January 19, 2012
Blog Has Moved!
For professional reasons, I've moved my blog postings to www.wendyspinale.blogspot.com. Come stop in and say hello!!
December 30, 2011
Goodbye 2011, Bring it On 2012!
It is always interesting how life sometimes brings us full circle. When I started blogging a few years back I never would have foreseen the adventures that awaited my future.
After working in the fitness industry for ten years, I knew that there was more to me than developing class formats, putting together music, and prancing around up front and center motivating people to endure the next hour grueling exercise. I had begun to lose my passion for fitness after some time and knew that something better awaited me on the other side of the gym doors.
That's when blogging began for me. It sparked a rebirth in my love for writing, for the art of expression, and for the avenue to bring my imagination alive. I had no idea that I would passionately fall in love with writing. That I would soon eat, sleep, and dream writing.
With no formal training, no degree in journalism or English, I landed myself a cushy little job about a year and a half ago writing for a local online news website. At first, my job was to cover local businesses but after awhile I found my boundaries too constraining. I was then given the freedom to venture out and write about whatever peaked my interest. This resulted into a bi-weekly column which eventually went weekly.
My year and a half with Patch was incredible. I learned more about myself working with Patch than would've been possible had I not taken a leap of faith and begun to write. Being the middle child with a hearing impaired older brother, a younger sister by four years, growing up with divorced parents, and a mother working full-time, I had always considered myself serious, overly-responsible, and innately the little parent. Patch brought the sometimes reckless, quirky, humorous side of me back to life. Something about standing among a pit full of tomato hurlers, Dandia dancing with worshipers from India, playing trivia with drunk but incredibly intelligent IT guys, and noticing the sparkling eyes in two aspiring young actresses...well, it changed me profoundly. It taught me to embrace the "fun" in life and instilled in me unquenchable thirst to continue to write.
Patch taught me that I was funny when I never thought there was funny bone in me. It taught me I had talent, I just needed an opportunity for someone else to believe in me so that I could believe in myself. I learned to take criticism, something I've always struggled with, when readers didn't like what I wrote or felt my opinions were wrong.
This week was my last Patch column. I have become so accustomed to living from one deadline to the next with occasional extra deadlines in between. It will be strange the upcoming weeks to learn to readjust to life without my "Wednesday by noon" drop time. All things happen for a reason and as the past has shown me, when one good thing goes, another good thing takes its place. I've worked as a party princess, a Disney character, a physical therapy aide, a group exercise instructor, a personal trainer, and now a professional writer. How lucky am I to have had such incredible and amazing jobs? I can't imagine and can't wait to see what new adventure awaits me.
2011 was certainly a year of growth. It was also a year of loss and tragedy. In April we lost my sweet step-sister Andreae at the young age of 42. She was beautiful, smart, and her light was snuffed way too early. In October, I nearly lost my mother and the memory of looking at her for what I thought was last time as she was wheeled into the operating room will be forever burned into mind. Thankfully, there were angels with her that day and she was given a new lease on life.
With 2012 only a few days away, I am looking forward to starting the year with a heart of gratitude, thankful for new beginnings, new endevours, and new possibilities. I am incredibly blessed with the support of amazing friends, a husband that can make me laugh even when things look bleak, and three boys who remind me not to take life too seriously. How much better could life be? Happy New's Years!
After working in the fitness industry for ten years, I knew that there was more to me than developing class formats, putting together music, and prancing around up front and center motivating people to endure the next hour grueling exercise. I had begun to lose my passion for fitness after some time and knew that something better awaited me on the other side of the gym doors.
That's when blogging began for me. It sparked a rebirth in my love for writing, for the art of expression, and for the avenue to bring my imagination alive. I had no idea that I would passionately fall in love with writing. That I would soon eat, sleep, and dream writing.
With no formal training, no degree in journalism or English, I landed myself a cushy little job about a year and a half ago writing for a local online news website. At first, my job was to cover local businesses but after awhile I found my boundaries too constraining. I was then given the freedom to venture out and write about whatever peaked my interest. This resulted into a bi-weekly column which eventually went weekly.
My year and a half with Patch was incredible. I learned more about myself working with Patch than would've been possible had I not taken a leap of faith and begun to write. Being the middle child with a hearing impaired older brother, a younger sister by four years, growing up with divorced parents, and a mother working full-time, I had always considered myself serious, overly-responsible, and innately the little parent. Patch brought the sometimes reckless, quirky, humorous side of me back to life. Something about standing among a pit full of tomato hurlers, Dandia dancing with worshipers from India, playing trivia with drunk but incredibly intelligent IT guys, and noticing the sparkling eyes in two aspiring young actresses...well, it changed me profoundly. It taught me to embrace the "fun" in life and instilled in me unquenchable thirst to continue to write.
