On the cusp of a big day

Tomorrow I teach my first course entitled "Clinical-IV." It is supposed to be the capstone course in a series of four rather vague doctoral-level classes about professional development. I have absolutely no idea of what I'm doing in teaching this class!

The students first take a class entitled, "Meaning." It is about the ways we attribute meaning to things that happen in our lives. Postmodernist ideas are introduced as well as ways to include them in therapy. The second class is called "Natural Systems" and is about how to use oneself in therapy--our feelings, personalities, tendencies, beliefs, etc. The third course (and these are not given in order here) is called "Cybernetics," which covers general family systems theories. Now I'm saddled with a class that is supposed to help the students pull all of this together and help them create a theory of their own. They will then be able to discuss and demonstrate this theory and how they use it in something called a Qualifying Clinical Demonstration--set in front of all of their colleagues, formatted like a professional conference presentation is.

Sounds terrific, doesn't it? Only, I'm sitting here after burning out my brain all day, trying to figure out how in the world to teach this. What readings to use? How to create a syllabus? How on earth to discuss these issues for a three-hour slot every week? Is this something that could hold the interest of the students? Do I even know enough to be able to get them to think about what they do in therapy?

It's interesting and unfortunate that even though I finished my degree four years ago, I am studying more now than I ever did in school! This quarter I will have taught six classes, or 20 hours of graduate coursework--two of the courses I've never taught before. I am the professor of record for nine courses this term. I am also the chair of five dissertations and serving on four other dissertation committees. Oh my goodness...

So as I sit here, my brain freezing up, feeling dumber than dirt, I have to remind myself that this thing will come together somehow. I will just wake up tomorrow at the crack of dawn and try to put pen to paper and create something interesting.

California, Here I Come!!!

It is definitely time for me to go home. 10 days was a long time and I'm ready to be back in a familiar place again. There has been real pleasure interspersed with all the challenges of being here. Last evening I announced to the students, "Es un gusto para mi estar nuevamente con ustedes." They broke into wild applause. (It is with pleasure that I meet with you again today). Simple things go a long way. I sat with a young student on the bus last night, who paid her way here by selling "blankets" at the side of the road. She was only able to sell one but that only made enough for her to get here. This student came by just now bringing bed linens. Apparently, she didn't know the word for sheets and this is what she is selling. She is a student most worthy of help and if I get something in return, that's frosting on the cake. Now she has money for food while she is here plus the trip back to Ecuador next week.

My food has been problematic here. The first three days it was so salty that my ankles swelled up. I asked for rice and beans without salt. I got some sort of meat that had been soaked in salt water. They probably didn't add any salt, so they felt they had honored my request. But it almost puckered me up, it was so salty. The smell of the hot milk product that comes in a white little pitcher, makes me gag every morning (I keep sniffing it, hoping it's something other than what it is--a soy-goat milk-sewage smelling product). One morning I was served something that I labeled "Jellyfish guts." It was a large bowl of clear slime. I know no other way to describe it. It was translucent clear something or another. I turned off my brain and eyes, and ate it. Not bad, but I probably would never ask for seconds. After my mad dash to the hospital, I've been served bland food in small amounts, twice a day. It's okay--I can drop probably 30 lbs and be just fine. And I would, should I live here much longer. My clothes already fit better than when I came.


Yesterday's morning's menu consisted of tea, slimy, watery oatmeal and 8 saltine crackers. Yum. Last night's supper was red jello, cream of green mystery soup, and 3 slices of white bread. The cook seems determined that I eat lemon marmalade on something, as I keep getting it in all sorts of disguised ways on my tray: in a jar, in a cup, spread over the bread, etc. It smells like a petroleum product. But what takes the cake is the barley in cinnamon vomitus (what it looked like)! As I write, there is a large soup bowl of some orange gruel waiting on my breakfast tray. I can hardly wait to find out what that is! I must say though, my stomach is feeling about 80% back to normal, as long as I don't need to eat everything I'm served.


There is some sort of bird here that screeches in a series of four or five very loud squeals at a time. I don't know if it is someone's pet bird or a bird in the wild. It has been the last sound I hear when I lay down and the first sound when I wake up. If I could meet it out in the open I could truly wring its neck. There is some other bird that makes an odd noise like a male duck--a throaty "wow" sound over and over. He lives outside in the grass somewhere. So these birds' miserable sounds punctuate my days.

The water in the shower is finally tepid, after nine days of bracing, icy showers. I'm not sure what the issue was, but that was quite a beginning to the day. Yesterday morning there was no running water so there was no morning shower. Everyone took it in stride, myself included. I just didn't recognize myself when I looked in the mirror! My hair has been a picture since I arrived and found that I forgot to bring my hairbrush. If I avoid mirrors I do pretty well.
Not to be indelicate, but the toilet is a three-flusher type of fixture that never does what it should. I stand over it, eyes agape, waiting for it to either overflow or do nothing. This is not the kind of thing you want to bother with when you have Montezuma's Revenge.

