First Degree Murder And Two Degrees of Separation Make A 360 Degree Connection

Christopher Lane

Christopher Lane's soulful eyes were the first thing that caught my eye when I went online last week for my routine e-mail check. Although I don't make routine stops to read every story that pops up on my screen, for some reason that day, I did. Even before getting around to my e-mails, I was hooked by those eyes and reeled in by the caption line of Chris' story. It reported how these three teens basically admitted to shooting a totally random stranger, just because they were totally bored. I purposely avoid using the word "confessed" because that to me implies possession of conscience. So far in the investigation, there is no substantial evidence of conscience, human emotion, remorse or regret ~ or for that matter, not even legitimate boredom.

Many of my substitute teaching assignments take place in juvenile detention halls with kids who have criminal records ranging from misdemeanors to felonies. In my deepest-down desire to make a positive impact on every student whose path I cross, I've always managed to separate the person from the crime they committed, knowing that usually behind every "senseless" crime is an abnormal psyche twisted by generational dysfunction (yes, I can speak a little Psychobabble, too). I suppose it becomes easier for me to make that separation between person and crime, when nine times out of ten they're usually volunteering that information, as if I were their trusted counselor. And nine times out of ten they share with me in apparent remorse for what they've done and with resolve to do better when they get out.

However, after reading about this senseless, soul-less act of human devaluation, one of my very first thoughts was, what kind of teacher could I possibly be to any student if I knew they had committed a crime like this? And daring to take my personal ideology to a whole new level of self-interrogation … And what if the victim was my own son? What then? (Oh God, I solemnly swear I'd try to do my best to be my best without that first-hand experience.)

Well, as irony would have it, I would soon discover why I was reeled in by that particular story last week. Reading that Chris was a student attending college in Oklahoma on a baseball scholarship, I immediately thought of my friend Mark Rountree, a resident of Oklahoma and former long-time Sports Editor for Enid News. Also knowing that his son Nick plays college baseball, I thought I'd send him a link to the story via Facebook, asking him if either he or Nick happened to know Chris. Well, Mark soon revealed that not only did Nick know him, but he and Chris were roommates while attending Redlands Community College in El Reno (2009-10).

Nick Rountree

For several days, "mused" by this unlikely serendipity and fired up by only two degrees of separation from Chris Lane, I had been churning the idea of posting this reflection in my blog. When I logged on the other night to ask Mark if he'd mind that I contact Nick, I was surprised to find his e-mail asking me to write Nick "a note of support" through Facebook, because "he is hurting."

Mark also informed me about the article that Enid News posted from an interview with Nick. I read the article and thought, that's exactly what I wanted to ask ~ how Nick remembered Chris in a way that spoke for others. Mark was proud of the fact that Nick "chose to represent all of us who were heartbroken by the stupid act of senseless cruelty, and doing it in a way that revealed to everybody that didn’t know Chris, what a great kid he was."

My metaphorical, metaphysical mind won't rest until I can somehow make meaning where there is seemingly none. Although Chris' passing was premature by our measure of a healthy lifespan, Chris was also clearly an "old soul" whose 22 years packed a full lifetime of meaningful impact on the lives of others. 

Nick Rountree's descriptors of Chris sparked these reflections of mine. If it's possible to condense a super-sized personality into a small blog box, I'm squeezing my paraphrased version of Nick's take on Chris into this Muse Box. In essence, Chris was so not mediocre, as he always worked hard to look for ways to do his best. He was a role model for "how a man should be." He was the guy everyone went to on the weekends. He loved a good argument and was so good at it that it was frustrating. He made an impact on everyone he met. Even those who never knew him were donating money to help with the funeral arrangements.He was loved by everyone he knew. He made them better people. Chris loved America, and he loved playing baseball. America gave him baseball and Sarah Harper, his best friend and soul mate (my words).

And although there are still many stones left to be turned, rocks to be lifted, and boulders to be rolled out of the way before all of the dirt is dug up and justice can be served, the sad fact of this reality is that many will never know the beauty that is still part of the American Dream. When they think of America, they may only think of a nightmarishly sick society where you, Chris, were lured to be stolen from them. They may never equate America with a place where you made a difference in countless lives ~ the place where you lived, loved, laughed and played right up until your very last day with US.

Nevertheless, may the burden of proof rest in the fact that even from such a senseless act such as this first degree murder, a person's fire will never truly be extinguished, if it can be used to turn up the heat to 360 degrees and travel the globe full circle to blaze a path for others.

Chris, somehow I know that in the grand scheme of things ~ or translated into your baseball lingo (in my lame attempt to keep metaphor alive) ~ in the final play of the final inning of your best game ever, some invisible force must have pitched me that hook en route to my e-mails that day. Your story combined with our two degrees of separation turned me into a sideline cheerleader ~ if there are cheerleaders in Baseball Heaven. I don't know much about baseball, but I do know people. And the more I read and hear about you, the more I'm cheering the fact that you covered every base in your 22 years, as you scored many Home Runs, when you became a role model for "how a man should be" (Nick Rountree).

