A Fear of Violence

During my first year of grad school, two gun-totting protestors had held hostage a classroom of students of which I was a part, and I myself had shotguns aimed at me and guard dogs sicked on me as I protested the Vietnam War.

Also, I suggested a different way of teaching to a professor who felt I was threatening him, possibly with a gun, and I attended manifold classes in diverse disciplines in which I felt dull-witted.

For many years, four memories from the second year of grad school haunted me. Two illustrated my stupidity; two were violent. In my Saturday posting I will begin to share the latter with you. Today, I want to share with you a thumbnail account of why violence catapulted me into an attempt at suicide.

There had been only two terrifying instances of violence in my childhood home. But always there was the possibility of more because of my father’s drinking. By going away to college I left that violence behind. I engaged in magical thinking: if I wasn’t there to see the violence, it wouldn’t happen.

Then I entered the convent where I tried so hard to be perfect. I fooled everyone, but the very act of hiding my deep insecurities left me feeling as if I were a fake. I came to dislike myself intensely. It was then that I began to hallucinate three yammering individuals who hounded me for twelve years.

In December 1966, I left the convent, deeply depressed. That no one realized this is a testament to my acting ability. I knew the kind of things “normal” people talked about. I knew how they reacted and expressed themselves. I was a quick study. For the next ten years—from 1966 to 1976—I played the role of a “normal” person. I hid the fact that three yammering complainers accompanied me everywhere.

During those years, life took many twists and turns. In 1968—when I was thirty-one— Mom died. Dad died in 1975 when I was thirty-nine. Their deaths left me bereft. From 1966 to 1973, I kept moving, searching for some peace from the constant hallucinations.

·      I moved to Dayton. In the space of two years, I lived in seven different apartments. It was there I taught in a Catholic academy for girls and an inner-city classroom.

·      I moved to Minneapolis to get a graduate degree.

·      I moved back to Dayton to teach at a dropout center for black students.

·      I moved to New Hampshire to teach students whom the faculty thought were mediocre. While I was in New England, a Dartmouth psychiatrist advised me to go somewhere and settle. To find roots. To find, somehow, a home.

·      Finally, I moved back to Minnesota to work for a publishing house. During the next four years, I moved twice. Then, in 1977, I bought an 1870 lumberjack home in Stillwater and settled down for thirty-two years.

 

My hallucinations ended in 1976 when a Minneapolis psychiatrist prescribed an antipsychotic drug. I still take it and will until I die. In prescribing it, she told me that I’d been so deeply depressed for over twelve years that my body was chemically imbalanced.      

Moreover, I had nothing left to filter out stimuli. Every hurtful, negative, tragic happening that I read about or encountered “struck me to the core.” I was unable to let go of the cruelty humans inflicted on one another. I was, she said, “a bruised soul.”

You will note that the name of this blog is “coming home to myself.” Only in the last few years have I found within myself the peace I’ve always sought. I’ve finally embraced myself.

I’ve embraced my history with its fears and neediness; with its immaturity and loneliness. I’ve embraced as well the strengths of that young woman who struggled so hard to be a force for good.

She’s older now—I’ll be seventy-six in less than a month—and she knows—I know—that I am a treasury of all I’ve experienced and all I’ve loved. At long last, I have found a home. It is within myself. 

The New Book of a Delightful Friend

Dear Readers,

Two blogging friends I met in August are next-door neighbors who support one another in all the events of their lives. The richer, poorer, in sickness and health of a marriage of the minds truly apply to them. Both are married—one to Phil and one to Cade. Both have children who can be both naughty and nice. And both are bloggers who share their stories with us and bring laughter into my life and the lives of all their readers.

            Who are these great friends? Melynda and Elisa.

            Now both are published writers. Elisa published first. Her book, The Golden Sky, is a poignant memoir of the brief life of her son Zeke and the aftermath of his death and how it affected her marriage.

            Now Melynda’s first book—Just Nonsense—has been published. That’s what I’d like to post about today. You see, Melynda is almost legally blind because of diabetes. In the past year she has had a number of expensive, but necessary, operations on her eyes. Tomorrow—Friday—she will undergo another long operation. It is painful, but yes, again, necessary.

            Why? Because if tomorrow’s operation is successful, she’ll be able to see blurs. That is, if there is a large obstacle in her path, she will be able to see that something is there. She won’t know what, but she can move aside and avoid it. Of course, she will be able to see that blur with only one eye. In the other, she has lost all her eyesight.

            These delicate operations have greatly depleted Melynda and Phil’s savings. That’s where I come in. And I’m hoping, you too. Here’s how we can do this: As a wonderful day-before-the-dreaded-operation surprise, Elisa has edited, formatted, and published Melynda’s first book. Beginning today, Just Nonsense is available on Amazon as a paper book and on Amazon and Smashwords as an e-book.

