Day 59 - Lessons from Gloria Steinem

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Yesterday I heard part of an interview with Gloria Steinem.  Her interviewer seemed surprised by her answers and kept rephrasing them, hoping for the answer he expected. He didn't get it. What the interviewer assumed, and he kept trying to get Ms. Steinem to say, is that the issues facing women in western countries these days are much less serious than they were in the days when she and other feminists were coming into their stride. But Ms. Steinem consistently countered that the issues for women in western countries are in fact more serious today than in the 60's and 70's.

Her main point is that the issues facing women now are more elemental than issues of equal pay for equal work. Now we know that how a culture treats the women in the home illustrates how a culture treats everyone else. When violence against women is tolerated in the home, it normalizes violence against enemies, strangers, and the person down the street someone doesn't like. But when violence against women is no longer tolerated, then violence anywhere is less likely to be accepted.

Tonight I am watching a movie from 1951, The Man in the White Suit, starring Alec Guinness, that illustrates Ms. Steinem's point, but from a slightly different viewpoint. Not surprisingly, there are very few women in this film about an inventor of an indestructible fabric that the industrialists in the mills around him are desperate to suppress. One of the two women with any lines beyond "Yes, Mr. Birnley," is the daughter of one of those industrialists who recognizes the value of the invention for the world at large. Everyone else, capitalists and workers alike, except for a seven-year-old child, views the situation from their selfish, personal viewpoints and tries to stop the inventor from publicizing his accomplishment.

The crisis is averted when the crowd discovers the fiber isn't stable so the suit the inventor is wearing made from the fabric for the press conference that never happened comes apart in the hands of his pursuers. The only three who weren't laughing at him then were the industrialist's daughter, the seven-year-old girl, and the woman who worked with him in the shipping area who also lived in the same rooming house as the inventor. The latter opposed the manufacture of the fabric and joined in the pursuit, but she also saw the defeat in the inventor's eyes and showed compassion.

There was no violence in the movie, but there was a threat of it as well as ridicule. Back in the 1950's, ridicule, like bullying, was expected and the objects of both were encouraged to suck it up, get over it, grow up. Even worse, the victims often adopted the same tactics against others. Ms. Steinem is right. And we still have some work to do.

Day 57 - Bunny

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While I was one of about 40 volunteers in New Jersey with the Christian Neighborhood Summer Program during the summer of 1968, there were several local high school students assigned to work with us. They were part of the Job Corps, a program administered by the United States Department of Labor that offers free-of-charge education and vocational training to youth ages 16 to 24. Three high school students were assigned to work at the church where I worked. One of the three, Bernice, Bunny for short, worked with me.

One of the first things I learned from Bunny and the other two young women was the vast differences in the versions of English we all spoke. For example, in my dialect, the two words berry and bury and the name Barry are pronounced the same. But in New Jersey, those three words have completely different vowels. Berry rhymes with very. Bury rhymes with jury. And the first vowel in Barry is completely foreign to me. It requires my jaw dropped lower when speaking the name than for any other word. Other names rhyme with it: Cary, Gary, Harry, Larry, and Mary, but not Jerry, Kerry, Perry, Sherry, or Terry.

Another lesson I learned from Bunny and the others was the importance of context. I was surprised by all the litter I saw on the streets in New Jersey, so I thought it would be fun, even instructive, to set up a game that would both clean up the immediate neighborhood and make a point about the importance of keeping litter off the street. So I constructed a scavenger hunt. I made four lists of items that could be found on the street but that didn't belong there: in other words, litter. I broke my class into four groups, gave each one a list and sent them on their way to collect the items.

After about 15 minutes, all four teams were back with their bags full of litter. I was feeling rather smug as I said that they didn't have to go very far to find the items on the list, did they. I saw Bunny's face when I said that and her expression was curious. One of the boys responded that I was wrong. They had to go all the way to the end of the block to find the gum wrapper. At that, I saw Bunny nod her head slightly.

Next I had the kids draw a picture of their houses. When they were done, I told them to glue what they had collected on their pictures. Most of them just did what I told them. But one boy got it. He looked up at me and said he didn't want to do that because it would make his house ugly. Then he did something that made my heart sing. He drew a garbage can in the corner of the picture and he pasted all his litter on the can.

Bunny also taught me how to cross streets in New Jersey. Most important was not to wait at the corner for the light to change. It was important to look both directions - no all four directions - and if it was clear, to go.

Bunny thought it was ironic that she was younger than I was, but she knew more than I did about how to get around. The next summer I was able to reverse things. Bunny came to Minnesota for a week in August. And that time I was the teacher. I kept her from crossing the street against the lights, even though there were no cars coming. I reminded her not to throw things onto the street. And I translated when our funny Minnesota accents confused her.

Day 56 - More Flying

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I spent most of yesterday in airplanes or in airports waiting for my next airplane. So I saw a lot of people, inspiring stories of what brought these particular people together at that particular time and place. Lots of fodder for future 365 Project pieces.

But the person who left the biggest impression on me is someone with whom I spent the shortest length of time: the flight attendant on the 20-minute flight from Los Angeles to San Diego. I can't quite put my finger on it, but something about her just rubbed me the wrong way.

The first event that drew my attention to her was when the woman across the aisle asked for an extender. Now I will admit that I had no idea what she meant by the word, but then, I don't work for an airline. The flight attendant also looked at the woman as if she had just spoken to her in Greek, so the woman clarified that she wanted an extender to the seat belt so that she could hold her child on her lap during take-off. Now that the attendant seemed to understand. Her response: "Oh, no, we don't have such a thing. That is not allowed. That just isn't possible. The child will have to sit in his own seat." And she hurried away down the aisle.

That seemed funny. If there is no such thing as a seat belt extender, why would the woman ask for one? Maybe other airlines provide them? Or maybe they are available on larger model planes? The attendant's response didn't ring true.

Then we moved into that portion of the flight when the attendant rattles off what to do in the unlikely event of a water landing and so on. Usually I can sleep through those speeches, or recite along with the speaker. They are so predictable and boring, except on Southwest Airlines when they are stand-up comedian-worthy. But this attendant had a tone to her voice that came across condescending. I wanted to get up and punch her. I am not sure I could replicate her intonation pattern. It was a little sing-songy, with her intonation rising and falling in an exaggerated pattern, like a kindergarten teacher reading a fairy tale to her class. Really, really annoying,

The flight was so short, that we barely got off the ground before she was back on the public address system telling us to shut down all electronic appliances, bring our seat backs into the full and upright position and return the tray tables to their locked positions. And that is where she irritated me yet again. Apparently not everyone paid close enough attention. She was back on the system again in a few seconds to repeat herself after first stating that apparently not everyone had heard her the first time. This time the sing-songiness came with a slight giggle that she seemed to think softened the edge. It didn't.