Joanne of Frank

P.S. ~ Thank you, Nick, for sharing your observations on Chris. The fact that you even highlighted those key traits of his is a reflection of who you are. That's why you, Chris and Sarah were drawn together for that period of time. You shared much more in common than just baseball. That's also why Chris never truly left or "lost touch" with you. 

Cancelled Affair With Grim Reaper

Maybe more accurately "Postponed Affair" ~ Originally posted in the Powerful Intentions Online Community where I was first mused to blog, this piece gives a little more insight as to why I'm still mused to write. I joined that online community shortly after watching the video "The Secret." Fusing some wires and vibes with new friends who paved my path to other social networks, I finally decided to get my own "box." With some little tweaks and updates, I'm republishing here for its "appreciated value" still held in my life today.

He wanted me ~ I know he did, and although there was a time in this life of mine when I might have considered a date with him, last Wednesday, October 15^th, 2008, was simply not a good day to have an affair. I had more important affairs to attend to that day…like making breakfast for my 11-year-old daughter, cleaning the house, making a wholesome dinner for my family, sorting through 118 e-mails, e-mailing family and friends, and riding my bike completely around the lake.

Well, apparently Grim Reaper Agent #7E02809 didn’t check in with me before he came to pick me up. I imagine that when he didn’t find me at home, he raced around the lake to find me on my bike. He was in such a hurry to get to me that he knocked over a 45-mile speed sign, ripping its wooden post right from its hole in the shoulder of the road I was riding on. When he realized what he had done, he screeched and swerved around the sign, coming only two inches away from knocking my handle bars out of commission, not to mention the whole right side of my body…!

By the time I was able to fully process what nearly hit me I only caught the tail end of a dark green truck, speeding towards the horizon. I heard voices from across the street, yelling for me to call the police…"He almost killed you…! Call 9-1-1…!” I saw the lady on the phone and assumed that she was already on it, but the man standing next to her kept yelling for me to call 9-1-1.

How did he even know I happened to have a cell phone in my right pocket? Who knows? This is Lake Elsinore… We can have anything from brain-dead speed freaks to phony psychics lining the more antiquated side of the lake where I was riding that day. Anyway, this man was on it ~ he told me to alert the police to look for a truck with a dented-in front bumper heading east on Grand Avenue.

My first irrational thought was that I would catch up to that maniac myself and let him have a close encounter of the only kind with this “psycho-lady” who only two and a half years earlier survived another near-fatal collision… Let’s put that story on hold for now.

My first rational thought was that the chances of ever seeing this speed demon again were next to none, judging from the way he took off like a bullet… but then again, whenever I have “affairs” like this one, they can never be described as quite ordinary.

In hindsight, my most irrational thoughts have made me become even more highly aware of some sort of invisible shield around me that has been there my whole life. Years before my over-active imagination could possibly partner up with any encouragement from Star Wars and the “Force,” I had become more highly aware of my intuitive nature, always after the fact… In other words, being intuitive has never kicked in “on command”…but it does get eerie sometimes…

After phoning 9-1-1 and reporting the incident to an officer, I exchanged a few more words with the eye-witness neighbors and then stayed on the “wrong” side of the track, no longer trusting anyone to surprise me from behind ~ on the “right” side of the road. I had already mapped out my route to my friend Angela’s house. She had been waiting for me to pay her a visit, and I knew which street I had intended to turn down. However, as implied earlier, my intuitive nature often takes over without forewarning. As I approached a side street, I thought, I might as well turn in here and get off this main drag… All of these streets connect anyway… I’ll take the side streets to Angela’s…

No sooner I turned onto that side street, a few houses down on the left my eyes caught sight of an unoccupied, dark green, open bed truck… No way! The first thing I went to examine, of course, was the front bumper… No double way! I never thought the sight of a smashed-in bumper could give me giddy goose bumps, but on that particular day, every dent and ripple on that bumper was a beautiful sight for my rational mind to behold.

There were a couple of neighbors working in their front yard just across the street from the parked vehicle. I coupled a calm demeanor with a rational voice ~ needing help from my theatrical persona ~ and asked the lady if she knew the owner of the vehicle. I told her what went down ~ literally ~ just a couple of miles down the road. She said she hadn’t noticed when the truck first pulled up to its parking spot, but that it did not belong to the homeowner and she had never seen it there before.

I asked her for a paper and pen to write down the plate number. While she went in to get them, I was dialing 9-1-1 and perhaps by chance again ~ who knows? ~ I happened to get the same officer who took the original report. He knew me by name at that point. I told him that I had never expected to see the truck again… So, I was stunned to be calling him back so soon. I was able to give a more detailed description ~ Dodge Ram with a passenger cab. I read him the license number and said that I certainly hoped it would be tracked down and addressed, even if they could not prove who the driver was.

Since they were not able to send a local officer immediately, they said it would be a while before someone would get there from a neighboring city. At that point, all I could think of was visiting with an old friend. Angela was only two minutes away. I told them to call me on my cell phone once the officer got to the address where the truck was parked and I would meet him back there to make my report.

