her life around my schedule. Looking at her, standing there in the dining room with that determined look on her face, I could see that I meant a great deal to her. Anna loved me.

Anna, I said, I will be at your wedding on July 26^th. I promise you. I will be here.

It is a very good thing that I was, too. For at Anna’s wedding I met my Mr. Right. The spring before Anna was married I had broken the engagement to Mr. Wrong, surrendering myself to being a spinster for the rest of my life. But on July 26^th I caught Anna’s bouquet, and my now-husband of 32 years caught the garter, and eleven months later, to the day, we were married.

July 26^th is a day that Anna and I have shared over the years. The joy. The love. The wonder of finding our very own Mr. Rights.

My Mr. Right was in the United States Navy. About t en years later we were living in Virginia Beach, Va. We had had one son, Brian, who was three years old, and I was pregnant with the next one, who turned out to be Brendan. The baby was due on June 15, and my husband’s ship was to be pierside/home for the month of June, so we were all set. Then in May he was told the ship had to go out for two weeks in June and my due date was right in the middle of those two weeks. What was I going to do with Brian, who was all of three year s old, while I went to the hospital to have the second baby? My mother at that time was 72 years old. Brian would simply exhaust her, so that was not on. SO I started making phone calls, but everyone was just too busy. Then I called Anna and told her my sad story. She quietly listened and when I was finished she said –

Ooh, Susie, when can I come?

When can I come? I teared up when she said that, just as I do today in telling you this story. SO – the third and last thing I have to tell you about my sister Anna, and I think everyone in this room knows this already,

ANNA SHOWS UP.

She shows up for birthdays in cards and gifts that year after year appear in your mailbox. She shows up for baby showers with beautiful gifts lovingly made by her own hands. She shows up for every wedding all decked-out in a new dress with a big smile on her face. She shows up for graduations and makes your child feel like the most remarkable person in the whole world. She shows up for your anniversary when everyone else in the whole world seems to have forgotten it. Anna shows up.

So why am so fond of Anna? She taught me about integrity. Through Anna, I met my own Mr. Right. And throughout my life, she has shown up not only for me but for my family.

But in ending with this thought of showing up, I would be wrong not to thank each and every one of you who has shown up today for my sister Anna at this wonderful surprise birthday party. You all know Anna, so I do not have to put into words what your presence here today means to my sister.

Thank you.

Picture courtesy of Maggie Morris:  Anna was presented with a  Memory Book into which 100 of her friends and family contibuted. The picture shows Anna that night, sitting up at her dining room table until midnight, reading her Memory Book.

I sent the following letter to the current principal of my high school, Immaculate Heart Academy,  on February 16, 2010.

Dear Ms. Molloy,

I am writing in hopes that you will be able to assist me in graduating from Immaculate Heart Academy. I entered Immaculate Heart Academy in the fall of 1968 and I completed my junior year in the spring of 1971.  That summer, while I was (very successfully) studying abroad in a college-level program, my father made arrangements for me to attend The College of Mount Saint Vincent upon my return to the United States at the end of that summer. My father made these arrangements without consulting the principal of IHA at the time, whose name I recall as being Sister Margaret (although I could be wrong here.) I should add that my father made these arrangements also without consulting me!

As my first year at The College of Mount Saint Vincent came to an end, the three other women in my freshman class who had also elected to skip their senior year of high school were invited back to their high schools to graduate with their class. I inquired if this would be possible for me, but was told by Sister Margaret that I could not  as those arrangements would have had to been made before leaving IHA. At the time, my father told me he would be able to secure for me a State of New Jersey high school diploma if I really wanted one, but I told him not to; it was not that important to me at the time, as I knew I would finish college.

I did finish college, and I went on to complete an MA in Applied Linguistics from George Mason University and an MFA in Creative Writing from Old Dominion University. I am currently an Associate Professor at Tidewater Community College where I teach English as a Second Language.   I am also active as a free lance writer with my published work at www.Shestories.com.

So, you may wonder why a fifty-six year old woman wants to graduate from high school. For each of my degrees, I chose not to walk for the graduation ceremony.   I have come to understand that these decisions were clearly linked to not being allowed to walk for my high school diploma.  I have some regrets about each of those decisions now.  Each year I attend the graduation ceremony for my college sitting with my colleagues in my academic  robes, but each year I find myself wondering more and more  what it would be like to walk up there and have a diploma handed to me. Therefore, I very much want to walk to receive my high school diploma at your graduation ceremony scheduled, I believe, for June 6.  This would mean a great deal to me.