I'm told it never rains here--never. They only have dew on some mornings but I have yet to see anything like that. So it makes sense that many people live in houses that are full of holes and whose roofs are dilapidated and iffy. The windows in my bathroom here are not sealed and caulked in and I can see daylight around most of them. Why caulk them in if there is no concern of moisture coming through? So when I shut the bathroom door, the windows rattle in their tracks. When the wind blows outside, they rattle. When someone walks in the front door of the dormitory, they rattle.
Incidentally, last night we had a very fine misty sprinkle. People acted like it was a monsoon.


There are some sort of bugs that have been biting me. I don't know if they are a form of no-see-ums or bedbugs or mosquitoes. There was a group of mosquitoes buzzing around my face this morning at 5:30 and kept me swatting and going under the covers for two hours. I keep finding little red marks on my arms and legs. Against my very white skin, I'm sure these polka-dots create quite a picture for the students.

It is time to go home. I am ready. I don't begrudge my time here, but it has been hard to be here alone for all this time, and to be without anyone to talk to consistently has been tough. If Sam were here with me, at least we could be together--although he would be bored silly. I can only think of three people I know who would have enjoyed this adventure. I have tried to take on their chipper, adventurous attitudes while I've been here, roaming about the campus, talking to everyone, asking questions. Were I to act like myself, I'd stay inside my room all the time and only go out if there is a fire in the building. I appreciate the fine example given me of being good, flexible, inquiring travelers.

This campus is in a rural region, an hour's drive from Lima. People are very poor and the homes are rag taggle here. The air quality is horrendous. My host tells me that it is a marine layer, but there is no moisture in it and it smells like exhaust. It doesn't feel exactly refreshing to go walking around the campus breathing deep lungfulls of it. It's worse smog than in Southern California. It has been eye-opening to think of how many people in this world live without the luxury of governmental controls on pollution. I am indeed fortunate.

The faculty here make the princely sum of $400 U.S. every month. Of course, that works out to be about three times as much in Peruvian money. Some of the students are raggedy and it is clear that they are making a huge sacrifice to come to this Christian university. There is a young boy of about 18 years of age who brings me my meals every day. I gave him $20 on Friday and he almost started crying. That clinched it for me. I think the money this school is coughing up to bring me here will go back to them in scholarships for their students. A little goes a long way in this country. This is perhaps the most important feature of the trip. I have realized in new ways how much I do have and how wealthy Americans are in comparison to the rest of the world. I think I can help students get an education here by setting up a scholarship for the family therapy students. That will be a tremendous joy. When I see these little brick hovels with questionable roofs, half-starved dogs lying in the streets asleep, and women washing their clothes in irrigation ditches, I feel guilty about the possibility of Sam and I buying a spacious new home. But I live in America, not Peru, and life goes on.

Even though a real whirlwind of work awaits me at home, I'm looking forward to leaving. I leave with the cheerful and respectful greeting, "Doctora!" ringing in my ears, and with the shy mumbled Spanglish greetings every day. People have tried very hard to be accommodating and they have been very dear. In particular, my host has been very kind.

I've been given a new moral reference point that includes responsibility to the world and those whose lives are very different than mine. And I am ready to go. With a full heart and many things to ponder for days to come.

Traffic

All photos from the internet. This found here

I just have to comment on the driving in this country. There is nothing like it anywhere else I've ever been. The photo above is the view I have from my seat of honor--the front single seat in the front of our bus. Yes, I am about the size of two Peruvians, so they have me up front--but also out of respect. The students sit all crunched together, all 25 of them, in the back of the bus, leaning into each other and not minding it one bit. From my perch up front, I can read all the names painted across the back windows of the little taxicabs. For some reason, the current style of signage is to have paint bleeding down from the letters. It's a bit odd, but apparently quite cool. The names, In Vacion, Arla Bonita, La Victoria, and Etsirsa bleed white and red paint down the back windows.


I've been fascinated by watching the traffic patterns from my elevated perch in the front seat. The streets are full of all sorts of vehicles that we don't have in the States: Citroens, Opals, and the tiniest little Toyota busses I've ever seen. And almost anything can be used to transport people. Look at this lovely number! You can have about 20 people packed into one of these things and people's legs are all tangled around other people who they don't even know. Of course, most Peruvians are small people, so they can fit in them much better than Americans can. I have not yet seen one morbidly obese Peruvian. They all seem to be in pretty good shape, even those with some extra padding.