Maybe I had ignored my intuition ~ otherwise I might have had a chance to address the driver myself ~ had I stayed with the truck. Or maybe that date with Grim Reaper Agent #7E02809 would have been kept after all ~ had I stayed to tempt (or greet) my fate… Again, who knows?

I do know that no matter how ready I think I may be at any given moment “The Force” is still with me and will continue to surround me until I have completed my earthly mission ~ whatever that may be… I’m sure hindsight will reveal that to me, too… and I do know that I need to write… I need to express my gratitude for the simplest things that have made me smile and for the most complex issues that have made me think. I need to write these things down or forever hold my peace…

I am so thankful for the daily chores that are often regarded as unending drudgeries ~ I have come to appreciate the sensory experience of warm sudsy water while cleaning scummy plates and utensils, as I have learned to transform “drudgerous” duties into momentous Zen experiences. Not only producing clean and shiny dishes, I now possess a mental library of blueprints for creative projects, anywhere from holistic gourmet recipes prepared from leftover meals to accessories made from fabric remnants and recycled jeans. These Zen moments also afford me the time to reflect on the home I’ve created with my loved ones in mind.

I am so thankful for my loved ones ~ the very same loved ones who have trouble “getting me” at times, as seen by accusations that describe someone I don’t see when I look in the mirror…yet, those very same loved ones who have only reacted out of their own need to express themselves and be heard, are now recognized and valued for their major contributions to my life goals ~ one of which includes unconditional love.

I reflect on ways I have been misunderstood and how I might have foreseen and avoided some of those misperceptions ~ had I understood more deeply the needs of others. I reflect on ways that I might listen more intently and make others feel like a valued part of my life ~ because they are… I reflect on a line from the prayer of St. Francis of Assisi ~ in essence, that I seek not to be understood so much as to understand.

I am so thankful for my home ~ the very same home I had left just two years ago and came back to this past summer with new resolve. I am so thankful for every door knob that needs fixing, every cracked wall that can use a patch and a fresh coat of paint, and even the out-dated popcorn ceiling that will eventually be scraped for the “greater good” of the whole ~ house décor, that is… (Well, it's now 2013, and my gratitude for that home allowed me to move on to the new home I'm in now, leaving me with much less maintenance and more time to enjoy life and write).

For it has been through these minor eye sores that I have come to realize that just like an old home that demands regular maintenance and repairs, every lifelong-term relationship has need of its own regular maintenance, and when left unattended, often demands major repairs ~ that is, if the desired outcome is to update and evolve the hidden potential of the home and the relationships that reside within (and now in 2013, hindsight leaves me with absolutely no regret ~ because I did the best I knew how and had to relocate for my own growth and evolution to take place. And not to mix too many metaphors, but the lesson here is that you can't dance smoothly with a partner who has two left feet and always thinks one is right).

I am so thankful for my health and for the energy I still have at (nearly) 52, still feeling like I’m in the prime of my life (56 at the time of this publication with even more energy than at the "prime" of my life).  However, if not for the agonies of stress-generated maladies and diagnosed dis-ease driving me crazy, I might never have been “crazy” enough to examine holistic and time-honored remedies that have served to regenerate the parts of me that have warranted repair. I wish to share my health “secrets” with everyone who struggles needlessly… Yet, I choose not to tread where my wisdom and intent are unsolicited… I hope to model it instead ~ a life and lifestyle worth imitating ~ for producing satisfying results in optimal health and well-being… Yes, our physical bodies did come with a warranty… It’s in our DNA…!

And I am so thankful for a mind that never quits ~ “I think, therefore, I AM…” and I AM STILL ALIVE…!

Light, Life, Laughter & Love ~

Joanne of Frank

Titles + Names = Mixed Messages: A Raving, Edu-taining Substi-tutor's Rant

This rant had been in hiding for four years (in an obscure word doc file) until resurrecting my personal blog spot. Because so much time had gone into polishing this huge nugget of a rant, I had decided to use it for my Resurrection Kickoff. It was something I never quite got off my chest (or out of my treasure chest) until recently...

At last, my idea has hatched. The idea to address this issue has been incubating inside my head for quite a while now. I have thought long and hard about how to write this without leaving a bad taste in the reader's mouth ~ gulp ~ which is exactly why I had never written this before.

Someone's taste buds are bound to rebound no matter how much sugar, honey, or artificial sweeteners I use. My conclusion: that's what mouthwash is for. So, if you think you may need some after reading this, have a bottle of it handy. And while you're at it, you may need some pain reliever. This could get mind-numbing if you start banging your head against the wall as you begin reading the writing between the lines. Our names are there in graffiti, announcing clues to the public, clues that describe how we see ourselves.

Most published, widely-read and well-respected authors will have done their homework before writing any piece that creates controversy. No problem: since I am not a widely-read published author, no respect gained is no respect lost. I am not taking the time to research how, why, and when we use titles and names to address people. I am not going into the social etiquette columns to ask for "expert" advice on the proper use of titles. And neither am I conducting a public survey or opinion poll on the matter.

I have had my fill of academia and the higher institutional demands of reading and analyzing other people's research results - all for just the privilege of hopping up onto the shoulders of the forerunners who comprise knowledge-based pyramids as testaments to fact-versus-fiction. Perhaps for fear of what I might hear, I do not pose the question of proper name etiquette to those supporting me on that pyramid. One of the supporters just might shrug... Oops...! Did I do that...?

