Celebrating the Rosa Parks in your Neighborhood

[audio:http://pattymackz.com/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2011/02/07-Momma-Hold-My-Hand-11.mp3|titles=Momma Hold My Hand]I teach at an international school with students of over a hundred different nationalities where the notion of racism is non existent, so during Black History Month every February I try to help my students understand how prejudice can pass through generations even in a nation founded on democracy. Though I grew up in small town, USA, at the heels of the Civil Rights Movement, I don’t have a racist bone in my body. I credit that to the two families who taught me that everyone should be treated equal; the white one I was born to, and the black one I adopted through basketball.

Barb Smith was as much a part of the history of my community, as the brick in the foundation of Sterling High School where I lived out my hoop dreams. As an adult, I saw only her once a year at the Smith-Hereford Family July 4th Reunion where I was welcomed home like a long lost child. It was no surprise that she was the catalyst for the event that united family, friends and neighbors, from Alabama to Wallace Street to 11th. She brought people together long before that tradition began.

She never aged. When she wrapped you in a hug, though small built, you felt like you could break in half from the strength of that love. Hardworking. Resilient. Courageous. She was like the Rosa Parks of the Sauk Valley, taking a stand for human justice long before the lawmakers got around to it. At a time when Jim Crow Laws were still deeply ingrained in the social fabric, she chose to remain colorblind, ignoring the dictates of society.

Didn’t matter what side of the tracks you were born on. All people were her people. And nobody went hungry. There was always a spare rib, a plate of greens or a piece a pie left to feed another hungry child.

She had 6 children, 23 grandchildren, 37 great grand children and 8 great great grand children, but it didn’t matter if you were kin folk or not; she knew long before the rest of the country all blood is red and “we all God’s children.”

She was meek but mighty, a tiny woman with an enormous heart. And a smile so big that it could light up the universe.

Any friend of the family was a friend for life. She made everybody feel special. Whenever she knew I would be back in town, she baked me lemon pie. We had a standing joke ever since I first tasted her famous lemon meringue pie as a teen, and announced, “I never tasted no white folk pie that good.”

She laughed and her laugh was infectious. Laughter rings throughout my memory of her.

She had a faith strong enough to move mountains and a love so enduring to withstand generations of hardship and loss. Yet she lived each day as though it were a blessing and loved each soul as though he or she were heaven sent. All who knew her felt gifted.

Although I can still hear her hollering her daughter’s and my sister’s name, the year they won the state basketball championship, she was a cheerleader for all of us. I can still see her smile, feel her hug; I can still taste her love filled lemon meringue, sweet and tart, smooth and creamy.

Though she no longer walks this earth, baking pie and bringing good cheer, she winks down on us in every ray of sunshine and each twinkling star. We know without a doubt, we are better people for having known her. Every time I help a neighbor, encourage a friend, care for a loved one, every time I do the right thing, I remember Mom Smith and stand a bit taller.

in remembrance of Barbara Smith, click on this link to listen to Momma Hold My Hand

Happy Birthday Expat Women Worldwide

I was born in Sandwich Illinois at the far, far outskirts of the Windy City, but I have lived by the White House in D.C., the Eiffel Tower in Paris, a 15^th century German castle, and Lake Geneva surrounded by the Alps. I moved 12 times in 17 years between four different countries. Even spectacular views cannot erase the bouts of loneliness inherent in expatriate life.

In 1979, as a globe trotting pro basketball player, when I landed in France and saw little women with baseball bats (baguettes) slung lover their shoulders, scurrying down cobblestone streets blowing air kisses, I thought, “OMG, I’ve landed on another planet.”

Back then, in a flat sans telephone, TV, microwave or electronic anything, domestic chores took on new meaning. I washed clothes in the bathtub, shopped daily and my only connection to home was thin, blue, airmail envelops that took ten days to arrive. Whether living in Germany amongst college co-eds, in Paris as a young mother, or Switzerland as a teacher, friendships with women kept me sane. Throughout my transitions from athlete to coach to teacher to writer, from wife to mom to empty nester, I have depended on a sisterhood of females – teammates, colleagues, friends, neighbors – to help me cope with hard times while living 4,000 miles away from extended family.

