dedalus_1947: (Default)

I feel the earth move under my feet
I feel the sky come tumblin’ down, a tumblin’ down
I feel the earth move under my feet
I feel the sky tumblin’ down, a tumblin’ down

I just a lose control
Down to my very soul
I get a hot and cold
All over, all over, all over, all over.
(I Feel the Earth Move: Carole King – 1971)

The cool breeze wafting through the high-vaulted, side-entrance of the church shut off the instant we entered the doorway. It was as if an unseen altar boy had thrown a kill switch in the sacristy, and all the air molecules in the vestibule of the church had dropped lifelessly to the ground.
“The air-conditioner will be on for this mass, won’t it?” I asked, begging Kathy with my eyes to say yes. “It was on during the reception in the hall,” I added hopefully, “and it was so cool I kept my coat on for the whole time.”
“Father Art usually has it on for this mass”, she replied cautiously, “but you never know with priests.”
As Kathy dipped her fingers into the baptismal fountain at the side of the church, I searched for the telltale ribbon attached to the A/C vent over the confessional door. The strip of cloth hung limp and lifeless against the wall.
“Oh no,” I muttered to myself. “This is not good.”
My queasy stomach had finally settled down into an uneasy truce during the earlier reception in the parish hall that was held in Kathy’s honor. I didn’t feel normal by any stretch of the imagination, and my empty belly was still raw and sore from the morning’s cramping and vomiting. A dull numbness had settled in and I started believing that I could get through this evening’s activities. Thankfully, the humorous interactions and conversations with my daughter Prisa and five of Kathy’s six sisters, who, along with four nieces, had come to witness this tribute for their older sibling, aided my delicate condition. As Kathy greeted and chatted with the teachers, parents, students, and countless well-wishers who entered the hall, I sat at an outer table, which was eventually graced by the nine members of her family. It was there, while they snacked on cheese, crackers, and fruit, that I explained how Kathy and I had succumbed to an unknown stomach virus, which had her vomiting the night before, and me the following morning. We lay in bed that morning, empty-stomached, and motionless as logs, gazing silently at the ceiling, and praying to improve and feel better so we could attend the events requiring our presence later that Saturday afternoon and evening. The faculty and staff of the school and church had planned a lavish, two-hour parish farewell reception in the hall, followed by a special 5 o’clock mass and tribute, and culminating with a more private dinner honoring her 22 years at the school as 8th grade teacher and principal. I watched disbelievingly as Kathy, with a sincere smile on her face, greeted and thanked the countless parishioners and parents streaming through the doors to say goodbye. Seeing her apparent recovery encouraged me into trying to eat and drink something. I cautiously selected three plain-looking crackers and a can of cold Sprite, hoping that a clear, carbonated liquid with unleavened bread might settle my empty stomach and give me strength. But I was more thankful for the air-conditioning that circulated cold and refreshing air throughout the hall. During the reception, Kathy found two or three opportunities to join our table, nibble at some crackers, and sip some Sprite. Her sisters and nieces would not be joining us for the Mass and dinner, and one by one they started leaving after congratulating Kathy and marveling at the fine showing of appreciation. At about 4:45 pm, one of the teacher-hostesses announced that the reception was concluding and all were invited to proceed to the church, so Kathy, Prisa, and I began our measured walk to the church entrance.

“Do we sit over there?” I asked Kathy hopefully, indicating the teachers, with their husbands and friends, who were seated comfortably in the side pews of the church, next to the altar.
“No,” she replied, ruefully, “I think our seats are reserved in the front.”
Sure enough, a woven cord with the sign, “Reserved” was looped across the entrance to the front two rows of pews, indicating they were saved for Kathy and her attending family. With Toñito’s arrival from work, that would make four of us in a row that normally fit 12.
“Kind of lonely up here, don’t you think, Prisa?” I murmured to my daughter as we followed Kathy into the pew, and I glanced back at the sea of faces beyond the empty row behind us.
“You’ll be fine, dad,” she reassured me, patting me on the shoulder. “Just think of the days when you brought us to church as kids, and mom always had us sitting in the front pew. You won’t know or care what’s going on behind you.”
These words should have calmed me, as Prisa’s humor always did, but I was anxious. I didn’t know what was producing the flashes of heat and nervousness that kept erupting inside me. I couldn’t tell if it was my unease with the countless eyes focused on our backs, watching our every move, the lack of air circulation in the building, or the fear of incipient nausea in my stomach. All I could think about was getting through this mass so we could leave this hotbox for the fresh air of the breezeway outside.