This has nothing to do with spreading or building more knowledge about our educational system or how we are to teach and shape our young minds. However, it can and does get entwined with personal philosophies of education. It weaves itself into a much larger tapestry of religious, political, cultural and social philosophies.

Ergo, as I will take the road less traveled and lean towards a more creative approach to this topic, I will stick to what I know, based on my own experiences and observations, as well as my own reflections on both. Let me begin with this little narrative.

I am a professional substi-tutor ~ a term I have coined to denote what I do that goes beyond the duties of your average substitute teacher. One particular Friday, I had just finished ushering the last period of eighth-grade students out the door with good-byes and I hope to see you again As an experienced sub, I was feeling the afterglow of yet another successful day's assignment.

I had succeeded in coaxing five groups of resistant adolescents into voluntarily reading aloud for me ~ a total stranger to them. I had edu-tained them out of their routine boredom and helped them make the most of their most dreaded and mundane minutes of the day. Time flew by and they were asking me to come back again.

Unfortunately, because my personal teaching style tends to cross the boundaries that most traditionalists have drawn around themselves, I always risk the chance that I may not be requested to sub for them again. That is the most dangerous part of my job, even though I have worked with some of the most "dangerous" students across the board. What is it that I do that offends the traditionalist and literally provokes them to cross my name out? One of those things, believe it or not, is the use of my first name.

Nevertheless, being the social diplomat that I am, I am also careful to precede my name with the title, Ms. When I first began using that address I reasoned that it would not be a problem with any educated adult. However, I soon learned the difference between the two terms educated and enlightened.

Earlier that day, the instructional aide and I had a conversation about my "name" philosophy and she seemed very receptive to it, respecting my preference. As the last of the students filed out the door, we began to collect books and straighten up the room. A teacher from a neighboring classroom entered our room from their shared pod. She was escorting back to the classroom one of the "troublemakers" who had been removed from the room at the onset of the class - before I had even taken the attendance.

He returned with a forced apology for interrupting me earlier. In the presence of the escorting teacher, a self-designated bad cop on campus, I addressed the student: "I'm really disappointed that you had to be removed from the class before we even got a chance to be introduced," I offered for starters. "However, even though I have a sense of humor and I didn't take your comments personally, I know you are aware of your teachers' expectations not to interrupt when anyone is speaking."

In my heart I knew I could have had the kid eating right out of my hand or reading right out of his book before the end of that class - had he not been busted for being a class clown by another bad cop teacher patrolling our doorway at the start of class. Oh well, at least they left five other class clowns to share the circus ring with me.

After he left, the escorting teacher began informing me of how he is always in trouble and how his mom works there, etc, etc... Don't let me get started on that topic. Suddenly pushing the pause button on her exasperated spiel, as if she had spotted an unusual bug on the white board, she read my name. "Who is Ms. Joanne?"

Already forewarned by first impressions, and anticipating a confrontation, I was gearing up once again to defend my name philosophy. "That would be me."

"You use your first name?"

"Well, I..." Admittedly, I wasn't fully ready and armored for a verbal-sparring duel.

"I had never heard of a middle-school teacher using their first name, until I had a sub once that used his... I never requested him for a sub again." He used the title Mr. before his first name; but even so, she made no mention of how well he conducted the class, how the students minded him, or even if he followed the lesson plans. She used that authoritarian stance that actually revealed more about her own M.O. on power plays.

My first joust was a feeble attempt to not lose my footing: "Well, I use it for a number of reasons. In my case, my last name has changed a few times - my first married name, then back to my maiden name, and then my second married name... Anyway, I would rather not have students know how to look me up with any last name..." I felt the tip of her sword on my chest as she leaned in for another joust of her own.

"Then use your initial."

Okay, my turn... this time with my shield up and ready: "I used that before, when I worked as an instructional aide and had gone back to using my maiden name. Using Ms. D. sounded more like a first name than an initial, and I had to explain that to new visitors every time it sounded like a student was calling me Misty... Besides, I decided that I no longer wanted to be identified by a man's last name, even if it is my family name."

What I might have added, had she not been so swift on the offense, was that using my maiden name Dagonese was literally announcing open game season with jokes like, "Chinese, Japanese, Dago Knees." Being naturally proud of my Italian heritage, only I am allowed to tell that joke.

"Then use your first name initial."

Problem-solving was obviously not this lady's forte. There are only twenty-six letters in our alphabet, and she was suggesting that I take something as personal as my good name and become the anonymous Ms. F (Fruin at the time) or Ms. J., the latter, also sounding like a first name." I might as well borrow a name from one of the characters in the Harry Potter series.

Not quite ready to throw myself and my name philosophy on a pyre of unsuccessful arguments, this duel was only fuel for my passion to address this issue publicly, once and for all, even if it meant writing a eulogy for a philosophy that was born and died before its time.