            Today, I ask you to consider purchasing Melynda’s books. All the proceeds that she earns will go toward her medical bills. This is a way for the blogging community—that stretches far and wee—to help someone who has shared such laughter with us. For Melynda has a great sense of the ridiculous. She has that uncanny ability to take sour lemons and make sweet and refreshing lemonade.

            Often, she’s lifted my spirits on a gloomy day. Despite her own problems, she has reached out to me whenever I needed a cheery hello or an encouraging word to help me in my writing. She has become in these few short months a dear friend.

            And so I’m reaching out to all of you reading this, and I’m encouraging you to support her as she’s supported so many others. By purchasing her book, we can all help raise money to help Melynda pay for medical expenses and other things she needs to cope with blindness. And perhaps you can reach out to your friends and fellow bloggers and tell them this story.

            Here is the blurb, written by her friend Elisa, from the back cover of Melynda’s first published book—Just Nonsense.

Whimsical blog posts from a very witty writer. From Mr. P (a wild little boy who loves animals) to Meaghan (a driving teenager) to Kyle (a young man who wants to visit Italy), Melynda's year starts with a bang. Phil, her husband, is a riotous addition, but Melynda herself is the one who keeps the laughs coming. Join her life from January to March 2011 and see what made her blog such a success!

            If you’d like to read Elisa’s initial posting about  what all of us are trying to do for Melynda, please click on If You Love Melynda.

            Today, Elisa has posted on Melynda’s blog. Click here to see her announcement to her friend about the publications of Just Nonsense. Also on that posting, you can pick up a “button” to show your support for Melynda and her book.

o   To purchase her paper book from Amazon, please click here.

o   To purchase her e-book for use on a Kindle, please click here.

o   To purchase her e-book from Smashwords for use on an Apple iPad. iBook, Sony Reader, Kobo, or Nook, please click here. (Smashwords gives the author a larger percentage of the book’s selling price than Kindle does.)

Thank you for considering the buying of Melynda’s book. I know her book will make you laugh, sometimes bring tears to your eyes, but always help you appreciate the deep-down goodness that remains strong and vibrant within humanity.

Peace.


PS: This posting for Melynda takes the place of my usual Saturday posting. I want to keep the information about Just Nonsense at the top of my posting column for several days so that all of you who visit this blog will learn about Melynda and her book and will consider helping her out by purchasing it. Next Tuesday and Saturday I'll be back with postings about two events that almost catapulted me into a nervous breakdown while in grad school.

The Stress of Mediocrity

Grad school wasn’t easy for me. Nearly all the students were twenty-two; I was eleven years older. Moreover, during the fifties, I’d attended a small Catholic college in Kansas. Now it was 1969, and I was still a hick, totally out of my element.

            One story suffices to illustrate this. For each of four quarters, the American studies program required all graduate students to attend a weekly seminar. The text we studied contained essays by a wide variety of philosophers, social scientists, and other pundits from varied disciplines. They examined the ideas, inventions, and happenings that had influenced American culture.       

     

            Mary Turpie, head of the program, facilitated these roundtable discussions. I greatly respected her. Unsure of myself, I longed for her approval. Despite that, I seldom spoke in the seminars. The other students proposed concepts that were beyond me. They argued passionately, with great certainty. I felt like a bumbling child in their midst. And so, not wanting them to see just how stupid I was, I said nothing.

            This went on for nearly a year. Then, at a seminar in the third quarter, one of the female students made a definitive statement about the essay we’d read for that class. I listened closely to her argument. When she finished expounding, I felt sure I understood her point of view.

            Across the room, a young man began to speak. Ah! I thought, what he’s saying is the exact opposite of what she said. What a discussion we’ll have!

            As he ended his monologue, I prepared myself for a debate about the differences between these two opinions. To my amazement, the young woman said, “That’s just what I was saying! We’re in sync.” The other students nodded their agreement.

            I sat, befuddled. I’d listened closely, thought I heard two different viewpoints, expected a great discussion—and all along their positions had been the same. Unquestionably, I wasn’t meant for graduate school. I didn’t have the necessary brain cells.

            The next day, Ms. Turpie summoned me to her office. I was sure she'd suggest I drop out of grad school. What a disappointment I must be to her. Always before, I’d enjoyed sitting next to her desk to discuss the next classes I’d be taking. Always she spoke softly. Listened intently, her head slightly tilted. She reminded me of a true lady.

            At these meetings, she never offered a snack, but in my imagination I saw her sitting forward on a floral couch offering me a cup of oolong tea and a warm scone, oozing butter.

