Reflections on Veterans Day

Reflections on Veterans Day
©2010 Daniel A. Brown


Veterans Day is usually the time to reflect on all those who served but I choose to focus on two individuals I knew personally. I met the first back in June of 1970, a turbulent time at the height of the Vietnam Era where I found myself stranded by the side of the Trans-Canadian Highway, right outside of Calgary, Alberta. I was in a rather sorry state, low on cash, suffering from a dormant form of pneumonia (caused by sleeping in the cold outdoors for several nights) and trying to get back to New York City. To the west, a monstrous storm front was bearing down upon me and on the Canadian prairies, there’s no place to hide. I had the shocking revelation that my young life might soon be in serious danger.

As I pondered this gloomy fate, an orange VW bus pulled over, the driver poked his head out and cheerfully asked where I was headed. “New York City” I answered futilely, assuming that they were merely going up the road a town or two. “So are we!” he chimed, “Hop in.” And that is how I met Bruce, his wife, Mary, and their big red dog. An hour later, the heavens opened and washed half the province away.

Bruce, it turned out, was a lieutenant in the First Air Cavalry and was on leave from a tour in Vietnam. As such, he was the first active duty soldier I had ever met, not a surprise seeing that I was in the hippie –peacenik crowd at the time. He had an easygoing way about him and despite our different backgrounds, we became instant pals. In fact, he treated me like a real brother, acting as protector when we ran into some border patrol types who liked to target longhairs, buying me meals when my meager savings ran out, and having me join him in his favorite family sing-a-longs. I found that I liked him a great deal and mused that he was a lot kinder than most of the angry radicals who ran with the vociferous anti-war crowd.

At one point, I tentatively asked him what it was like over there in Vietnam and he tossed off that he just sat around all day and drank beer. Now, even then, I knew that his was an elite unit and that he probably did more than just shoot the breeze (the Cav suffered over 30,000 casualties in Southeast Asia) but I had also learned that combat veterans rarely talked about their experiences. In fact, the more bloodthirsty a person sounded about war, the more likely he never fought in one. Bruce might have had a hard time telling his own wife what happened overseas, much less a complete stranger.

He and I parted in New York and I never saw him again. But I did begin a habit of running into veterans who opened up to me, sometimes talking for several hours, with me listening without judgment.

A trait I brought to my second veteran, my expansive friend, Fred, who shared some of his own stories.

Fred served with the Marines during the Korean War and anyone fluent with that conflict will recognize the retreat from Chosin Reservoir as one of more harrowing episodes in American military history. Fred was a “ridge runner” as he described it, humping over the endless Korean mountains for the two years he was there. As I expected, none of our conversation touched on combat, him preferring to dwell on lighter memories: A line of soldiers on the march, the point man reading the page of a paperback, ripping it out of the book and handing it to the guy behind him who read it and passed it to the following fellow and so on. His unit’s antipathy towards the Red Cross who charged the penniless GI’s for those coffee and donuts they peddled (the Red Cross has since changed their policy). Whenever they encountered a vehicle from that organization, Fred and his mates would empty the truck of its bewildered occupants and tip it into a ditch. But he had nothing but praise for the Salvation Army which gave selflessly to the troops without ever seeking recognition.

Fred switched gears on me by coming out with the following unexpected statement which ran somewhat as follows. “Ya know, Dan, you can always tell a man who’s been in combat because he’s usually quite gentle. The macho John Wayne type is usually a lot of bullshit. He then related the stories of Mr. Rogers having been a Navy SEAL and Bob Keeshan, - Captain Kangaroo – fighting at Iwo Jima. Although both claims are most likely urban myths, it did clue me into Fred’s thinking. That heavy combat tends to make most conscious men more peaceful, not more violent.

Not always, of course, and any veteran suffering from any kind of post-traumatic stress has nothing to be ashamed of. There but for the grace of God go all of us, including a majority of my pacifist friends. Therefore, as a nation, Veterans Day should be a day that we do more than merely honor those who served. It’s a day we should take the time to listen to them.