I thought, one final attempt, Joanne, and then let it go before you get thrown out of here for addressing her with a name to match her personality. I stopped myself to think something positive (because I believe in Yin and Yang - and I have met Karma personally)... So I thought, this poor soul must be haunted by the memories of her childhood teachers from hell, living in fear of doing something that totally defies social conformity.

"I just got my credential and M.S. in Special Ed, and I spent a total of four years in my own classrooms. Before that, I subbed four years in four different districts. Before that, I spent five years teaching in private schools. And in between those years, I have coordinated and taught hosts of adolescents and adults in several foreign exchange groups. Having had all these years of experience teaching and mentoring people of all ages, I hope this issue doesn't disqualify me from being invited back here to sub."

As she began walking away with an impersonal shrug or chip on her shoulder (I wasn't sure if my last joust actually had any effect) I added, "I believe it's our constitutional right to be addressed in whatever way we're comfortable."

Also counting the former years I spent working with church ministries, there was a total of over three decades of young people addressing me by different names in and out of the classroom. Now, at age 52 (58 at the time of this publication), I feel I am entitled to my right of passage into senior-hood and experiential wisdom. In reflection, I have realized that none of these names ever earned me respect from any young person ~ no more than bearing the title of Mom had granted me automatic respect from my five biological children.

I have done what every self-respecting authority figure does... I have earned my respect by modeling respect. And I do that by first paying attention to how a person would like me to address them. Until instructed otherwise, I use the name that the person first introduces him- or herself with. In the event that they use their first and last names interchangeably during personal communications with me, I might ask for clarification, such as, "What would you like me to call you?" In most cases, it doesn't take long for others to let their guards down with me, anyway, because I make it my goal to resonate respect for all humans, regardless of their titles and names.

On the other hand, many who have earned their doctorate's degree respond without hesitation, Call me Dr. So-and-So.  And so I realize that they are proud of their achievements, and I am happy to indulge their self-esteem by acknowledging their successes by addressing them as such. However, because we typically have somewhat higher expectations of those bearing such titles, pretentiousness often becomes magnified when such titles do not match outstanding character traits... traits such as understanding and humility, for starters.

I could even work with a doctor named House, and look forward to going to work each day, since he makes no pretense of appearance and has the uncanny ability to separate his skills from his character. I would have no qualms about being Nurse Joanne around him. For me, his authenticity could actually inspire trust.

Before I worked in the private schools, I was in a certification program to become a qualified classroom supervisor for a non-public, charter-type school. A wise instructor/mentor with his doctorate's (who had us address him by his first name only) said, "I would rather not have my degree and have others ask why not, than have my degree and have them ask why..."

Ironically, I have felt most disrespected by those colleagues who have insistently addressed me in the same way by which they are most comfortable. They have gone so far as to correct the students in my presence, those who have only known me as Ms. Joanne.

I am an educator with a coach/cheerleader mentality. I am not a political bureaucrat. I have found that although my style is different from a more traditional classroom approach, it has also helped me gain almost instant access to the trust factor that is needed in order to hook students' attention right from the beginning of a class. It is especially useful as a "substi-tutor," when I don't have all year to make a positive impact. If our collective goal as educators is to lower the affective filter (a research-based strategy proven to enhance learning acquisition) then we have not only the right to choose, but the responsibility to use whatever strategies are available for us to meet that objective.

I have practiced the art of assertiveness when it comes to establishing behavioral expectations for my students.  Just because I use my first name does not give them license to be inappropriate in class. Students know my standards are high (when it comes to character development). Just because I use humor does not mean that I lower the academic standards. Students can trust that I am fair (when it comes to recognizing and expecting whatever their best may be). And they are aware of how I gradually raise the bar as they begin to experience the taste of success.

They know that I am not being paid to be their "Homie." Yet, time and again they have felt comfortable confiding things in me that most counselors would never be able to extract in two or three sessions. Although their confidence is unsolicited by me, I have used that trust to their advantage, oftentimes redirecting them to a professional and caring staff that can spend more time with them on psycho-emotional issues (if the issues are beyond my capacity as a mentor to help them resolve their own problems).

Now let's turn our attention to the mixed messages we send by forbidding a teacher to use his or her first name. The school maintenance man can proudly wear a name tag that reads "Daniel" or whatever his or her first name might be... Are you catching my drift just yet? I believe you blue collar workers know where I'm headed with this... Because this is a no-contest spelling bee, bear with me while I spell this out for your white collared counterparts. What does this say about our value judgments, and in what ways are we inadvertently propagating a caste system?

Follow your own rationale here: if respect is in a name and if using a first name "lowers the respect level," as I've been told by more than one educator, then where is our demonstration of respect for the very ones who are cleaning our filthy toilets, classrooms, floors, lounges, etc...? I can testify to the fact that many a school maintenance employee, groundskeeper, clerk and secretary who are known to students by their first names only have been able to model and teach valuable life lessons where their teachers may not have been so successful.

Truth be told, one of the <em>largest</em> obstacles to my making the decision to get my teaching credential developed from hanging out in teacher lounges, seeing some of their irreverent habits and listening to their conversations. I had vowed that I did not want to be "one of them." It seemed to me that many of the "educated" people I knew at the time had deficits in common sense. I also wondered if the phenomenon had occurred before or after getting their degrees. Does all that studying and research-writing destroy brain cells in some part of the brain that houses common sense or common decency...? Now, there's an idea for a research topic!