These interesting three-wheeled motorcars are everywhere outside Lima's city limits. At least, I haven't seen any downtown. These motorcars are all over the country roads. They might have one flourescent or neon strip of light on the top of it, but that is all. Some of the newer motorcars have a weak, faltering headlight. It could be easy to come up over a hill at night and hit one of these by accident. Usually there are one to three passengers inside. The vehicles are powered by a motorized bike--maybe a Honda 150 if there is such a thing (they're smaller than a 350). These are definitely at the bottom of the pecking order on the street. The first say goes to the semi trucks, which are shorter but wider than ours. Then the big tour busses, then the medium sized tour busses, then the fleet of little Toyota and nondescript teeny busses and regular cars. But when you drive into an intersection, these little motorcars have to give right of way to whomever else is coming. I've seen these things cling to the side of the road as you pass by. Their passengers hold on for dear life and all lean uphill to balance it and keep it from rolling sideways.


As we drive through town, our driver aims for the center of the street, regardless of what the lines on the pavement indicate as proper passage. The goal is to avoid chuck holes. So sometimes we careen over to the left and drive there for awhile, and sometimes go off the road to the right to avoid a speed bump or a gash in the pavement. But those dirt roads leaving the university are something else! Our bus driver heads out of the gate and into a swirl of oncoming motorcars and taxis. Since we have right of way, they all move to the side as he drives on the left side of the road to avoid a big depression in the road. The little toy horns in all the cars beep and the driver completely ignores them, driving straight at them. Then we straighten out, move over to the right lane and off we go.

As we drive along, we come up behind a little Toyota bus. Our driver thinks we should pass it. There is an oncoming car. He flashes his lights several times, beeps, and off we go. We pass the bus in the middle of the street while the car moves past us on the left. I could reach out the window and shake hands with the driver of the Toyota bus if I wanted to--it's that close to my window. I see the driver inside, leaning ahead and swaying as he looks at the rearview mirror. Bear in mind that the lines in the middle of the street are merely suggestions and do not obligate anyone to adhere to them.

We come to left turn out of the little village near the university. People are everywhere and dogs are asleep in the dirt at the side of the road (and many times they sleep in the road!) There is a car ahead of us, his car turned into traffic, ready to make the left turn. Do we queue up behind him? Oh no, we pull up alongside of him so there are two of us jutting out into the oncoming traffic. When there is a one-car length space in the flow of traffic, we lunge out across it. Horns beep and we drive forward without a care. Only by the time we get into the left turn, there are three or four of us in a phalanx, all aiming for one of the two lanes going left. No matter--we jostle into whatever space there is and may the best man win.


Man.


My host asked me the other day, "And do you notice anything about who drives in this country?" It's all men. I've only seen about two women drivers. "That's because we have the idea that the woman is at home and the men take the women where they need to go." I told him that this idea lines up well with Sam's ideas about my driving. He laughed. "Actually, I never taught my wife to drive, so now I have to take her everyplace. That's our situation." He roared with laughter.



Necessity is the mother of invention. Cars, motorcars, and makeshift vehicles are everywhere here. Even with all the noise and jammed roads, I have not once felt nervous in traffic. Everything is taken in stride. You don't see people gesticulating angrily at one another, or someone stopped on the side of the road punching out another guy. No road rage. Life moves ahead in a relaxed sort of way. You weigh in your opinion by beeping the horn. You wave your arm out the window if you really need to merge into traffic, or you ask someone else in the car to do it for you out the passenger side. Someone will pull back and let you in, and if they don't you just head in and force them back. They honk and you ignore them.


In the end, everyone is your friend here. I have loved what I have learned about life by watching life from the front seat of the bus.

Life is good. People are important. Let your energy and passion be invested in who you're going to see, not in how you get to where you're going. This is the big lesson that I'm taking home.

Trauma in Latin America

I am teaching a class on child abuse and family violence here in Peru. From reading the World Health Organization's report on various country's responses to child abuse, I noticed that Peru isn't doing very well. And as I have been teaching these students every day, I have been hearing more and more stories about what they have endured.
Sexual abuse is the most frequently reported type of abuse here in Peru. More than half of all girls experience it in some form or another. After giving two lectures on it and fielding questions about how I respond to abusers in therapy, I suddenly learned that the term abuso sexual, most often refers to intercourse. I was stunned to realize how many girls are inappropriately sexualized here, and that, at such early ages!
In the first class, a middle-aged woman in the front row asked me, "What do you do if you have been sexually abused? Can you still do therapy with people? What do I need to do first?" Good questions. So glad you asked.