A Complete Guide to Campaign Rhetoric

Ah, Lucy and the football, one of the more cherished sequences in the old “Peanuts’ comic strip and one of the most metaphoric. Lucy holds a football for Charlie Brown to kick, assuring him that, this time, she won’t pull it away at the last minute, causing the long-suffering sucker to land flat on his back. Which, of course, she always does. And, yet, Charlie Brown, poor trusting soul that he is, always come back for more as he has been doing for over 40 years.

This same dance of trust and betrayal plays out ever two years whenever an American election is underway. Like Lucy, the politicians make the same deceitful promises and like Charlie Brown,, we delude ourselves into believing them. After all, this time it will be different, right?

Wrong.

Therefore, as a public service, I present this guide to campaign rhetoric which can alert the reader to both what the candidates say and what they really mean.

“I’M AN OUTSIDER” - No, you aren’t. Once you run for public office, you are part of a party machine and obedient to donors, voters, advisors, lobbyists, political and media hacks whose will you must obey if you want to be taken seriously. Besides, if being an Outsider is so wonderful, why are you spending umpteen millions of dollars to become an Insider?

“I’M FROM OUTSIDE THE BELTWAY - Likewise, if being outside the Beltway is such a sign of personal virtue, then please stay there.

“I PROMISE TO FIX WASHINGTON” – Oh yeah, you and what army? Once elected, you won’t be able to accomplish anything without arm-twisting, deal-making, alliance-building, negotiating and repaying the generous corporate donors who contributed large sums to get you elected. You think Pfizer, Exxon-Mobil, General-Dynamics and Goldman-Sachs gave you big bucks because your wife and kids look cute on TV?

“I’LL FIGHT THE SPECIAL INTERESTS” – Except for those who contributed millions to my campaign (see above).

“IF ELECTED. I’LL CUT TAXES” - for the big corporations. I’ll toss you a puppy treat of a few hundred dollars in tax savings that will soon be erased by added fees. By then, however, I’ll be safely in my new D.C. office so who cares!

“IF ELECTED, I’LL CUT SPENDING” – on programs that help everyone else in the country that isn’t a corporate donor. Sorry suckers! Who needs Social Security when you have a padded multi-million dollar retirement package?

“I PROMISE TO CREATE JOBS” – in Indonesia, Malaysia, Vietnam, China, India and anywhere else where American businesses can benefit from sweatshop labor.

“I’LL STOP WALL STREET BAILOUTS” – unless, of course, they prevent my vast investment portfolio from evaporating.

“I STAND FOR FAMILY VALUES” – although I’ve been screwing my secretary for the past five years. Psst, don’t tell my wife. She thinks I’m hiking the Appalachian Trail.


“I’LL STAND UP TO THE GAY AGENDA AND FORBID GAY MARRIAGE” – Actually, both my son and my sister are gay but unless I suck up to the Christian Right, I won’t get elected.

“I PROMISE TO SUPPORT 2ND AMENDMENT RIGHTS” – Actually, I hate guns but unless I suck up to the NRA, I won’t get elected.

“MY OPPONENT RAISED TAXES AND SUPPORTED THOSE WALL STREET BAILOUTS” – Because he realized that governing and campaigning are two separate things. If he hadn't done either, the government and the economy would have both seized up.

Giving in to Fear in Fearful Times

©2010 Daniel A. Brown

Several years ago, I witnessed the great South African musician, Johnny Clegg, in concert in Northampton. Clegg was a white singer who, fronting one of the few inter-racial bands in that country, was a stalwart fighter against the Apartheid policy still in place at the time. Part way through the concert, Clegg stopped performing and made the following stark observation. “You know,” he said, “In my country where there is so much violence, pain, and oppression, all the songs are about love, hope and beauty. But here in America, where you people have it so bloody easy, all your songs are about despair, fear and cynicism.”

Clegg’s observation about our music might be equally relevant to our politics.

Even though hundreds of thousands of people risk their lives yearly to get into our country, its residents are in a prolonged, gloomy funk and see little hope for the future. Instead of whining for change every four years, we’ve advanced to wanting it every year and a half. And, of course, those who whine the loudest do the least to achieve it.

