Sticks and Stones

I have a hard time remembering 8th grade. I can’t remember which classes I took or who my teachers were. You might think this is because I’m getting on in years and my brain cells are starting to become clogged with 46+ years of memories and information.

The reason I don’t remember much of 8th grade is because I was hardly ever in school. Due to a series of “illnesses”, I was absent more than I was present. Stomach aches were the most frequent cause of my absences. And I can tell you with all honesty that this had nothing to do with a defective digestive system. I missed most of 8th grade because I was bullied.

A friend of mine from 7th grade (let’s call her Elise) was in most of my 8th grade classes. Someone must have thrown a switch in her brain over the summer because early on in 8th grade she decided it would be more fun to torment me than to be friends with me. Or rather, she pretended to be my friend, yet would punch me, write on my clothes and threaten me on a daily basis. She’d sit by me in math, tearing off my book cover and scribbling on my pants in ink. I would bring an assortment of candy, gum and other items to school in the hopes of appeasing her. When the final bell rang on Friday afternoons, I felt like a prisoner released from confinement. On Sunday nights the dread would start to creep in, and I’d find myself going to bed later and later, hoping to delay sleep because of the Monday morning hell that awaited me. Often, I’d plead a stomach ache or a headache, until my mom let me stay home.

Finally, with only a few weeks left of school, I confessed to my parents what was going on. They immediately went to see the principal and my guidance counselor. I don’t remember everything that was discussed, but I do remember that in 9th grade, Elise was in none of my classes. And my best friend Kathy was in all of them.

I wish I had told my parents about the bullying when it first began. Now that I’m a parent, I worry about my own children being bullied. Or bullying someone else. When my kids complain that someone is teasing or taunting them, my husband and I try to dispense practical advice (after I’ve suppressed my first impulse of wanting to track down the offender and really show him what it’s like to be bullied.)

In the movie “A Christmas Story”, Ralphie, the main character, is being bullied by Scut Farkus (yellow eyes!) and his sidekick Grover Dill. At one point the narrator declares, “In our world you were either a bully, a toady or one of the nameless rabble of victims.” After being tormented by Scut Farkus throughout the movie, Ralphie finally snaps and whales the tar out of him. Defeated and deflated, the bully slinks home with a bloody nose and his tail between his legs. While I don’t advocate violence against others, I always feel a sense of satisfaction when the bully is diminished in the eyes of his victims.

In the good old days, bullying was something you might have to endure at school, on the playground or on the bus, but at least you were safe once you arrived home. In the digital age, this is no longer true. I hear many stories from other parents about their children being bullied by text message, via online chat or on Facebook. God knows, I enjoy Facebook as an adult (every day’s a high school reunion), but in the hands of a tween or teenager, it can be a dangerous weapon. If words hurt at the moment they’re spoken, they continue to hurt and fester indefinitely on an online post. Just ask Phoebe Prince of South Hadley. After a combination of physical, verbal and cyber bullying, Phoebe decided the best way to end it was to hang herself. God forbid it comes to that for one of our children.

As parents, what can we do? That’s not a rhetorical question. Seriously, what do we do? I try to keep an open dialogue with my children about what’s going on at school, soccer and their other activities. I know this will only get more difficult as they get older. Many schools address the issue with special assemblies and classroom discussion. And this week, the Massachusetts Senate is set to debate and vote on a proposed anti-bullying bill. All steps in the right direction, but is it enough?

When I heard the story this week about an incident of cyber-bullying going on in my own town, I thought, “There but for the Grace of God go I.” It could just as easily be my child being bullied. Or doing the bullying. I don’t accept bullying as a rite of passage, something that all kids go through as a part of growing up. If my child is being hurt (or doing the hurting), I need to know so I can take steps to stop it.

Remember that old saying, “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me”?

If only that were true.

I Want Candy!!!

Hear that sound? The doorbell is ringing. Who could it be? The UPS man? Edible Arrangements? Avon calling? No! It’s your favorite Middle Schooler standing on your doorstep, brochure in hand. Ahh. The Camp Squanto Candy Sale has begun.

Last year I wrote about Camp Squanto, a rite of passage that every Hanover sixth grader experiences. The kids spend a week in Plymouth doing activities that enforce not just science and math, but self-esteem, social relationships and more. Sixth graders are asked to sell candy to help defray the cost of the trip. As if a free trip to Squanto isn’t enough of an incentive, other “prizes” are offered to sweeten the deal.

My sixth grader came home with his catalog and order form and wailed “But Mom, I’ve never sold anything before.” Now, this isn’t quite true. Back in pre-school, he sold cookie dough…and pretzels…and pizza kits. He doesn’t remember it because I was the one doing the selling. (Imagine pre-schoolers going door to door selling candy? “Hi, would you like to buy some candy? Uh oh, I pooped!”)

When Sally Foster entered our lives, we took a break from selling (given that every other school on the planet also sells Sally Foster wrapping paper. And really, I have a hard time spending $10 on something that is going to get ripped up and thrown away…but I digress.)

