Friday, October 18, 2019

Middle Age 101



I have not been properly prepared. Despite 20 plus years of formal education, some classes were simply absent in the catalog. There are life subjects that they don't teach, discuss or offer a simple warning.

Growing up, school was designed to prepare us for the next stage. Kindergarten taught me to tie my shoes, the ABC's, and sharing which gave me a foundation in which to tackle my primary years. Elementary school established the importance of self-discipline, curiosity, and learning patterns that were imperative for my junior and senior high years. Cognitive learning, sexual and social dynamics and interest inventories in high school guided me toward choosing an institute of higher learning that would finally be the bridge from adolescence to adulthood. College awakened my sense of social justice while providing me an employable skill set.

In high school, I took home economics and typing as those were seen as essential life skills. In college, classes such as "Sex and Marriage" had a waiting list; and an accounting class was included in the university's core curriculum. Now, as I am on the backside of raising my children, three decades of teaching, and the glow of youth, I want to know....where was the class entitled, "Middle Age 101: The Paradigm of Shifting Women's Roles and Wrinkles."

Gender Roles. In my world, holidays don't happen unless mom made them happen. Once, I had a student email me two days after 1st semester finals informing me I was the only professor who had not yet posted grades. I looked at the student's class schedule and saw that I was the only female prof he had. The others were not juggling end of semester obligations with Christmas shopping, cooking and decorating. I am sure that those male professors were going to be just as surprised as my husband at the gifts our family received as they had not purchased nor wrapped one of them. Still I felt inept with a splash of shame as I had disappointed this totally entitled 19 year old. I claim to be a feminist, yet I still tolerated certain roles because I didn't know any differently.

When preparing for my academic sabbatical to work at a New York theatre and collect interviews as part of my book exploring a specific theatrical theory, my administration told me that they hoped that I would take this time to refresh physically. My superiors – in an academic setting - encouraged me to come back looking the "'girl' they hired ten years ago." I wonder if the male profs got this same pep talk? I didn't ask that question then. I should have.

The change. I have heard the whispers and jokes over the years, but what is happening to my body is not funny. Nobody warned me that I have declared war on my boobs. For the last five years, I have embraced the extra cups to the curves; however, they are now invading my back, and this is not OK. My knees have their own soundtrack separate from the party song in my head. Single gray hairs grow like anatomical dandelions. Sleep patterns are irregular, but my hot flashes are so regular that I carry a change of clothes to the grocery store. I'm not convinced trading my period for an internal exclamation point of holy hotness is a fair trade.

Parenting. I've done the best I can. When my son and daughter-in-law were expecting their first child, they demonstrated due diligence in preparing. I don't remembering having such an arsenal of literary support and certainly didn't have access to the 24 doula called Google. I was blessed to have my parents to guide us along the way. They didn't mess me up too bad, so I felt they were a trusted resource. I was ready for the basic illnesses, academic roller coasters, teenage snarkiness and the continual evolution of transportation needs. It was living the paradox of "this hurts me worse than it hurts you" that was more real and raw than expected. A friend once told me, "If you can throw money at it, it isn't really a problem," and that worked as a band-aid quite often. I discovered the capacity of which my heart can truly beat as it is my children who have stretched that muscle with true brokenness and unbridled joy. No one warned me that I could only be as happy as my most unhappy child. These truths are not sold on Amazon.

Friends. It never occurred to me when I made the decision to leave academia, that I would have to leave behind people I loved. As teachers, most of us live education; therefore, our community of friends are found there too. We share the same schedule, educational levels, a love of students, and an understanding of occupational frustrations. I would be amiss to not credit so many of my colleagues/friends over the years for loving me, inspiring me and molding me.

Finding a new group in your 50's is awkward. When I walked into my first classroom as a kindergartener, I was on equal footing. It was the beginning for all of us – we just had to sift through the personalities the old fashioned arenas of recess and sleep-overs. Over the years, this evolved to athletic teams, dormitories, teacher lounges and professional associations. When I finally walked out of a classroom 45 years later, I was surprise how quickly I was the odd kid out. Lunches and Happy Hours promised never made it to the calendar.

I have tried wiggling into a few new circles. Switching churches was even a tactic. However, in the past 4 years, I have only managed a couple friendships that seem to really be as interested in me as I am them. I wish I had a witty anecdote to add to this part of story, but - in truth - this has a dull ache to it that is hard to ignore. I am sure that this exists somewhere in the world, but an Platonic Pals Tinder-esque App would be worth a look. Want to go for a walk and talk politics? Swipe right.