Another asked, "I am a pastor and a psychologist. People come to me with all of their problems. What do I do if a man comes to me with his family and I think he is abusing his daughter? Must I report him?"
Of course.
"But that means that he automatically goes to jail for 14 years. There is no therapy offered in the prisons. So when he comes out, his life is ruined. He has lost his family and his life."
He should have thought of that before he abused his daughter.
"But the whole church will be angry with me because I'm supposed to help someone like this."

"My sister got drunk at a party and several boys raped her at one time. She has never talked about it. Now I understand what her experience is after listening to these lectures and I want to help her."
It will be wonderful for her to hear that you support and understand her.
"Yes. She has had five live-in boyfriends and she shows no sign of staying with the one she is with now."
This is quite common, actually.
"I want to do therapy for her. Where do we begin?"
That isn't a good idea. We all want to help our families, but we must relate to them as people, not therapists.
"If she tells me what happened, all I do is cry. I don't think that helps her."
I think it might be a good starting point.

And there are other abuses and traumas that have never been uttered:
"When my children were 8 and 10 years old, my husband was traveling with them in Columbia. The guerillas captured them and kidnapped my husband, leaving the children in the car surrounded by the soldiers for one day. They returned my husband to the children and they continued on their journey. I have never hear them talk about this experience even though they are 16 and 20 years old now. Do you think they have post-traumatic symptoms?"

"I have had a 12-year-old boy come to my [pastoral] office and he told me that his uncle has been molesting him. Do I have to report this? I promised him that I would keep it a secret."
You can't make promises to children that legally, you cannot keep. That will most likely not help him in the long term.

"Do you think that before a woman gets married that she should always tell her husband that she has been abused?"
Would you really want to be married to someone that you would have to keep secrets from?

There is much pain in this world. It is not limited to one region. The clinical abuse stories that I have shared with them has shocked them--"How can people do this to one another?"
"Does this happen often in the United States?"
Our forms of abuse have become much more sophisticated and shocking than their run-of-the-mill pervasive varieties.

We all battle with the fallout of these kinds of acts. The devil is alive and well, and still on the ground.
I hope that our discussions down here about family life will result in good things for clients, families, and students. That will have been worth all the inconveniences and challenges of being in this place.

Cerro San Cristobal

Last week I went with my host and two students into Lima for a day of sightseeing. We took a bus tour up a very high hill to Cerro San Cristobal, on which is a very tall cross. The road, which is usually open for car travel, is closed around Easter so the faithful can walk up the very long, winding road to the cross at the top. As we drove up through the village, we got stuck behind a truck that couldn't budge. So everyone sat and waited. Or sat and waited and beeped their horn. Most of the horns here sound like toys, and people honk the horn out of principle, so it was an altogether cheery 10 minute hiatus. As we sat in our tourbus, which seated approximately 20 people, my host suddenly took my purse, cradled it on his lap and wrapped his arms around it. "Please," he said. "There are robbers who will reach in the bus and take it." I also learned that they are so desperate that some would not think twice about cutting off your finger and harvesting your ring.

The road winds up over the side of the mountain through a village of brightly painted homes built into the side of the hill. The road itself can't be more than 12 feet wide in most places. I shuddered to think what would happen should we meet another bus on our way up. From the top, we can see a huge sports arena, seen here at the right. This is called the Plaza de Anco. It was built around 1530 for bullfighting and has been in operation ever since.

I was grateful that it wasn't bullfighting season beause I can hardly bear to think of how the fights end. This arena is a great source of national pride.

From the top of the mountain, our attention was also directed to what looked like the projects--probably 20 blocks of four to five story buildings that all looked the same. There were no windows in them. It was a cemetery--the village of the dead, so to speak. Apparently, this city of nine million people has run out of space to bury people and so have built crypt-like buildings to house the dead. My host used to be a pastor in an adjacent area of the city. As one would expect, only the very poor and criminal live nearby. He often found the wheels removed from his car when he came out of church.

From Cerro San Cristobal, we headed to the Museum of the Inquisition. As expected, it was a sobering and grisly exhibition. We heard the white-washed version of history, given by a woman whose demeanor was visibly defensive. She tried to normalize the brutality of the inquisition by explaining to us that the U.S. also used the stocks to punish offenders in puritan times. She also claimed that only four people died from the torture and that the majority were Jews and Muslims who would not convert to Christianity. Yet there were plaques that gave different numbers. Approximately 46 "Judiazers" died there, she said. These, my host explained, were people who were most likely Protestants, or those who disagreed with Catholic doctrines. However, the numbers were miniscule in comparison to those who actually died there. Because this event is an embarassment to the church, the actual records have been suppressed. This, in addition to the numerous earthquake damage, has allowed reminders of the Inquisition to be lost or buried. There were many women who were killed by putting a cotton wick in their mouth and throats, then pouring water into their mouths until they drowned. People's extremities were attached to horses, who were whipped to run in four different directions until the individual was dismembered. They were hung upside down. All sorts of horrible things happened in those old walls. Walking through the underground cells, no bigger than a casket, I kept hearing the words of the hymn, Faith of our Fathers. I wonder if I would have been able to endure what these people did.

