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Suspicions

January 29, 2008

As indicated in my entry “Nature vs. Nurture,” we have a three-year-old boy. When his older sister was born, my wife and I were both working, and my wife returned to work after seven months maternity leave. A local university housed a daycare and preschool for infants through kindergarten, and after touring the facilities, we settled on their location as it was convenient for my wife to pick up and drop off on the way to and from school, it was diverse in its population and faculty, and we just liked it. Why does anyone ultimately settle on their childcare location of choice?

As with any young child in daycare, our daughter was frequently sick. It’s the nature of the beast. By exposing your young child to other children, she’s going to get sick. But when we learned we were expecting Boy coincided with our daughter being hospitalized for pneumonia, and four months later she required nebulizer breathing treatments at home, so we decided it would be a good idea to keep both children home for as long as we could after Boy was born. Dad got to stay home that time. What a delightful year it was, and if you can afford it and your job will permit it, I recommend that dads have the same experience I did.

After my year was up, we returned to the university daycare/preschool. We never really considered anything else. They had proven reliable. If there was an ouch report we got it immediately, and the teacher explained what happened. If there was a fever, we were called to pick up one or the other or both. Big Sister adapted quickly as she’d been there before. Boy had a harder time, but he eventually developed a routine, and he loved the stuffed babies. Our greatest concern occurred when he was about 16 months, and another child scratched his face and drew blood. At three and a half, Boy still has a scar on each cheek. Unfortunate, but either the other kid had huge claws and moved fast, or Boy was too slow, or a teacher wasn’t paying attention (which can easily happen in a room of 10 toddlers moiling around like puppies).

Boy and Big Sister stayed with the program at the university for a year and a half. We ultimately pulled them when my wife gave birth to our youngest daughter in the middle of the school year. After ample recovery from the birth process, our three stayed at home with Mommy, and once Mommy was fully functioning and negotiating getting all three out and about, she was able to enroll Big Sister in our school district’s sponsored preschool program, for by this time she was four and kindergarten eligible come fall.

Our kindergarten program is only half day, and it was important for my wife and I that someone be home to meet and greet the bus both coming and going. We tightened our belts, and she’s been at home full time since the fall of 2007. With Big Sister going to school, and at the time Little Sister still working on sitting up and rolling over, we wanted Boy to have some socialization experience combined with learning. We found an affordable storefront daycare/preschool center, and we enrolled Boy in 2 ½ hours of preschool M-F. My wife’s reasoning was that he’d had a year and a half of socialization in daycare, and we didn’t want him regressing. Our understanding is that boys sometimes need a little more, and we wanted to provide him the tools he would need to succeed in our community’s school system as he is eligible for the community sponsored preschool this coming fall.

I don’t know exactly when it started, but my wife would describe a couple boys that were a real handful for the teacher that happened to be in the same 3-4 class as my son. She explained it appeared this pair took all the teacher’s attention sometimes. We shrugged it off, knowing other children who can be difficult, and our children aren’t necessarily always angels, I mean have you seen me in the grocery store with the older two?

Then, new vocabulary entered our house. Boy talked about “gentle touches.”

“No hits. Gentle touches,” he’d say dragging out the words gentle touches as he’d softly stroke your arm or face with his hand.

“Right, we don’t hit.”

“No, g e n t l e t o u c h e s.”

Boy seemed to be enjoying himself, and then we received the first injury reports. Boy reached for another toy as another boy did and the other grabbed our boy.

“What happened son?”

“O____ hurt my bones.”

“He hurt his bones?” I asked my wife. “When did bones enter his lexicon of things to be injured?”

Then things became more suspect. My wife told me she overheard the following dialogue as she and Boy hung up his coat:

“You shut up.”

“No you shut up.”

“No you shut up.”

“That’s weird,” I said.

“It gets better,” said my wife. “Then it escalated.”

“No you shut up m- – – – r f – – – – r.”

“No you shut up m – – – – r f – – – – r.”

“What? Was anybody around?”

“The teacher was on the other side of the room, but she’s got double hearing aids.”

“What’d you do?”

“I told them to stop. ‘Those aren’t nice words, and I don’t want my son to learn those words.’”

“Did they stop?”

“They seemed surprised that I said anything, but they stopped.”