Loss. In the span of two years, my best friend, Julia, moved away, I left my job, my sister, Jennie, moved back to Baltimore, the kids were out of the house and my father died. I was living on the corner of Loss and Lost. All of the places where I found my worth were no longer. Period. They didn’t shift; they were just gone. Yes, the decision to leave the safety of a tenured university position was my choice, but the others happened despite my prayers, pleas and tears.

Mid-life crises. When you hear your mother say to your dying father, “It’s all gone. Everything we planned. Gone,” it does something to your soul. My grandmother always said, “Preacher and Teachers need to move on.” I heard both of these women, loud and clear. It was time for this teacher to go.

It has been six years since I left my job. I am acutely aware of the talk. “How long can she not work?” “She didn’t retire, did she?” “How will she support herself in her old age?” “Service work is not a job.” I even had a lot of people ask me, “So, how are you enjoying retirement?” I worked 26 years in education in the state with the lowest teacher salaries in the nation. I worked the majority of those years in private education, which pays about 20% less that the public sector. Also, I was 49 when I left. The comments balanced between insulting and entertaining

I had given myself three years after leaving full-time employment to find the next chapter. The first year, I focused on reconnecting with people. I visited relatives and former students. I spent lots of time with my mother. I also slept a lot. The Year of Belize was the second year. Establishing more of a presence in the school and the neighborhoods of need was the goal. The third year was trying to find the delicate balance of melding these two worlds. Year four was realizing that year three went by, and that I'm still looking for my worth. I got unstuck in the sand of Belize seven years ago, but when I am “home” I find myself frozen in culture shock. I am ready for the Holy Spirit to guide me to my next “gig.” I was just reminded of that saying, “God doesn’t say ‘no;” instead he says, “not now” or “I have something better.”

Year five was the year of Brittany. Some people bring home shells and rum from Belize, I brought home a piece of my heart that I didn’t even realize was missing. Watching her navigate her new extended family, the literal geography of the city and state, and the dynamics of school have been a lessons in grace. So often, it would be totally understandable for her to just “lay low” or give into bouts of homesickness. Instead, Brittany continued to explore her options and push her boundaries of comfort. She is a daily reminder of how lucky I am to be born where I was and to whom I was. Without even knowing it, Brittany has been a master teacher for me in the lesson of not just living in the moment but appreciating that it is even happening! Every day, when I pick her up from school, we play the same schtick, “How was school today? Good?” “No,” she says deadpan. “I was great!” Every. Day. “It was great!” Frankly, most of her days were riddled with blatant racism and academic roadblocks, but she never lost sight of the opportunities beyond the bridge.

The number one class that I wish had been offered dealt with dealing with the death of a parent. No-one spoke about learning choreography to the song and dance entitled, “Becoming a Parent to Your Parent.” Maybe, it is because it is awkward and involves mostly side and backwards steps. As I attempted to navigate my father during his last years, the key was to let him lead and move at his pace. That was a specialty spin called dignity.

I could outline all the lessons, stories, heartbreaks, fights and humor that happen when you walk with a parent toward Heaven. However, they are mine. My father trusted me with his moments of physical brokenness. He shared uncensored stories. He cried unapologetically. He asked me questions in the middle of the night and fell asleep thinking about my responses. We laughed at the dumbest things. We sat in a lot of silence. We were partners.

This is a lesson as unique as each being. It is unteachable.

Sunday, September 4, 2016

Brittany Cornejo – A Love Story

In 2011, I first went to Belize as I felt “stuck” personally, spiritually and professionally. My father was dying, my best friend moved across the country, and I was considering leaving an ever stressful job. A friend, who owned property in Belize, suggested that I go and spend some well deserved “down-time” on the white beaches of Central America.

By the second day, I was playing with children on the beach. They would find me during their lunch hour and after school. After a few days of this, a local man stopped me and said, “I have been watching you. Kids love you.” I thanked him for the compliment and admitted that I was a teacher. He continued, “Do yourself a favor, have those kids take you home.” So, after school that day, I asked them if I could visit their houses. I cannot properly explain the difference between the tourist side of the island of Ambergris Caye and the reality of some of the locals’ living conditions. No electricity nor plumbing is not uncommon. A 14’ x 14’ structure, with only a mattress, is home for too many families. Clapboard houses are built upon garbage dumps. When Trip Advisor named this island the #1 in the world in 2014, they obviously had not taken the short walk across the bridge.