I closed my eyes as the plane began its descent so I didn't see her when she came up behind me. I just heard her say to bring the seat back up. I turned around and told her I had never lowered my seat. She laughed, OK maybe it was a nervous giggle, as she pointed to the man in the seat next to me to say he was the one who hadn't returned his seat to the upright position. Now I hadn't talked over my impressions of Ms. Attendant with my seat mate; he seemed quite comfortable in his own bubble. His reaction to her appeared consistent with mine however. He said nothing. But his eyes did. Ms. Attendant did all the seat adjusting while reaching over me, giving me a more up-close look than I wanted.

By this time, I thought there was little more she could do to add to my impression of her. But I was wrong. The plane was on the ground. The captain had reminded us to keep our seat belts fastened until he had turned off the sign. Most of us were following directions well, just like well-behaved kindergarten children. But then I heard her voice once more over the loud speaker. "Keep that child in his seat." It wasn't a suggestion.

Day 55 - Flying

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Being at the airport between flights reminds me of the first time I ever flew anywhere. It was June 1968 and I flew on standby from Fargo, ND, to Newark, NJ, where I spent seven weeks as a volunteer with the Christian Neighborhood Summer Program in Jersey City, New Jersey. The program reimbursed the volunteers for the cost of a bus ticket to Jersey City, up to a limit of $100. A standby ticket on Northwest Airlines at that time cost $77, so I chose that method to travel.

Another college student from Moorhead also flew on that plane. She smoked and in those days I don't think there was even any smoking vs non-smoking section or if there was, I ended up sitting next to her anyway. She was a year older and the daughter of one of my dad's good friends, but I didn't spend any time with her in New Jersey because eight of us ended up working in two smaller suburbs, Weehawken and Union City, instead.

When we arrived in Jersey City, we were brought to the basement of a church where cots had been set up as the girls' dormitory. Most of the volunteers were girls; the boys all ended up staying with one of the pastors involved in the program. Immediately on putting down our suitcases, a few of us grabbed cameras and headed up the steps to begin exploring Jersey City. It didn't take as long as the length of time we needed to walk to the corner of the block for us to realize that walking on the streets with cameras around out necks made us stick out unacceptably, so we headed back to the church basement to put the cameras away.

At about that time, the two pastors from the Lutheran churches in Union City and Weehawken arrived to pick up the eight of us who had been designated to work in those churches, about 8 blocks apart, instead of remaining in Jersey City. I don't know how they picked which of us would stay in Union City, but I was one of them.

The two pastors were brothers-in-law. Pastor Hank's wife was Pastor Gary's sister. Gary was single, but he lived in a four bedroom house next to his church and that became our dormitory instead of the church basement. Gary stayed with his sister and Pastor Hank for the seven weeks.

The four bedrooms of the house were all upstairs. It was as though there had been a very large room up there that was divided into fourths, with doorways only into the two rooms nearest the stairway. Two of the bedrooms could only be reached by going through one of the other rooms. It must have been my introversion that led me to claim the single bed in the room in the furthest corner. It was the only room with a single bed, the only room where only one of us could stay. The others had multiple beds, including, if my memory isn't playing tricks on me, one room with bunk beds.

Our accommodations were significantly more comfortable than what the rest of the girls had in that church basement. We also had better food. One of the members of Gary's church, Vannie, walked her German Shepherd dog to the house every morning in order to make us breakfast. She also put out bread and sandwich makings for us to make up our lunches. And in the evening, she had dinner prepared for us when we got back from our classes. I was introduced to an entirely different cuisine during that summer. Vannie, in spite of being a strong Lutheran, cooked a lot of Italian food. My favorite was veal parmesan. Vannie made a pan of baked veal parmesan with 12 pieces of veal the first time. The eight of us devoured them. The next time, she made two pans with 12 pieces of veal each. The eight of us devoured those as well.

The one treat I came to appreciate was very unassuming, so initially I wasn't all that excited when I saw it being passed around for dessert. It was pound cake. Just plain yellow pound cake. But I quickly learned that it was a good idea to volunteer to wash the dishes on the days we had pound cake because that meant I would be able to have another piece, or two, while helping to clean up the kitchen.

Vannie also introduced us to a new birthday tradition. Her birthday was during the time we were at the church, so she made each of us a knitted pair of slippers as her birthday present to us. She didn't want any presents from anyone, but she liked the idea of celebrating her birthday by giving others presents. Having Vannie as our surrogate grandmother (she was in her 70's) was a nice benefit of the program.

It was while in New Jersey that I realized what I wanted to do with my life. Most of the children in Union City and Weehawken were immigrants, and most of those were from Cuba. Most of their parents didn't speak much English and some of the children also were uncomfortable speaking English. We had the children act out some Bible stories for their parents at a program on the last evening. The boy who played Jesus was sick the day we rehearsed the play, so one of the high school girls who helped us stood in for Jesus. One of the boys whose English was weakest was given just one line and he was to address that line to Jesus. Because he had practiced with the high school student, when the time came the evening of the program for him to speak his line, he walked to the edge of the stage and looked out until he found the high school student in the front row and spoke his line directly to her.

I had always known I wanted to do something with foreign languages. I was studying both German and Russian at college in preparation. But that summer I realized I didn't have to learn a foreign language - I already spoke one, English. When I returned to Minnesota from New Jersey, I changed my major from German to English and then set out to take as many non-literature-based English courses as I could to prepare myself for teaching English as a Foreign Language. No one in Minnesota had much of an idea of what I wanted to do. Children who couldn't speak English well in the schools in my home town were put into remedial reading classes, not ESL classes. It took many more years for Minnesota to catch on to the need for teaching English as a second language to immigrant children instead of having them shunted off into separate classes with labels such as "special" or "remedial" in front of them.

Day 54 - Dad

Today is my last day in my hometown where I have been spending time with Dad each day. Tomorrow I fly home.

It has been good to spend time with Dad, to watch him, to see his face while I talk to him. I still answered the same questions again and again. But over the course of the week, occasionally he seemed to know the answers before told him. For instance, instead of asking me how old he is, he would ask me if he was 88. A very specific age, not just a guess. And yesterday he didn't ask my brother and me if he still had a car; he asked Wayne who he gave his car to. This morning, my brother Roger told him that I had been in town this week and Dad responded that he knew that. I had been to see him the day before.

So it has been good to see those glimpses of his memory functioning.