The mass finally started with the long procession of altar servers and readers coming down the middle aisle, and Father Art slowly trailing behind, falling farther and farther back. He was carefully greeting and conscientiously shaking the hands of the parishioners nearest the aisle and those in the pews. It seemed to take him forever to finally make his way to the front pew and shake our hands. All that time, I kept turning around, impatiently measuring his progress, and then stealing a longing look at the limp ribbon on the A/C vent, willing it to start moving.
Just breathe and concentrate on the liturgy, I kept repeating to myself. This was an important day for Kathy and it needed my attention. She and I would talk of this day on future occasions, so it was important to remember what people said and did in showing their respect and affection for a woman who had dedicated so many years of service to this school and its community of teachers, students and parents. As if to validate this prescient thought, when Father Art belatedly welcomed the congregation from the front of the altar, explaining the reason for this special mass, he also noted that today’s scriptural readings, complimented the event. Saint John’s gospel was about leave taking and reassuring the apostles who were staying behind that all would be well (Jn 14: 1-12). But try as I might to concentrate on the liturgy, my mind could only think of the rising temperature in the church and the lack of breathable air.
“Kathy,” I whispered into her ear, as Father began the Gloria from the altar, “do you think it’s alright if I take off my blazer?” I had noticed how some of the men who had entered the church wearing coats and ties had begun, one by one, peeling them off, while their wives fanned themselves with liturgical pamphlets. However, I also knew that we were the guests of honor at a very formal event and that all eyes were on us.
“I don’t see why not,” she replied, looking around the church. “It doesn’t look like anyone’s planning to turn on the air.”
With a huff of relief, I shed my blue blazer and began neatly folding it.
“Here Dad, I’ll take it,” my daughter offered, reaching for my coat and placing it beside her. Just then, in the corner of my eye, I saw Toñito gliding down the side aisle toward the front.
“Toñito’s here,” I told Kathy, as he slipped into our pew next to Prisa.
The absence of the heavy clothing provided a measure of momentary relief as we sat down and watched one of Kathy’s teachers rise from her seat and move to the pulpit to intone the first reading. Unfortunately, I didn’t hear a word because my mind irresistibly drifted back to thoughts of diminishing oxygen and rising temperature.
Maybe I should step outside for a minute to get some air, I thought, as the congregation repeated the Responsorial Psalm aloud, “Lord, let your mercy be on us, as we place our trust in you.” But I hesitated too long, and my small window of opportunity slammed shut as the next reader arose. Desperate to distract my growing sense of dread, I gazed up at the stylized picture of a rosary on the stained glass high above the altar. Strangely, the golden hue of the window seemed to slowly grow with intensity until the reader finally announced, “The Word of the Lord,” and the congregation replied, “Thanks be to God.”
Okay, I thought, refocusing my eyes on Father Art as we stood to hear the reading of the gospel, I need to concentrate on this. But once again, I found that my breath could find no traction in the de-oxygenated air, as I again searched futilely for a means of escape.
I can’t walk out during the Gospel! I realized, feeling the first tug of nausea in the pit of my stomach. I can’t, I won’t throw-up here! I commanded myself, willing my spasms into remission. I will control this!
“The Gospel of the Lord,” Father Art concluded, closing the lectionary and looking up at the assembled church.
“Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ,” the congregation countered, slowly bending to sit down for the homily.
At that moment, a flood of luminous, white light radiated from the back of the sanctuary, slowing all time and motion as it enveloped the priest, podium, and altar table. It’s unearthly shine reminded me of a day, close to 40 years ago, when hung-over and queasy, I joined my high school friends Jim, John, and Greg in a rigorous workout at Gold’s Gym in Santa Monica. In the middle of this sweaty session, I saw this same light exploding around us, barely reaching the bathroom in time to release the smothering grip of my hands over my mouth and throwing up.
Oh, oh, I concluded, watching Father Art descend the steps of the altar in freeze-framed segments to begin his homily. This is not good! Should I try running out, now?

Then everything went black.

My wife, Kathy, is leaving a school that has been a part of our family for over 23 years. It’s only now, as I write these words, that I realize how much I’ve kept that fact at an emotional arms-length from me. Ever since she informed the pastor of the parish in January, I’ve pretended that her decision was simply a wise choice that required neither sadness nor grief. Since the farewell mass in the church, I’ve come to reconsider that belief. Kathy leaving OLV School is like a daughter leaving home for college.

We enrolled our children, Toñito and Prisa, in the 3rd and 5th grades of Our Lady of the Valley (OLV) School, after moving into Canoga Park and becoming part of the OLV parish in 1988. Instead of keeping the kids in their original school in Reseda (St. Catherine of Siena), Kathy and I were drawn to the open, friendly, and ethnically diverse population of the new community, and the school. The following year, the principal, Sister Noreen Patrice, a nun Kathy knew from her days as a student at Mount Saint Mary’s College, offered her the position of 8th grade teacher, and she accepted. It had been ten years since Kathy had been in a classroom as a full-time high school teacher, and much more since she taught middle schoolers as student-teacher in the credential program at the Mount. Her decision to return to work was probably based on many factors: the need for a supplemental income to pay for my insistence on a larger, more expensive home; an urge to fill the time vacated by our children’s departure to elementary school; and an impulse to resume a vital and satisfying profession that was halted to raise two children at home. Her friendship with the principal was perhaps another reason, but ironically, Sister Noreen was reassigned to a new ministry, and a new, lay principal was hired before Kathy began teaching. For me, OLV was a kaleidoscope of familial scenes mixing Toñito and Prisa as students, and Kathy as teacher and eventually principal. I remember sitting down with the children to discuss the new responsibilities and duties we had to assume with a working mother and wife, like planning and cooking a weekly menu that the kids and I could handle (which always included frozen dinners, spaghetti, and pizza on Friday). I recall advising them to ride their bikes to school and home, instead of complaining about having to wait for their mother to finish working in her classroom. I became the designated, sole contact person for parent-teacher communications and conferences, which was weird, since I still shared these discussions with Kathy, and she usually already knew more about them than I. What I also deeply suspected was that Kathy’s arrival at OLV, brought a new emphasis on friendship, collegiality, and community to the faculty and staff.

I’ve always believed that upon the marriage and departure of her two older sisters, Mary Ellen and Debbie, by 1967, Kathy became the only Big Sister in the family. With that title, she immediately assumed the role of nurturer, defender, and model to 7 younger siblings (five girls and two boys). She did this with mischievous aplomb, a self-mocking sense of humor, and a desire to help people in need. Covertly, she was also a hard worker who wanted never to let people down. These nascent characteristics were easily overlooked in her crowded and busy home and during her high school years at Corvallis, but they were spotted, nurtured, and guided by the Charism of the Sisters of St. Joseph of Carondelet during her undergrad and graduate years at Mount St. Mary’s College. I first noticed these tendencies toward family and community building when she started working as an English as a Second Language (ESL) teacher at Los Angeles High School, in 1973. Over a period of only three years, I watched how her personality, actions, and values, seemed to influence and energize an institutionally marginalized group of ESL teachers and counselors into becoming a vigorous, cooperative, and fun-lovely department. However, with her decision to remain at home raising our two children, she walked away from high school instruction and a rewarding specialty, leaving unanswered the question if she would ever return. After all her experience in high school, I never expected her to choose the 8th grade, but then perhaps it was she who was chosen.