I returned to Belize six weeks later with at team of 19 amazing students from the University of Sioux Falls. Our goal was to build a playground at the school located in this impoverished area. For 10 days, we created an infrastructure in the lagoon behind the school and then hauled sand to be the base for the industrial swing set that we erected. We brought 500 1bs of books and sporting equipment; we tutored, assisted a visiting dentist and simply loved on the children.

During this trip, I acquired a shadow named Brittany. She would not only follow me home every day, there were mornings that she would be sleeping outside my door when I awoke.

Very early, one Sunday morning, I opened my door, and there she was. I was heading to the beach to be greet the day and read. I always have children’s books with me, so I grabbed “Alice in Wonderland” for her. We read in silence for a long time. Then I asked her, “How is that reading level for you?” Frankly, “Alice in Wonderland” is more literally dense than most people remember. Her response and explanation is what first made me fall in love with her. She said, “Oh, Miss Kim, I am a good reader. I have to be if I want to get the job I want someday.”

Considering I am aware of the lack of professional opportunities for locals on the island, I held my breath and asked, “What do you want to be?”

She enthusiastically explained, “I don’t know if you have this television show in the States, but there is a show on our TV, where an old man goes around the world and saves the babies. I want to do this with him.” What this sweet 12 year old girl was describing was the Christian Children’s Fund infomercial. The brutal irony is that she had no idea that she was one of those children. It was then that I told her that if she never missed school and got good grades, someday I would try to bring her to the States for a year.

Brittany did everything in her power to make my promise her reality. Three years later, not only had she excelled in school, she figured out how to apply for a passport and a FI Student Exchange Visa. That May, when I arrived on the island, she was waiting to show me that she had held up her part and was ready to go. Brittany attended school in Sioux Falls during the 2014-15 school year.

Her return to Belize was brutal for all of us. Despite the fact that I would see her on a regular basis during my trips, not having her in my daily life was a heartbreaking. I actually went back to Belize with her as I, with the financial help of former students and family, sponsor numerous children and work at two schools on the island. June is a month where I need to be there in order to organize care-taking (food, supervision, etc for all my “street kids”) once school is out for summer. When Brittany and I went to the high school to register her for fall, they informed us that she would have to retake her junior year. This was a total “bait and switch” on the school’s part. Frankly, she was being punished for her good fortune. No negotiation was entertained.

Upon her return, Brittany was ostracized by classmates. At home, things were also hard.

By Christmas of 2015, I sensed something was wrong as Brittany was not answering texts or emails. When I arrived on the island in February, I discovered that she had not been in school for weeks. She was home helping with her mother’s new cooking business – they were serving lunch out of their house now. I have a good relationship with Britt’s whole family, including her mother, so there were a lot of conversations about the situation. According to her mom, Brittany was not the same when she came back from the states. She never slept and she got extreme headaches. Her mom had taken her to the doctor a couple of times, and they gave her a prescription. It never got filled because her mother had no money to pay for it. There is no mental health counseling on the island. All of the flags pointed to a severe depression.

While I was there in February and March, I got Brittany back into school, and she lived with me. When I left and she went back to her house, it all fell apart - again. She did not finish the year. In June, when I returned, she stayed with me.

When she is with me, Brittany is a girl I in which I fell in love. She is that open, highly communicative, smiling, lovely kid that I met five years ago and they young woman who lived with me in Sioux Falls. At her house, I see her physically shrink.

One morning, at breakfast, I asked her, “Brittany, what happened? How can you go from having so much going for you and attending O’Gorman High School to making chicken, beans and rice everyday?” She did not answer right away. She sat there for a long time as she chose her words.
I don’t really know how to explain it. I would go to school, and I could hear the teacher talking, but I just got smaller and smaller. Pretty soon, I didn’t even feel myself in the room. I disappeared.” This is when I knew that I had to bring her “home.” It was also one of the most articulate description of depression I have ever heard.