Patch taught me that I was funny when I never thought there was funny bone in me. It taught me I had talent, I just needed an opportunity for someone else to believe in me so that I could believe in myself. I learned to take criticism, something I've always struggled with, when readers didn't like what I wrote or felt my opinions were wrong.
This week was my last Patch column. I have become so accustomed to living from one deadline to the next with occasional extra deadlines in between. It will be strange the upcoming weeks to learn to readjust to life without my "Wednesday by noon" drop time. All things happen for a reason and as the past has shown me, when one good thing goes, another good thing takes its place. I've worked as a party princess, a Disney character, a physical therapy aide, a group exercise instructor, a personal trainer, and now a professional writer. How lucky am I to have had such incredible and amazing jobs? I can't imagine and can't wait to see what new adventure awaits me.
2011 was certainly a year of growth. It was also a year of loss and tragedy. In April we lost my sweet step-sister Andreae at the young age of 42. She was beautiful, smart, and her light was snuffed way too early. In October, I nearly lost my mother and the memory of looking at her for what I thought was last time as she was wheeled into the operating room will be forever burned into mind. Thankfully, there were angels with her that day and she was given a new lease on life.
With 2012 only a few days away, I am looking forward to starting the year with a heart of gratitude, thankful for new beginnings, new endevours, and new possibilities. I am incredibly blessed with the support of amazing friends, a husband that can make me laugh even when things look bleak, and three boys who remind me not to take life too seriously. How much better could life be? Happy New's Years!
November 28, 2011
My Thanksgiving Birthday
The warm oven gives off the faint smell of roasted turkey. A pumpkin
pie cools, waiting to be topped with whipped cream and cinnamon. Today is Thanksgiving Day, a day to gather with those we love and offer tidings of gratitude for the blessings in our life.
It is also the ninth anniversary of my 29th birthday.
In my family, the women hold onto their youth, or rather desperately cling onto it for dear life, by forgoing our 30th birthdays to celebrate the anniversary of our 29th birthdays over and over again. This year mine happens to fall today, Thanksgiving Day.
When I’ve shared with others that my birthday often falls on this nationally celebrated holiday, I receive mixed reactions. Some consider me lucky to have family, friends, and food around to help me celebrate. After all, Thanksgiving Day is one of those holidays that most family members don’t opt out on.
One friend mentioned how lucky I must feel to have a feast for my birthday, until I pointed out to her that I know of no one who orders roasted turkey for their special birthday dinner. Not only that, but my usual contribution to our family Thanksgiving meal is my homemade pumpkin pie, which inevitably shows up in front of me with a candle in it at some point during the meal.
While I appreciate the gesture of recognition, I will eat a piece and secretly wish for prime rib with grilled vegetables followed by a warm chocolate lava cake for dessert.
Then there are those who recognize the dilemma of a birthday falling on one of the largest holidays of the year, and offer words of condolence, as if someone dear to me has just passed away. I assure them that I am not only person in history whose birthday falls on Thanksgiving. Serial killer Ted Bundy was also born on November 24 in 1946. Thankfully, I adjusted to the holiday/birthday combination much better than he did. He probably didn't indulge in enough pumpkin pie.
Today also happens to be D.B. Cooper Day. Forty years ago today, an unidentified man hijacked a Boeing 727 aircraft in the airspace between Portland, Oregon and Seattle, Washington. He extorted $200,000 in ransom money before parachuting out of the aircraft.
I attribute his temporary insanity to a possible pumpkin pie shortage in 1971.
Although the FBI conducted an extensive manhunt, he was never positively identified or located. The original airline ticket was purchased under the name of Dan Cooper, but due to a news media miscommunication, he became known as D.B. Cooper.
Something about November 24 and people who are not well-adjusted does cause me some concern, but it's nothing that a second piece of my birthday pumpkin pie won’t solve.
I also note to others that Thanksgiving isn't the worst holiday of year in which to celebrate a birthday. Immediately, most people nod in agreement suggesting Christmas could be far worse, but I offer an alternative.
My dear friend Elena was born on February 29, Leap Day. Her birthday falls on a calendar day once every four years. Elena takes her birthday in stride pointing out that although she has seen more Thanksgiving Days than I have, she is considerably younger than I am — she's technically only 10 years old. In addition, it’ll be years, if ever, before she’ll have to celebrate the anniversary of her 29th birthday.