I realize this is an odd request, but I hope that you will consider it. I look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely,

Susan O’Dea Boland

I was certain Principal Molloy would say yes; after mailing the letter, I daydreamed endlessly about walking up to the stage in my high school auditorium to the sound of Pomp and Circumstance….. I’d tear up just thinking about it. Finally, a month after mailing this letter, I had my reply. Good to hear from you, she said,  BUT

….to preserve the full meaning and tradition of the exercises, it is and remains our policy that only current graduating seniors can take part as principals in the ceremony.

At first I was stunned, but as it sunk in, tears streamed down my face.  Being stunned was due to it being a very long time since any one had said no to me. For that reason alone,  this experience was good as I sometimes must also deny a student’s request, and I should  know exactly how demoralizing that feels.  I will take time to remember this experience before I ever consider doing the same to one of my students.

The tears? I wanted this. I wanted it so bad.

Eventually, though, my thoughts turned to my (long deceased) mother. If I could call her for some consolation on this one, what would she say?  It took a long walk on the beach to sort out that my mother would wonder why in the world I wanted a diploma from IHA in the first place, as she did not have much respect for the school. She had two daughters who taught there and one who attended; Mom knew way too much about the nuns and all their nonsense – or “nunsense” as she called it.

But my mother also knew all about missed graduations. Mom had dated my father in her junior year at The College of Mount Saint Vincent , but returned to  her home in Northern Maine that summer after an argument with him. She never returned to college, but married my father one year later.  As Mrs. O’Dea, she gave birth to seven children, all of whom graduated from college, three of whom graduated from The College of Mount Saint Vincent.  What was it like for my mother to attend her daughters’ graduations? Surely much pride, but also a twinge – why not me? It was shortly after my third sister’s  graduation from Mount Saint Vincent – with my father serving as the commencement speaker – that my mother decided to return to college to finish her own degree. This was in 1966 and my mother was 54 – so close to my own age now of 56.   1966 was at the start of the women’s movement, but college campuses  did not have the support services for older women returning to college that are mandatory today.

Mom started with one three credit class in French, which had been her major. Mom had kept up her French over the years,  as a French grammar was one of the many books  routinely scattered about our dining room table.  After about six weeks, my mother returned home in tears, and had a long talk with my father . No matter how much she studied, she could not keep up with the young people in her class and she was getting bad grades on her tests.  Dad listened and then gave her a stern lecture in a tone of voice I had never heard him use before with her, explaining  that when she married him she got her MRS degree and had accomplished many wonderful things  as a mother and did not need a BA degree.

Mom stopped crying. She also stopped going to her French classes. That was the end of that. I think my father was wrong about the MRS degree. My mother clearly wanted to graduate from college. Hadn’t this woman taught each of her seven children that you never ever give up on something once you begin it? You always see something through to the end. ALWAYS.

I spent the rest of that walk on the beach going over the other important lessons my mother had taught me . It is a long list, and more often than not, taught by her example rather than words.  That is when I realized that I must persist on this graduation thing. However,  it is not my graduation from somewhere that has to be rectified. It is my mother’s.

I was stretched out on a double bed on the seventh floor of the Sheraton Hotel on 25th Street in New York City. My dinner was spread around me on the bedspread – carrot soup and Irish soda bread from the Whole Foods around the corner. Maggie Morris,  my dear friend and an art director, sat across from me on the other bed. Although I was famished, I could not eat due to the belly laughs emanating from me over Maggie’s description of her attempts to come up with a banner ad for a fiber supplement for the better part of the day which was now, thankfully, behind her. Maggie was laid off from a high-paying job as art director at a prestigious advertising firm several weeks ago; she is now back to free lancing, which is how she got her start in the business ten years ago. Around ten o’clock she shuffled out of my room to go home. She was clearly exhausted but had a couple hours more work waiting for her at home before she could call it a night.