Getting Britt back to Sioux Falls has included more and higher roadblocks than I have ever encountered. Brittany can only come into the States on an I20 status as she is not coming through an agency. There are no agencies in place in Belize, or most Third World Countries. The only schools that have this status near us are Sioux Falls Christian and Freeman Academy. Freeman Academy would have great because of its small size and rural community. Brittany would have bloomed there; however, the tuition and insurance is a total of $17,500. Therefore, Sioux Falls Christian is the more logical choice as she gets to stay home with our family, and is within walking distance to my mother’s.

Throughout this entire journey, SFC – and specifically, Peggy Wahl – have been warm, welcoming and excited about Brittany being a part of their community. Peggy even showed up at the airport at 10:30 pm on Friday with a “Welcome to Sioux Falls Christian” placard! During our initial school tour, everything about it just seemed like the right place for our new family.

Again, since I left my job to follow a life of service, I simply cannot afford the tuition currently due. Because school has already started, no tuition assistance is availble; we will be able to apply for that next year. I am also being deliberate in picking up work to afford her daily needs.

While I was in Belize, I resolved myself to focusing on getting her out of the country, which was ‘gut-wrenching.” There is a lot of Visa, guardianship, legal red tape, and Belizean/American politics, that I am skipping over, but rest assured, that it took a global village to get her back where she belongs.

The money raised will be used specifically for her tuition this school year 2016-17. Sioux Falls’ Christian’s tuition is $10,500. Also, there is a $250 application fee. They require the rental of a Chromebook. Furthermore, all students must have $500 in a food plan and $500 in a discretionary fund. Again, to be clear, our Gofundme campgain is to cover this year’s tuition. We will have a year to budget, save, earn and apply for assistance for next year.

Of course, people have questioned the sensibility of it all, as the finances seem substantial. Truly, I pray for clarity on this issue. Could that money better be spent on numerous children instead of just one child? However, the Holy Spirit keeps whispering to me and pushing me to continue to advocate for Brittany. This one child can – and will – make a difference for her own community someday. She may change the people who take a chance on her. I know she has changed me.


I thank anyone who is taking the time to read our love story. She is my Belizean daughter, and I need to set my pride aside and ask for help. Thank you for your prayers. Thank you for any ideas or suggestions you may have. Thank you for considering to be a part of our extended family. I first went to Belize to get “unstuck in the sand.” I never dreamed it would be the children and, especially, Brittany, who would grab my hand and gently guide me to my current life, which is rich with faith and love. 

Monday, August 8, 2016

A Day in My Belizean Life....




It is the Little Things....

 Donut Date With My Girls
 Nardo gets his first school uniform!
 When you are the middle of 9 children, there are days when a little frozen yogurt in necessary!
Your Own Quilt Makes Everything Better


Saturday, February 7, 2015

The Mystery of Life and Death According to Me

I try to wear as many hats that fit and live up to any title that may be given to me when I am in Belize - including the less flattering ones. "Persistant mujer gringa" even has a hint of positivity and possibility. However, it is the title of "child whisperer" that tickles me most.

Yesterday, as I walked through town, I was reminded of how much I love this place. I sometimes think that when I am back in South Dakota, I may romanticize my feelings for the island and its people. Nope.  It's real. I am most alive here. The abundance of blue - skies to sea - make me want to physically be better. I eat smartly with an abundance of fruits and fish. I love the sweat that I get exercising in the Caribbean heat. And, as Audrey Hepburn said, "Happy girls are prettiest."  May I dare to say that I feel pretty here.

It is the refection of the people, especially, the children that make me happy. It took me 5 hours to walk 4 miles - it was a little like HyVee before a snowstorm. Administering hugs, admiring growth spurts, and exchanging news takes time. My favorite is when a students says, "Miss Kim!  When did you get home?"

As I walked by the high school, I saw many of my students, who are now freshmen, leaving for the day.  One of my girls was sitting on a dock holding hands with a boy. She saw me and went to wave. Quickly, she decided to turn away knowing that explaining him was not how she wanted to begin her weekend. Braces, inches and a sense of cool had all found their way to my first Holy Cross graduate class.

I do not take for granted the respect and love these kids give me.  It didn't come overnight either. I had to earn the right to be part of their lives.  There is a lot to be said for showing up on a regular basis. I am reminded of an experience that happened to me last May.