            That day, she wore a straight gray skirt and a white blouse with a Peter Pan collar. Over that she wore a forest green cardigan with the top button fastened. On her feet were brown low-heeled shoes.

            We looked at one another for a moment. Then she quietly asked, “Dee, why don’t you ever speak up in our seminars?”

            “I have nothing to say.”

            “My dear, you have so much to offer those younger students. You’ve taught in all kinds of classrooms. You’ve been in the convent. You’ve worked at editing and publishing. You been in the inner city and taught students there. You have a great interest in black history and linguistics. And you have, I think, a fierce sense of justice.”

            All she said might be true, but in my mind it had little to do with knowing what to say in her seminars.

            “You have so much to offer,” she continued, “so why don’t you? You could help these students understand life in a broader sense. Their experience is narrow. Insular.”

             Sighing, I reminded her of the seminar the previous day. She nodded encouragingly as I recounted the exchange between the two students.

            “And what did you conclude from that?” she asked.

            “I’m stupid.”

            “No, you were right. They did make opposite points.”

            “Then why did they say they agreed?”

            “I think she wants to date him.”

            My mouth fell open. I’m sure I gaped at her. Dating? That was a reason for denying what you’d just said and agreeing with some boy? Dating?

            “Why would you think you’re stupid?” Ms. Turpie asked.

            “Well listen to them. They use big words. I don’t even know those words.”

            “Like what?”

            I gave her examples. She nodded and then, this woman, this lady, who looked as if she ate scones and drank tea and read Agatha Christie mysteries, said, “Dee, what you need to realize is that all they say is mostly b-s.”

            Again, I gaped, then giggled, and finally guffawed. To hear that lady use that term made my year.

            Ms. Turpie grinned. Then she, too, broke out laughing.

            I stayed in grad school. Who could resist the lure of such a program director?

Room by nokhoog_buchachon

Scones by Clare Bloomfield

Both from freedigitalphotos.net

Laughter in the Classroom

Graduate school was more than becoming involved in the peace movement, protesting the Vietnam War, and having two students take over a history classroom. In the midst of all this I took three classes a quarter. One of these was a literature course in which I studied the works of Hermann Melville and Nathaniel Hawthorne.

            The professor who taught this class was in a publish-or-perish mode. To receive tenure he needed to publish a scholarly work the following year. As the class progressed, it became clear he was writing on the “heart of darkness” delineated by Hawthorne in his short stories and novels. 

            His teaching revealed his philosophy of education, and I didn’t agree with it. He would laugh at students’ responses, belittling them with a snide remark. Soon many students ceased responding to his questions.

            However, three female students in the second row seemed to have psyched out what he was looking for in a response. When they answered, he’d frequently wave them to a halt. “Wait! Wait a minute,” he’d implore, “while I write this down.”

            Then he’d pick up his notebook and transcribe their answers. This was, we all knew, the notebook in which he kept the jottings that would ultimately become part of his proposed book.

            The favored student would complete the convoluted answer. The professor would tap his pencil against the notepad and proclaim, “That’s the kind of answer that leads us deeper into the darkness of Hawthorne!”

            As weeks passed, I became more disillusioned with his teaching. I was learning about two great American authors, but this learning was happening in a classroom in which the professor displayed no respect for his students. He built no community among us.

            One day the professor told us that a student had complained about his teaching methods. “So what do you think?” he asked us. “Do you think I’m a good teacher?” Immediately, the favored ones assured him that he made learning interesting. He was brilliant. Articulate. Truly gifted. He beamed. They continued with their accolades. The other students looked down at their textbooks, awaiting the bell’s release.

            Finally, I’d heard enough. When I raised my hand, he called on me. I said something like the following, “Professor XX, it’s clear you know your subject matter. But when students respond to questions, you frequently laugh at their answers.”

            “Laugh? I don’t do that.” Then, glancing at the second row, he laughed aloud. When he looked beyond those three females, however, he saw that many other students had turned toward me with the thumbs up of approval.

            He looked confused. Bewildered. “I don’t do that!” he insisted. “What you say is ridiculous. Silly.” One again he laughed at the absurdity of my claim.

            “You’re doing it now. You’re laughing at what I said.”

            “That’s because it’s ridiculous,” he sniggered.

            The bell rang. All the students, I among them, rose to leave the room. Several thanked me for expressing their own concerns. Together, we observed the professor leave the building. He looked beaten.

            Studying at the library later that morning, I considered what I’d said. I hadn’t wanted to attack him personally. I’d wanted only to suggest that he consider his teaching style. I walked across campus to his office, knocked, and was told to enter.

            I opened the door. The professor sat behind a desk in the corner of the room. He looked up, rose abruptly, scuttled behind his chair, and backed into the shadowed corner.             