While pondering this, my host, a Protestant pastor, explained to me why South America has such strong Catholic loyalty. He said that in the late 1500s, one of the European Protestant reformers was interested in evangelizing South America. He sent over 400 missionaries under the direction of a man with the last name of something like Duran. When the group arrived here and started their missionary activities, the Catholic clergy began trying to dissuade Duran from his faith. They succeeded and he killed all the missionaries. One man escaped into the jungle but was never seen again. Amazing, how the choices of one man has influenced history and current events.

We walked in the main town square of Lima, across from the beautiful cathedral there. There are these ornately carved wooden box type things on the outside of the building and I wondered what they were. I was told, "We have a machismo society here. So the women would go up into those and look out into the square and the men would mingle here altogether in the evenings." The man telling me this laughed apologetically. I thought it was hilarious. Times and places change, but behavior often doesn't!
You can see the yellow of the building to the right of the cathedral. All the buildings around the square were that lovely yellow color. It made me realize how plain and boring our buildings are--gray, brown and beige.

Perhaps what stood out for me the most on this trip, was Cerro San Cristobal. All along the winding road up to the cross at the top, stood about 8 large cement crosses. I noticed that there were rocks on top of the horizontal bars of each cross. Apparently, when the pilgrims make their way up the mountain, they carry a rock for each sin they want to have absolved. This makes for a very laborious climb. But up they go, chugging their rocks. When they get to a cross, they leave a rock on the cross and say a prayer before going on. By the time they get to the top they have left their rocks below and have only to pray and light a candle at the large, towering cross. Perhaps they also leave flowers or other ornaments.
It's wonderful imagery--leaving our sins on the cross. But I am so very grateful that God doesn't require us to carry our sins around with us like that. Even though some people choose to do so, it isn't necessary, because He takes them from us and carries them for us.
It is a thought-provoking trip, this.

Revenge!

Montezuma

It has been a most interesting and eventful night. People do things differently across the world--and have different ideas about health and how to enhance it. Last night I was driven lickety-split to Miraflores, Lima, about 40 km away. I had tremendous pain in my abdomen that could not be relieved. Yes, my bowel has been a scene of rapid transit for several days, but I just chalked that up to traveling. Never have I had such an experience in traveling that was this bad. My host consulted with a doctor and gave me a medication that is used here and in Europe (but not the U.S.) called Floratin. It is live yeast bacteria used to combat traveler's diarrhea and that of people with HIV-AIDS. The idea of ingesting live bacteria didn't do much for me, but I thought that perhaps my provincial ideas of medicine need to be expanded.

Problem was, in about two hours I was in terrible pain.

After five hours of pain, I tried calling the campus medical offices that were listed on the back of the guestroom door. Unbeknownst to me, I was calling Peru 9-1-1. They kept asking me why I was calling Central America, and couldn't understand a word I said. That obviously wasn't going to get me any help. No dean was in sight, no student, no security officer. If I wanted to get help I would have to walk about a mile down to the front gate of the university. Then I would have to try to make myself understood. I started toward the door, but they were dead bolted and I couldn't get out of the building. My belly was in great pain and I was beginning to get hot and cold.

Thank goodness for a husband who can speak Spanish! I called Sam and asked him to call back to the campus and explain to them that I need a doctor. A few minutes later the security officer was outside the door and a student was stumbling down the stairs with a key to let him in. There I stood, clutching my abdomen, my shoulders hunched forward protectively. Up the stairs raced Joel(pronounced "Ho-El") and his wife who got me into their car. Off we flew.

A grim, humorless physician waited at the door, along with two energetic and very sweet nurses. I went right into a room while Joel registered me. There is very little privacy in many hospitals outside the U.S. Joel called to me across the waiting room, asking me my birthdate and address information. I sang it out for the wondering people in the waiting area. No HIPAA requirements here! Joel and his wife then came in and stood over me as the doctor unbuttoned my dress and began palpating my belly. He acted as if my presence bored him to tears.

He told me curtly that I have colitis and a very sensitive bowel. He ordered IV anti-inflammatory medications along with Ranitidine--something to help my bowel. He stepped out just as I heard a commotion right next to my head. Apparently that was where the hospital code cart was, and it was being whisked into an adjacent room. I heard someone get intubated and then shocked with defibrilator paddles. Then a drunk woman burst through the curtain next to my bed, shouting a man's name. The shouting turned to wailing as she was notified of the man's death.