Getting back to Squanto candy, I suggested my son set a goal and try his best to reach it. His goal is 200 boxes. Apparently this is the minimum number needed to win a Sony Playstation 3. Given that the least expensive item is $6.50, I’m skeptical about reaching that goal, but I’ll encourage him nonetheless.
This whole experience takes me back to the time when I sold Girl Scout Cookies. Back in the day, Girl Scouts didn’t sit at tables at the grocery store, blocking the exit and forcing shoppers to run the Thin Mint gauntlet before they could get to the safety of their car. There were no flu clinics for enterprising young scouts (nice one, girls.) We had to hoof it from door to door. The literature from GS headquarters suggested we wear our uniform, knock politely and say (in a sing-song voice), “It’s Girl Scout Cookie time. Will you place your order with me?” Right. I lumbered from neighborhood to neighborhood, knocking on strange doors, all by myself, saying, “So. Want to buy some Girl Scout cookies?” Strangely, I was not the top seller of my troop.

My husband went through the same process, though he sold peanut brittle for his high school Environmental Study Team (a fancy name for his Outing Club.) Growing up in Central, NY, he had to walk farm to farm in order to raise money. (Or maybe he just took the tractor?)

I also remember advertisements in the back of my comic books that said, “Make money. Sell Grit.” There was a photo of an old tyme newsboy, satchel slung across his chest emblazoned with the word “GRIT”. I found out years later that “Grit” was a newspaper, (now a magazine) that “celebrates rural life”. If cookies are a tough sell, imagine knocking on a door and saying, “Hi! Would you be interested in Grit?” Slam. Still, there were those hardy young men who refused to give up. Some would say they possessed True Grit (ouch).

This weekend, my son and I went through the neighborhoods behind our home, trolling for candy sales (rather, he made the sales while I sat in the car and played with my iPhone). I watched him slowly shuffle from house to house and marveled at how much faster moved on Halloween when he was trying to get candy, rather than sell it. Still, his persistence paid off. I proudly watching him smile, inquire politely, and then thank each person, whether they made a purchase or not. Though he’s nowhere near his goal of 200 boxes, he’s off to a great start. I have to admire him for it.

So if you hear a knock at the door, be sure to answer it. There’s a 6th grader out there hoping to raise money for camp. And if no middle-schooler happens to come to your house…let me know.

I’ll send mine over.

Olympic Fever

Okay, I’ll admit it. I never thought it would happen, but apparently no one is immune. Despite my best efforts, I’ve caught Olympic fever.

I wrote a column in the summer of 2008 about my love/hate relationship with the Olympics. My parents made me watch the Olympics as a child. Maybe they thought I would be inspired to learn a sport (no such luck. Too bad there’s no Olympic reading team.)

When I grew old enough to develop my own television viewing habits, the Olympics were nothing more than a nuisance to me. After all, who wants two weeks of their favorite program pre-empted due to curling? (Those of you who follow “The Office” and can’t wait for the birth of Pam’s baby are probably nodding your heads right now.)

Now that I’m a good twenty years older than most of the participants (oh, okay, twenty-five), you’d think I’d have zero interest whatsoever in the Olympic Games. Yet, for some reason, I’m captivated.

Even before the official opening ceremony, the drama of the 2010 Winter Games unfolded with the tragic death of Georgian Luger Nodar Kumaritashvili during a practice run. I’m thankful that my family and I were in a car headed to NJ when that particular video hit the airwaves. We arrived at my parent’s home late Friday night only to find them, (yup, you guessed it…) glued to the opening ceremonies.
Although we missed watching the various teams walk into Olympic stadium, we arrived in time to catch most of the pageantry and splendor. The music, the dancing, the slam poetry (ok, that’s where you lost me. I went to bed in the middle of that slam poet’s bizarre, beatnik rant.) My children stayed up until the very end, relaying the details of the torch lighting malfunction. (And was that an example of the whole “Too many cooks spoil the soup?” Next time, keep it simple.)

Since then, I’ve tuned in to keep tabs on Lindsey Vonn’s shin, Johnny Weir’s costumes and Apollo Ohno’s soul patch (could someone please get that boy a razor? And lose the headband. You look like Bret Michaels from “Rock of Love”). My friends and I debate which is more bizarre: the biathlon or curling? (I think those harlequin pants worn by the Norwegian curling team pretty much seals the deal. Any chance the sport had for “coolness” has been completely blown.)

And speaking of the biathlon…I have new respect for the sport since my husband explained its origins (it began as military training for the Norwegians. Okay, you’ve redeemed yourselves for those pants). My children watched in fascination as the cross country skiers whipped out their rifles (“Guns! Cool!”), while my husband explained how challenging it is for the athletes to calm their heart rates enough to keep a steady hand on the rifle. Personally, I think the sport would be much more exciting if the athletes had to shoot each other (with paintball rifles, of course.) Imagine the biathlon winner skiing across the finish line, trailed by competitors splattered with paint like human spin art.