But there have always been tough times, too. One late afternoon, three of us - Wayne, his wife Julie, and I - had left him alone for an hour while we took care of some business and when we returned to his room about an hour before he was scheduled to have supper, Dad responded to Wayne's knock on the door with a loud shout that it was about time we came in. He had been sleeping when we left him and when he woke up, he was confused about where he was and why he was there. It was easy to empathize with his confusion because I am also confused about where I am when I wake up from a nap in the middle of the day, but the vehemence in his voice was a surprise to us all. He was not happy about being all alone, about not knowing who was going to take care of him, about not knowing why he wasn't at home in his house.

Today, Dad had lots of visitors. Wayne and Julie were in town again. Roger was also in town. My sister-in-law Lori and her daughter Megan came in with Max, the 12-year-old Maltese poodle. And Dad's sister Myrt and her son Randy and his wife Lisa also came in. So the room was a bit crowded for part of the day. Dad dozed off now and then during the afternoon.  So when most of the crowd had left and there were just three of us in his room, he started getting more agitated again. He seemed to think he was outside, or that he was going to be put outside, and that wasn't right. He wasn't happy about the situation at all. It just wasn't right, he kept repeating.

When we left, I gave him a hug and told him that I would be back again in a few weeks. He smiled. I told him I loved him and kissed him on his forehead. He said he loved me, too.

Day 53 - Howard and Don the Policemen

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During my last year of high school, I worked at the only movie theatre in town. It was downtown, on the main road through the business district, just down the street from the police station. Two policemen were responsible for the downtown beat. They didn't get in cars and ride around the downtown. They walked, carrying night sticks and flashlights.  I think they call it community policing these days.

During the winter, walking downtown after dark could get very cold. So the two policemen assigned to the beat would stop in at the theatre to warm up. They probably stopped in at several other businesses along the street as well.  I think they call that community policing, too. They were Howard and Don.

Howard and Don introduced themselves to those of us who worked there: Sandy who sold tickets, Marshall and Paul who took tickets, Mary who sold candy and popcorn, and Lynne and I who were ushers. Howard and Don made sure they came in after the movie had started so there were no patrons in the lobby who might wonder why the police were in the theatre.

One day as Howard and Don hung around at the candy counter, Don was playing with an oversized coin, flipping it over in his hand and holding it between his fingers as he tapped on the counter with it. When Mary asked what the coin was, Don said it was nothing and then put the coin in his pocket. Ever the literal-minded one, I didn't give it a second thought. After all, Don said it was nothing, so I accepted that it was nothing. But the two of them had a pretty good idea of human nature so when Mary kept asking, Don eventually took it out of his pocket and handed it to her. On one side it said "100% effective birth control device." On the other side it said, "Place coin on one knee, cross over with other knee and press hard to keep in place." Everyone laughed. Ha, ha, very funny. We didn't know much about what was inappropriate behavior, especially from someone in authority. And they were policemen, so they could be trusted, right?

Over time, Howard and Don ended up moving through the ranks so that they no longer had to walk the beat. I moved on to a new job. I saw Don driving a police car occasionally, and he usually honked the horn and waved. I waved back. After all, he was a policeman and he could be trusted, right?

Life in my hometown was really quite safe, even for a young girl walking alone at night. My family's house was close to one of the two college campuses in town, so there frequently were young people walking along streets in the evening. One evening, I was doing just that - walking alone in my neighborhood. I was probably no more than three blocks from home, less than five minutes from being inside the door and upstairs, in my room, tucked away safely in bed. I saw a police car coming toward me and when the car slowed down, I saw Don was the driver. These were days when local police did not ride around in pairs - no partners for community policing. Don stopped the car and asked me if I needed or wanted a ride home. I didn't need a ride, but it seemed fine to accept the ride, so I got into the police car, in the front seat, and he drove me the three blocks home and dropped me off in front of my house. After all, Don was a policeman so I could trust him, right?

The next day Mom asked me why I got a ride home in a police car. I don't think I had told her about the ride, so she must have heard from someone else and asked me in order to learn if there was something she should worry about. I explained that the policeman was one of those who used to stop in at the theatre during the winter so I knew him, and he had offered me a ride home. She accepted that answer, because after all, we all trusted policemen in those days, expecting them to be there to protect us. But she did say that if I ever got a ride home from a policeman friend again, I should ask to be let off at the corner so that the police car didn't drive down our street.

Day 52 - Delores and Judy

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Two families in our neighborhood were related. Delores and Judy, the moms, were sisters. That meant their kids were cousins. And Delores and Judy went to the same school as my dad, so their family were neighbors of Dad's family when they were kids as well.

All the moms in the neighborhood were moms to all of us. But Judy and Delores were also like big sisters to all of us. Really fun older sisters. They told us stories about when they were kids that kept us in stitches. Of course, I can't remember any of them, but the memory of laughing with them is still with me.

I think one reason they were like big sisters is that they weren't afraid to let us know they weren't perfect. I remember watching Judy as she made Rice Krispies® Bars without the marshmallows. Or tried to make them. She melted the butter and then mixed the Rice Krispies® into the melted butter and then wondered why the Rice Krispies® didn't stick together. I knew she had skipped a step, but she was an adult and I didn't think I could tell her. When she figured out what she forgot to do, she laughed at herself, giving us kids permission to laugh with her.

I remember going with Delores to her church to roll up bandages for some missionary work. I didn't understand why rolled up pieces of white cloth would be needed anywhere in the world at that time because I thought of bandages as being needed only in wars. I didn't know of any wars going on at that time, but if the adults thought the bandages were necessary, I was happy to help, especially since I was sitting there with a lot of ladies, not sent off into a separate room to play with other kids. That's another reason that she seemed like a big sister.

Delores made up the games just for us. One day she told us she had special powers - I don't think any of us knew the term "ESP" at the time, but that's what she meant. She told us to go into a separate room and pick a number and she would tell us what that number was when we came back into the room. Of course, she didn't just tell us the number. There was a little mystery, a little drama involved. She would have her daughter Carolynn sit on a chair in the middle of the room and while they both closed their eyes, Delores put her hands on the side of Carolynn's face, and after a few dramatic moments, she would announce the number. And she would always be correct.

Delores didn't keep us in the dark. She told us her secret. But I'm not telling.