Until she started at OLV, I never fully appreciated how pivotal the position of 8th grade teacher was in a Catholic Elementary School. Kathy was always a fine teacher, and was always ready to help administrators, coordinators, and counselors with special projects and cases, but she never had to assume their level of accountability. In the Eighth Grade she was literally thrust into the role of circus ringmaster for many ceremonial, extra-curricular, and matriculation activities during the school year: Sports, Parent meetings, High School counseling, May Crowning, Scholarships, and Graduation. To juggle and coordinate all of these people, events, and schedules, while still maintaining a rigorous curriculum, required an extraordinary level of inter-personal communication skills, efficient organization, and strong leadership on the part of the teacher. After a challenging first year of exposure and on-the-job training, Kathy was able to master those skills while adding a few of her own - consistency, charisma, and humor. That’s not to say that her experiences were easy, in fact many interactions were complicated by the fact that her own two children were students in the school. Toñito and Prisa were taught by their mother in gradually increasing doses from the 6th grade to almost fulltime in the 8th. While Toñito was able to deal with this sometime awkward situation with feigned indifference, the relations between Prisa and Kathy were occasionally tense. By the time Prisa graduated in 1994, Kathy had full mastery of the grade level and was looking for new challenges.

I suppose Kathy’s career path began altering with Prisa’s graduation from OLV, and her matriculating to join her brother in high school in 1994. With none of her own children in attendance, Kathy began flexing her educational muscles and exploring different ways of doing things in the school. I had been in school administration since 1985, first as an assistant principal and then a middle school principal in 1991. By that time, Kathy had discovered for herself the administrative truism that if you are seeking an institutional change in a school, its best to first find the resources and personnel needed, design the program yourself, and then identify the funding sources before asking the principal for permission to implement it. Even if the principal were to claim full credit for the program or event, everyone in the school knew who was really responsible for the change. Civilians usually translated this truism into the over-simplified phrase, “if you want something done right, you need to do it yourself.” But it’s more than that in a school. It’s the realization that teachers are the ones best able to identify educational needs and design creative strategies to address them when inspired or supported by a competent principal who says yes. Even when principals are not competent or as inspiring as teachers would like, getting them to say yes was still possible when all the heavy lifting was done before asking permission. This is what Kathy began to realize in the years following Prisa’s departure from OLV. It also helped that my assignments as principal coincided with those years and I could give Kathy a principal’s perspective on the issues and problems she and her fellow teachers experienced at that time. It seemed that more and more of her colleagues were seeking her advice and intervention on administrative matters, and she was assuming a larger role in the operation of the school. By 1996, she was designated the “acting principal” whenever the actual principal was not a school. Soon after, when she asked me what I thought of her pursuing a post-graduate program at the Mount in school administration, I declared that it was a great idea and long overdue. Kathy had finally grown sufficiently confident to decide that, “I know I can do that job.” Shortly after crossing the stage at the Shrine Auditorium to receive her Master of Science degree in School Administration, and after having gone through a rigorous application and interview process, “just for practice and experience” a few weeks before, she was selected as the new principal of Our Lady of the Valley School, filling the sudden vacancy at the end of the 1998-99 school year.

I think Kathy was the closest thing to a “natural” principal as I’ve ever seen. Sure, she had to learn the technical aspects of the job, like budgeting, payroll, personnel evaluations, and due process procedures, but the key interpersonal and leadership skills were already part of her DNA. She had already established personal friendships with the faculty and staff, and was recognized by all students as the important 8th grade teacher who prepared them for that crucial transition to high school. She could listen to people, empathize with their problems, and work together at finding solutions. She also had the benefit of hearing about, and in some cases seeing, the professional problems and dilemmas I experienced, and the mistakes I made as principal. Most importantly, Kathy possessed an uncannily clear vision of the school she wanted to build, and how she wanted people to get along. She hoped to unite students, teachers, and staff into a collaborative, learning community that practiced Jesus’ message of love and acceptance, and followed the teaching of the church. This was not a Mission Statement you saw printed or published in manuals and on bulletin boards, as many textbooks proscribed, it was a vision I saw demonstrated whenever I visited the school and interacted with the students and staff.

I always felt comfortable and welcomed when walking onto the campus of OLV after Kathy became principal. The school playground, when filled with active children, was always friendly and inviting, and never exhibited the posturing and cliquishness one witnessed on other schoolyards. Rather than ignoring me, as children often treat adults who trespass on their territory, the students were always eager to greet me with a smiling, “Good Morning, Mr. Delgado”. The Faculty Lounge was also unique, because it was not an exclusive gathering place for teachers and staff to meet during recess and lunch and gripe about the school. The lounge reminded me of a long family dinner table filled with siblings of every grade level, laughing, arguing, and commiserating over the events of the day and in their lives. Just as in her teaching days at Los Angeles High School, Kathy was usually present during the chatter, discussions, and joking that went on there, and always managed to include some necessary piece of school business that needed resolution in an open and safe place.

I don’t think Kathy would have ever considered leaving OLV if the educational and economic landscape hadn’t begun changing after 2008. The school was coming off of a very positive WASC (Western Association of Schools and Colleges) evaluation, receiving a 6-year scholastic accreditation, with special commendations for their school environment and Mission. That same year, the Los Angeles Unified School District finally completed a massive school construction campaign and was preparing to eliminate year-round schedules in all San Fernando Valley schools. For the first time in 25 years, there would be plenty of classroom space for all students and teachers, even as the state was encouraging the creation of more alternative charter schools to further improve instruction. Suddenly, the competition for student enrollment between public and charter schools became fierce, just as the economy was slowly sinking into recession. The first places to feel the effects of the declining economy and this new recruitment for students were tuition-driven, Catholic schools in lower-income, and ethnically diverse communities. Over the next four years, OLV experienced a steady decline in student enrollment, a subsequent loss of tuition, and smaller and smaller operational school budgets. This situation sped up drastically with the further economic collapse in 2009, and it became Kathy’s Sword of Damocles during her last two years at OLV.