Instead, they join reactionary populist movements like the Tea Party and Americans for Prosperity; attend fatuous Glenn Beck rallies, and support political candidates who seem dedicated to destroying the quality of life for the average American so that a small, ultra-rich elite can avoid paying any taxes at all. Americans for Prosperity, a supposed “grass-roots activist” organization was created in part and is heavily financed by Koch Industries, a multi-billion dollar oil conglomerate whose founder was an original member of the John Birch Society. Their stated goal is to cripple the federal government in such a manner that regulating the energy industry is impossible. Not surprisingly they are currently listed as one of the top ten air polluters in the United States.

We live in fearful times so it is not surprising that people are being duped into supporting the very movements that will cause them the most harm. What is frightening, however, is that the presence of Barack Obama in the White House has unleashed the greatest white backlash since 1964 which is currently being expressed in its hostility to the man himself, immigrants and American Muslims.

However, this isn’t your father’s bigotry. No one is using the “N-Word”, burning crosses on anyone’s lawn or setting off bombs in mosques (yet). It’s what I call “Smiley-Face” racism, expressed preferably by innuendo and suggestion. But can anyone honestly imagine a white president having his citizenship questioned or being portrayed as a witch doctor or an ape? Accusations against him by the Tea Party types on their discussion sites have moved on from being merely disturbing to downright psychotic. You would have to be clinically paranoid to believe some of the vicious lies passing for truth in these venues.

Fear surrounding immigration is nothing new in America, it stemming from the 1750’s when no less a luminary than Benjamin Franklin warned about the influx of German immigrants diluting the purity of Anglo-American stock. But they encountered nothing like the wall of hatred that greeted the Irish when they first came to our shores. Being Catholic, they were seen by red-blooded American patriots of the mid 19th century as an insidious fifth column, an advance wave whose true purpose was to place our nation under the thumb of the Vatican.

Change the noun “Catholic” to “Muslim” and we find ourselves in a similar situation only with the descendants of those same oppressed immigrants (O’Reilly, Limbaugh, Hanitty) warning about the dangers of American Islam. Even without the hoo-hah over a planned center near the Twin Towers site, there is a dangerous trend of intolerance being directed at these Americans who wish to practice their Constitutional rights of freedom of religion as guaranteed by the First Amendment. And freedom of religion means all religions, a fact that Glenn Beck conveniently forgot on August 28th.

To be honest; as a Jew, a liberal, and an American, I have three good reasons to distrust Orthodox Islam. But as an amateur historian, I know that the Islamic world was once the artistic, scientific and cultural center of civilization with a religion whose original tenets were no more fanatical than basic Christianity or Judaism. Obey God’s commandments, be mindful of the poor, and live an honest, upright life. Not too shabby for the 7th century. What happened afterwards wasn’t the fault of the founder.
Sadly, the animosity being directed at them will send several messages to the rest of the world. One is that America, for all its bombast about freedom, doesn’t really practice what it preaches and secondly that Muslims, however moderate, are not welcome here. Both couldn’t make Al-Qaeda and the Taliban any happier. This contradiction has always been the Achilles Heel of the United States. Sometimes we are our own worst enemies and seem more bent on self-destruction than we are on self-improvement. One wonders if this disturbing trend is an echo of the past or a warning for the future.

1948: The Fateful Year of the Israeli-Palestinian Conflict

©2010 Daniel A. Brown

As the world reacts in revulsion to Israel’s latest ham-fisted tactics against the Palestinians trapped in Gaza, it might be a good time to revisit 1948, the year that created both the State of Israel and the Palestinian Diaspora. Both sides have generated a fair share of self-serving myths, but there are truths and falsehoods in each account.

The events leading up to this critical impasse are far too many to relate here. During World War I, with the Middle East a critical battleground, the British were exploiting the nationalistic goals of both the Jews and Arabs in order to defeat the Ottoman Turks. Of course, when the war ended, the Brits and the French carved up the former empire into several new countries and maintained their own level of control over puppet leaders. And as Jewish immigration picked up, the native Palestinian population became more restive and resentful, a resentment that exploded in the Arab Revolt of 1936-1939.