Day 51 - Bingo

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We played Bingo today at Dad's nursing home. Wednesday is Bingo day every week, so it was no surprise. But since I am only in town occasionally, I always enjoy Bingo day because it is an objective way to measure Dad's involvement with the environment.
The last time I was in town was shortly after Dad's short-term memory took a trip without him. When we started playing Bingo that day, Dad just ignored his card. I kept my eye on both his and mine and pulled the red windows over the numbers as they were called. About half way through the first game, he started looking at his card, eventually pulling it over to be closer to him and shifting his glasses at an odd angle to get a better view of the numbers on the card. Then he started reaching forward to pull the red windows himself, but his hand-eye coordination wasn't quite under control. His hand was either too high or too far to the right to pull the window.  After a few tries, he pushed the card away and said it was too hard. So I took over for him until his interest was piqued again and he began paying closer attention and trying again.

The following week his vision interfered a little less. His fingers aimed a little high, but not over to the right. He didn't push the card away or stop paying attention. I only had to direct his eyes to one of the numbers infrequently.

It has been six weeks since that Wednesday. And Dad's memory hasn't gotten better. So that means each conversation will reoccur a minute or so later. I answer each of Dad's questions as if it were the first time I have heard it. So I was looking forward to Bingo even more today. It would be a break from the repeated questions.

I watched Dad, of course, but I also watched the others at the table. Alice was sitting next to Dad and she was paying very close attention to the numbers being called. She nearly always pulled a red window over a number, but rarely because it was the right number. Occasionally she would reverse the action and lift the window to expose the number again. It didn't matter to Alice whether she was playing according to the rules or even if she Bingo'ed. She was enjoying the time, she was engaged, and she was smiling.

Next to Alice was her daughter-in-law who visits Alice every day. She doesn't obsess about whether Alice is following the rules or paying attention. She just smiles at Alice and Alice smiles back and that is as good as it gets, and probably better than many other mother-in-law/daughter-in-law relationships.

Next to Alice's daughter-in-law was another resident I'll call Mary. Mary had two Bingo cards, but she seemed to have difficulty hearing. She would look up at me and shake her head with a question in her eyes after about every other number. I repeated the number and she turned back to her cards to cover the number with the red window. And the final person at the table was another resident I'll call Betty. Betty had only one card, but she preferred to use it in reverse: instead of pulling the red windows over the numbers when called, she started out with all the windows covering the numbers and she uncovered them when a number was called. At least that's how she started out the game. About half way through, she got confused and started looking at the uncovered numbers instead of the covered ones.

Dad got Bingo once. But he didn't notice it so I raised his card for the Bingo caller to see. I'm a little competitive. I admit it. But as the games continued, I realized that the examples of Alice and her daughter-in-law were pretty significant, so I decided that continuing to play was more important than calling out Bingo to win. Luck seemed to be with me and my card on the next game. I think I had the first five numbers called, putting me in a good position to Bingo quickly. But I decided to keep playing my card regardless of the pattern of the red windows. It was the final game of the afternoon, the one where three Bingo winners get their dime prizes but the game continues as a blackout round. By this time, Dad was getting more involved. Now, when he saw five red windows in a row, he shouted "Bingo" not once but twice. I reminded him it was blackout Bingo now, but inside I celebrated a little bit because he was alert and attentive to something outside of himself.

I've never enjoyed playing Bingo more.

Day 50 - WWNESP

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My journey to San Francisco State University wouldn't have happened if it had not been for Dorothy and Work With Non-English Speaking People (WWNESP), the Methodist Church's program to provide English language classes for Chinese immigrants in the San Francisco area. I was put in touch with WWNESP when I completed a course to  volunteer to teach adults to read through Laubach Literacy's Each One Teach One program. When it became clear that I was not going to be able to find a job in the Berkeley area teaching English at the high school level, I looked into options that might help me move into teaching through volunteering first. The Laubach method volunteer program appealed to me and when I completed it, I learned that some of the adults who wanted to learn to read were not native speakers of English. I volunteered to tutor Angel, a Spanish-speaking man, because it offered me the opportunity to teach English as a Second Language. But instead of being assigned to Angel, the Laubach program coordinator gave my name to Dorothy who was looking for someone to teach a Chinese woman to read English.

The majority of the Chinese speakers in the WWNESP classes were women and immigrants. Guan-yin was an exception. She was the wife of a Chinese American citizen and the two of them owned a Mom-and-Pop grocery store in Oakland. She had lived in the United States since the end of World War II. Because of her experience in the grocery store, she understood and spoke quite good English. But she wanted to become an American citizen like her husband and for that she needed to learn to read English. Guan-yin was used to recognizing patterns within words so she could locate items in their store when customers asked for them. She knew, for example, that "oo" could be found in both the word "book" and the word "noodle." But she was not certain how to figure out how the letters around the "oo" changed the word. Every short word with "oo" in it was "book" to her and every longer word was "noodle." She was interpreting English words as Chinese pictographs.

For a year, I met with Guan-yin every Tuesday, using the Laubach method to try to teach her to read. I hate to admit that we didn't make much progress, although we had many interesting conversations. I also used a textbook that was prepared by the San Francisco PBS station specifically for Chinese speakers. I couldn't help but wonder why one of the first vocabulary items taught in this series was the phrase "elevator operator." L's and r's were challenging for Chinese speakers to hear, let alone pronounce. In addition, most Chinese words were one or two syllables, not four syllables, long. Guan-yin laughed whenever I tried to get her to say elevator operator. Then she told me how frustrating it was that her daughter named her daughter Valerie. Guan-yin couldn't pronounce her granddaughter's name.

After I had worked for a year with Guan-yin, Dorothy asked me to teach one of the classes that met Tuesdays and Thursdays at the Chinese Methodist Church in Oakland.  I enjoyed teaching groups of students more than one-on-one tutoring largely because the one-on-one tutoring put Guan-yin under pressure the entire hour. With a group of students, no one student was under too much pressure and I felt that all of the students made some progress at each meeting. At the end of six months, I knew that teaching English was what I wanted to pursue, so I looked into taking some classes through San Francisco State University's evening extension program. I found three sessions, each one meeting once a week for a month, in February, March, and April. The first session focused on teaching conversation, the second on teaching reading, and the third on teaching grammar. I mentioned the classes to Dorothy because I wasn't sure that I could continue teaching classes both Tuesday and Thursday as well as attending the classes at SFSU. Dorothy was enthusiastic and encouraged me to sign up for the classes. She also agreed to pay for the classes if I couldn't afford to pay for them. I didn't need the help, but I needed the support the offer provided more than I realized.

I completed the three courses which were taught by three staff members of the American Language Institute, Pat, Al, and Vern. I had no idea at the time that I would later also work as a secretary and then later teach at ALI.  But I did know at the completion of the third course that I wanted to enroll in the masters program.  I applied without knowing how I was going to be able to afford it, with my windfall still many months in the future.