The whole scene was visible to Joel and his wife, who stood open-mouthed at in the doorway, watching the entire resussitation effort.I'm sure the folk in the lobby were also privy to this scene. I was eventually moved down the hall into a room. The medication almost immediately relieved my distress and I fell asleep quickly.

Now I am back in my guest room, dozing off and on and feeling much better. It still feels like my belly has a war going on in it, but it's probably due to the three liters of vile, metalic-tasting electrolyte liquid I'm required to drink today. My diet will now consist of rice and maybe a cooked vegetable. Perhaps a slice of bread if I want real excitement. But no fruit (no more mangoes!), dairy, or uncooked food while I'm here.

Overall, this has been a real adventure and I might have enjoyed it had I not been in such extreme pain. I'm grateful that I'm okay. I'm thankful that Sam speaks Spanish and that I brought along an international telephone, or else I could still be writhing about in my guest room.

Doctors, nurses, and patients seem to be the same the world over. Life comes and goes in the Emergency Department. And Montezuma claims victory once again.

Peru

Some of you know that I am in Lima, Peru for 11 days. I came down here to give an intensive graduate course on child abuse in a graduate school. I am behind on sleep, have sensory overload, miss Sam, and have the beginnings of Montezuma's Revenge (from bottled water???) So I'm going to sleep. But there will be more to follow.
Praise be for international travel!

The Helpless Shopper

My father never was a gift giver. Many were the times when he bought us candy, doughnuts or eclairs. But I can count on one hand the actual gifts he gave me: a silver pin in the shape of the Scottish thistle, some vocal music, and the night before he died, a hideous multi-colored ceramic worm-type character which he had painted himself. It wasn't that he didn't love me. It just never occurred to him to buy things for me, since Mother purchased the essentials for the family.

Apparently, I was not the only one who found this difficult. After they got married, Mother looked forward to her birthday, Valentine's Day, Christmas, Mother's Day--dreaming of the surprises she would receive from Daddy. Shock was more like it. She didn't get a thing from him for the first two years of their marriage. Finally, she blew up. He apologized and immediately bought her a dozen long-stem red roses that they could ill afford. Mother was apoplectic.

After about 25 years he figured out that she would be very happy if she received a corsage on Christmas and Mother's Day, a bouquet on her birthday, and a single red rose at random times. For some reason, he got the idea that she would like new panties for every occasion. I was never told of the conversations behind this, but I suppose Mother commented that other women sometimes liked gifts of lingerie. As Daddy was oblivious to lingerie on or off Mother, he settled on a practical gift: panties. We are not talking about sheer, exotic-colored, silk, or frilly panties. I mean plain cotton or tricot panties--up to the waist and down to Bakersfield. Problem was, he never seemed to know her size.

I remember shopping with him for these when I was about 10 years old. It was an adventure and I was thrilled to be sworn to secrecy (I don't know why, because it certainly wasn't a secret to Mother after all those years). We stood at a sale table on which were arranged pastel nylon panties on sale. Now what size should he buy for her? "I want five pair," he announced, holding up a lavender pair by the elastic as if it were a dead rat. "Does this look like her size?" I had no idea. Always resourceful, Daddy glanced around the lingerie department for help. A rather large woman stood at a rack of underwire bras several feet away. Daddy smiled and stepped over to her.

"Excuse me, could you help me?"

The woman glanced around at him. Daddy had adopted an awkward, boyish, "HELP ME!" expression on his face. "Of course" she said, smiling.

"I'm trying to buy some panties for my wife and I don't remember what size she wears. She's about your size, I think. Can you help me know what would fit her?"

"You think she's my size?" the lady asked, her brow furrowing.

"Yes."

"That would be a size 12." She looked pleased that she had helped a clueless man. "What a nice gift," she added wistfully.

"Thanks!" Daddy sang out, turning back to the panty table. Turning to me he said, "Wasn't she nice?"

And to the good Samaritan, "Thanks again. My wife will be very surprised!"

She was, too. Mother wore a size 5. "Raiford!" she exclaimed, exasperated, looking at panties that could hold two of her. "What, pray tell, size do you think I am?" Whenever Mother punctuated her sentence in this way, we knew she was beside herself.

"Well," Daddy began to stammer. "I thought the woman standing there was about your size and she told me what to buy." His eyes were twinkling and he would start laughing when Mother held the large panties up to her diminutive frame.

"Oh, my soul!" she would exclaim, laughing uproariously. "Honey, you need your eyes checked! And you can't be asking women what size panties they wear. Someone is going to think you're out for no good."