Because I always have children with me - holding my hand, asking to carry my bag, on the back or basket of my bike - many adults think I am either a child psychologist or some type of social worker. Belize has its issues like any other country or community. A feeling of abandonment is palpable with some children. A lack of respectable father figures combined with less than superior health care creates some of the void, Also, it is not uncommon for a parent - mother or father - to leave a child behind in order to make a living elsewhere.  Then, there are senseless acts.

Tristen is a the 5 year old son of a friend of mine on the island. He comes from a wonderful and loving family of present men and strong women.  In May, his uncle and Godfather was shot and killed by a random thug in the middle of town. As with any family, it tore them to pieces.  This family reminds me a lot of my own.  We don't miss each other's events. Weekend get togethers are probable.  In short, this entire extended family is tight.

Tristen's mother asked me to talk to him. He had been unconsolable since the shooting, and she thinks it would help if I spend some time with him.

Ummm....what? She knows that I am just a teacher - 26 years of high schoolers and university students doesn't amount to any sort of degree in analysis. This is the second time she has done this.  The first was when she plopped a 9 year old on me whose father had died the night before (she did not know that my own father had died just one month earlier). Ethan, that boy, taught me more about grace than any words I could think of to console his heart. Knowing that I probably had something to learn here again, I reluctantly agreed.

Tristen was angry. Some of it - I am sure - was mirroring the mourning of his relatives. They were vocal in asking for justice and calling out those who witnessed the act and didn't react. It turned out, that a lot off Tristen's anger was pure fear of the unknown.

I had his mother and him meet me at the beach. She said, "Spend time with Miss Kim today.  She is a nice lady with boys too," before jumping in her cart and burning sand.

First of all, I hate the word "nice." Nice is not going to answer this boy's questions or reason him into happiness. Secondly, I may have raised boys, but that, by no means, makes me any sort of expert.  Ask my sons, they will tell you that growing up with me was a daily lesson in foibles and faith.

Tristen and I splashed around a bit until I finally said, "I am sorry about your uncle." He responded stoically, "They killed him."  Yeah. Sigh. Where do you go from there?  I decided to forgo the obvious and just dive right in to one the most difficult of subject for any human.

I asked, "Where is Jeffery now?" He looked at me like I was the dumbest American he had ever met. "He was dead in the street and now he is in the ground." Fair enough.

At that moment, I realized that I had a few Magic Sponge Capsules rolling around in the bottom of my backpack. I bring a lot of these little toys as they are super small and easy to tote, and the kids seem to dig them. This toy looks like a large pill. When you place it in the water, the hard plastic shell dissolves and a small sponge character emerges - they are anything from safari animals to dinosaurs. You never know what you are going to get.

I took one out and explained that Jeffery is like the Magic Capsule.  Our bodies - head, torso, hands, and skin - are just the shell of the person, and yes, in the ground we don't see that anymore. However, there is a surprise - his spirit - that is stronger than the shell, and it will emerge. The spirit is so big and mysterious that it and can stay with us in our hearts and go to heaven. I had no idea where I was going with this. I just trusted that the Holy Spirit had a plan.

I said, "Let's see if it works!" We took the toy and buried it in the sand close enough to the water so that the tide was hitting is softly.  We found a stick and marked it just like a tombstone.  Then we just sat there on the beach watching the stick. I was mentally preparing for having to perform my best Mary Magdalene impersonation when we go to find the little creature later and discover that an under tide had moved it. I certainly was not holding my breath waiting for any angel to show up and give me hand.

As we sat there on the dock, watching, with our feet in the water, I should expected his next question. "What is a spirit?"

Oh, Norman Greenbaum, where art thou? Google it.

I continued blindly, "Tristen, what is your very favorite fish in the ocean?"

"The shark," he stated as confidently as if I had asked him his name. He went on to tell me everything - and I mean everything - he knew about sharks. The kid was a Belizean encyclopedia. I, personally, am a stingray girl, but I respect a 5 year old's right to chose.

What came out of my mouth next, would make any theologian cringe, "Only part of your heart stops working when you die. That part that moves your blood around so you can be alive with your family.  The other part of your heart lives forever in Heaven with God.  So, all the love that Jeffery has for you and his family, all the funny stories he told you, and even all the things you did with him stay alive in his heart."

That sounded pretty good, but could I leave it at that?  Oh, no.  I just kept talking, "and every time you see a shark, they are there to remind you of all those things.  Jeffery is like the biggest shark you have ever seen. He gets to float with the beauty of God, like a shark floats in the beautiful sea. He never has to worry, or feel sad, or get angry or be frightened because he is a shark."