WWNESP and Dorothy's willingness to pay for the extension courses were the beginning of my journey.

Day 49 - Don the Counselor

At 15 years old, I went with my church group to a convention of young Lutherans in Detroit, Michigan. We were called Luther Leaguers, although I haven’t heard that term used for a long time. We stayed at a hotel, wore Robin Hood-style felt hats, with the color of hat and feather marking members of the same church, and rode between the hotel and Cobo Hall in buses.

Because our hats identified our home church, it wasn’t surprising when a college student introduced himself as also being from our church, although he wasn't with our group. He was at the convention as chaperone with a different Moorhead church but he was a member of my church. His name was Don.

The convention lasted a week, so we ran into Don often.

The following summer, I went to Leadership Camp, sponsored by my church. One of the counselors there was Don. Because we had met the previous summer, Don and I talked about the Detroit convention and what we did while there. I remember Don saying it took him a couple of months to catch up on all the sleep he lost there. When he learned that I was studying German he asked me if I would be his “Du” friend. It took me awhile to understand what he meant – I heard “do” friend which didn’t make any sense.  He explained he was referring to the familiar form of the German pronoun for “you,” and that it was so special to ask someone to be a “Du” friend that there was a verb for it, “dutzen.” With that background, I told him I would be very pleased to be his “Du” friend.

Now that’s the end of the story of Don the Counselor, but years later I thought about him when I heard stories of how children were misled by adults in positions of trust. And I realized how easily I could have been misled by Don the Counselor. He was someone I trusted. I met him at a church convention. He was a counselor at a church camp. And he gave me attention, something I wasn’t used to.

To be absolutely clear – there was nothing more to the story of Don the Counselor than in the above paragraphs. I admit I had a teenage crush on him. And that is why I could easily imagine being misled by him. I could easily imagine how I could be convinced that attention from him would be acceptable.

And that made me wonder what signs I would have given to my parents that something inappropriate was happening.  I think that in the bottom of my heart I would have known when attention was inappropriate.  And I know I was never any good at trying to hide anything from parents, teachers clergymen, or Campfire Girl leaders.  So I am fairly confident that any inappropriate attention would have not lasted long.

But I’ll never know for sure.

Day 44 - Lutheran Church of the Cross

Lutheran Church of the Cross,
University Avenue location

The church I worked at in Berkeley, the Lutheran Church of the Cross, was unique in many ways. It was the result of the merger of four separate Lutheran churches in Berkeley that until the 1960s had been in four different Lutheran Synods. In 1962, with the creation of the Lutheran Church in America, the four congregations found themselves in the same Synod and the pastors of the four churches began discussing how they could work together to build up all of their congregations without competing with one another for membership. In 1967, the merger was approved by all four congregations and the LCA synod leadership. But each congregation had a different expectation of what the new church would look like. One expectations they all shared was that their location would remain and weekly worship services would continue there.

By the time I arrived in 1970, three of the original four pastors had gone on to new ministries, leaving only one pastor for what were still four quite different congregations, one German, one Finnish, one associated with Pacific Lutheran Theological Seminary, and one associated with UC Berkeley. Each congregation continued to refer to themselves by the names of their pre-merger churches, Bethany, St. Michael's, Shepherd of the Hills, and Holy Trinity. Three of the properties remained, with the property near the University having been sold.  A chapel near the University provided space on Sunday mornings so that services continued to be held each Sunday in four locations.

The office of the church was in what had been the largest of the buildings in the center of Berkeley, on University Avenue. That property was surrounded by businesses and concrete parking lots. The small patch of grass between the sidewalk and the window of my office that overlooked the street was the only patch of green for miles. As a result, I frequently found people sitting or lying on the grass when I glanced out the window. Pedestrians often stopped in front of the building, apparently enjoying the gardens that edged the building. And occasionally some of them even knocked on the door of my office.

Image by Franco Folini, via Flickr

A middle-aged woman was a frequent visitor without an appointment. She was single, most likely past child bearing age, and she desperately wanted to have a child. She stopped in to see if she could talk with Pastor and occasionally even slipped envelopes with cash under the door when the office wasn't open, hoping that it would encourage Pastor to help her get a child.

A middle-aged man whom Pastor called Sterling Hayden because he looked so much like the actor was also a frequent visitor without an appointment.  He never asked for anything. He just came by to talk.

Another man, Robert, was a frequent visitor at both the University Avenue property and the building that had previously been Holy Trinity, the Finnish congregation, on Rose Street.  Robert suffered from shell-shock during World War II which resulted in his being periodically unable to stay with his family. During those times, he would sleep outdoors, sometimes on our lawn, sometimes on the lawn of the house behind the church which the church owned.

The woman who rented that property came into the church one day to complain about Robert sleeping in her back yard. She had elementary school-aged children and the night before Robert had started a fire in the lawn to cook his food. She was afraid Robert would burn down the house.

Rya rug image by planetutopia, via Flickr

After Pastor discouraged Robert from sleeping near the University Avenue building, Robert discovered how he could get into the Rose Street building at night. He slept rolled up in a rya carpet that the ladies of the church had made.  Because he knew the carpet was important to the ladies, he took it away to get it cleaned, and then couldn't remember where he had taken it.  Robert also took all the knives out of the kitchen and all the scissors out of the classrooms and hid them because he said he didn't want the children to hurt themselves. Robert also understood, incorrectly, that the public address system in the Rose Street church wasn't working, so he took it to a shop to get repaired. Then he couldn't remember the name of that place either, although he did remember it was on Telegraph Avenue across the street from a hardware store. The next day I spent many hours calling all the hardware stores on Telegraph Avenue to find out if there was an electronics repair shop across the street. Apparently Robert gave a solid performance when he brought the PA system in because when I found the electronics repair shop, the owner wasn't about to let anyone else come to pick it up.

Robert's last straw was when he left the building after having turned on one of the burners in the kitchen of the Rose Street building, almost burning the building down. The next night, Pastor slept on the sofa in his office to be there when Robert broke in so he could arrange for Robert to stay somewhere in order to keep him out of trouble and our property safe. The next day Pastor asked me to call the facility he understood Robert had been committed to in order to find out if he was there. For reasons of privacy, the facility staff wouldn't tell me anything. Thankfully, Robert called the church later that day from the facility to ask Pastor to come and get him.

Image by Bazule, via Flickr

But the most memorable character I met while working at the Lutheran Church of the Cross was Kenny. Kenny was a four-year-old version of that 8-year-old orphan I had imagined taking to basketball games and movies when I was in college. He was blond, blue-eyed, and full of energy. I met Kenny along with several other boys many years older than Kenny when they discovered the grassy area in front of my office window.

