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.
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.