After directing four different middle schools over 18 years in Los Angeles, I’ve come to the conclusion that principals become competent, when they realize that most aspects of their job are not as absurdly impossible as they once thought. They finally see that every problem has a finite number of steps towards a solution. Although the consequences of these actions (or, in some cases, non-actions) might be unpleasant, the choices are obvious, if one has the need or the desire to make them. The trick is not to panic or despair, but to calmly realize that you have the ability to handle any issue, conflict, or controversy “by the numbers”, without investing feelings or emotions. However, the principal has to be willing to live with the choices he or she makes. In my opinion, Kathy has always been an exceptional principal because she invested all of her professional actions and decisions with personal feelings and compassion, and was especially sensitive to the emotional consequences of those actions on teachers and staff members. However, the cost of this emotional investment has been huge, and I saw Kathy struggling more and more in trying to fix a diminishing enrollment and a deteriorating financial situation which the Archdioceses believed could be solved with dynamic marketing and creative tuition assistance. 80% – 85% of all operating school budgets go to teachers and personnel. If enrollment is declining, and tuition revenue is dropping, there is only one place you can go to balance the budget – personnel: the school needs to cut staff and reduce salaries.

Last year, at the end of a particularly difficult year that saw the reduction of more supplemental services and personnel, such as classroom aides and coordinators, Kathy was offered an advisory position at the Archdiocesan Department of Education. For the first time since she accepted the position of principal at OLV, I stepped out of my role as neutral participant, and begged her to take the job. I saw it as the perfect exit strategy to an intolerable situation that would eventually beat her down – forcing her into professional choices and actions she could never live with. I told her that she was an experienced and successful principal who had built a quality instructional program and an exceptional Christian learning community over an eleven-year period. These achievements had already earned her the respect and credibility among her peers that was vital in a supervisory position. I insisted that she would better serve the profession by helping other principals instead of overseeing the budgetary dismantling of a program and staff she had built herself. If the paradigm for Catholic schools and budgets was changing, she should not have to relearn and reshape herself into the new type of principal it required. Those were aspects of the job that a new generation of principals would have to learn and master, while she could help them master other areas of growth. I think Kathy agreed with my arguments, but not my conclusion. She still felt that she could not leave the school and its community so precipitously. She had not forewarned the faculty or staff of this possibility, and didn’t want to abandon ship with the arrival of a new pastor to the parish. I just shook my head and thought she was making a big mistake in continuing for another year.

“What happened?” I said aloud, waking to find myself slumped down in the pew, my head between my legs, and some liquid covering my nose, mouth and face. Kathy was supporting me with her arms, and I noticed Prisa and Toñito’s outstretched hands were also supporting my limp upper body from falling forward. “Did I fall asleep?” I asked Kathy.
“You threw up,” she whispered loudly into my ear.
Suddenly there were more and more concerned faces buzzing around me, speaking in hushed and urgent tones. Some faces I recognized, like Rogelio, Kathy’s plant manager, who instantly materialized in the pew behind us, helping to support me into a sitting position, and Dee, the parish liturgy coordinator, who was asking how I felt and directing others to get me some ice and clean towels. In a slowly lifting daze, it occurred to me that they thought I had suffered a heart attack or a stroke of some kind. Luckily Kathy knew of my pre-existing abdominal condition upon entering the church, and explained how the rising temperatures and the lack of air had probably re-aggravated it.
“I must have passed out,” I announced to no one in particular. That realization seemed to act like a protective barrier to the growing sense of shame that lay just outside my reach. With so many people watching, why wasn’t I dying of embarrassment over ruining Kathy’s mass? I wondered. Probably because I was sick and passed out, and there was nothing I could do to prevent it, I decided. That thought freed my speech and motor paralysis and I began assuring people that I was feeling better and just needed air. Eventually it was agreed that Toñito and two parishioners would escort me outside and let me sit in the fresh air. Needless to say, I didn’t stay in the Church long after that. I quickly revived in the cool and wafting air of the church’s side- entrance breezeway, and Toñito brought me a change of clothes to replace my spattered grey slacks and shirt. We waited till the end of mass to assure Kathy that I was feeling better, and Toñito followed me in his car as I drove home, to make sure I made it safely to bed. I fell promptly to sleep and didn’t wake up until Kathy returned from the farewell dinner.

In the weeks after the accident, during the waning days of Kathy’s tenure at OLV, I came to the realization that I had to write a story about her leaving. I suppose it was because I started seeing the gradual dawning of awareness on Kathy’s face that she would never again work or celebrate with these men, women, and children on a daily basis, sharing their stories, joys, and sadness. Perhaps it was because Kathy began sharing, in soft, stifled conversation the different ways these same co-workers said or expressed their final goodbyes to her, their friend and colleague whom they would never again meet as their principal. Or maybe it was because I finally had to admit to myself that she and I both loved this school in a deep and personal way. This special place had nurtured our two children, teaching them a truly Christian way of working and caring for people of different social, cultural, and economic situations. It also allowed Kathy the opportunity to realize her full career capabilities as an educator and administrator. In my first year of retirement, during the 2009-2010 school year, I had the chance to interact first-hand with the students, teachers, and staff of OLV as a substitute teacher and event photographer. Even as I tried talking Kathy into accepting the proffered supervisory position in the Archdiocese, I was seeing the support, collaboration, and interconnectedness of the students, teachers, and staff. Kathy had built something wonderful at OLV, and separating from it will take a long, grieving process. Perhaps it was the incident in the church that finally jarred me into awareness. I came to the conclusion that Kathy was right in staying the additional year. She could only leave the school she loved when she knew and felt it was time – not because someone was offering her an escape from a dilemma, or a better job. Kathy is walking away from OLV on her terms, even if she is not sure where she’s heading. The only thing she can count on is that I’ll be there with her.

dedalus_1947: (Default)

Comforter of the afflicted,
Pray for us.
Help of Christians,
Pray for us.
Mother of Good Counsel,
Pray for us.
Mother of Sorrows,
Pray for us.
Morning star,
Pray for us.
Mystical Rose,
Pray for us.
Tower of Ivory,
Pray for us.
Star of the Sea,
Pray for us.
Queen of Heaven,
Pray for us.
(Litany and Devotional titles of the Blessed Virgin Mary)