This revolt was pressed by Haj Amin al-Husseini, the spiritual leader of the Palestinian majority (who then spent World War II in Berlin supporting the Nazis). The British crushed it so thoroughly that Palestinian social, military and governmental infrastructures were all but ruined, consequences that have a great deal of bearing on the events of 1948. The Jewish community, meanwhile, was quietly crafting their own nation-in-waiting which allowed them to be better organized and prepared.

A year earlier, the now-famous UN Resolution 181 had divided the British Mandate into two separate homelands for the Jews and the Palestinians. However, both sides made it clear either secretly or openly that they would not be satisfied with this solution.

The Arab nations invaded the day after the Jews declared independence. Contrary to what American peace activists believe, the United States did not arm the Israelis (they wouldn’t in earnest until 1970 as part of the Cold War chess game with the Soviet Union). The US declared an arms embargo against all combatants and stuck to it. Israel got almost all of its weapons from Czechoslovakia and whatever they could finagle on the vast post-WWII surplus arms market. Still, according to various CIA reports, no one in the American government expected the Jews to win.

Oddly enough, most of the leaders of the invading Arab nations expected to lose. They knew that the Jewish fighters were better armed, organized, and most importantly, motivated, but after years of agitating the Arab Street against “Zionist aggression”, they couldn’t back down.

If you need a villain in this piece, the unlikely candidate is King Abdullah of Jordan. The center of gravity of this conflict has mostly been the West Bank, which was mandated as part of the new Palestinian homeland. Abdullah decided that he’d rather conquer it himself and therefore engaged in secret negotiations with both the Israelis and the British. The Israelis agreed for obvious reasons. Better to have one less enemy at your throat. The British went along because they wanted Jordan to remain a client state especially if the newly emerging Cold War with the Soviets got hotter. With this arrangement in place, the Arab Legion, Jordan’s superb British-trained army, swept into the West Bank thus allowing Jordan to control it until 1967.

The other Arab armies were equally interested in grabbing chunks of Palestine for themselves instead of helping their Palestinian “brothers”, an attitude of neglect and exploitation that holds to this very day. They didn’t succeed. As history records, the Jews won but at the cost of 1% of their population. That doesn’t sound like much until you realize that 1% of the United States translates as three million dead Americans.

One contentious issue of the 1948 war involves who practiced ethnic cleansing and committed atrocities. The answer is that both parties were equally guilty of massacres, rapes and the blatant murder of prisoners. Who did more is irrelevant, due to the mutually vicious nature of the struggle. The Israeli process of ethnic cleansing depended more on the whims of local commanders than as a national policy as evidenced that there are still major Arab population centers in Israel today. There were also several anarchic paramilitary units that operated separately from the main Israeli army, one of which, the Irgun, committed the infamous Deir Yassin massacre.

But Palestinian sympathizers choose to forget that not only did their friends commit their own share of atrocities in 1948 (the mass murder of the Etzion Bloc, for one) but had they won, the Jews would have been the ones ethnically cleansed out of their homeland. One wonders whether these activists would be expressing the same moral outrage if it were the Jews being oppressed today in Gaza or Ramallah. I think not.

The Israelis cynically believe that the world has a better opinion of Jews when they allow themselves to be exterminated (an observation recently validated by Helen Thomas). Needless to say, such a fate is not an option. But having proved to the world that they can defend themselves, the Israelis now must demonstrate a willingness to live peacefully with their Palestinian neighbors. At some point, when the religious and nationalist extremists on both sides are invalidated, perhaps that day might come about.


For further reading on this topic, I suggest, “1948” by Israeli revisionist historian, Benny Morris.

The Parting of a Mother

©2010 Daniel A. Brown

Decades after extolling the virtues of youth, we Baby Boomers are finally discovering death.

We are doing this courtesy of our aging parents, many of whom are coming into their nineties and defying most of the conventional wisdom their offspring have mistaken as truth. For example, most of my generation has been led to believe that if they lived a healthy smoke-booze-red meat-free lifestyle with plenty of exercise and a daily meditation practice to render them blissfully positive, they would stay young and beautiful forever.