The next afternoon I was standing on a corner of Union Square to meet up with another friend, Rosebud Baker, who is an aspiring actor, for something to eat and a stroll around the city together. She quickly had me seated in a corner of her favorite place to eat which serves macrobiotic food….which I found out is large platefuls of delicious steamed vegetables, bowls of miso soup, and several sets of spring rolls for $7 a person. The place was packed and the food was fantastic. I was my usual self – full of questions for my NYC friend whose life is so different from mine- and she patiently explained the roles agents, managers, and producers play to aspiring actors like herself. Then Rosebud delineated, at my request, the initial steps she has already taken to produce her own show. She is tired of waiting for someone to give her a part, so she is taking things into her own hands. Rosebud’s currently teaches pay-what- you- can yoga classes to pay her bills these days and simultaneously helps other people keep going to yoga when most everyone’s budget says you can’t afford that right now. She asks for $8 donations, and is amazed to find twenty dollars bills stuffed into the pot at the end of the hour long session. And then Rosebud says – Aren’t people great?

The next morning I was having coffee with another friend, Trish Clifford,  in New York City who had given birth to her first child, a son, three months ago. Liam slept peacefully on my lap as Trish told me about the transition she is making into being a full-time Mom. Before Liam, Trish was a high school English teacher, and LOVED her job. Her students must have loved Trish, too, as a teacher myself could well imagine. Trish loves life and her enthusiasm is contagious. In the course of our conversation, Trish told me that the strangest thing has happened to her. Susan, it used to be all I cared about was myself. Now all I care about is Liam……Her husband works in finance and has to travel a lot right now, leaving Trish at home alone for long stretches with Liam and their dog, Blondie, in their small apartment. She has a sitter that comes in the morning so Trish can get to the gym – a priority for most new mothers – and to take Blondie for a walk, for she can’t quite manage walking both of them at the same time just yet. But she’s working on it.

The purpose of my visit to New York City was professional development. I attended a conference addressing the skills that must be taught in our classrooms now to prepare current students to be employable in the 2020 global workforce. The conference was stimulating, to say the least, but the time spent with these young people who have already completed their education and are somewhere between 20 and 30 years old left me confident about what 2020 is going to look like. They have the energy of two-year-olds. They have a beguiling sense of humor. They flock to New York City with a dream determined to make it a reality and they are flush with the new-found joy of becoming a parent. The conference gave me the data I needed to refresh myself professionally, but it was the time with Maggie, Rosebud, and Trish which enabled me to see that we are, indeed, in very good hands.

Facebook says I have 54 friends while one of my Facebook friends has over 900 friends. 900? I do not even really have 54 friends! So it would appear that Facebook and I differ on the definition of a friend. I would not take on trying to define friend according to Facebook, as much fun as that could be. However, I did look up friend in my reliable old dictionary for a better grip on the word.  A friend is somebody we trust and are fond of, someone of whom we think well and we are on good terms, or a friend is an ally – someone who is not an enemy.

The word itself comes to us from Middle English, frend, and that from Old English frēond , and back more to the Old High German friunt, and on to the Gothic frijōnds.  Frijonds was originally the present participle of the verb frēogan,  a form of the gothic word, frijōn. And frijon was the gothic verb  to love, which is why I am writing about friendship on Valentine’s Day.

I certainly do not love my 56 Facebook friends. In fact, I can count on my fingers the friends whom I loved, have loved, and still love.  I had one close friend in high school, with whom I have recently reunited, thanks to, you guessed it, Facebook. I had one close friend during those college years with whom I have also reunited, also thanks to the internet. As I age, I find that I treasure these friendships with my long-lost but much-loved friends.

Then, I married and had two sons. These three men were my only friends for a long time. But I had no choice. Let me explain. I was living in man-land, being the only woman in a small house with 1.75 baths (this shower was so small that if you dropped the soap, you could not keep your hair dry).  To make matters worse, my husband, a sailor, would ROUTINELY leave me with the two boys for a six-month cruise with the US Navy. I had no time for women friends, but in retrospect, I badly needed one. But real friends, real friends, take time, and I rarely had enough  time for a good haircut. As I recall, my hair grew very long as I continued to tie it, wet, (not a lot of bathroom time and when I managed to get in there, I dropped the soap) in a knot on the back of my head – for those twenty-or-so memorable and cherished- yes, cherished -  years……

But as I reached  my fifties and my sons grew up,  I slowly emerged from man-land and was finally blessed with some woman friends – one also a mother of two boys,  another a soul mate in Dublin.  Another woman, a niece-turned-friend, resides closest to my heart. Perhaps that we share some genes as well as our unique friendship accounts for how very dear this gentle woman is to me.