 The telescoping beams of glowing light shot through wide church doors, alerting the assembled audience that the ceremony was about to begin. The crowd of relatives, friends, and students had grown comfortable in the cool and whispered calm of the church, unaware of the long, processing line of eighth graders, who were winding their way to the back entrance. I could feel the tension and anticipation. Adults craned their necks, and whispered to their small children tiptoeing on kneelers or scrambling to the ends of the pews to get a better look up the aisle. The invited underclassmen tried not gazing backwards to avoid a hissed warning from their teachers. There were no sounds or movement from the back of the church, only the silhouette of a single maiden outlined in light, with two older women at her sides, awaiting the musical cue to begin. This was the annual May Coronation, or the May Crowning of Mary at Our Lady of the Valley Church. It is a Marian tradition performed every year in countless schools and parishes throughout the Christian world. Since medieval times, Christians had dedicated the vernal month of May to Mary, the mother of Jesus, and selected specific days to pay her homage and devotion. The exact prayers, litanies, and activities might vary from place to place, but the focal point was always one figure, and her coronation as Queen of Heaven. Besides Easter, it is one of the most colorful, lyrical, and evocative traditions in the Church. Its significance also lies in the fact that by commemorating Mary, the day also honored all mothers and women as the sources of life, nurturing, and compassion. As a child, I remembered the May Crowning as one of the most exciting activities in the school year. It was a Catholic rite of passage in which only 8th grade students performed all the important functions of the day. They were the “big kids” who decorated the church, dressed up, carried the statue of the Virgin in the procession, led the prayers and the singing, and placed the garland of flowers atop Mary’s head. This hallowed tradition was again being played out at our church, as the congregation of families and students awaited the entrance of the 8th graders and the statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary.


As the event photographer, I had watched this procession from its inception. At first there was the indifferent loitering of adolescent boys, surrounded by a nervous covey of teenage girls, darting from classroom, to bathroom, and to office, primping and arranging their hair, cosmetics, and dresses. Then, with minimal commands, betraying hours of practice and preparation, their teacher, Ms. Kennedy, brought them to attention and lined them up in front of their classroom. Watching as they adjusted and maintained their intervals, the students slowly and reverently began the long, traditional march to the church. The coronation ritual snaked along the edges of the school playground, up the perimeter fence, and then through the church driveway to the street sidewalk. 18 garlanded maidens, dressed in the bright, floral and pastel colors of Spring, were followed by 5 young lads in blue shirts and ties, carrying a specially designed and decorated pallet, with the image of the Virgin Mary perched on top. With each measured step they took approaching the church, these tall and erect children became more serious, more solemn, and more grown up. This was the first May Crowning I had seen since my own daughter’s in 1994 (see Upstream Memories). I attended that event thinking it was just going to be another 8th grade activity, like the Christmas show, the Pancake Breakfast, or countless volleyball, basketball, and softball games. In fact it proved to be a transformational moment in which I saw my daughter in a whole new light. Seeing her so tall, elegant, and mature, it finally struck me that Prisa was no longer a child; she wasn’t “Daddy’s little girl” anymore. I wasn’t prepared for that staggering epiphany. All I could do was look at her gorgeous, glowing face, while wiping tears from my eyes, and realizing that the years had gone by too quickly. It seemed as if I had glanced away for only a second, and my little “chula girl” was gone. I would never again be greeted by a beaming, shorthaired pixie, screaming in delight, and jumping into my arms to embrace me. She was now a tall, lovely, and serious young adolescent. I felt as though I had never adequately appreciated her childhood, or showed how much I loved her as a child. I saw then that it was too late, and I’d have to do it while she was a teenager in high school. As the student choir began the entrance song, the first maiden stepped into the aisle and the procession flowed into the church. On this modern day in May, I wondered if the parents who were here would share my past emotions when they saw their own daughters walking so erect, solemn, and radiant.



This year, I was only taking pictures and noting the changes that had occurred during the 16 intervening years. The May ritual had evolved a great deal under the direction of Ms. Kennedy. It was still primarily a Marian prayer service, ending with the coronation of Mary. However, the program now included six to eight testimonials to “Modern Marys”. These were women, young and old, who exemplified the strengths, virtues, and actions of the Blessed Virgin Mary in the real world. Students and adults were selected to speak on the strength of their essays supporting their choice of a “modern Mary”. The honorees could be mothers, mothers-in-law, sisters, friends, teachers, or students. I’d heard of this change in the ceremony 8 years ago, but I hadn’t given it much thought until now.  In the past, Kathy had honored her own mother as a Modern Mary, and this year she invited my mother, Maria del Rosario, to receive that tribute. To my delight, my mother said yes, and my sisters Tita and Gracie accompanied her to the ceremony. I could see them sitting to the right of the altar, with other invited guests, as the program began.

 

I occupied myself moving to different locations in the church and finding the best angles and positions for photographing the students and speakers. The eighth graders soon occupied the first three rows of pews, and then singly and in groups, students arose, bowed, and approached the altar to perform various functions. The program began with reflective meditations on Mary and then a decade of the Rosary. Then one by one, 7 speakers took the podium, asking their “Modern Mary” to come forward and stand by them, as they read their tribute aloud to the entire congregation. The first speaker was a student who called up her mother. The parent acted so flustered as she walked up the aisle, that I was puzzled. My mother knew of the honor being bestowed her, and I knew adults always needed a good reason to take time from work, dress up, and be present at a school function at 10:30 on a Friday morning. I assumed the mother was simply shy about such a public tribute, and I thought nothing more about it as I busied myself searching for different shooting perspectives. The next speaker called up a fellow student as her Modern Mary, and then Kathy arose and asked my mother to join her. I’d heard the tribute when Kathy practiced it at home, but I couldn’t help being moved when I heard it again. Kathy explained that just as the original Mary had put aside her doubts and fears and said, “Yes” to the angel Gabriel, Maria del Rosario said, “Yes” to a young Mexican-American Marine with whom she had corresponded throughout the War in the Pacific. As the mother of Jesus had done, so too, Maria married my father, Antonio José, left her home in Mexico City, and traveled to the foreign land of Los Angeles, California, to start and raise a family. Widowed at the age of 47, she finished the job as a single mother of 6 children. While listening to Kathy’s parallels, I knew my Mom was pleased and honored by the tribute. Once she finished, I was only half listening to the remaining speakers, when the depths of their essays finally broke through as if by revelation.