But by now, I have attended enough funerals of friends who did all that and died before they reached 65 while my own parents, violating every one of the above precepts, lived a combined 194 years between them. However, they never told their children how to prepare for their eventual deterioration and demise, believing that they were going to live indefinitely. My Dad was still functioning quite well at age 95 and could beat me in arm wrestling to his immense gratification. When I dared asked what I was to do when he got old, he snapped “I’m not old!” and walked out of the room, Inwardly I knew that the day was coming when their lifestyles would implode and I dreaded that day, knowing how unprepared I would be. It was that proverbial ticking time bomb, unwanted yet inevitable.

And when it happened, it happened fast and my sister and I were suddenly immersed in a crash course on the care of the elderly. My mother fell and needed 24-hour care which I arranged only to discover that the caregivers were using her failing memory to obtain multiple payment checks per week. Their apartment was sold to a new owner who wanted to evict them and go condo so it was only a matter of time before we packed 44 years of life and memories into one truck and moved them both to Langdon Place in Keene. My dad died soon afterwards at age 100.

My mother was placed in the semi-independent wing but as her memory collapsed so rapidly, she had to be moved to the locked-down Alzheimer’s unit. And so it was that within a year, her life transformed from a spacious apartment overlooking Central Park to a tiny room right next to the nurse’s station. This new truncated life was as much a shock to us as it was to her. As her dementia cemented in place, she wondered when she would be leaving this nice hotel she was staying at and returning home to New York.

Mentally, I was going through my own roller-coaster ride, made bearable by accepting the sometimes irrational thoughts that were bouncing around inside my head. Initially, I resented my mother for not being young and vibrant anymore. I would stare at pictures of Mom when she was in her thirties and try to remember a mother who wasn’t presently gazing owl-eyed from a wheelchair and repeating the same questions a dozen times. I wanted my mommy back but knew that if I was going to stay emotionally healthy I would have to accept this woman under the new terms.

Which I learned to do. I also had to accept how little I knew about her, despite the family mythology that was based on as much fabrication as truth. I also had to confront her on some of the more dysfunctional elements of our turbulent family which happened during a lively two-hour car-ride among the hills of southern New Hampshire. Suddenly, Mom was speaking with a clarity and an honesty I had never encountered before and it was as if a mighty wall had come cascading down. Although those circumstances rarely returned, subsequent visits with her became events to look forward to instead of endure. In the last five years of her life, we saw more of each other and shared more than we had in the previous 35.

Her memory was all shot to hell by this time, remembrances flickering in and out like a faulty circuit breaker. She would relate recent conversations she had had with family members who were long gone and I would correct her and we would both joke about it. At times, her mind would clear allowing her to converse insightfully about aspects of my life she was interested in. I always brought an album of photographs which we would look at and even though she would get me, her father and her late husband all bollixed up, the act of sharing the images was pleasant for both of us.

As the end approached, slowly but irrevocably, she decided that she didn’t want to eat anymore or get out of bed. A week before she left, I asked her about this and she answered humorously, “I’m lazy!”, and then more cryptically, “It’s time for me to be the audience” meaning it was time for her to put aside her sense of duty and giving to others and receive. I kissed her on the forehead and told her I’d see her again soon. A partial truth.

Because when I did see Mom again, she was lying almost mummified in bed unconscious under doses of morphine. Instinctively, I knew that her spirit had already departed a body that was slowly winding down. I sat with her during those final hours, holding her hand and waiting.

Our images of deathbed scenes are conditioned from too much television and hokey movies. In reality, there is no soaring background music, no poignant parting words. Mom was breathing laboriously and then she stopped. It was like a fan shutting off. In the background, I could hear the night nurses discussing a movie they were watching. The overhead light hummed. Mom was gone.

The tears came later, brought about from both loss and the loving support of my friends. At her service, I closed my eyes and found myself thanking God that she had been my mother, warts and all, and in my family, the warts were predominant creatures. But in the end, the thankfulness won out.