Thanksgiving Day also overshadows other important obscure holidays, such as Celebrate Your Unique Talent Day, Use Even if the Seal is Broken Day, National Novel Writing Month, International Drum Month, and Peanut Butter Lovers Month. In recognition of these often overlooked holidays, I intend to observe my unique writing talent by composing a novel on top of a drum after eating from a jar of peanut butter even though the seal is broken.
So while I celebrate the ninth anniversary of my 29th birthday on the 40th anniversary of D.B. Cooper’s bold escape, I will give thanks that I am a mostly well-adjusted individual surrounded by family members who love me and that pumpkin pie always seems to make things better.
It is also the ninth anniversary of my 29th birthday.
In my family, the women hold onto their youth, or rather desperately cling onto it for dear life, by forgoing our 30th birthdays to celebrate the anniversary of our 29th birthdays over and over again. This year mine happens to fall today, Thanksgiving Day.
When I’ve shared with others that my birthday often falls on this nationally celebrated holiday, I receive mixed reactions. Some consider me lucky to have family, friends, and food around to help me celebrate. After all, Thanksgiving Day is one of those holidays that most family members don’t opt out on.
One friend mentioned how lucky I must feel to have a feast for my birthday, until I pointed out to her that I know of no one who orders roasted turkey for their special birthday dinner. Not only that, but my usual contribution to our family Thanksgiving meal is my homemade pumpkin pie, which inevitably shows up in front of me with a candle in it at some point during the meal.
While I appreciate the gesture of recognition, I will eat a piece and secretly wish for prime rib with grilled vegetables followed by a warm chocolate lava cake for dessert.
Then there are those who recognize the dilemma of a birthday falling on one of the largest holidays of the year, and offer words of condolence, as if someone dear to me has just passed away. I assure them that I am not only person in history whose birthday falls on Thanksgiving. Serial killer Ted Bundy was also born on November 24 in 1946. Thankfully, I adjusted to the holiday/birthday combination much better than he did. He probably didn't indulge in enough pumpkin pie.
Today also happens to be D.B. Cooper Day. Forty years ago today, an unidentified man hijacked a Boeing 727 aircraft in the airspace between Portland, Oregon and Seattle, Washington. He extorted $200,000 in ransom money before parachuting out of the aircraft.
I attribute his temporary insanity to a possible pumpkin pie shortage in 1971.
Although the FBI conducted an extensive manhunt, he was never positively identified or located. The original airline ticket was purchased under the name of Dan Cooper, but due to a news media miscommunication, he became known as D.B. Cooper.
Something about November 24 and people who are not well-adjusted does cause me some concern, but it's nothing that a second piece of my birthday pumpkin pie won’t solve.
I also note to others that Thanksgiving isn't the worst holiday of year in which to celebrate a birthday. Immediately, most people nod in agreement suggesting Christmas could be far worse, but I offer an alternative.
My dear friend Elena was born on February 29, Leap Day. Her birthday falls on a calendar day once every four years. Elena takes her birthday in stride pointing out that although she has seen more Thanksgiving Days than I have, she is considerably younger than I am — she's technically only 10 years old. In addition, it’ll be years, if ever, before she’ll have to celebrate the anniversary of her 29th birthday.
Thanksgiving Day also overshadows other important obscure holidays, such as Celebrate Your Unique Talent Day, Use Even if the Seal is Broken Day, National Novel Writing Month, International Drum Month, and Peanut Butter Lovers Month. In recognition of these often overlooked holidays, I intend to observe my unique writing talent by composing a novel on top of a drum after eating from a jar of peanut butter even though the seal is broken.
So while I celebrate the ninth anniversary of my 29th birthday on the 40th anniversary of D.B. Cooper’s bold escape, I will give thanks that I am a mostly well-adjusted individual surrounded by family members who love me and that pumpkin pie always seems to make things better.
September 17, 2011
August 30, 2011
Giving Thanks For Teachers
I have decided that as a community we are not just lucky, we're blessed with the men and women who teach our children.
Being a teacher takes talent to begin with. Aside from the obvious credentials and education, teachers must have patience, organizational skills, be able to multi-task around the needs of twenty-plus children, and maintain self-control when at times a classroom of Kindergarteners might feel like being trapped in a cage of chimpanzees.
A teacher must also have the ability to keep a straight face when a stinky teenager who has obviously forgotten to wear deodorant comes to him or her with questions, or have compassion when a tearful young girl is beside herself over breaking up with her first love.