Another garlanded girl adjusted the microphone and called her mother up. This time, however, instead of heaping praise or drawing parallels, the student began quietly itemizing the specific hardships and sacrifices her mother had suffered in raising her family after a “horrendous divorce”. They lost their home, and her mother needed to work 2 to 3 jobs to make ends meet. Yet despite illnesses, misunderstandings, and the occasional arguments, they were making it. Through tears, sobs, and tortured pauses to regain control, the young girl spoke of her pride for this determined and hardworking woman, who made religion and a Catholic education such a priority in their lives. The tableau of this raven-haired young lady sharing her anguished tribute, and seeing her mother’s silent tears of remembered sorrows and joys, captivated the entire church. No one seemed to move or breathe during that speech for fear of breaking the spell, or betraying their own tears.
“That mother had no idea this was coming,” I said to myself, wiping my eyes. “It was a complete surprise!”
Four more tributes followed, but none was as gripping or authentic as that one. I managed to compose myself, and continued shooting pictures of the rest of the ceremony. Kathy told me later that, except for my mother, none of the honored women knew what would happen that day. It was a secret until the women were called up. The choir and students sang a new song, the statue of Mary was crowned, and the eighth grade girls performed a special liturgical dance. The ritual ended with Kathy taking the podium to thank the parents and guests for attending and inviting them to a reception in the parish hall. The emotional residue of the visual rituals and the gripping tributes to the seven Modern Marys stayed with me all day. I recognized the wisdom and importance of expanding the traditional activities and honoring actual women, young and old, who exemplified Marian virtues. I hoped the eighth graders who performed in the ceremony, and the congregation who witnessed the ritual, would remember it not only as a rite of passage but also as a goal to work towards and appreciate.


That May evening ended at the Doheny Campus of Mount St. Mary’s College in Los Angeles. We were there to attend the Accolade Ceremony of Kathy’s two sisters, Meg and Beth, (see Over The Hill). This was a recognition event and reception hosted by the university for the graduate students receiving their Master of Science degrees in Education, and other fields. The sisters had been reluctant about attending at first, but they finally realized that they deserved the tribute. They both had full-time careers as teacher, principal, and mothers, and had taken on the additional burden of weekend classes and monumental coursework. These mid-life graduate degrees were truly a big deal because they required so much extra work, determination, and sacrifice. As their raucous band of family supporters cheered, Beth and Meg proudly walked down the aisle to receive their recognition. Watching them on the stage, it struck me that the day’s Marian theme was extending onto this campus named after her, and that two more women were being recognized as Modern Marys.

dedalus_1947: (Default)

What would you think if I sang out of tune?
Would you stand up and walk out on me?
Lend me your ears and I’ll sing you a song,
And I’ll try not to sing out of key.
Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends.
Mmm, I get high with a little help from my friends.
Mmm, I’m gonna try with a little help from my friends.

Do you need anybody?
I need somebody to love.
Could it be anybody?
I want somebody to love.
(
A Little Help from My Friends: Lennon & McCarthy, 1967)



There is something remarkably orderly and business-like in the way Catholic elementary school children line up each morning in the playground. Perhaps public school kids do the same, but I don’t know for sure. You see my many teaching experiences have only been in middle and senior high public schools where students range freely through the schools each morning, like grazing cattle, until a ringing bell prompts them into a stampede to their classrooms. So, I was stunned by the quiet and calm I saw when I first walked out the door of the Faculty Room of OLV School. There were boys and girls of every size, shape and color, forming up in neat, straight lines, awaiting the arrival of their teachers and the bell. Contrasting the uniformity of navy blue pants, shorts, and plaid skirts, the bright hues of their polo shirts gave them a crisp and colorful look. It was a sparkling sea of tranquil blues and grey, mixed with bright splashes of poppy gold and luminous white shirts. In the background, cars were slowly snaking through a cordoned area at the west end of the parking lot/playground, directed by two young, teacher assistants. At a designated spot, doors flew open and pint-sized passengers quickly disembarked, and the car proceeded out through another gate. The children slowly joined their particular grade-level line and waited. Some children talked, some ate a hasty breakfast snack, and some simply gazed off into space. The only discordant note in the harmonic morning scene was the occasional jostling I spotted in the lines. A few children seem determined to be FIRST in line, even if they arrived later than the current occupant. Their actions were not belligerent or hostile, but a careful observer could easily see how the usurper was covertly moving, sliding from side to side, and changing position to maneuver himself/herself into the foremost spot. I had forgotten how important it was for young children TO BE FIRST at things; and how obvious they can be in attempting to gain that position.

“I think your fifth grade class is over there,” Ellen, the 1st grade teacher said, pointing at two short lines in the middle of the formation. “Let’s check to make sure”.
We walked the short distance to two lines of four girls and five boys. “Good morning children, is this the 5th grade line?”
“Yeeesss” three girls said in unison.
“Excellent, this is Mr. Delgado, he will be your substitute teacher for today”.
“Good morning, Mr. Delgado,” two of the girls managed to say together, as the boys from the parallel line looked over with great interest.
“Good morning students,” I said, smiling. “How do you get to class? Does your teacher come to get you or do you walk in yourselves?”
“Our teacher comes out to meet us each morning” the first girl in line said. “Then we walk to the entrance door of the classroom. We line up there until she greets us and then we walk in”.
“The first bell rings at 8 o’clock,” Ellen added. “We give them a five minute grace period for tardiness, then teachers escort their classes to their rooms”.
“Great” I said. “I’ll go ahead and open up the room. I want to look at the material and textbooks I’ll be using today. Thanks for your help Ellen”.
“Your welcome, Tony. Good luck today and thanks for the bagels. That was very kind”.
“Your welcome,” I replied.  “Your teachers do a great job. In my former school I noticed how subs sometimes brought doughnuts or pastry for the faculty. The regular teachers appreciated it, although I think the subs were actually lobbying for more clients”.
“Well who knows” Ellen said, tongue-in-cheek, “if you do a good job for us today, we may call you back for more assignments”.
“Great” I said, laughingly, as I walked towards the 5th grade classroom, “we’ll fill my days with subbing assignments. Just what a retired principal wants to do”.