           “Please don’t shoot me,” he begged. “I’m sorry I laughed. Don’t hurt me!”

            The light bulb went off in my brain. Just a few days before two protesters had brandished guns and taken over a history classroom. Now, as the literature professor cowered before me, I witnessed the reverberations of that incident.

            “Professor XX, I don’t have a gun.” I held out my gun-less hands toward him.

            He shook his head back and forth, clearly distraught. His eyes pleaded with me.

            “I want you to know,” I said, “that I wasn’t talking about you personally today. I was talking about your style of teaching. It’s hurtful.”

            “I’ll give you an A,” he muttered. “Just don’t shoot me.” He reached for his grade book.

            “Listen to me! I don’t have a gun. I just want you to think about how you treat students. That’s all. Just think about what we feel like when you laugh.”

            He laughed then. Somewhat manically. And I left.

            As to his subsequent teaching . . . during the next week, he was somewhat obsequious in the classroom. The following week, less so. The third week, he was back to laughing at our answers. In the long run, nothing changed.

            As to my grade . . . I got a B.

Talk the Talk; Walk the Walk

(Continued from Saturday . . . )

My friends Jeanne and Jim became peaceful protesters of the Vietnam War in the mid-sixties. I didn’t become involved until attending the University of Minnesota in 1969-1971. There I met a returning vet whose story of rejection by fellow students angered me.

            I got involved then, hoping to convince others that we needed to end the war and welcome home the returning veterans with the recognition they deserved. The truth is that while I joined the peace movement, I never found a way to truly honor those who fought in that Southeast Asian war.

            By the spring of 1970, a group of concerned citizens in Minneapolis had produced informative leaflets on the war. I joined this group. After my last class at the university each day, I’d pick up a handful of leaflets at the central office and be given a route to walk. Then I’d ride a city bus to my assigned area and begin. The people I met had varied views of the war—for and against. Year by year, the Gallup polls revealed the public’s growing disillusionment with it.

         From a Wikipedia article, I’ve gleaned the following statistics about the waning support for the war:

·      The 1966 Gallup poll showed that 59% Americans believed that sending troops to Vietnam was not a mistake. Among the age group of 21–29, 71% believed it was not a mistake compared to 48% of those over 50.

·      In June 1966, the poll respondents supporting the U.S. handling of the war slipped to 41%; 37% expressed disapproval; the rest, no opinion.

·      By July 30, 1967, the poll reported 52% of Americans disapproved of Johnson's handling of the war; 41% thought the U.S. made a mistake in sending troops; over 56% thought the U.S. was losing the war or at an impasse.

·      In March 1968, the poll reported that 49% of respondents felt involvement in the war was an error.

·      By July 1969, the poll indicated that 53% of the respondents approved of Nixon's handling of the war; 30% disapproved; the balance had no opinion.

·      By end of 1969, 69% of students identified themselves as doves.

·      In May 1970, the poll showed that 56% of the public believed that sending troops to Vietnam was a mistake, 61% of those over 50 expressed that belief compared to 49% of those between the ages of 21–29.

            Thus, a number of people who answered the doors on which I knocked already wanted the war to end. However, others strongly supported its continuance. For example, one man said, “We need a war to have full employment. Without it, what would we do to keep the economy going?”

            The leaflets I held provided information about future jobs. Unfortunately, the leaflet’s author couldn’t foresee the technological revolution of the 1980s and ‘90s. The jobs mentioned—mostly environmental—didn’t convince anyone that the economy would grow if we weren’t at war.

            For several weeks, I distributed leaflets. At one house, an angry man sicked his German shepherd on me. The dog chased me down a whole city block. Only at its master’s whistled command did the dog stop snapping at my heels.

            A second irate homeowner aimed a twelve-gauge shotgun at me. “If you’re not out of my yard by the time I count three,” he shouted, “you’ve have holes peppering your lungs!” He paused a nanosecond, then muttered, “One!”

            Frightened, I rushed toward his picket fence, flung open the gate, and stumbled onto the sidewalk, just as he bellowed, “Three!” Racing toward the corner, I heard him laughing. Having dogs sicked on me and guns drawn happened more than once.

            Much of this changed on May 4, 1970, when the Ohio National Guard fired into a protesting group at Kent State University. Four students were killed and nine wounded, one suffering permanent paralysis. This caused an uproar on every campus in the United States. Quickly, students organized peaceful marches in many cities throughout the United States.

            On the designated day, I joined tens of thousands of students. We marched from Minneapolis to the Capitol in St. Paul. A sense of purpose and camaraderie united us. The shooting at Kent State, which some were already calling a “massacre,” kept us marching mile after mile, determined to end the war.

                                                                        (Continued on Saturday . . . )

Both photographs from Wikipedia.