And then, there is the teacher who will reside over my 5-year-old son Riley from 8:15 a.m. to 11:35 a.m. Monday through Friday. She is more than a teacher, she is a saint...or at least she will be by the end of this Kindergarten year.
Monday night, the evening before school started, I declared it to be a "take a shower and scrub all 2,000 body parts" night for my little posse of Smith boys. My older two ran off to take their showers dutifully while my sweet Riley announced that he would not be showering. After asking nicely, threatening, counting to three, and numerous unsuccessful requests, I realized I had a battle on my hands. I took a quick look at the clock and had a one-sided conversation with myself that went something like this:
"It's going to take ten minutes to cut and peel the beets and sweet potatoes. Another hour to roast them. Don't forget to set aside time to make the salad. Thank goodness the chicken is already in the crock-pot. Let's see...that gives me three and a half minutes to take control of this shower situation."
So, with lightening speed and grace like a Baryshnikov dancer, I picked up my fifty pound almost-Kindergartner, stripped him down, stood him in the shower, washed his hair and most of his 2,000 body parts, pulled him out, and wrapped him in a towel. Just like that, in three and half minutes flat, Riley was about two pounds lighter due the removal of excesses grime and dirt.
"Your clothes are sitting on the sink. You can either dress yourself or come ask me for help," I said rushing off to start cutting vegetables for the salad.
What followed then was a temper tantrum of ginormous proportions. As I busily chopped away at carrots, celery, and onions, my son writhed on the floor naked by my feet screaming something about not wanting to have taken the shower. Meanwhile, I fell into a zen state and began quietly repeating my most recently adopted mantra.
"He, too, will have a 5-year-old one day. He, too, will have a 5-year-old one day."
It wasn't until about ten minutes later when a pair of Spiderman briefs whizzed past my head, nearly landing into a pot of boiling water that I decided I should probably confront this red-faced, angry little boy. I took in a big breath, absorbing all the peace and serenity I found in my zen state. I knelt down until I was eye-to-eye with Riley, and in the sweetest, Snow White-like voice, I said this to him:
"In a few minutes I will be calling your brothers into the house. They will walk through that front door, see you lying naked on the floor kicking and screaming, and they will laugh hysterically at you. It will be something I cannot control because, yes, you do look pretty funny behaving this way. It is your choice whether or not you would like to be on the other end of their laughter."
With that, I stood up, opened the kitchen window, and let my older boys know that they had two minutes left of play time before they would need to come in to help set the table for dinner. Wouldn't you know it, I turned around to see Riley scrambling into his Spiderman briefs.
The rest of the night went uneventfully with no mention of the chaos that had occurred earlier.
The next morning, my children bounded off to school, Riley most excited of them all to enter his first day of Kindergarten. To be truthful, I'm always sad to see them off the first day of school because summer brings a time of great bonding between us. I miss them terribly.
But that morning, as I sat in the still, quiet, and peaceful ambiance of my home drinking a warm cup of coffee, my thoughts were with Mrs. Garcia, Riley's Kindergarten teacher. I mentally sent her all the patience, love, and compassion that I have for my son, hoping she could absorb it from two blocks away. And then I thanked her for allowing me to have three hours of drama-free adult time.
Our teachers are more than just educators. They are counselors, cheerleaders, and disciplinarians to our children. They console, encourage, and provide structure to the youth who are lucky enough to grace their classrooms. And, I say this with the utmost respect and thanks, they assume authoritative responsibility of the little people who encompass the most fragile part of our hearts.
On that day, alone in my house, I lifted my coffee mug and toasted to the educators who will encounter my children over the next thirteen years.
Three cheers for teachers!
Being a teacher takes talent to begin with. Aside from the obvious credentials and education, teachers must have patience, organizational skills, be able to multi-task around the needs of twenty-plus children, and maintain self-control when at times a classroom of Kindergarteners might feel like being trapped in a cage of chimpanzees.
A teacher must also have the ability to keep a straight face when a stinky teenager who has obviously forgotten to wear deodorant comes to him or her with questions, or have compassion when a tearful young girl is beside herself over breaking up with her first love.
And then, there is the teacher who will reside over my 5-year-old son Riley from 8:15 a.m. to 11:35 a.m. Monday through Friday. She is more than a teacher, she is a saint...or at least she will be by the end of this Kindergarten year.