In an unexplained impulse last month, I suddenly told Kathy I wanted to help her at school if she ever needed emergency assistance. The announcement surprised her as much as it shocked me. I explained that I wasn’t looking for REAL work, nor did I want to substitute teach or volunteer my time on a regular basis. But I came to the realization that as a retired teacher and principal, I was in a position to help if she was in a sudden and unexpected jam. It was a generous idea and I was very proud of myself for having THOUGHT it. I promptly forgot about it until last week, when Kathy brought me back to reality by actually asking me to substitute for Jennifer, her fifth grade teacher. They were both attending a morning testing meeting on Tuesday, and she could not find a substitute teacher to cover Jennifer’s class. I paused just long enough to realize that I couldn’t equivocate on my offer, and quickly replied, “Sure, I’d be happy to sub for you.” Now I was committed to an action that was incredibly intimidating. I’d knowingly put myself in a position as a replacement teacher. I hadn’t subbed in years, and never liked doing it.

Teaching is hard, but subbing is harder; the former takes determination and skill, the latter requires audacity and improvisation. My only successful teaching experiences were as a full time, regular instructor in junior and senior high schools. I hated to substitute for other teachers. Lesson plans were rarely detailed and comprehensive, I could never find necessary equipment and materials in another teacher’s classroom, and students interpreted the absence of their teacher as an excuse for uncooperative and defiant behavior. I completely stopped subbing as an administrator. On the rare occasions when I discovered a teacher-less class as a principal, I would “sit with” the students for a brief time until an official substitute teacher was called or found. But I never actually followed an emergency lesson plan, and I never taught students below the 6th grade level. So why had I volunteered to sub, when I didn’t like subbing? What had prompted my chivalrous intention in the first place? It wasn’t clear even to me until I inadvertently explained it to James, John, and Ed, three brothers who were long time family friends.

On the Saturday before I subbed for Kathy and Jennifer, the four of us met for drinks before seeing Spamalot, the musical adaptation of the movie, Monty Python and the Holy Grail, at the Ahmanson Theatre. While chatting at a bar and grill before the performance, John asked how I was adapting to retirement. I told him that I was slowly becoming comfortable with the “free time” I now had; time to indulge in activities that were only possible in my youth.  As a high school and college student, my life consisted of six general activities: learning, reading, writing, household chores, athletics, and HELPING. I recalled that helping was seen as a NOBLE ACTION of family love, friendship, and generosity; and since money was always lacking, time and labor were the only resources we had available to offer one another. I remembered helping friends study, work, and learn new skills. In those days I especially enjoyed helping girls. It was the chivalrous thing to do, and could lead to other, more amorous rewards. This innocent, helpful attitude slowly changed with time, age, and marriage. My willingness to help others shrunk in reverse proportion to my age, number of dependents, and income. About the only people I considered helping were family members with great needs, or people for whom I felt a great obligation. But even with family, I passed up many opportunities to help, claiming more personal obligations. Retirement now reminded me of that semi-autonomous state of irresponsibility I experienced in high school and college. As a youth, all I had to do was go to school and complete my chores. I was always free to HELP, and I felt a great sense of satisfaction and happiness in doing so. I sought that feeling again. So, I explained to the brothers, about two months ago I privately decided to be available to HELP PEOPLE, preferably people I KNEW. The idea of helping strangers filled me with dread because I feared becoming responsible FOR THEM. I thought helping friends was easier- especially if one concentrated on the helping, and not the work. Kathy was the first person I told of this intention, and she was the first person to ask. So, I announced, I was subbing for her 5th grade teacher. I’m not sure if my explanation made sense to the brothers, but it helped me understand my own actions. I saw subbing as an adventure and an opportunity to help. I had the teaching experience, and the subject matter knowledge; I simply needed to call forth the required audacity and be ready to improvise.

I suspected that I was not simply being thrown into an emergency-subbing situation when Kathy asked me if I’d like to see the classroom and meet Jennifer and her students the day before my assignment. I was relieved at the offer and pleased with the results. Seeing the physical layout and organization of Jennifer’s classroom assured me that I was walking into a structured and well-managed situation. Each desk was spaced and clearly labeled with the names of each student. Classroom rules, question and comment hand-signs, student chores, daily lesson agenda, student activities, and homework assignments were all printed or posted around the room. It was a physical environment that radiated feelings of safety, structure, and active learning. The 5th grade students were clearly amazed when their principal introduced me as her husband (and also a principal) and the substitute teacher for the following day. I could almost hear a collective gulp as that bit of information settled into their consciousness (“Our principal’s husband is our substitute teacher!”). As Kathy interacted with the students, Jennifer gave me a quick orientation of her room, pointing out the learning hints and strategies posted on walls, and indicating the duty roster of student chores and responsibilities. She assured me that her students were familiar with the learning activities and procedures required for the lessons she planned. She also promised to email me her lesson plans that afternoon so I could review the activities and instruction. She was very young, sweet, and thoughtful in her sureness; and I realized that she too might be gulping at the prospect of having her principal’s husband subbing for her (“What will he think of my kids, my lessons, and ME?”).

Actually I knew Jennifer, and had known her for a long time. She was one of two PLACE (Partners in Los Angeles Catholic Education) Corp teachers whom my wife recruited from the Loyola Marymount University Catholic teaching and graduate program. Our daughter Prisa was accepted into the Jesuit funded service program the year after its inception. As educators, Kathy and I were impressed with the aims and the quality of training provided in this program, which matched well-educated and highly motivated Catholic college graduates with archdiocesan elementary and high schools who served ethnically diverse and predominately low-income students. Prisa thrived in the Catholic communal environment that supported the two-year apprenticeship, and she graduated with a master’s degree, teaching credential, and full-time teaching experience. At the end of Prisa’s first year, Kathy suggested the program to two former students of OLV who were just graduating from college and interested in teaching. Kathy had taught Jennifer and Esthela when they were 8th grade students, and they stayed in touch throughout their high school and college years. The PLACE Corp seemed the perfect vehicle to test their resolve. After a few years, Kathy offered them both teaching positions at their former school (Esthela in 2nd grade and Jennifer in 5th). They accepted and thrived in the strong community orientated school and parish that is OLV.