Years have passed since I have managed to face that obstacle and cross that barrier. Having become "educated" myself, I'd like to believe that I've kept as much of my common sense cells and my wits about me... The wits are particularly useful as I've also developed somewhat of a righteous sensitivity to the themes that run amuck in our society. Themes shrouded in unspoken rules translate into subliminal messages that speak volumes about individual worth and our socio-economic value system.

It doesn't help cool my indignation either, when I am privy to much of the Peyton Place activity that happens behind closed office doors, ironically, with many of those same "professionals" who feel threatened by the use of my first name in the classroom. These sorts of things happening over and over again have inadvertently led me to believe that I am not from this planet.

This name issue has been only one of many unresolved menaces for me, as an educator who has devoted a huge percent of time, energy and finances to becoming even more than an educator, a role model. As a change agent for the next wave of young leaders who have been reared under mixed societal messages, I hope to inspire and motivate thinking beings to examine and re-examine their fixed opinions and ideas. If we can only ask ourselves, why do we do the things we do and who do we do them for ? Only then will we have taken the first step necessary in shifting the old paradigms that no longer serve us to a new set of blueprints that align more closely with our constitutional rights and freedom to choose.

In the process of our metamorphosis many Baby Boomers have transformed themselves into Boomer Babes. We've taken the time to re-examine our value-systems and the ways in which they are expressed. We've decided to give our belief systems a complete overhaul by recalling what it was that our generation fought for. Not to sound cliché, but it's high time that we become the changes that we imagined we could produce in our younger days. It's never too late to advocate for the freedom to pursue our dreams through creative individual sparks, and modeling them, respectfully.

Without forcing our young people into destructive patterns of rebellious behavior that throw the baby out with the bathwater, let's take the best of our traditional upbringings and merge them with our ideals. We can begin by establishing how we choose to relate to each other with such a trivial thing as in our titles and our names and how they reflect what we believe about ourselves.

I do not wish to be forced to defend myself one more time just because I choose to use my first name. However, I would hope that my Constitutional rights would be upheld if my ability to earn a decent living is being threatened by unspoken societal rules that dictate how to regard something as meaningful to me as my name.

If ever it came down to that, in this world or the next, if my friend Jesus wasn't available, I would call upon Dr. Phil to be my defense attorney and Judge Judy to hear my case. Ideally, the jury would include Romper Room's Miss Rita, who taught us more through her magic mirror than any of those nasty old hags ever could, who were just hanging around their classrooms until retirement years would mark the end of their duties; Mr. Roger(s) ~ rest his soul ~ whose ambiguous name could be either first or last, but who always knew how to make us feel welcome and wouldn't have given us any reason for detention; Captain Kangaroo ~  who if he were still with us, could probably command a class full of wild little hellions, because of his character and not his title; Mr. Green Jeans ~ may he also rest in peace ~ a blue collar worker, who modeled good work ethics and upstanding character traits; Bill Nye, the Science Guy, whose style gives him the ability to capture our attention to the allure and wonder of the world we live in; Dr. Laura, and a host of others whose first names have (or had) not lowered their respect levels ~ or their ratings, for that matter.

And speaking of lowering respect levels: for a whole year after using Ms. Joanne as my substi-tutor identity, no one ever questioned whether it was my first or last name. It wasn't until a teacher who had disagreed with my name philosophy snitched on me to her elementary school principal where I had often reported for assignments with repeat requests. Early one morning, I received a summons to report to the principal's office before reporting to my assigned class.

"Miss Joanne," she began without attempting eye-contact. As she stayed glued to her computer screen she continued with her lecture-voice, "a certain staff member brought it to my attention that Joanne is your first name..." Taken off-guard, I was left speechless and feeling like my character had been assassinated by an intimidating authority figure in no way resembling a professional colleague. Now, brace yourself for this one: the irony of it all was that the teacher informant was young enough to be my daughter, and although she hardly knew me, she always addressed me as "Sweetie."  Where did she get them apples?

Respectfully Yours,
Joanne of Frank

P.S. ~ FYI, if it pleases the reader to know more, and if it's not TMI, my name is Hebrew in origin and means "God is Gracious." My dad's name is Frank... Although it alludes to an inspirational young author whose name has lit some pages of history books, her style is alive in me... If anyone has a problem with that pen name of mine... well then... all I can say is, brrring it...!

Friday the 13th Was SO Two Days Ago ~ And Yesterday ~ And Today ~ And…

En route to work early Friday morning, practicing deep breathing exercises, and I hear a text coming in. Next red light I’ll read it. My 15-year-old daughter texts, “It’s Friday the 13^th. There goes your bad luck.” No, she’s not putting a hex on me. Rewind to 15 minutes earlier, as I’m getting dressed for work.

I’m in my CSL mode ~ Cussing as a Second Language ~ and she’s the only one in earshot. It happens so seldom these days, that when it does kick in, it’s like an anomaly. So, why today?  It’s like my brain receptors magnetized every negative vibe that could possibly make its way past my filter. They enter my stream of consciousness and explode right out of my mouth.