Monday night, the evening before school started, I declared it to be a "take a shower and scrub all 2,000 body parts" night for my little posse of Smith boys. My older two ran off to take their showers dutifully while my sweet Riley announced that he would not be showering. After asking nicely, threatening, counting to three, and numerous unsuccessful requests, I realized I had a battle on my hands. I took a quick look at the clock and had a one-sided conversation with myself that went something like this:
"It's going to take ten minutes to cut and peel the beets and sweet potatoes. Another hour to roast them. Don't forget to set aside time to make the salad. Thank goodness the chicken is already in the crock-pot. Let's see...that gives me three and a half minutes to take control of this shower situation."
So, with lightening speed and grace like a Baryshnikov dancer, I picked up my fifty pound almost-Kindergartner, stripped him down, stood him in the shower, washed his hair and most of his 2,000 body parts, pulled him out, and wrapped him in a towel. Just like that, in three and half minutes flat, Riley was about two pounds lighter due the removal of excesses grime and dirt.
"Your clothes are sitting on the sink. You can either dress yourself or come ask me for help," I said rushing off to start cutting vegetables for the salad.
What followed then was a temper tantrum of ginormous proportions. As I busily chopped away at carrots, celery, and onions, my son writhed on the floor naked by my feet screaming something about not wanting to have taken the shower. Meanwhile, I fell into a zen state and began quietly repeating my most recently adopted mantra.
"He, too, will have a 5-year-old one day. He, too, will have a 5-year-old one day."
It wasn't until about ten minutes later when a pair of Spiderman briefs whizzed past my head, nearly landing into a pot of boiling water that I decided I should probably confront this red-faced, angry little boy. I took in a big breath, absorbing all the peace and serenity I found in my zen state. I knelt down until I was eye-to-eye with Riley, and in the sweetest, Snow White-like voice, I said this to him:
"In a few minutes I will be calling your brothers into the house. They will walk through that front door, see you lying naked on the floor kicking and screaming, and they will laugh hysterically at you. It will be something I cannot control because, yes, you do look pretty funny behaving this way. It is your choice whether or not you would like to be on the other end of their laughter."
With that, I stood up, opened the kitchen window, and let my older boys know that they had two minutes left of play time before they would need to come in to help set the table for dinner. Wouldn't you know it, I turned around to see Riley scrambling into his Spiderman briefs.
The rest of the night went uneventfully with no mention of the chaos that had occurred earlier.
The next morning, my children bounded off to school, Riley most excited of them all to enter his first day of Kindergarten. To be truthful, I'm always sad to see them off the first day of school because summer brings a time of great bonding between us. I miss them terribly.
But that morning, as I sat in the still, quiet, and peaceful ambiance of my home drinking a warm cup of coffee, my thoughts were with Mrs. Garcia, Riley's Kindergarten teacher. I mentally sent her all the patience, love, and compassion that I have for my son, hoping she could absorb it from two blocks away. And then I thanked her for allowing me to have three hours of drama-free adult time.
Our teachers are more than just educators. They are counselors, cheerleaders, and disciplinarians to our children. They console, encourage, and provide structure to the youth who are lucky enough to grace their classrooms. And, I say this with the utmost respect and thanks, they assume authoritative responsibility of the little people who encompass the most fragile part of our hearts.
On that day, alone in my house, I lifted my coffee mug and toasted to the educators who will encounter my children over the next thirteen years.
Three cheers for teachers!
August 13, 2011
It's a Small World After All
This has been a pivotal year for me. This year is my 20 year high school reunion. Yes, its been 20 years since I've roamed the halls of teenage-dom, doing everything I could to fit in and avoid looking like the total nerd. This task proved difficult seeing as I went to three high schools in four years.
My first school was not far from a beach town in southern California, what they called at the time "The Melting Pot". There was no room for religious bias or racial favoritism. We were a mish-mash of all skin colors, all beliefs, all backgrounds. Luckily I managed to stay there long enough during my elementary, middle school, and freshman year to learn the lingo, the moves, the "do's" and "do nots" of how to behave. Everything was "RAD" or if something was nasty it "gagged" me.
Then came Idaho the lessons of trying to fit in started all over again. Having been raise of no religion but recruited in my preteen days into Christianity, lets just say my Jesus lingo didn't fit so well with Joseph Smith crowd. I seemed to have a neon sign on my forehead that invited enlightenment from classmates who were practicing to go on their future missions. Since it their religious prodding fell on deaf ears many adopted the "Two Books of Mormon" rule, or in my case "Twenty Books of Mormon" rule and kept their distance. I left Idaho with making a handful friends, the small pod of non-LDSers.
