All Over, All Over
Jul. 15th, 2011 11:41 amI 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 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.