"I didn't know what to do and she was a pleasant looking woman. She didn't seem to mind me asking what size she wore."

"Well you just can't do that. Kindly return these... size 12!"

It was a yearly joke that never seemed to get old. Mother would exchange them herself and have a good laugh with the store clerk about it.

I don't think Daddy bought Mother any panties recently before he died. I would think she had enough to start an underwear store out of her bedroom after so many years. He had progressed to flowers by that time, which that suited Mother better.

As the holidays get closer I think fondly of those wonderful memories. As I spirit away gifts in the guestroom closet, hidden until Christmas, I wonder if the holidays will surprise me in any way.

I wish that I had more things from my father so that in the using of them I could feel that he was closer to me somehow. Alas, it is not to be. But at least, I had him. That was gift enough.

Failed!

There is no particular pleasure in failing a student at the end of an academic term. Students bellow, threaten to involve their parents, other students, or legal counsel. Parents call and beg or use all sorts of inappropriate arguments to try to coerce you to change a grade ("Didn't you ever get a grade you didn't deserve?" "I thought this was a Christian institution!" "He's tried so hard," ad nauseum).

University administration, on the other hand, send out missives about grade inflation and the ethics of assigning grades that students don't deserve. There is a subtle message given that students should have to really work hard to get an A in your class--don't make it so easy. How else will the academic standards of the university be upheld? I agree.

But the business of failing a student--an advanced, doctoral student--can be an intimidating prospect for someone like me. It never fails to surprise me that a number of students feel that if they showed up for class, they deserve to get an A grade. Not to merely pass, but to pass in the top 10% of the class. Amazing. I don't like to have people angry with me, and they are typically very angry when they know they received a failing grade. I find it hard to turn off the therapist mode and move into teacher mode ("I didn't do this to you. This is the grade you earned, and I suggest that you consider that carefully before you say anything else disrespectful or inappropriate to me.") I always have to brace myself for the onslaught of tears, tirades, or threats.

As you may guess, I failed a student this quarter. Tuition is expensive and the class was a four-credit hour class. It met four hours per week and let me tell you, those were some very long classes! We had debates, in class activities, student presentations, discussions; we reviewed articles and talked about all sorts of things to break up the time so students wouldn't die in class. It can be hard to sit there for four hours at a go for 10 weeks. One thing I don't tolerate well is to see students surfing the web on their laptops in class. Worse yet, wearing an ear bud and listening to an IPod. My syllabus states, "Professional conduct of students is anticipated. Repeated tardiness, listening to IPods or surfing the web on laptops during class will result in a reduced grade at the discretion of the instructor."

I dropped two students a letter grade last year. They were livid.

My failed student has left the class to take phone calls many times; surfed the web and responded to emails most classes; and giggled and whispered with another student every single class period, most of the time.

Because it was a survey of research course and covered a lot of ground--and most students are intimidated by research, I told the class that I would give them one main assignment for the class. I wanted them to work on their dissertation proposals or perform a critique of literature on their topic of choice. In addition to daily participation and frequent conversations in class about the issues that arise in the writing of their papers, they would discuss four articles for five minutes each, over the course of the term. I would rather have them leave the class learning something useful than to do busy work that prevented them from really applying themselves to the process of research. The main assignment would be due on the last day of class, when they were to present their work to the class using PowerPoint, handouts, or other visual aids of their choice. They were thrilled. I encouraged them to email me drafts of their work throughout the quarter so I could provide feedback and help them craft a defendable proposal.

The day before the last day of class, Failed Student called to tell me that she didn't think she would have her paper done. "It's been just one of those busy times of life and I haven't had time to work on my proposal." Why then didn't you tell me this earlier in the quarter? Why didn't you drop when you realized that you couldn't do the work? Why do you think this is an acceptable excuse for not doing what is expected here?

"Well, this is the only real assignment and you have had the whole quarter to work on it. You have not emailed me anything to look over, and have not asked any questions pertaining to the proposal process. So you will need to turn in a product tomorrow and as you know, your grade will be dependent on the quality of the work."

There was lots of conversation about wanting it to be perfect before it was turned in, writer's block, missing just one thing (the lit review!!!), too much life happening, etc. I maintained my "broken record" message that communicated her responsibility for the outcome.

The grade she earned was 23/70. She has failed the class.

Scrutiny of the "properties" tab for her document indicated that she started writing the night before it was due. While other papers were 45 - 60 pages long, hers was 20. It was really bad.

So I notified her as well as her advisor, that she has failed the course.