Junior year, I found myself in Oklahoma and thankful I no longer had to find new ways to be cool within the Latter Day Saints community. I had high hopes that maybe in the Bible belt, I might find myself in the "in" crowd. Although I did fair a bit better among the Southern Baptists, Jesus lingo still intact, I felt as I had been whisked back in time. Here it was 1990, and my lily white complexion seemed to be the thing that defined me this time. While the south had certainly advance beyond the days of the Civil War there still felt as if there was an impregnable wall I could not pass. There were those like me who were born with blinding snow white skin that classmates would have to wear sunglasses while passing. There were also those I used to think (and still do) were lucky because they never lost their golden and brown suntans. I disliked the obvious "us" and "them" behavior on both sides of divide. Eventually I left Oklahoma, again walking away with a handful of friendships.
After 4 years and three high schools, I had enough of the blatant division among my communities I had lived in. I moved back to southern California where I landed myself a job as a Disney Character. I spent 4 years in that one magical place working with diversity in its finest form. Not only did I meet and greet with people from all walks of life, religions, races, family structures, and preferences but I worked and lived among them day in and day out. Aside from the genuine Disney grin, they fit no mold society could place on them. They were unique, beautiful just as they were. They became my extended family.
It's incredible to me how Disney represents itself as a "family theme park" but how few people know how depth the thread of truth that runs deep in that representation. The family behind the Disney scenes truly loved one another, respecting their unique differences and beliefs, finding ways to live in harmony with one another...and really...it was effortless. It was a small world, sheltered by the rules of status, race, and religion, that created a community of friends to become family.
My high school 20 year reunions came and went. I did not attend any of the three high school get-togethers. Truthfully, I didn't think much of it. But this weekend, my Disney family gathered for a one of a kind reunion. I had every intention of going but circumstances did not allow it this time. As the pictures posted, and the Facebook Reunion page comments went up, a sadness grew in my heart. I missed the event that brought my Disney family from all parts of the world together to rekindle the love, affection, and camaraderie we have for one another.
However, my heart is warmed by the thoughts that no matter the distance or years that separate my furry friends and I, this world is much smaller than it appears and my that Disney family is just a magic carpet ride (or a Boeing 747) away.
My first school was not far from a beach town in southern California, what they called at the time "The Melting Pot". There was no room for religious bias or racial favoritism. We were a mish-mash of all skin colors, all beliefs, all backgrounds. Luckily I managed to stay there long enough during my elementary, middle school, and freshman year to learn the lingo, the moves, the "do's" and "do nots" of how to behave. Everything was "RAD" or if something was nasty it "gagged" me.
Then came Idaho the lessons of trying to fit in started all over again. Having been raise of no religion but recruited in my preteen days into Christianity, lets just say my Jesus lingo didn't fit so well with Joseph Smith crowd. I seemed to have a neon sign on my forehead that invited enlightenment from classmates who were practicing to go on their future missions. Since it their religious prodding fell on deaf ears many adopted the "Two Books of Mormon" rule, or in my case "Twenty Books of Mormon" rule and kept their distance. I left Idaho with making a handful friends, the small pod of non-LDSers.
Junior year, I found myself in Oklahoma and thankful I no longer had to find new ways to be cool within the Latter Day Saints community. I had high hopes that maybe in the Bible belt, I might find myself in the "in" crowd. Although I did fair a bit better among the Southern Baptists, Jesus lingo still intact, I felt as I had been whisked back in time. Here it was 1990, and my lily white complexion seemed to be the thing that defined me this time. While the south had certainly advance beyond the days of the Civil War there still felt as if there was an impregnable wall I could not pass. There were those like me who were born with blinding snow white skin that classmates would have to wear sunglasses while passing. There were also those I used to think (and still do) were lucky because they never lost their golden and brown suntans. I disliked the obvious "us" and "them" behavior on both sides of divide. Eventually I left Oklahoma, again walking away with a handful of friendships.
After 4 years and three high schools, I had enough of the blatant division among my communities I had lived in. I moved back to southern California where I landed myself a job as a Disney Character. I spent 4 years in that one magical place working with diversity in its finest form. Not only did I meet and greet with people from all walks of life, religions, races, family structures, and preferences but I worked and lived among them day in and day out. Aside from the genuine Disney grin, they fit no mold society could place on them. They were unique, beautiful just as they were. They became my extended family.