Yep. That is the mystery of life and death according to Kim Bartling. You are welcome, and I am sorry.

I knew I was out of material so suggested we check on the "spirit capsule."  The toy had shifted, just like my shaky spiritual explanation.

As always, the Holy Spirit did have my back.  True to its promise on the back of the Magic Sponge Capsule package the shell had disappeared. What was let loose was a bright yellow sponge shark.


Europeans Coming - Belizeans Going

Friday, February 6, 2015

It's Not What You Know; It's Who You Know.

(This is dedicated to every student I have ever taught.  If nothing, I hope I introduced you to the importance of networking, being kind, taking risks and a lifetime love of learning).

Name dropping. It has always been a delicate balance between wanting to share what you know and where you have been and the Midwest sensibility of no one really cares.

A year before I quit my life where I worked under others, one of my superiors called me to his office. He wanted me to know that "many" of my colleagues were tired of hearing about my friendships with political individuals such as the mayor and governor. I have to say that I did appreciate his choice of the simple adjective pronoun "many" during this occasion.  In the past, when he found something on which to reprimand me, he was typically fond of using the phrase, "a parade of people have voiced a concern," when - in fact - it was a disgruntled freshmen girl who - for someone reason - he gave audience.

Here is what happened. I had been asked by The Good Shepherd Center of Sioux Falls to give the address for their spring luncheon. As a non-profit that focuses on the homeless community, they wanted me to share my story of Valerie, the "baglady" I befriended in NYC and relocated to South Dakota.  It was to be a brief 20 minute presentation and - I thought - in a private environment with their board of directors. When I arrived, I discovered that is was a much larger event. All three television stations were there, the audience included over 150 people and the Governor of South Dakota was going to introduce me. As a professional public speaker today, I learned my lesson on not doing better research on my engagements.

I excused myself, stepped out, made some quick edits and prayed for support. Here's the revised opening, "Greetings and thank you for having me here today.  I must confess that I am feeling a bit overwhelmed. Last Friday, I was honored to have written and co-hosted the Sioux Falls Night of the Arts program with our fine mayor. Today, the governor is my warm-up man.  I am totally expecting to return to my office and have a voice message from President Obama asking what my calendar looks like next Friday."  It got a laugh.

That afternoon, at rehearsal, I shared my miscalculation and response to my small cast.  Again, it got a laugh. I never repeated it. On Monday, I was called into the office; "many" had complained about my bragging of knowing the mayor and the governor. I was assured that nobody cares who I know. Evidently, one of my students thought my story was funny enough to share. Another professor overheard it and beelined to administration. She became "many."

Over the years and as a theatre director and woman on faith, I have traveled to many places to learn and grow as an academic. Upon returning from a university sabbatical, I begged to present a colloquium on my discoveries while working in the New York theatre scene. It never happened.  When the mission group of 19 university students - that I led - returned from Belize, we asked to present on how God moved our feet, hands and hearts. It never happened.

The calendar was never open to this storyteller. Some may say that I talk too much and giving me a platform to do so, just encourages my enthusiasm and makes others uncomfortable. I hope that this oppressive attitude made me a better teacher and advisor. When students would return from a semester abroad or from studying at the film institute or from their concert trip to Italy, etc, I invited them to present to their peers. Their travels and tales inspired us all and fanned the flame of wanting to see more, do more, know more.

My father never wanted to hear about my trips or work in places like New York or Belize either. I believe it was because if he affirmed the stories, it made those places real. If they were real, I may move there. This was his unspoken fear.  He just wanted me near. This I understood. However, why others chose to rain on the parade of one's adventures instead celebrating their experiences is something I will never understand.

My first teaching job was in Arlington, South Dakota - population under 1,000. I taught sophomore - senior English and speech.  I was the oral interp coach, the one act play and musical director and the cheerleading coach. I applied for the job hoping to be the basketball, cross-country, or track coach, but upon learning I had seen a play, they changed my obligations.  Lowell Gilbertson, the principal, was tough. He was hard on this me and the entire young faculty that he assembled in the late 80's.