“What the BLEEP…?!!! My favorite jeans are tight! What’s up with this…?!!! Now I have to BLEEPing change into my BLEEPing stretch sweats… and that changes everything else I BLEEPing planned to wear… Shoes, jacket…! At this point, I’m not even aware of the date. I just know I’m on a roll, and I’m not about to stop ~ not yet…

“I’ve gotta wear the same BLEEPing boots I already wore three days this week. Listen to me…! Now I sound like a BLEEPing fashion diva, and I’m SO not a diva...! Who the BLEEP is gonna care anyway? I’m working at BLEEPing girls’ juvie… They all wear the same clothes as each other every BLEEPing day...!”

By the time I puked out that last BLEEP, I was aware of the fact that my daughter was standing there frozen speechless and gawking at me like she was about to do a Google search for an exorcist. That should have been the cue to push the QUIT NOW button on my rampage. But no, I’m not done BLEEPing out all the reasons I’m so BLEEPing pissed...

“I work-out almost every BLEEPing day…! I eat BLEEPing health foods...!  Why do I BLEEPing bother…? I might as well go back to eating all the stuff they BLEEPing tell us not to eat…! Who the BLEEP made them the health food police, anyway…? Now I’m BLEEPing running late, and I was even up BLEEPing earlier than normal… I even had time to make a BLEEPing healthy smoothie. So, what the BLEEP…?!!!”

Instead of pushing QUIT NOW and UNWIND, I push REWIND and REPLAY. It was like listening to a sound bite from my former days of obsession with weight and body image. I put my favorite comfortable waterproof boots on, and start to zip… What…?! Seriously..?!!! Are you BLEEPing serious…?!!! The BLEEPing zipper’s stuck…!”

An incoming text helps snap me out of it…It's my friend’s daughter, who I had told I’d take to school because of the forecast for rain ~ “What time are you leaving..?”

“Oh, BLEEP, I almost forgot…!” Her text is really a smooth intervention from the Universe. It's also a wake-up call to remember that this kind of venting never got me anywhere. “Okay, Father God, Jesus, Holy Spirit, Universe, Spirit Guide ~ whatever you want us to call you these days… I give…! I need some help here… So, would you PLEASE help me out…? I’ll deal with this later… Just get me out the door on time…”

I ignore the fashion police voice in my head shouting, "Step away from the heel boots, and no one gets hurt...! I put them on anyway. Then I get the thought to take the other ones with me. Oh yeah, I’ll have Jasmine try and fix them on the way to her school. Jasmine tries to be helpful, but a 14-year-old only has so much patience for other people's stuck zippers. That’s about the time I get the text from my daughter.

As she reminds me that it’s Friday the 13^th, I remind myself that I’m not STUPIDstitious, and that while I was engaged in my pissy-fit, I forgot how every Friday the 13^th is my opportunity to shine and demonstrate how to turn “bad” luck into “good.” “Oh yeah…!” I knew I could, and I would… Somewhere in the next 20 minutes, there‘s a red light long enough to help me unstick that stuck zipper… And by the time I get to work, I change into my favorite boots. Yay, me...! Now, I’m actually looking forward to anything that might come at me this day… “Bring it…!”

It turned out to be a perfect Friday the 13^th. I gave the girls one of my number messages to decode using the Alpha-Code I had taught them ~ 9  14  562  12379412929631.  699417  285  2899255528  91  1312  1562859  9573319  417  669  45  26  395125  47  655  3332. Then they had to use the decoded message to journal a writing prompt ~ True or false? Explain why or why not? They’re actually pretty good at it, and they love the mental challenge. They also had some very reflective responses.

So, my point ~ and I do have one ~ is that, no matter what the date is on the calendar, the power to create our own luck rests in our own state of mind and being. Yes, I know all about dark paranormal events that cannot be explained away through positive thinking, but I do think they can be explained away by negative thinking patterns. So, if you're still trying to cross over to live on the lighter side of life, pay more attention to the thought patterns that keep you pushing REWIND and REPLAY. Look for the messages the Universe is trying to have you decode.

If you care to decode my message, the Alpha-Code is base numbers 1 through 9. Under each number, write one letter ~ A through Z. It will look like this: 1= AJS ~ 2= BKT ~ 3= CLU ~ 4= DMV ~ 5 = ENW ~ 6= FOX ~ 7= GPY ~ 8= HQZ ~ 9= IR. Post the decoded message in the comment box below.

(995 words ~ just under 1,000 ~ cutting it close!)

How You Read What I Said

Sooo, what do I do when I'm not blogging...?

I'm a working class "professional classroom manager" ~ aka, substitute teacher. It feeds my need for variety and entertainment. It also presents opportunities for playing the mentor role while having a more independent lifestyle. In other words, I can just say no. Ironically, I have never once said no to any assignment unless I was committed to working elsewhere. In all my years of letting go and letting the Universe just take me for a spin in its own vehicle at its own speed, I realize I would have missed out on some adventurous moments if I hadn’t enthusiastically anticipated the answer to “Where to now?” ~ instead of "Are we there yet?"