It's incredible to me how Disney represents itself as a "family theme park" but how few people know how depth the thread of truth that runs deep in that representation. The family behind the Disney scenes truly loved one another, respecting their unique differences and beliefs, finding ways to live in harmony with one another...and really...it was effortless. It was a small world, sheltered by the rules of status, race, and religion, that created a community of friends to become family.
My high school 20 year reunions came and went. I did not attend any of the three high school get-togethers. Truthfully, I didn't think much of it. But this weekend, my Disney family gathered for a one of a kind reunion. I had every intention of going but circumstances did not allow it this time. As the pictures posted, and the Facebook Reunion page comments went up, a sadness grew in my heart. I missed the event that brought my Disney family from all parts of the world together to rekindle the love, affection, and camaraderie we have for one another.
However, my heart is warmed by the thoughts that no matter the distance or years that separate my furry friends and I, this world is much smaller than it appears and my that Disney family is just a magic carpet ride (or a Boeing 747) away.
June 18, 2011
How Barton Saved My Son
This week, my oldest son Gavin will say goodbye to elementary school and begin a new chapter in his life as a middle-school student. When I look at him, there is great joy to see the young man he has become in spite of the struggles we encountered together at Donlon Elementary School.
The struggles we faced together had nothing to do with the school itself, the administration, the teachers, the children, or the curriculum. In fact, it was quite the opposite.
Gavin entered Kindergarten in the fall of 2004. I have fond memories of walking him to his first day of school. Donlon was under construction at the time, so we both had some uneasiness about all the noise of the power tools that reverberated just beyond the portable classrooms. I remember hugging him, walking away, and thinking, "This is it, he's on his way to growing up."
By January of 2005, we were fully aware that Gavin would be repeating Kindergarten. Socially he was well adjusted, but academically he was falling behind. I used to laugh when people told me their Kindergartners weren't "academically" ready. "What Kindergartner is?" I used to think to myself.
By June of that year, the Kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Erickson, pulled me aside and asked me to have a chat with Gavin. Apparently that day she was explaining to the children about first grade and they were not receiving the news well. They all loved their teacher and begged to stay. Meanwhile, with the biggest and brightest smile, Gavin had been letting his classmates know that he would not be joining them in first grade but would be staying behind one more year. The kids took his comments as teasing. I took his comments as a positive sign that I was raising a confident and happy little boy.
By the middle of his second year of Kindergarten, Gavin began showing signs of depression. He was continuing to struggle academically. He had trouble remembering where things went, the names of his classmates, and the site words the second time around were more confusing than the first.
"Gavin, this is your second year of Kindergarten. You should know the word 'the' by now," his Kindergarten teachers would tell him.
Gavin began coming home saying he was stupid. He'd lock himself in his room after school and sometimes not come out until dinner.
I begged the teachers to help us but was told that there was very little academic intervention that could be done at the Kindergarten level. I never blamed the teachers but I questioned the policies in place that would allow my son to continue to fall behind. I was told told there was nothing that could be done until he was two grade levels behind.
Gavin completed his second round at Kindergarten, but just barely.
First grade came around and I was immediately in touch with his teacher, Jessica Posson. She knew Gavin from previous years and assured me she'd keep an eye on him. Within three months, Jessica began to see the struggles Gavin was having, which centered mainly around reading.
Next to myself, Jessica became Gavin's biggest advocate in his school career thus far. Although first graders were rarely eligible for academic intervention, Gavin technically was on his third year of schooling and thus qualified as being two years behind. Jessica initially placed him with the reading specialist and eventually recommended him for the Barton Reading program.
Gavin began the Barton program shortly before his first grade year ended but not in time to make a significant difference his reading abilities. We attended our first IEP (Individualized Education Program) that spring where it was recommended that Gavin repeat first grade.
I gently pointed out that at this point Gavin would be a senior in high school at age 18 and turning 19-years-old by graduation. I voiced my concern about my son attending high school at 19-years old with children as young as 13 or 14 years old.
Gavin received clearance to continue onto second grade under the care of Barton tutors and Resource Specialist Carol Ker, another amazing woman who has fought tooth and nail to provide Gavin the tools to be successful.
It was Barton tutor Nancy Hecht who first noticed in second grade that Gavin seemed inattentive, distracted, and lacked focus. Under the recommendation of Ker and Barton's facilitator, Christina Clark, that Gavin was assessed for Attention Deficit Disorder, or ADD.
The results came back — Gavin had moderate ADD and we were advised to speak to our pediatrician. We did that, and were referred to child behavioralist. After a few assessments, Gavin was diagnosed with Dyslexia and moderate ADD.