The boys were young enough that their differences didn't divide them. Two of the boys, brothers, were of East Indian descent, but their family came to Berkeley from Kenya so there was no way they would accept being called anything but Africans. One of the boys was African American and he wouldn't tolerate being called African; he was American. Those three were about eight or nine, while Kenny was four. The families of all of the boys lived in an apartment building next to the house behind the church. There was a fence between the church property and the apartment building, but the boys managed to figure out how to get through it.

The first day I saw them, I happened to have some cake in the office. So when they appeared at my window, with their faces and hands pressed up against the glass, I invited them in. I told them they were in luck but that they should not ever expect this to happen again. I had some cake that needed to be eaten. The four boys sat on the floor to eat their cake. It was obvious that the older boys weren't happy having Kenny tagging along with them, but he kept up.

From that day on, the boys would stop by to wave at me, looking as far into the office as they could see, to check whether I had more cake. Kenny was the only one to come into the office without my inviting them. I think he found his way to my office when the older boys pressed him to leave them alone. I remember Kenny asking me to come outside to play with him. I told him I couldn't because I had to work. Kenny looked up in surprise and said his parents didn't work, so he didn't know why I had to work. I said I worked to earn money to pay the rent and to buy food. That didn't seem to sink in.

Image by  Elizabeth/Table4Five, via Flickr

That first day, the older boys asked me if they could take the empty soda bottles that were in the kitchen. They were not bottles that required a deposit, so I told them they could take them. I learned later that the owner of the small store around the corner where I bought my lunch each day would take all bottles the boys brought in and he gave them a nickel for each one, even the no deposit/no return bottles. He thought it was important to make sure the bottles didn't end up broken on the street and was willing to pay the pennies the boys were so eager to get.

One day when Kenny was by himself in my office, I saw him pick up bottles from the counter and walk toward the door. I stopped him and told him I didn't like it when he stole my bottles. Again, he looked at me without understanding in his eyes. He said he wasn't stealing them. I responded, not realizing how significant my word choice would be, that he was ripping me off. Now that Kenny understood. He put down the bottles and put his hands on his hips and declared, "I am not ripping you off. I would never rip someone off." Later I learned what a clue that response was to Kenny's home life.

All the boys were well dressed, but Kenny's clothes were always spotless and obviously new. I assumed that Kenny's parents were concerned about him, as I expected all parents were.  But I learned that one of the reasons Kenny hung around with the older boys was that his parents would lock him out of the house for hours at a time, something that didn't quite fit with the image of concerned parents.

One time when Kenny came to my office alone, he sat down at the second desk in the office. He picked up a stapler and asked me for some paper. I gave him some sheets that I would have thrown away and Kenny started stapling the papers together. I asked him what he was doing and he said he was working because someone in his family had to earn money for rent.

Image by freefotouk, via Flickr

My friends Doug and Nancy lived in an apartment above the garage at the end of the church parking lot. Their back windows looked out over the parking lot next to the apartment building. One evening, Doug called to tell me that the police had been in the parking lot that night and they had taken Kenny and his parents away, the parents in handcuffs. Doug had talked with a few of the neighbors and learned that Kenny's parents were arrested for dealing drugs.

The next morning, Kenny showed up in my office full of energy. In spite of his small size he nearly threw the door open and rushed in with a big grin and said, "Guess where I was last night!" Without waiting long enough for me to answer, he continued "I was in the pig station." This time he didn't stay around. He rushed back out, probably to share his news with others. I learned later that Kenny was taken away from his parents and put into his grandparents' custody. I never saw him again.

Day 43 - Illiteracy at SFSU

Image by Joey Yen, via Flickr

Before I enrolled at SFSU, I received a package from the registrar's office with a list of what I needed to bring with me on the day of registration. Among other things was the result of a chest X-ray not more than 6 months old. Since I hadn't had a chest X-ray in several years and I received the letter in Minnesota, I had to schedule one before Cathy and I left for California.

I made an appointment at the Fargo Clinic where I had been a patient as a child. When they finally called my name, they told me I needed a doctor's order to get a chest X-ray. I showed them the letter from the SFSU registrar that said I would not be allowed to register unless I had the report on a recent chest X-ray. I didn't have enough time to schedule a doctor's visit. They relented and for about $80, I got my X-ray.

When I arrived to register, I saw a sign that directed those who didn't have chest X-ray results to join the line to the left while those with results were directed to the line at the right. What was the first stop for the line on the left? A free chest X-ray. So much for not being allowed to register.

Chest X-ray image by upton, via Flickr

The letter from the registrar also spelled out the order of priority for registering for classes, depending on one's major, minor, and years remaining to complete a degree. Seniors, for example, had priority for classes in their major because they were in their final year and this was the final opportunity to complete all their required classes. For graduate students, the course of study was the most important. From 8 am to noon, for example, I had priority to register for English classes. After noon, I could try to line up classes in other disciplines.

So I headed to the line for graduate level English classes. The woman ahead of me introduced herself. Lynn ended up in many of my classes and eventually became my roommate beginning the fall semester after my summer in Minnesota translating for a Bolivian missionary.

Once I had signed up for a number of English courses, I headed for the Psychology Department. There I discovered the rules were quite different. The doors to the registration hall were closed, with a teaching assistant blocking the way to prevent everyone from entering.  Every half hour, someone came out and taped sheets of paper with two or three letters on them to the outside wall. Those whose last names began with one of those letters would then be allowed into the registration hall. It didn't matter what the person's major was, or how close he or she was to completing a degree.

I needed a psychology class to meet the requirements of the masters program. I didn't need a specific psychology class, just one of a range would do. But by the time the W went up on the wall outside the registration hall, none of the courses that would meet the requirement were available. With a last name that began with W, I was used to being among the last called on, but that wasn't an excuse this time. I had to admit that W didn't go up toward the end of the day because of its alphabetical position. The letters were being drawn from a hat to ensure their order was entirely random. But that random order had absolutely nothing to do with the instructions in my letter from the registrar.

Image by dougbelshaw, via Flickr

A few years later, when I was teaching at Southern Illinois University, a cartoon in the local paper showed two boys walking across the campus where a sign said "Wipe out illiteracy." One boy asks the other what the sign says. The other responds, "I think it says 'Keep off the grass.'"

My first thought on seeing that cartoon was of my registration experience in San Francisco where what was written wasn't followed so it was little wonder that students didn't bother reading. But maybe what the university was looking for was bureaucracy literacy, not reading literacy.