My second year, I was frustrated with my lack of experience with play direction, so I applied for a couple of days off to attend a one-act play festival at a nearby college. He denied the request. I was quite upset. I said,"You just want to keep me stupid so I stay here forever!" I felt terrible afterwards as I loved teaching in that little town; I didn't mean to show disrespect to the community, students or him. In fact, I still believe all teachers should begin in a small school because you must learn how to do it all!  That rural school taught me what teaching should look like.

Years later at a college basketball game, I ran into Lowell, Principal Gilbertson, at the "confession stand" as my children always called it. I could not hug him hard enough. His initial tough love lessons could be found in every one of my classrooms since leaving his small school. He reminded me of the day I was so angry and (as he remembered it) stormed his office. Through our laughter, I apologized. He responded, "There is no need.  You were absolutely right. You were hungry for knowledge, and I knew we were going to lose you. I have watched you all these years, and that hunger has served you and your students well. It has been a joy to watch your journey."  At his memorial - for a death that came way too early - I reminded us all that he had a great gift to create educational leaders. Of that young faculty in the late 1980's of approximately 15 people, many of us went on to be college professors and educational administrators. We have Lowell Gilbertson to thank.

Today, as I am on another trip with my sister, I am reminded about how much I love to learn. Specifically, as I write this, I am am on the corner of Chartes and Toulouse in New Orleans' French Quarter enjoying a cup of corn and crab chowder watching the world go by from a upstairs veranda. Just down Toulouse is Hotel Maison de Ville, where Tennessee William's finished "A Streetcar Named Desire" in his favorite Room #9.

My dad always said that I would be happiest if I could figure out a way to have someone pay me to go to school the rest of my life.  Simply, I am most productive as a teacher and artist when I am learning. In history, a patron of the arts was one paid by royalty for their creation of art. A poet, playwright, or musician could "do their thing" all day being subsidized by the court as long as the art itself was dedicated to the royal individual. Let's bring that relationship back. Hey Sanford Health Systems, Citibank or Vern Eide Motors, looking for an artist in residence?  I know a girl.....

So, here I am in New Orleans soaking in the sounds of blues and jazz and the spirits of historical ghosts, and feeling the need to finally purge my stories of elbow rubbing, amazing teachers/mentors, lovefests, and totally true tales. The following names won't be recognizable to everyone; but whether you are a television junkie, movie buff, music enthusiast, theatre geek, sports fan or book lover, there will be at least one name you recognize.  Some of my stories are brief encounters and others are friendships that last to this day; most are pretty funny.  All of them have had a hand in molding all of the "me's" but especially me as a teacher.

However, remember, these are my truths. After reading one of my stories about growing up in his house, my father made a grunt and said, "Well, if that is the way you remember it...." before he walked away. This is the way I remember it.

Michele Pawk
Neil LaBute
Raul Esparza
Mel Brooks
Tom Stoppard
John Stewart
Edward Albee
Idina Menzel
Kevin Spacey
Slava Dolgatchev
Mario Fratti
Rachel Maddow
Steve Buschemi
John Malkavich
Branford Marsallius
Alan Cumming
Robert Cohen
Arthur Miller
Gabby Sibode
Liza Minnelli
Mike Nichols
Julie Taymour
Woody Harrelson
Kathleen Chalfant
Anne Bogart
Sutton Foster
James Earl Jones
Phillips Seymour Hoffman
Joan Jett
Dick Cavett
Tony Danza
Tom Brokow
Sam Rockwell
Douglas Hughes
Lou Diamond Phillips
Jane Fonda
Eve Ensler
Roger Ebert
Aidan Quinn
Cherry Jones
Seann William Scott
Chris Noth
Laura Linney
Emily Mann
Paula Vogel
Romulus Linney
Terrence McNalley
Alphonso Soriano
Joe Torre
Tracy Scott Wilson
Tracey Letts
Lee Blessing
Deborah Copaken Kogan
Amy Bloom
Ed Helms
Christopher Durang
Joyce Carol Oats
Gabriel Barre
Paulie Shore
Michael McGowan
Jarrod Emick
The women of "The View."
Many who are regulars on Law and Order including Bruce McVittie, Lucy Martin and JoAnn Merlin

I am currently proud to be watching a couple from the cast of Wapato - the show I assistant directed in New York that are shining on Orange is the New Black - Kaipo Swabb and Dale Soules

If you are reading this and remember one that this middle aged brain has forgotten, please remind me. I am also hopeful that the list will grow as I will never be done traveling and learning.