Once we were able to understand Gavin's struggles and find the proper treatment for him, Gavin's life completely changed.
In second grade, Gavin scored Below Basic on his language arts portion of state mandated STAR testing. By third grade, Gavin scored just two points shy of Above Average in the same subject.
Gavin has since become a funny, sweet, happy, and confident child. For nearly three years, Gavin considered himself stupid, but now he's got more ego than he knows what to do with.
If it weren't for the amazing women who fought for the academic interventions, who patiently worked with his learning disability, and who took the time to notice his unique struggles, Gavin would have become a "child left behind."
The struggles we faced together had nothing to do with the school itself, the administration, the teachers, the children, or the curriculum. In fact, it was quite the opposite.
Gavin entered Kindergarten in the fall of 2004. I have fond memories of walking him to his first day of school. Donlon was under construction at the time, so we both had some uneasiness about all the noise of the power tools that reverberated just beyond the portable classrooms. I remember hugging him, walking away, and thinking, "This is it, he's on his way to growing up."
By January of 2005, we were fully aware that Gavin would be repeating Kindergarten. Socially he was well adjusted, but academically he was falling behind. I used to laugh when people told me their Kindergartners weren't "academically" ready. "What Kindergartner is?" I used to think to myself.
By June of that year, the Kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Erickson, pulled me aside and asked me to have a chat with Gavin. Apparently that day she was explaining to the children about first grade and they were not receiving the news well. They all loved their teacher and begged to stay. Meanwhile, with the biggest and brightest smile, Gavin had been letting his classmates know that he would not be joining them in first grade but would be staying behind one more year. The kids took his comments as teasing. I took his comments as a positive sign that I was raising a confident and happy little boy.
By the middle of his second year of Kindergarten, Gavin began showing signs of depression. He was continuing to struggle academically. He had trouble remembering where things went, the names of his classmates, and the site words the second time around were more confusing than the first.
"Gavin, this is your second year of Kindergarten. You should know the word 'the' by now," his Kindergarten teachers would tell him.
Gavin began coming home saying he was stupid. He'd lock himself in his room after school and sometimes not come out until dinner.
I begged the teachers to help us but was told that there was very little academic intervention that could be done at the Kindergarten level. I never blamed the teachers but I questioned the policies in place that would allow my son to continue to fall behind. I was told told there was nothing that could be done until he was two grade levels behind.
Gavin completed his second round at Kindergarten, but just barely.
First grade came around and I was immediately in touch with his teacher, Jessica Posson. She knew Gavin from previous years and assured me she'd keep an eye on him. Within three months, Jessica began to see the struggles Gavin was having, which centered mainly around reading.
Next to myself, Jessica became Gavin's biggest advocate in his school career thus far. Although first graders were rarely eligible for academic intervention, Gavin technically was on his third year of schooling and thus qualified as being two years behind. Jessica initially placed him with the reading specialist and eventually recommended him for the Barton Reading program.
Gavin began the Barton program shortly before his first grade year ended but not in time to make a significant difference his reading abilities. We attended our first IEP (Individualized Education Program) that spring where it was recommended that Gavin repeat first grade.
I gently pointed out that at this point Gavin would be a senior in high school at age 18 and turning 19-years-old by graduation. I voiced my concern about my son attending high school at 19-years old with children as young as 13 or 14 years old.
Gavin received clearance to continue onto second grade under the care of Barton tutors and Resource Specialist Carol Ker, another amazing woman who has fought tooth and nail to provide Gavin the tools to be successful.
It was Barton tutor Nancy Hecht who first noticed in second grade that Gavin seemed inattentive, distracted, and lacked focus. Under the recommendation of Ker and Barton's facilitator, Christina Clark, that Gavin was assessed for Attention Deficit Disorder, or ADD.
The results came back — Gavin had moderate ADD and we were advised to speak to our pediatrician. We did that, and were referred to child behavioralist. After a few assessments, Gavin was diagnosed with Dyslexia and moderate ADD.
Once we were able to understand Gavin's struggles and find the proper treatment for him, Gavin's life completely changed.
In second grade, Gavin scored Below Basic on his language arts portion of state mandated STAR testing. By third grade, Gavin scored just two points shy of Above Average in the same subject.
Gavin has since become a funny, sweet, happy, and confident child. For nearly three years, Gavin considered himself stupid, but now he's got more ego than he knows what to do with.
If it weren't for the amazing women who fought for the academic interventions, who patiently worked with his learning disability, and who took the time to notice his unique struggles, Gavin would have become a "child left behind."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)