Day 41 - Food Stamps

Image by NCReedplayer, via Flickr

Given the amount of emotion being shared via Facebook these days - both before the November election and since - I thought it was about time that I admit something that I'm betting almost none of you know: I once received food stamps. So when I read all those posts about the welfare mentality of those who not only accept, but also seek, government assistance, I feel a bit of that anger aimed my way. So let me explain just how I ended up having to turn to government assistance for a very short period of time.

After my first semester at SFSU, I left San Francisco to spend the summer in Minnesota. A few of those Minnesota experiences are included in my Day 27 post - My Guardian Angel.  Mom knew I was coming home for that summer. She is the one who lined up the driving and translating opportunity for me. My previous year of Spanish at Laney College was put to excellent use that summer. I even learned a little of the Bolivian accent which doesn't trill the initial or double r in words, it turns that sound into a "z" sound. So instead of a rolled R at the beginning of both words in the translation of Red River, Rio Rojo, the Bolivian version was more like Zio Zojo. As I mentioned in Day 27, I wasn't paid for my summer of driving and translating, and I had just about enough money to get myself back to San Francisco in time for the second semester without a lot of spare change for anything, including rent.

I had arranged to share an apartment with one of my classmates, Lynn, so I didn't have to look for a place to live this time. I just had to find a job to be able to pay both the rent and the fees for classes. California residents didn't have to pay tuition at SFSU, but there were still fees, so attending wasn't without some cost.

Image by Jeremy Brooks, via Flickr

One of the first things I did was set up a bank account at Hibernia Bank, a local San Francisco bank that promoted the personalization of checks in whatever way their customers wanted. Since life seemed to be going my way, I selected the phrase "It's gonna be all right" at the top of my check blanks - right above my name. I had no idea how much fun it would be to hand over checks with that saying at the top. Many people thought I meant that the check was going to be all right and no one seemed to question it. Life really did seem like it was going to be all right. A few weeks later, Hibernia Bank asked for my permission to use a copy of my check on one of their billboards, minus my address and phone number. They paid for my next order of check blanks in exchange for my permission. Not much, but it was more evidence that the slogan on my check was accurate.

I knew I might have some trouble paying for everything out of whatever part-time job I might get, so I applied for a student loan and was approved for enough to pay my rent, leaving me with a much smaller amount to have to earn through part-time work.

I was able to schedule all of my classes for Mondays, Wednesday, or Fridays or in the evening so that I could work all day Tuesdays and Thursdays. I signed up with a temporary agency that was able to find me day at a time assignments or five-hour shifts that didn't interfere with my classes. It looked like I was going to make it after all.

Then one Friday, when I was at a five-hour shift assignment downtown, my throat hurt so much I could hardly swallow. The woman I was helping sent me home because she could see how uncomfortable I was. That weekend, I slept straight through until Monday morning when I called my temporary agency supervisor to explain that I just couldn't go to work that day. I headed for the University health center where the first doctor I saw prescribed antibiotics after diagnosing me with strep throat. I went home, took the medicine, and slept some more. A lot more. By the following Friday, my throat was no better, so I headed back to the health center. The first doctor brought in a second doctor since the treatment should have knocked out strep throat. The second doctor took one look at my throat and then felt the glands at my neck and announced that I had mononucleosis. She sent me home with instructions to slow down, stop working, drop half my classes, and get lots and lots of rest.

It didn't take long to figure out I wasn't going to make it financially. That first week, I received a letter from the organization I had volunteered with that summer. Along with the letter was a check for $100, a token of their appreciation for my work that summer. That $100 check paid the rent the first month I was sick.

Image by Mercy Health, via Flickr

But I knew there weren't going to be any more token checks. I had been approved for a student loan, but I still hadn't received the money. One of my friends suggested that I apply for food stamps. My first thought was absolutely not. I was not going to stoop so low as to accept welfare. My friend insisted that nearly everyone in his class at law school was on food stamps. It was a necessary means to continue attending graduate school which would lead to a professional degree that would allow the recipient to become gainfully employed - at a handsome lawyer's salary - which would ensure the recipient would make a greater contribution to society in the future. I kinda-sorta accepted that explanation, although I still wasn't convinced that it was "right."

Without a lot of other options since I couldn't work, I applied for food stamps, and I was approved. Each month I received $77 worth of food stamps for which I had to pay $70.  I received food stamps for about a year, until I had sufficiently recovered from mononucleosis to get a part-time job at the American Language Institute which led to my being selected as one of their student teachers. So that means I received a total of $84.00 in government-subsidized food stamps, not even enough to pay for a month's rent. It took awhile for me to use those food stamps without being self-conscious. I had to separate my food items from the non-food items I needed but that food stamps couldn't be used to purchase - not cigarettes or liquor because I didn't buy those anyway, but paper and feminine hygiene products, for example. After the year, I was happy not to receive them any longer. But I also stopped looking down on those around me who still did. I don't know how much each of them had to pay for the total they received. And it turns out my friend was right. Because I got food stamps, I was able to complete my Masters degree which brought me eventually to the Department of State where I still am contributing.

Day 38 - Post-graduate Students in Iasi

A I Cuza University, Iasi, Romania, Image by blankdots,
 via Flickr

I was the American lecturer in Iasi during my year there. I was the American lecturer because there was never more than one American lecturer in a school year. My colleague, Chris, was the British lecturer for the same reason. The two of us were the native speakers of the language, supplements to the Romanian teachers of English, all of whom had learned English from other non-native speakers of the language. The result was a quaint version of English that included a lot of direct translations from the way things would be said in Romanian. For example, the Romanian language does not have the equivalent of modal verbs. For the non-language lovers among you, modal verbs were probably called "helping" verbs by your teachers because they are not used alone, they "help" other verbs. They are can, could, may, might, shall, should, will and would. They don't indicate the time of something happening although could, might, should, and would are often used as the past tense version of can, may, shall, and should, respectively.

Image by GrammarGirl, via Flickr

Without modal verbs, Romanians have to use other ways to express the meaning of, for example, can which has the meaning of both ability and possibility. "I can do it" becomes when translated from the Romanian version of that same concept, "I have the ability to do it." It's more fun in the past tense: "I can't go to the movie tonight" becomes "I haven't the possibility of going to the movie tonight."

In colleges and universities in the United States, any student with absolutely no knowledge of a foreign language can sign up for French or German or Spanish 101 in his or her freshman year and come out four years later with a degree and a major in that language. In Romania things were not so simple. In order to be accepted into the English program at the University in Iasi, the students had to pass a test to prove their competence in the language. And when I learned what some of the questions were, I wasn't sure I could have passed the test.  You try one: name 5 English verbs that are the same in both present and past tense for all but third person singular.