Why am I writing this? Don't most professors go through this, and why is it a big deal? I think I have a harder time with this because I've never had children--never learned how to deal with the rolling eyes, disdainful teenage glances, opinionated comments of kids ("How can you look so dorky?") I've never had to set limits and have kids buck them--send them to their rooms for being mouthy, or say, "Because I said so!" with a sense of maternal entitlement. My choices and behaviors are guided by well researched principles that I have learned and taught to many parents. I can institute them pretty well and people don't know that there is any hesitation on my part about setting limits, being quick on my feet about what is happening, and call kids on what I see. But I do it from principle, and not from that place most mothers have--a visceral knowledge that their children will still love them in the end and that they are doing the right thing by discipline, motherly critique, or issued imperatives. I am a stepmother. I have four years of experience dancing around these issues and never quite knowing on a gut level that what I am doing is the right thing or best thing for the kids or for me. There is no guarantee of love or loyalty to me in 30 years when I am old. I can be rejected outright if my ideas of discipline, behavior, manners, or ethics are too different from those they have grown up with. I can be viewed as eccentric with old maid ideals, inexperienced and even stultifying to their healthy development. I have to watch whatever I say because I can be judged to be unfair, mean, heartless, unfit. "I don't think of you as a stepmother. You're my dad's wife." (I corrected that on the spot, but it still rings in my ears). There is very little entitlement in my position and I have no experience tolerating kids pushing back against me. All the hugs, kisses, and "I love you"s that I hear can't entirely erase my concern. I operate as a stepmother out of two parts intuition and one part principles learned in books. I suppose that no biological mother can ever say with great certainty that what she is doing with her kids is a failsafe method, so maybe I'm not such an outlier as I think. But I am filled with consternation when I either set limits in class or fail a student because it is all attached to the issue that makes me feel most vulnerable in life.

It's hard. The students have no idea what comes up for me when this happens--nor should they. I just spend several days stewing and second-guessing myself to be sure I've said and done everything fairly and as kindly yet firmly as possible.

I think I'm getting better at it. Perhaps the day will come when I can issue fair directives and completely ignore the "stink-eye," etc. When an F grade will truly be about the student and not about me.

Found here

This morning's devotional reading caused a startled jump. It was the story of Ananias and Saphira: the social climbers of the early church. Apparently, they wanted to get in on the philantropy and esteem from the community that came from providing for the fledgling church--and all those who needed their support. Apparently many people had been disowned when they embraced a crucified Christ and were living communally with other church members. They were dependent on the goodwill of those with wealth in their midst.
So as they people sold property and gave the proceeds to the apostles to distribute as needed, Ananias and Saphira decided this would be something good for them to do. Perhaps their motives were pure in the beginning. They made a pledge to sell a piece of property to support the early church. Except they decided after they had the money in their hand, to keep back part of it. I've had thoughts like this before. Have you ever sold a large item, or gotten a very large bonus check? When we sold Mother's house and I held the check for the amount in my hand, I confess that my mind flitted to numerous projects that the money could be used for. It wasn't mine, to start with, and second, it is funding Mother's life and must be tucked away and invested wisely. So I did that and have not looked back.
To hold a large sum of money, or to think that you may receive a large sum of money, can drive people to behave in uncharacteristic ways.
This must have happened to Ananias and Saphira, because they decided that they would hold back some of the money from their property sale. That in itself wasn't awful. But what was, was that they indicated to Peter that it was the full sale price (lying), and presenting it as a way to maintain standing in the community (hypocrisy). And down they both went, dead.

It is a shocking story. I'm sure that the early church was stunned. The Bible says that "great fear came upon the whole church and upon all who heard of these things" (Acts 5:11). No kidding. Can you imagine what the church would have become if other people decided to follow their example? Heartless philantropy, performed to make themselves look good, not to provide honest, good-hearted service. Their treasure was not in heaven, it was here.

I hadn't read this passage for some time, and I was again reminded that God expects honesty, purity of motives, and obedience in all things. As I was thinking of this story, I wondered, "But what about grace? Why was God so hard on these people? Didn't their gift count for anything? After all, the early church depended upon such generosity. Did these people have time to confess their sin before they died? How would God view what they did in the light of their eternal destiny?

There are probably a variety of responses to this question. What I learnt again this morning is that God expects obedience and purity of heart. Anything less is not pleasing to Him. And that what we have here in terms of wealth and holdings, are not just to consume on ourselves. These blessings are expected to extend to others, both for the relief of suffering, and for extending the Gospel commission. This seems to be a law of the Kingdom of Heaven: don't withhold what you have promised to God. By giving away what we have, we gain more than we could imagine. By becoming poor, we become rich. Being smart with what God has given us (investing or sharing it) is God's intent for us.

Food for thought at this time of year when everyone is thinking about what they will get, not what they can give.