That night, after I read Boy and Big Sister a story, I turned off the light, and Boy asked, “Mama’s bones hurt?”

“No, mama’s bones don’t hurt, why?”

“My bones hurt.”

That’s when I started to suspect that my son was being bullied at preschool.

Shadows on the wall of the cave – first draft story

January 28, 2008

Where do bullies come from? That is a question for the ages. For me, I’m curious why I have been both perpetrator and victim in my life. In middle school I moved to a new state and was therefore the new pre-pubescent kid with a funny last name who was starting to develop a weight problem, and sometimes that’s all it takes to appear to have a target on your back. By the time I was in high school, I’d developed a circle of friends and felt fairly insulated, but as an underclassman, there were still weaker, smaller, weirder kids who were selected for wedgies and nipple twisters in the locker room after gym class, and my anxiety levels increased if bully or victim got too close to my locker. I certainly never stood up for those guys. The anxiety I felt however did not prevent me from developing prejudices against those whom I simply did not know. And it was easy not to know the real world in that privileged, perhaps sheltered, community. Two friends educated me in very different ways, and from them I learned that one reason bullies exist is because they are ignorant.

I met both of them as a junior in high school. Joe was my drama director and Kath became my girlfriend. Kath and I dated during college, and my friendship with Joe grew after I graduated high school.

I got to know Joe first. Assistant director for the fall play, Joe was a local actor brought in to coach acting skills for those of us who had no training. Joe was my earliest introduction to a rebellious adult. He let us call him Joe, and he befriended us to the degree his position afforded. He was only seven years older than us, but for 16 year olds, those seven years seemed a lifetime of adult experiences that we were at least another year from joining, yet he seemed to relate to us so well. He indicated his desire to direct a play called Voices from the High School, and as he told us passionately about its subject matter, I thought it sounded great; it dealt with drinking and death and adolescent insecurity; though it also included scenes addressing homosexuality among high school students, and I didn’t know any gay people.

The next semester I got to know Kath. As I spent more time with her during rehearsals of the spring musical, Joe encouraged my friendship with her, teasing me about how geeky I got around her – as if I could get more geeky. Kath and I started dating and high school moved on.

Near the end of my senior year of high school, Joe starred as Alan in Lanford Wilson’s Lemon Sky on the South Side of Pittsburgh. It was my first time into the South Side; it was my first time seeing a play in the round, and it was the first time I observed a character struggling with his sexuality. The play ends with Alan kicked out of his abusive father’s home because he does not sleep with women. I thought it was extremely powerful, and I was impressed with Joe’s ability to play a character so unlike himself. After high school graduation, I stayed in touch with Joe, and Kath went to school 100 miles away, but I continued to spend time with both of them. I remained in town for college at the University of Pittsburgh, and since Joe was in town too, we got together every couple months to go see a movie and grab a bite after. That first semester, we talked about Kath and school, and his shows, his job, and the dates he rarely went on. His dating life was so dry that one night I recall him dropping me off at my parents’ house, and he said, “You know I’d consider being gay if the thought didn’t disgust me so much.”

I don’t remember how I responded; possibly with silence, but most likely it was a grunt of agreement, for at the time, while I considered myself homophobic, I really didn’t know any gay people. I knew people who I thought were gay, but I didn’t hate them, or even not like them, and I certainly wasn’t afraid of them.

On Christmas Eve at Kath’s house after our first semester of college, she and her sister were talking and a man’s name came up in conversation. Kath asked, “who’s that?”

Her sister indicated this was their older brother’s boyfriend. I could feel Kath shrink in the chair beside me at this information. My mother had told me of rumors that her brother was gay, but Kath had not spoken those words directly to me, and I knew she now felt obliged to say something. She turned to me and said, “we have to talk.” We bundled up to take the dog for a walk, and as we left the house it felt like we were in one of those spy movies where the protagonist knows his house is bugged, and he has to tell his girlfriend how much danger they truly face.

“My brother’s gay,” she said.

“I gathered as much. Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“You’ve made it pretty clear how homophobic you are.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

But where did that homophobia come from? After all, I didn’t know any gay people. I learned in that moment that her brother’s sexuality had no impact on how I felt about his sister. Nor did it have any impact on how I felt about her brother. In that moment I knew that it never would have made any difference when I received the information, and it therefore made no difference now. Of course I’d be okay with her brother being gay; after all, I wasn’t.