So when I was told that, in addition to several classes of conversational English with university undergraduates, I would have an evening class of post-graduate students, I was a little apprehensive about just what they would expect from me. I had prepared a multiple-choice test to help me assess their level in English: 50 questions that ranged from something as simple as determining which verb form completes a simple sentence in the present tense up through the same task in a sentence that retains a vestige of the conditional mood in English. Those questions are often answered correctly by a student who knows almost nothing about English and by someone who is fluent while causing difficulty for someone who has studied the language for many years. Try it: what form of the verb go completes this sentence: I suggested that he ______ immediately. Is it go or goes?

I handed out my 50-question proficiency test to the post-graduate students that first evening, thinking that it would probably take them most of the hour to complete it, and then I would have the rest of the week to look at their results to see what level they were at as a group and then come up with a plan. Within five minutes, however, one of the women began reading the first question aloud, looking up at me as she went along. She was smiling, but looked just a little timid as she announced her guess for the correct answer to that question. As I looked around the room, I saw that all the other students -- all adults and in this case most of them much older than I -- were looking not at their papers but at the woman who was reading. After announcing her guess, she asked if it was right. It was, but I began to realize my first hour wasn't going to go as planned.

The reading aloud of the questions and announcing of the guesses continued for about five more minutes until the student was stumped by an item that required her to select "he" or "she" based on the name of the person in the sentence. She was stumped because Romanian names are nothing like the Dick, Jane, and Sally names we grew up with when learning to read. She couldn't answer "he" or "she" not because she didn't know the former was for males and the latter for females but because she didn't know whether Tom was a boy's or girl's name.

Image by Argonne National Laboratory, via Flickr

I don't think any of them tried to answer even five of the questions. They were all post-graduate students, but their degrees were not in English but other subjects. Most of them were engineers, a profession that didn't require mastery of English, but where knowledge of English was beneficial.

With that adjustment in my understanding, I learned that what they wanted most was the opportunity to converse in English, the same opportunity we foreign lecturers provided for the undergraduate students. So I was able to use many of the same lesson plans for both groups.

One of the women in the post-graduate class wasn't able to complete the class because she gave birth to a boy before the course ended. The man who announced the arrival of her son also told us his name. The baby was going to be Tom Bob Dick John James Harry Vlad, proving that he, at least, had sorted out which names were boy's name and which weren't.

For those of you who tried to name 5 English verbs that are the same in both present and past tense for all but third person singular, how did you do? Here are those I can think of now: cut, put, shut, cost, fit, hit, quit, slit, split. But I must admit that I couldn't think of more than 3 when I first heard the question.

Day 37 - Cats

My first husband and I received many wedding gifts, but one was very special: an orange tabby cat we named Bilbo Baggins, but we always called Cat. Cat was a gift from my friend Cathy and her boyfriend David. Cathy's mother tried to talk her out of giving us a live gift, but Cathy persisted, and we were very grateful for what Cat brought to our lives. But four months later, we moved to California and knew we would have to find an apartment there.

Image by vincent chen, via Flickr

We had prepared Cat for the move. On our way out of Minnesota, we stayed with Don's parents for a week. His parents arranged for Cat to stay at a cat kennel during that stay. While there, Cat was "fixed" and got all his shots so we would have a current health certificate when we entered California. Along the way, we learned that not all motels were happy to have cats in their rooms. Many just tolerated animals and required an extra fee. So when we got to Berkeley, we knew it was going to be a challenge to find a place where we could keep Cat.

After two nights in a motel, we knew we had to find an apartment fast because we didn't have a lot of spare cash. When we found one that was furnished and only required first months' rent, plus a modest cleaning deposit, we had just enough for it, but they didn't allow animals. The explanation from the manager was that animals brought fleas into the building. Well that's not what I had heard. I had heard it was dirty people living in dirty houses who brought fleas into their homes, so I was initially insulted that the manager would think I wouldn't keep the apartment clean. But indignation would not pay the rent.

We took Cat to the Humane Society. More precisely, we drove to the Humane Society and Don brought Cat into the building. When he came back out, he told me the people inside were sure they could find a new home for Cat because he was still a kitten and so very cute. I chose to believe Don, although I had many reasons to be suspicious.

Later that day, we moved into our apartment, without Cat. And I cried and cried.

Image by fatedsnowfox, via Flickr

The next day was a Saturday. Don had spent some time on the UC Berkeley campus earlier in the week and he found information about a free movie playing that afternoon. We went. It was Born Free about Elsa, the lion. What a miserable choice for the day after giving away our cat. I spent more time crying that evening.

As soon as we could, we moved out of that apartment that didn't allow animals so we could get another cat. One of the women who worked at the church I worked at had a female Siamese cat who clearly got out and mixed with a different category of cat altogether with the result being a half dozen kittens who needed homes. We picked one out. He was really mostly white, not Siamese in color, his fur was long, not short, and he had just a couple of spots on him that looked like Siamese coloring. We named him after Cathy, but we never called him anything but Kitty.

Kitty wasn't comfortable in a crowd. If we had guests for dinner, Kitty would disappear, but not usually until after giving me a swipe of his claws to let me know he wasn't happy about having to share his space.

Image by david_pics, via Flickr

While Kitty didn't inherit much in the way of Siamese coloring, he did inherit a Siamese voice. When he was outside and wanted to come in, there was no way I was going to sleep through it. And because I didn't want to discover he was bothering my neighbors, too, my internal detectors got me up and out of bed very quickly to let him in. Usually he just wanted a light snack to be followed almost immediately with another cry to go back outside. So I thought I could address it by putting his food out on the back porch.  That failed. Kitty would come to the front door to cry to get in and once in, he would make his way to the kitchen where he expected his food dish to be. When he discovered it wasn't there, he just cried again to be let out the back door where he eventually found his food, right where I put it.

After three years of his living with me in Berkeley, I needed to find a new home for Kitty because I would be moving across the bay to San Francisco for graduate school. My sister came up with the solution. She had a friend who had just gotten married and they were looking for a pet. So I packed up Kitty in an orange crate box, put him on the passenger seat of my VW beetle, and drove to Costa Mesa to spend Christmas with my aunt and her family. Since my aunt had a dog, Kitty spent the entire week behind the sofa in her living room, out of reach of the dog. From Costa Mesa, where my parents, sister, and three of my brothers met me, I drove to Phoenix with my sister and Kitty to spend a few days with my grandparents. Kitty spent that week in a closet. Eventually my sister and I made it to Minnesota, Kitty moved in with her new family, and I understand my sister's friend's husband trained him to bring him his slippers when he got home from work.