We debate the merits of Ice Dancing versus Pairs Skating (I keep waiting for the ice dancers to toss each other or jump or something…what gives?) Luge versus Skeleton (both sports are for crazy people, but you’ve got to be really insane to go down headfirst.) I hold my breath each time a skier pushes out of the gate to attempt some form of Alpine Skiing (sorry, I can’t keep them all straight. Downhill? Slalom? Giant Slalom? Super G? Super Combined? Arrgh! My brain can’t process it all.) Given the conditions at Vancouver this year, you’d think they’d give a medal for most spectacular wipeout.

I must admit that I, the Ice Queen, who prides herself on never shedding a tear during movies like “My Sister’s Keeper” or “The Notebook” squeezed out a few tears as I watched Men’s Moguls skier Alexandre Bilodeau become the first Canadian to win Olympic Gold on home soil. (And seeing his brother Frederic, cheering in the crowd…sniff sniff.)

There will be more thrills and spills between now and Sunday’s closing ceremonies. Hopefully the torch will be extinguished more easily than it was lit. The athletes will return home, Vancouver will return to normal and NBC will return to its regularly scheduled programming. I have to admit, I’ll miss the spectacle of the Olympics; the anticipation, the celebration, the heartbreak. I’ll have to fill the void with cheap reality television and ridiculous, mythology-based dramas.

But hey…London 2012 is just around the corner.

SNOWPOCALYPSE!!!!

The sky is falling! The sky is falling!

That was the sentiment last Tuesday night as the meteorologists predicted the New England version of “Snowpocalypse”. Suddenly, grocery stores were packed. People frantically stocked up on bread, milk, and The National Enquirer. School closings began to appear on the crawl beneath the nightly news. Coming on the heels of another monster storm that had brought the mid-Atlantic to a standstill (while blessedly missing the Boston area), this storm predicted more than a foot and a half of snow for the South Shore, and several inches for Boston and its neighbors to the north. Working parents scrambled to make alternate plans when area schools announced an early release. People checked flashlight batteries and snow blowers, brought in firewood and went to bed bracing for our own version of “Snowmaggedon”.
Wednesday morning…nothing. Wednesday mid-morning…five flakes. Wednesday afternoon…steady rain. And then finally, finally as the sun set and parents everywhere cried out in frustration, as bosses shook their heads and wondered why they had closed their office, finally the steady snow began to fall. At last, the giant beast had reared its ugly head, ready to bring New England to its knees.

Thursday morning, children all across the Boston area awoke to the most depressing and disappointing sound imaginable: cars whizzing along clean, clear roads No snow day, no delayed opening, no chance that today’s math test would be postponed. Parents smiled as they packed lunches, zipped coats and shooed their kids onto the bus. Instead of eighteen inches of snow, a mere five or six. Once again, New England managed to avoid “Snowmaggedon”.

Why do we do this to ourselves? Why do weatherman (sorry, meteorologists) revert to what my husband calls the “Chicken Little” syndrome, peppering us with tense music, bold graphics and dire warnings that this storm is going to be the mother of all storms? (Don’t forget Shelby Scott getting the tar whaled out of her in Scituate.) What is it about winter that sends us scurrying, grabbing milk and firewood at the mere mention of snow? After all, as my friend Jessie so aptly puts it, “It’s winter. It’s New England. What do we expect?”

A college friend was born in Buffalo but moved to North Carolina as a teenager. She would laughingly tell stories about how just an inch of snow would throw the entire state into a panic. Store shelves would empty, cars would queue at the gas stations, schools would close and drivers would skid all over the roads. An inch to a former Buffalo native is laughable (in Buffalo, they don’t bother to measure in inches, they just go straight to feet.) but to a southerner, it’s practically a blizzard. The recent storm that battered Washington DC and Virginia must have come as a shock. The District of Columbia is no stranger to the white stuff (especially where former Mayor Marion Barry is concerned), but it’s not often they get battered by two feet of snow. I’m therefore inclined to cut them some slack when it comes to the whole “Snowpocalypse” thing.

But why do we hearty New Englanders quiver at the first sign of snow? Heck, we’re shaking in our boots several days before anything happens? We allow these weathermen (sorry, meteorologists) to frighten us into thinking every storm is another “Blizzard of ‘78” headed our way. C’mon. We’re Pilgrims, people. We came across on a rickety wooden boat, braving storms and seasickness and religious persecution. Would John Alden cower in the face of Barry Burbank’s dire warning of an approaching Nor’easter? Would Myles Standish be intimidated by Harvey Leonard?
This is New England folks. We eat snow for breakfast (just not the yellow kind). So strap on your boots, pull up your snow pants and man up. We’ve got several more weeks of this winter weather.

I have it on good authority from our most accurate meteorologist of all: Punxatawney Phil.