The morning of my assignment was over in a flash, and my 4-hour stint as a sub was finished before I had a chance to feel overwhelmed and regret my actions. My timing was perfect all day: buying the fresh bagels and cream cheese at Western Bagel, gaining entrance into the faculty lounge, and setting up the food before anyone arrived (over time I’ve learned that with a predominately female faculty, set-up and presentation of food is essential). I had just enough time to identify my line-up area, unlock the classroom doors, and review the manuals and textbooks before instructional time began. Honestly, I was only one activity ahead of the students all day, but because of the comprehensive quality of the lesson plans, and the self-management of the students, that was enough. The children were the real story. The most interesting part of the experience occurred at about 10:20 A.M., during the Reading Period. The lesson called for students to read a story aloud, utilizing the “popcorn reading” method and employing “Reading strategies to check comprehension”. This was the last interactive activity of the day, and I suspected I was finally beginning to relax, and so were the kids. Since the morning, they had acted very formally and mechanically with me. They were careful to listen, answered my questions, and followed my direction. However, during the reading assignment, I noticed that the type of questions the children were asking began to change. Up until that moment, they only raised their hands to ask permission or to respond to my questions: “Can I go to the bathroom? Can I get a drink of water? Can I get a pencil from my backpack?” They did not begin to ask speculative questions, or personal questions until we began reading.

The assignment was to read Wilma Unlimited, a story of Wilma Rudolph, the African-American runner who won 3 gold track and field medals in the 1960 Olympic games. Usually this type of lesson is a snap for a sub, because it simply entails letting the students read aloud. But the challenge of a reading exercise is to encourage students to practice a variety of thinking and comprehension skills, while maintaining interest in the story. Recess had given me just enough time to review the Teacher Manual and learn which skills were to be emphasized in the story. I studied the vocabulary list and the target concept - cause and effect. This is a simple term for an adult to recognize, but hard to explain to 10 year old children. Before I could develop a clear strategy, recess ended and it was time to pick up the kids who were lining up in the playground and escort them to class. Popcorn reading is a funny term, because the method has nothing to do with food. It is a “read-aloud” process in which students read a paragraph and then announce “popcorn”, before calling out the name of the next student reader. While it seems a disjointed method to listen to a narrative, it can develop a progressive reading rhythm while allowing natural breaks to think, ask questions, and speculate. I was awkward at first, because I hadn’t read the story ahead of time and wasn’t sure how to best illustrate cause and effect, and check for comprehension at the same time. As students began reading, I tried following along while glancing at the Teacher Manual for prompts and suggestions. One can’t read one thing and listen to another at the same time. I tried, but finally gave up. The primary rule of Improvisation (remember subbing was Audacity and Improvisation?) is: LISTEN, LISTEN, and LISTEN. One can’t interact with another person if they don’t listen to what they are saying.

Moving cause and effect to the back of my mind, I finally listened to the flow of the narrative and began highlighting obvious points of interest and speculation. That is when the tenor of student questions changed.
“So,” I interrupted, as soon as Marcella had called on Brandon to read. “We’ve mentioned that Wilma was tiny and weak at birth, and was always sick as a child. What would these facts cause people to think about Wilma, and what she might become?”
“Yes,” I said, pointing at the short, black haired boy who had suddenly raised his hand.
“Why can’t we remember what we did when we were one or two years old?” Kyle asked, sincerely.
“What?” I asked, unsurely. “Can you repeat the question?”
“Why can’t we remember what we did when we were one or two years old?” Kyle repeated. “I wish I could remember”.
“I’m not sure,” I answered, smiling at the seeming randomness of the question. “I think it’s because a child’s brain is still forming, and brain connections are only beginning to recognize sights, sounds, and ideas. Babies can’t remember what they don’t understand. I wish we could remember what it was like to be one or two years old too, but we have to depend on the memory of our parents and other adults. So, who can tell me what Wilma’s parents might have thought about how she would grow up?”

The students grew more eager to read and participate, and their reading level was surprising high. The story and interactions moved so fast, I didn’t have time to celebrate having answered this apparently nonsensical question (The connection hit me later that day). However, it wasn’t long before I was blind-sided by another unexpected question, after we read how Wilma and her mother had to sit in the back of the bus whenever they traveled to the hospital for treatment of her polio.
“Now this is very important,” I said, when Raven finished reading. “We live in a time when people in America can sit anywhere they wish in a bus, an airplane, or in a public vehicle. In fact, most children prefer sitting in the back of the bus, where they can see everyone and everything. But there was a time in our history when public facilities were divided. People could only use separate restrooms, restaurants, pools, or drinking fountains. Can someone tell us what was the basis of this separation?”
Marcella’s arm shot up so quickly I knew she had the full answer. “Yes, Marcella,” I said.
“What subject did you teach?” she asked.
“I taught history in school,” I said, puzzled by her association of segregation with me.
“Ohh” she exhaled, “that explains why you get so excited talking about this story”.
“Yes” I laughed in answer. “I supposed I do love reading and talking about people in American history. As you’ll see, Wilma Rudolph was really an interesting person who overcame incredible difficulties and hardships to achieve success.”
At that point of the lesson, I would have loved continuing to read, question and explore the accomplishments of Wilma Rudolph in America of the 50’s and 60’s, but it was almost 11 o’clock and time for a Social Studies quiz.

The morning ended for me at 11:30 when I released the students to their physical education class with Mandy, the P.E. instructor. I felt a great sense of relief at having finished this first test of my helping resolution. I was glad it was over, not because the experience was unpleasant – it wasn’t. In fact, it was incredibly satisfying. The kids (especially the 5th graders) were alert, polite, eager, and engaging (They were also cute). I just needed to finally DO IT – finally sub and realize that I CAN do it, and enjoy it. A half-day assignment was the perfect initiation. The experience was short and sweet. It allowed me to see, hear, and participate in school activities, without the weariness and fatigue of a 6-hour day. I wouldn’t mind doing in again – as long as I knew I was helping someone out.

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