Beckoned

©2008 Daniel A. Brown

When I was 18 years old, I found out that my deceased sister, Deborah, was, in fact, very much alive. She was supposed to have died in childbirth back in 1940, ten years before my birth. But in 1968, I was looking at my birth certificate out of curiosity. The names and occupations of my parents were duly noted as was another fact that subsequently changed my life. Under the heading: “How many children alive at birth”, someone had typed, “2”.

2?

That couldn’t be. There was only Janet, who was born two years before me and if Deborah died in childbirth in 1940, what was she doing alive in 1950? When I asked my parents, “Who’s Deborah?” their response was to jump out of their skins, shocked insensible by a name that they had never thought to hear again. Recovering, they informed me that I did, in fact, have another sister, one who had been born profoundly retarded (their words) at birth and placed in the care of the State of Minnesota soon afterwards

Years later, I got a job at Monson State Hospital in Palmer, Massachusetts and worked on the wards of Simons Building which housed total care residents. Monson was founded for people suffering from epileptic seizures and it was common until the 1960’s to incarcerate those who were so afflicted. Most of them were eventually transferred to halfway houses when state institutions were shut down decades later. But the people imprisoned in Simons Building weren’t going anywhere. They were alone and forgotten, never visited and never loved.

Except for Stevie.

Stevie, like most others on the ward, was a baby in a 25-year old body. Each day, he remained in his crib, locked in a fetal position, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings. But every Sunday, something unusual would occur in his orbit. Stevie’s entire family would come for a visit, dressed in their best clothing. Surrounding his crib, they would talk to him like he was one of the family and try as best as they could to interact. There was nothing fake about it. It was an oasis of love that contrasted to the desperate apathy that otherwise encompassed his reality.

I marveled at this and began to think about my sister Deborah for the first time in years. Without revealing my intentions to my parents, I wrote to the state of Minnesota and learned that she was living at Faribault State Hospital right outside Minneapolis. On my first visit, I expected it to be grim like Monson but was amazed when I entered the wide, green campus. Faribault resembled a thriving, bustling college town. Patients, parents, and care workers were everywhere in abundance.

I went into Deborah’s ward in anticipation for our meeting, the workers there being glad to meet me, the first member of her family to appear in thirty-odd years. When she appeared, we went for a walk around the campus and I bought her a cup of coffee. She held and drank from it, much to the astonishment of her care workers who told me that she had never done such a thing before. But there was no conscious recognition of me on her part. I visited her again years later when she had been transferred to a pleasant half-way house in the tidy suburb of Maple Grove.

I also decided to tell my parents who were still unaware of my visits over the years. I wrote to my mother and reassured her that Deborah was in good hands. Weeks later, I received a heartfelt letter that must have released decades of fear and guilt. She was relieved to hear Deborah was doing fine and thanked me for staying in touch with her. My father was less than enthusiastic and tried to discourage me from further contact with her. “You might wake up one day and find her on your doorstep!” he warned.

But several years later, Dad’s own health began to deteriorate. Moved to a local nursing home, he spent most of his time semi-conscious. After my last visit with him, I got a call from the facility warning me that he was failing fast. The next night, I was in an irritable mood, so out of sorts that I went to bed early and fell into a fitful half-sleep.

A vision, not a dream, appeared.

In it, Dad was on a wooden wharf, stepping onto a small boat. Seeing me, he beckoned in my direction, inviting me to accompany him on his impending voyage. Without hesitating, I waved him off, thinking out loud, “There is no way I am getting on that boat with you!” a reaction to a less-than-ideal lifetime relationship. He departed and I fell into a deeper slumber. At 3am, the phone rang and I knew instantly what it was. It was the home. Dad was gone. He was 100 years old.

Three days afterwards, I got a call from Minnesota. Deborah, too, had passed away. A week later, I got her quarterly medical report, dated a few days before her death. There was nothing seemingly wrong with her. She was in good health and was expectedly to remain so.

Apparently, Dad had beckoned to her as well and she had agreed to go, freed at last from her physical servitude and finally reunited with a father she had never known.