How arrogant does a heterosexual person have to be to think that a gay person would actively pursue someone who isn’t. Consider for a moment how humiliating it is for a heterosexual to be turned down by someone of the opposite sex. Now multiply that humiliation by the fear a homosexual must face in his or her daily life of intolerance, and add to it the burden of pursuing someone whose chemistry and biology just doesn’t work that way and therefore would have no interest, and you might begin to have an idea of how self-important a heterosexual is who fears a homosexual pursuing him or her.

Joe and I continued to talk about our relationship woes; his were markedly absent, and mine were consistent. Joe never questioned my choices, so even when I broke up and got back together over and over with Kath, he would bear both my tears and delight. I remember his pained tenor when I called him late one night in a Dungeons and Dragons session; I was convinced my life was over, sobbing and in shock, and he offered to leave his friends at one in the morning to talk to me. I passed that offer and others to come as my relationship collapsed, but I am forever grateful for his ability to remain unbiased when it counted and protective when I needed it most. We also continued to see films together, and now that I was old enough to drink our film experiences were usually accompanied by a beer or two after. I recall distinctly one evening in 1994; we went to see Interview with a Vampire, and as we crossed the parking lot to the bar under the chilled November, starry sky, a carload of teen boys drove by and called out, “Fags!”

“Well,” I said unnerved.

“Punks,” murmured Joe.

And we said no more about the incident as we entered the bar. Yet, it bothered me. Somehow, I wanted the opportunity to respond. I have no idea what I would have said, but I was full of conflicting emotions. What made them think we were gay? How dare some stranger shout something like that at just anyone? But how often had I called out an epithet to someone I did not know? I let it eat at me, yet an idea stuck for the remainder of the evening; maybe Joe’s gay.

That winter, I came full circle and assisted Joe with what I could on the musical at my high school alma mater. He left early one evening for a rehearsal of his own, and when I asked him what play, he responded with, Hairdresser On Fire. Didn’t sound like anything I’d have any interest in seeing, so I asked if he’d be bothered by my not seeing it.

“No, it’s not the greatest of scripts.”

After the run of the musical, I picked up a local events paper. There was a review for “Hairdresser.” However, the headline included the words Queer Theater. I read the review, but I never said anything about it to Joe. I don’t recall anything from the review itself, but again that bizarre notion of Joe being gay was there, and this time I couldn’t quite shake it. However, despite my impression, and despite the ease with which I felt I could talk to Joe, telling him I thought he was gay when I knew he wasn’t could have been irreparably damaging to our friendship.

Another year went by; another high school musical came and went, and we found ourselves at Houlihan’s, drinking wine at the adult cast party. I have no idea how much we drank that night, but it was enough that we called another friend to pick us up and take us to another bar where we switched to beer. Upon our arrival, we each had a pint. At one point our friend excused himself to the Men’s Room, and Joe and I sat, sipping our beer, when he asked me if I had a quarter.

“I don’t know, let me see. Do you need to make a call? I’m sure Greg can drive you home.”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Here’s one.”

“Flip it.”

I did.

“Is it heads or tails?”

“Tails.”

“Mike.” It was a statement. As if he was affirming for himself that he was indeed talking to me. That I was sitting next to him. In the next instant I became that kind of self-aware you remember from grade school when you didn’t do your homework and your teacher called you to the board. My world slowed down as if I saw every detail of an accident, seeing how to stop it from happening, yet powerless to do anything. If my world slowed, I can’t imagine what it was like for Joe when the next words seemed to crawl out of his mouth, “I am gay.”

“Oh.”

Greg returned from the restroom. There it was. Seven years of friendship. And this person at the bar sitting beside me . . . never . . . changed. He was still my friend. I don’t know how I responded outwardly. But I realized while I thought I knew Joe was not gay, I had back-story that told me otherwise. I couldn’t stop thinking about what had just transpired. Did he really tell me he was gay? Was he just kidding? Is he trying out for a new role? Has he always been gay? I came to realize that one of my closest friends had to keep a secret from me for seven years. In doing so, he may have very well been keeping himself from the truth as well. I became more and more impressed by his courage, flattered by his faith in me, and happy for my friend. He didn’t have to lie to me anymore. He could be who he was.