Sometimes we have falling-outs with our friends. This has happened to me with my friends. As you may well imagine from my meager list, a falling out with one of my friends devastates me. In an honest friendship, conflicts cannot be avoided. But with age and time, I have recognized the urgency to move on from conflict to the much more important things in life  – like taking  a long walk on a beach or up a mountain together,  the sharing of a meal or a pot of tea,  or sending a truly thoughtful gift for no reason at all at all. With urgency, I say, for none of us knows what tomorrow may bring.  Time has also taught me that lesson.

Friendship, for me, is fired in the commitment to be there. The best being there  is  taking  a firm hold of  my friend’s hand and being beside them – in spirit but so much better in the flesh-  should one of these friends whom I loved, have loved, and still love,  need me. My friends are these people  I write about today, people whom I trust and am fond of, of whom I think well and with whom I am on good terms, my ally when the world seems against me.  So if you call, and say you need me, I’ll be there. For the root of friendship is love, and I love you, my friend.

In 1994, I stood with  my oldest son, Brian, on  a piece of land called Deer Point in Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. We were both looking through  binoculars at the same thing;  United States Coast Guard cutters bringing in thousands of Cuban refugees  whom the Coasties had rescued from the waters between Cuba and Florida  to a safe haven at  Guantanomo Bay.  For  very selfish reasons, as I watched I wished them all to be returned to Havana.  Their presence  in Gitmo meant my boys and I would have to leave and my husband would have to stay,  keeping us apart for one year.   This is what I saw, but Brian saw something else.  Nine years later he graduated from the United States Coast Guard Academy, and he now flies the C 130 out of Clearwater, Florida…..often looking for  refugees  in the waters between Cuba and Florida.

When my two boys were between the ages of 5 and 10, I took them to the Washington Zoo. We were making our way around in good time until we arrived at  the gorilla gazebo. Through large thick panes of glass you can watch the gorillas doing all those disgusting things that gorillas do without any embarrassment at all. My sons were intrigued. “Wow! They’re just like us, Mom.” I could not  get them out of the gorilla gazebo for all they really wanted was to go in there with the gorillas and mess around with them for awhile. It would be just like home. There is no doubt in my mind but that a mother of a couple of boys figured out our origins long before Darwin ever came along.

My youngest son is now a freshman in high school, and he is studying Earth Science. Astronomy is the first unit in the textbook,  and  big bang theory is presented. However, the  first assignment -before reading the chapter-  was to research any religion’s account of human origins and write an essay about it. The students were encouraged to go further than Christianity and Judaism, as most of the class was already familiar with those accounts. This was an interesting assignment for the class, and a great way for the teacher to initiate a dialogue between parents and children about the foundations of their particular faith. Once that assignment was done, she moved on with her astronomy lessons. Obviously, my son is in very good hands in his Earth Science class.

But I have to ask myself – what are my hands doing? This is because I do not understand the parent who expects school to undertake a child’s spiritual education. Putting the Ten Commandments up on the wall next to the DARE poster is not going to make our children drug-free church-goers. It takes much more than that. I spent K – 12 in Catholic schools where I learned a lot about religion but, sorry to say, very little about faith. Those lessons were learned from watching how my parents went about raising their seven children.

When I was a teen, a close friend of our family died. She had been my father’s first secretary, and she had never married. My parents included her on all major holidays and other family occasions. A few months after her estate was settled, I was flying somewhere with my father when he took a silver rosary out of his pocket and put it into my hand. The rosary had belonged to this woman, whom we  all called Aunt Madeline. My father did not say much when he gave me this gift, but I understood that for him his faith was manifested in that rosary of Aunt Madeline’s, and he was passing it on to me.

At the time, I did not understand why he was giving it to me. Why me? He had six other children who needed as much help (or even more, I remember thinking at the time) as I did. It is one of my life’s little mysteries However, over the years, I have managed to hold onto that rosary  just as I have managed to hold onto my faith.

Many of the larger mysteries of the world which surround my son will be explained to him in his Earth Science class this year. For example, he has recently brought it to my attention  that Jupiter is a ball of gas. Boys are intrigued by gas in all its forms. But even with all the knowledge in that Earth Science textbook, so much of our world remains a mystery, as mysterious as faith itself. As Northrop Frye, an eminent professor of literature, puts it, “… we are all in the position of a dog in the library, surrounded by a world of meaning in plain sight that we don’t even know is there.”

In my house we are not so much dogs in the library as gorillas in the gazebo. It is a long haul from the gorilla gazebo to – well, I am not sure exactly where this process of raising children ends, but I do know my husband and I  are not there yet.  I also know that we cannot do it alone. And neither can his Earth Science teacher. So many will have a hand in this.