Honor Your teachers

Honor Your Teachers

©2010 Daniel A. Brown

Ten years ago, I concluded my teaching career after a decade at a local rural, elementary school. It was perhaps the ten most constructive years of my life and as any teacher can tell you, one never completely leaves the classroom, even after retirement. Whenever I travel to somewhere exciting, view an illuminating movie or program on TV, or read an interesting article, my first thought is always “The kids would love this” and proceed to mentally craft a lesson plan on the topic. Then the present reality kicks in and I realize that “the kids” are long gone, some raising children of their own.

I’ve always felt that everyone should teach at least once in their lives. Not only does it show you what qualities you have as a person but you are truly (and I mean no disrespect to veterans) serving your country in the highest sense. Although I was surrounded by children, I felt that I grew up into a full adult during my years among them. Nothing teaches responsibility, diplomacy and communication skills better than a profession where you have to deal flawlessly with children, parents, peers and administrators on a daily basis for years at a time. Like combat, teaching is learned in the field and it’s a long process of trial and error, patience and frustration brought to eventual fulfillment by dedication and support.

During that period of time, I heard a fair amount of silly opinions voiced about teaching, mostly by people who wouldn’t last an hour in a typical classroom. The most common misconception is how “easy” teachers have it, working only six hours a day and having all those summers off. In reality, teachers spend hours at home grading papers and preparing lesson plans, researching information and gathering materials. Summers are spent taking professional development courses so that they can qualify for re-certification every five years. Beyond that, there is the mental quotient. Unlike most jobs, where you can leave your work after 5pm, we take it home with us because, as noted above, we are always thinking about the kids. And not only thinking about them but fussing, exulting, worrying, applauding and, quite frankly, praying over them because their needs and potentials are always in the backs of our minds. As teachers become fixtures in the local communities, we become friends with their families, attend their houses of worship, watch ballgames and dance recitals and participate in after-school programs. And when they leave our care and become adults, we go to their weddings and, sadly, sometimes their funerals. When they have kids of their own, I glow like a grandparent.

So that cliché about those who can’t do, teach; has it all wrong. Those who care, teach.

I’ve always considered teaching to be a creative art, not unlike music or art and I was lucky to depart before teaching to the test became the standard method of American education. While necessary in some venues, it mostly misses the gifts all children have, some in realms that have little to do with arid academic memorization. I once had a sixth-grade student who wrote on the first-grade level and could barely cough up a book report. But when asked to tell the story of what he had read, he verbally recounted the tale with a detailed thoroughness that would have made Shakespeare proud. Another child routinely flunked exams but was an expert on oceanography, an interest she discovered on her own while engaged in a dozen other creative endeavors. The boy who once looked like a candidate for reform school is now a successful and proud father of two and one girl who never attended college is a resourceful entrepreneur. I never met a kid who didn’t have a gift to share, whether the tests revealed it or not.

And there are some fine teachers out there whether or not they are publicly noticed or commended. One reason why my school worked so well was because of the diversity of the teachers who brought a wide range of backgrounds and experiences into the mix, an example to young people that those who have different styles and values can not only get along, but compliment each other as well. In particular, I owe a debt of gratitude to our master teacher who provided the kind of mentoring that is the backbone of successful education. She is a former Catholic nun; I’m a former Jewish hippie and our teaching styles could not have been more dissimilar. But because of our mutual love for our kids and respect for our profession, we not only developed an excellent working relationship but an enduring friendship as well.

In terms of pay, teaching stinks but that is beside the point. No one is in it for the money. While Wall Street bankers get annual million dollar bonuses for ruining people’s lives, teachers are lucky if they get several coffee mugs with “You’re an A+ Teacher!” printed on them. But what makes it all worthwhile are those rare moments when, years later, one of our grown-up students greets us on the street and casually mentions that we not only made them enjoy learning but changed their lives for the positive. These are their words and they are worth more than a million bucks.

So as the school term comes to an end, please take the time to thank the teacher who either made a difference in your life or the lives of your children. While the coffee mugs are nice, the recognition of a job well done is worth even more. Although the following term has been grossly overused, teachers are indeed true American heroes and should be recognized by our local communities as such.