I was saddened by his struggle, and while I was happy for him, I became worried for him too, for far too many in our society feel it is in their power to judge and exact punishment on their fellow man because their fellow man is different from them. Those are the people my God condemns.I have become more and less aware of differences and how unimportant differences frequently are. It informs how I behave and what I believe.

Before I had children, a guidance counselor where I teach told me she needed to speak with me privately. As I walked in her office, she asked me to close the door.

“Am I in trouble?”

“No. Sit down.”

I did.

“A student spoke to me in confidence the other day, but since it directly involves you, I felt you should know.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t think this student is even in one of your classes, so it was a little strange.”

“Okay, who is it?”

She told me, and I informed her I knew the student from Student Council.

“Well he told me that you came out to him.”

“Okay.”

“He also told me he’s shared this with another student.”

“Let’s just hold on a second. I don’t want to know any other details. First, my wife will be happy to know I’m not gay. Second, I don’t want you to tell him I am not gay, and if anyone asks, it’s nobody’ s business. I don’t want to know who the other student is that has been told that I’m out because I don’t want to feel the urge to correct him or her. My sexuality does not matter because it shouldn’t.”

A student asked me later that year, “What will you do if one of your kids is gay?”

“One of them is.”

“You don’t have any kids.”

“My students are my kids until I have my own.” While he thought about that and began wondering which of his classmates is gay I said, “I don’t know. Hopefully, it won’t change the way I look at my child. But as I’ve said all year, you can’t say with confidence how you would behave in any given situation unless you experience that situation. You can’t say you hate someone or something you don’t know or have never experienced. You never know, and if you think you do, you’re going to get knocked down a few pegs. I can say that I will love my child, and I hope I will not have to worry about how society will treat her or him. What would you do?”

Where do bullies come from? They come from everywhere, and oftentimes out of ignorance, but sometimes the ignorant bullies learn.

Nature vs. Nurture

January 24, 2008

There are any number of topics I care about that are urgent for me, and which have a certain urgency for various communities.  I’ve become particularly passionate about politics for instance, and with the primaries spread from January until May, there are and will be plenty of issues to discuss both for my class, and for the benefit of discussion.  For one, my frustration as a resident of Michigan and its treatment by the national Democratic party because of the arrogance, ignorance or ineptitude of the state’s Democratic party.  How one of the most suffering states in the nation in regards to unemployment (and I could go on) that happens to be a swing state with a large number of juicy electoral college votes could have been ignored by the party and two of its candidates makes one wonder why the state should go “blue” in the November election. 

I am also a public school teacher, and increasingly over the years both in my occupation and in my daily life as a consumer, I have noticed a culture of entitlement that is disturbing at best and epidemic at worst. 

Perhaps because of the culture and my habit of overanalyzing everything, I feel threatened as a parent by this culture that seems to be out to get my children.  I’m not stupid; I know the culture of America is about creating little consumers, but there are other cultural concerns I have regarding how best to raise my children.  As mentioned above, I am also a teacher, and my classes have just finished Fahrenheit 451 and Frankenstein, and both texts explore the cultural issues that concern me and parenting, respectively. 

I have mostly settled on exploring bullies.  Dealing with bullies and what makes them are issues with roots in both the culture and parenting.  I am a father of three young children.  Two daughters and a son sandwiched in the middle.  The oldest started kindergarten this year, and on the school bus before winter holidays, an older student expressed disbelief in the man in red with the beard.  This is not quite the bullying I intend to explore, as the aforementioned issue is one that has to be dealt with eventually by any parent whose child experiences life outside the confines of the homestead.  Such a discussion gets into issues of faith and hope and love which are good discussions to have with a child at any age. 

The youngest just turned one, and the only bullying she’s experienced is her own low grunting growl she’s developed when someone removes a toy from her reach or somebody pays too much attention to Mommy at home. 

It’s the boy that I intend to discuss.  Now three and a half, I’m coming to realize he is at a key point in his life.  Not to say that the others aren’t and I’m not worried about them too, but as a former boy myself, there are experiences I had that I don’t want him to have to know as directly as I did.  I have lots of questions, and I don’t know that I will have answers, but I invite you to join the discussion as it progresses.