Subbing also offers an arena where the performer in me gets to interact with a very broad audience ~ much of the time with behaviorally challenged kids. I love them all most of the time and most of them all of the time ;-) Some of them may even be dropping by to visit me online and to check and see if I'm writing about them.

I have an archive full of stories stored in my memory bank. There are so many that I've had to open other branches, just to keep the stories neatly filed and accessible.

I make withdrawals whenever I need a good laugh or when I want to loan out some life lessons learned. However, when I go to tell these tales, I'll have to carefully camo-clothe some of the true life characters with anonymity. I don’t want to be a tattletale ~ just a Bank of Memories tale-teller (hardy-har).

You can find me other places online. I'm the only Google-able Joanne Dagonese who comes up on the first page of every search engine. How did I get so lucky with that name? As a singer-songwriter with a YouTube channel, I perform cover songs of classic hits. Sometimes I get classically hit with the urge to dance and want to inspire channel viewers to bust some dance moves with me. Little did I know, after all these years, that’s one way I’ve been  “raising my vibrations”  ~ a phrase that is slowly becoming part of my vocabulary bank, borrowed from Awakened Consciousness lingo.

Most of my videos are done in my wannabe home recording studio with low-tech devices that may be evolving into more sophistication. I may be blogging on some of them from time to time, as well as linking blog posts to those videos. You’ll also be introduced to my BFF boyfriend ~ a very talented singer-songwriter… More about him, me and how we became us….later!

Oh, and btw, I'm also "for hire" on a freelance website. However, I'll never present myself in the light of the "starving artist" cliché. Really now, that's a little much. Most artists are really just starving for attention. Not me ~ I give myself all the attention I want and need out of life.

I believe in the Law of Attraction and in recent years, I've come into a more practical understanding of how to consciously make it work for me. I've realized, too, within the past two decades, that I'm here now in this moment in this lifetime mainly for the ride. So, if you haven't guessed it by now, I write metaphorically, mostly because I think metaphysically.

Now, here comes the fun punch-line part. I may often lead you to believe that whatever I write about is "all about me" when in actuality, it's all about you and how you just READ WHAT I SAID or READ WHAT I SEED. I’d like to encourage all of you sleeping creative giants to come out of hiding, and get your own boxes. Create your profiles for blogs, channels and portfolios to share. Just get into your creative mode and let your whims waken you to who you are and why you’re here.

(Tah-dah ~ 655 words ~ not counting this word count)

Coffee Activates A Night Owl

Day Two ~ learning a little more about blogspot. This reminds me of the time I had a GDI website that I basically did nothing with ~ other than play with the tools. I let it go in the quest for a more simplistic lifestyle ~ meaning, one less project to manage.

However, I've started to feel the fever to write again and document some of the thoughts and reflections that go through my head. Why keep these thoughts to myself...? Someone out there may be as "out-there" as I am. I should let them know what corner of the universe I'm in. Actually, whenever I've joined a community of creative writers, I know I'm not alone. In general, creative writers are a unique breed of artists.

So, being the creative mind that I am, I just have to experiment with the tools I have to play with ~ like fonts and colors and uploaded images and whatever... So, if you're looking for consistency here, you may be disappointed, but I can promise to be consistently inconsistent just to keep things interesting.

I don't know why I'm still up at this hour... I take that back ~ yes, I do... I took my 15-year-old daughter to a 9:50 PM movie showing at a local cinema last night. Because she often complains about how I fall asleep even during action movies, I purposely drank a cup of coffee to stay awake. Now, hours after returning home, she's sound asleep in bed, while I'm hard-wired for brain activity that I decided to put to good (or useless) use here.

I'm going to wrap this up for now. Being naturally verbose, I am making a commitment to myself to keep these blogs under 1000 words. I think I'll honor that commitment starting now... And starting tomorrow, I may sound less like a journal entry and actually have something meaningful to say. I usually object when my boyfriend calls me "Night Owl," but I'm afraid I'll have to agree with him this time.

I Thunk It And Done It

Well, I thunk it, and I went and done it... I said I needed to start writing again, and I thought to myself, why not a blog...? Not exactly original for a JOriginal Muse, but that's probably why it took me so long to decide to blog again.

Because of the fact that there are so many bloggers out there in this over-populated blogosphere, I wasn't sure anyone would move over to make room for one more. I finally had to embrace the idea that maybe I'm not on any mission to get any message across to any lost soul in any God-forsaken land for any particular reason to write.

I'm doing this because it feels good to see my own expressive self imprint itself on an inivisible universe composed of binary codes and all kinds of technical names I'll never master. Maybe I write just for the sheer pleasure of seeing words take shape and become whole concrete ideas made of abstract blocks made of intangible whims.

Anyhow, here I am on Day One of my new blog spot, with nothing particularly noteworthy to share. I still have some homework to do ~ like learning to navigate the features available to us on this blog site.

I'll check in again tomorrow ~ or whenever... I don't want to make promises I may not deliver, only to have something looming over me until I do what I said I'd do.