Bessie and Me: Shifting Gears

"Myths can't be translated as they did in their ancient soil. We can only find our own meaning in our own time." ~ Margaret Atwood, author of 'A Handmaid's Tale' I feel as though I'm standing on the shores of the River Styx where Hades, God of the Underworld has just assigned my soul to the Asphodel Meadows for all eternity. 'Meadows' sounds pleasant and it IS better than having your soul condemned to Tartarus; in Greek Mythology t he Asphodel Meadows is the region of the Underworld where the majority of the deceased arrive. It is the region of indifference , where those who had lived neither an overly good nor an overly bad life would end up.  Ultimately, one wants to shoot for the Elysian Fields when you arrive on the shore of the River Styx. As an educator, I belong in a classroom...in front of children...preferably children who are eager to learn. Educators have been in purgatory (the Meadows)  these last several months....that netherworld whe

"I am a woman with thoughts and questions and shit to say. I say if I'm beautiful. I say if I'm strong. You will not determine my story—I will."   ~ Amy Schumer If you follow my blog you know I generally write about something that has set my brain on fire. Yesterday I spent five and a half hours in a Harley-Davidson dealership buying a new bike. I LOVE this dealership; the people are warm and friendly, the atmosphere is warm and fuzzy and the whole experience was positive. This blog post is not about THEM, it is about the culture of LABELING human beings, especially women.  "Female biker" We don't say, "Male biker." Same with "Female President," "Black Athlete," "Lesbian Soccer Star," "Gay Presidential Candidate (I mean, we don't say "Heterosexual Presidential Candidate), and "Autistic Artist." Too many labels. Labels limit human potential. I see it everyday in public education, but that

How does a grown woman get so emotionally attached to an 800 pound hunk of steel? Easy. My '09 Road King - and before that, my '02 Heritage Softail - was the vehicle that delivered me to a new way of life; a life with no restraints, a life of confidence, independence, and joy. My motorcycle has transported me on a spiritual journey that I have never been able to experience in a church, in prayer, at a retreat or in meditation.   Bssie2 was the bike that delivered me from physical pain, isolation, depression, and anger after my accident on Bssie1 in April of 2012. After being scraped off the pavement and airlifted to the nearest trauma center, I spent 11 months recovering emotionally and physically; literally learning to walk straight again. Bssie2 was my salvation. I was terrified to get back on a bike, but knew I did not want to give up riding. I embarked on my first solo trip astride Bssie2 in the summer of 2013, determined to tackle some of the most challenging roads in the

Pedagogy: noun meaning  the method and practice of teaching, especially as an academic subject or theoretical concept. I teach 6th grade Language Arts at an IB Academy (writing books is merely a side hustle...or is it vice versa??) and I will admit to a great deal of anxiety, frustration, and good ole fashioned hand-wringing since school closure (Florida) the second week of March due to the Coronavirus pandemic. Five months of staying close to home (okay, okay, there was a little 6,000 mile ride out west and back but mostly staying close to home...) and 9 weeks of teaching online has me bonkers! I know my administrator friends/colleagues are at the nail-biting-Tums-chewing stage as we rapidly approach 7/31 with no concrete plan to execute (Note: this is why I choose to be in the classroom and decline to use my Master's in Ed Leadership. You guys just go ahead and lead...I'll follow). The question of how/when to return to school is a legitimate nightmare. As I write, the issue i

" Della disconnected the phone after yet another draining conversation with her daughter Crosby.  Crosby is a literary agent in NYC, married to a successful publisher. Crosby frantically juggles her career, their frenetic social obligations and two over-indulged, anxiety ridden children (Della’s grandchildren) leaving very little time for her mother. Della is convinced her daughter makes the obligatory weekly phone call just to have someone to argue with. When Della revealed her plans with Tish and Ann to leave the following week for Sedona in order to spread Bree's ashes, Crosby embarked on a litany of reasons why the trip was a stupid idea for 'three women in their late fifties who have no business riding motorcycles cross country for god sakes.' Her vitriol was damn near palatable across the large chunk of geography between New York and Chicago. Crosby was born willful; straight from the womb she cast dispersion and judgment on Della. And there were times when Della

#MeToo   His practiced hand moved along her naked body Lying on the paper covered table In the minuscule exam room   His hair gray, his black frame glasses, perched on the tip of his nose His melodic voice murmured to her Mother As his fingers penetrated her tiny vagina   She lay frozen, her seven-year-old brain screaming NO Her seven-year-old body unable to resist   A hard nugget of shame Lodged in her gut, took up residence in her head, Made its home in her soul that day   A seven-year-old cannot define shame A seven-year-old cannot protest when The person she trusts the most stands by…mute   She mocked what the good doctor did She laughed that he probed her vagina…a word she could not utter And her Grandmother was the only one horrified   Afterward, the shame grew larger It would happen again despite her protest It would happen again despite the woman she trusted   It would happen again in the home of a trusted friend While her son took his perverted pleasure She made love to her to