#sol24 Wars, Wonders, and Women

 

This Memorial Day, the parades and ceremonies honoring those lost to wars were cancelled or postponed due to impending dangerous storms, but I did find myself reflecting on wars from a slightly different perspective:

I recently read The Women (Kristen Hannah), which chronicles a fictional Army nurse before, during and after tours in Vietnam. I have been haunted by reminders that most Americans did not realize there were women risking their lives to support the injured over there. I have been haunted by the lasting physical and emotional scars of war. I wonder why their stories have not been shared? I wonder how these women are doing now? 

I also reflected on The Code Girls (Munzy) which chronicles the real lies of young women who were recruited for the meticulous work of code-breaking which shortened WWII. They were sworn to secrecy and their stories were silenced for more than 70 years. I wonder about the frustration that decades of silence caused? I wonder about the messages they decoded and the information they buried? I now suspect my Aunt was one of them after piecing her WAC timeline and  her discharge papers. But, I will never know for sure.

Perhaps,"we have come a long way" as women now serve with men rather than behind them? I wonder about the impact of more women in "definitive" and "leadership" roles?

#sol24 May 21 Long Journey Ahead

 

It began with flashing lights following our plane taxiing down the runway. There were no sirens and no emergency exits needed, but a four- hour layover ensued.  Now to be honest, it was lovely airport with the usual food vendors.  

After a long walk and PF Chang's lettuce wraps, I settled in to finish my book. Meanwhile, a family settled into the benches at the front of the waiting area. 

The dad, at first glance, reminded me of my own son with a larger than life family.  There were 2 little girls whose pigtails bounced as they skipped around the rows, counting each trip as if it were a trip around the moon. At times, they hummed a song that may or may not have been from Rock Dog, with frequent stops to hug their dad and their little brothers who ran with them intermittently. The little boys drove matchbox cars across the empty seats and along the window edges, laying on the floors at times as their seemingly boundless energy, waned.  I suspected they needed naps, but the bright and busy space was not conducive to napping.  They too, frequently cuddled up against their dad, who sat quietly during the moments left to himself. I admired his bravery, traveling alone with four young children.

I did not mean to eavesdrop, but their conversations with their dad were not whispered. "Why did we have to leave her in Salt Lake," one of them queried the dad.  "I want her to come back." another one said loudly as she took over her dad's lap. Finally, the oldest settled next to her dad and began to sob, "I didn't want her to die." My eyes teared up as I took a deep breath and said a prayer for the young family, acting normally, but clearly in distress. 

When they got up to finally board the plane, I noticed the pink band on the dad's wrist as well as the pink ribbon on one of his bags. I wondered if it had been her's. 

I passed them smiling brightly and sitting in Business Class. I don't know whether the airlines had upgraded them or they were there by choice, but it didn't matter. They had cushy seats and good snacks for the next couple of hours, but a difficult journey ahead. I smiled and offered, "Hi," and then said a silent prayer for them all as I went to my seat.      

#sol24 Middle of a Protest

 

I really wanted to write a post about the incredible, delicate, pink blossoms falling around my house this week. They are a reminder of the power of the beauty to uplift our world.

Yet, the events of this week are still heavy on my thinking. 

The sun was bright and the sky was blue as I headed into the city appreciating the blossoms along the West Side Drive.  I was early but eager to meet with students about projects, questions and work before class as the end was close.

I grabbed my teacher bag and a bag of books about co-teaching to give away, (trying to downsize) and headed to campus amidst the sounds of a helicopter overhead.  It's midtown Manhattan and anything is possible, but as I got closer, it was clearly not just another day. There were megaphones, protesters, police, and protests everywhere. It was very loud, very scary, and I could not have gotten into the building to teach; nor, could I have expected my students to have faced that crowd of protesters. 

I had a flashback to when I was in a HS bridge program and witnessed a  protest about another controversial war.

Yet, this felt different.  I was afraid, not just for me, but also for my students. My university had not yet cancelled classes, although to be honest, most undergrads are long gone and only those of us who observe the public school calendar (the Graduate School of Education) are still in classes. I could not fathom why program administrators had not told us to go remote (although they did shortly before my class was to begin). Anyway, thinking about my graduate students who represent the diversity of America and include those who wear kippahs, those who wear hijabs, and those who are totally blind, I made a QUICK decision standing alongside riot geared Police to go remote. In fact, as I watched the crowd invade the building, I envisioned the headline, "Graying Professor Dies During Invasion." 

I share this slice of my life because I was really scared as well as scared for my students. THIS time, I am not just responsible for me, but also for my students.

I have protested myself. I stood PEACEFULLY holding signs about a district that refused to negotiate a pay increase for  many years. I have also protested thought my votes, many times. 

Protests are a part of free speech. They should provide a forum to make others think about another point of view. Protests should not make others feel their lives are in jeopardy.