My journey would’ve been far less turbulent if ExpatWomen.com
, the largest global website helping women living abroad existed when I first moved overseas. Reading the down to earth information on a site displaying over a 1000 content pages, 1600 expat women blogs, 300 readers’ stories, country resources pages, interviews, motivational articles, a blog and newsletter is like sitting down for a cup of coffee with your BFF.

As ExpatWomen.com celebrates its 4^th anniversary, I embark on my 32nd year abroad. Happy Birthday to us – women overseas who are raising families, learning other languages, adopting new lifestyles, negotiating internationally and living cross culturally. And a special shout out also to the women back in our homelands who keep us grounded by sharing our past and reminding us where we came from and who we are.

Santé, prost, salud, hälsa, cheers. Here’s to expats worldwide! Bring on the next adventure!

When Life Knocks You Flat, Kick Back !

“Fall seven times and stand up eight.” I live by the Japanese Proverb. I have hit the deck more than once – undercut on a rebound, flipped off a bike, smashed in a car accident. I have fought back from broken bones, shattered dreams, dashed hopes. I cried an ocean of tears over lost abilities. I have tried one remedy after another to combat chronic illness. Pain is my sidekick. Do I ever want to give up? Yep. Everyday.

What keeps me going?[cincopa AkNARcKJDACp]

People. First off, my forefathers, from my grandfather who left the fjords, learned a new language, new trade and made a new life in the Windy City never returning to his beloved Norway. To my Scottish-American paternal grandpa who still coached college football in his 90s. To my dad, who within the span of four months endured 3 surgeries, 2 heart interventions and one hip reconstruction, without losing his sense of humor, concern for others, or fighting spirit. And especially to my mom who unwraps each day as a precious gift.

To my friends from third grade, to highschool, to college and beyond, scattered across continents and countries, including cyberspace buddies – readers, writers, bloggers – some who I’ve never met, but whose words keep me chuckling and chugging forward.

To my family, from my old sibs who understand my past to young nieces, nephews, son and daughter who connect me to the future by teaching me to text message, Twitter and Facebook.

To my hubby who has endured thirty some years of my lolly gagging, bellyaching, foot stomping, tongue lashing, story telling.

To the teammates and athletes I played beside or coached during four decades court-side. To my students, who zap energy but bring laughs with their antics. “But Mrs. M, I didn’t copy a word. I used Wikipedia.”

If you look behind my dark glasses, other than tired eyes and worry lines, you would never know what my body has endured. After three years on antibiotics living in darkness, doctors insist that I stop the meds and see if the treatment works. I feel worse than when I started. Reeling from the cost in time, money and energy, I am filled with discouragement. It’s definitely another knock down day. I want to pull the comforter over my head and check out of January. Cold days. Long nights. Holidays over and done. No hope to run, no sign of sun. No fun. Bottom line. I am still here kicking, with the ol’ ticker ticking.[cincopa AoIADfqVDEzo]

Every time I am knocked to my knees AGAIN. I pray for Strength. Courage. Faith. Hope. Then I whisper worries to the wind and shout thanks to skies. I know without doubt,

“My peeps, got my back!”

Bring it on, LIFE!

Fall down nine, stand up ten!

Want to listen to the song ? Click on the following link: Somewhere Over the Rainbow

A New Year Older, Oh La La…

OMG oh my God… a New Year means I am a year older. How did this happen ? When I look in the mirror, I am shocked by the reflection of the stranger in the glass. My nose enlarged, my chin recedes and my lips, barely visible, regress. The corners of my mouth turn down. What is that goofy mask I am wearing ? My jowls sag, my chin doubles, my eyes bag, my hair greys, my skin wrinkles. Now I understand why women undergo the knife. Forget simple face lift, I need an entire body boost. But once one starts nipping and tucking there is no end. Face peels, botox injections, cosmetic surgeries.

I am lucky that due to my medical treatment, I have a great camouflage for aging. I have to wear big bulky dark glasses that a student once told me, « Looks like a dead animal covering your face ! »

My shades conveniently hide any imperfections. Also since I see everything in dimmer mode, I assume people have trouble seeing me too. But take off the dark glasses and look out. My face has been ravaged by time….too many summer days under blazing suns life-guarding, too many hours teaching sports outdoors, too many year ignoring the natural elements and swearing off synthetic beauty products. Mary Kay be damned.

Cheer up. With age comes wisdom. Smile. Are you kidding me ? I love The Color Purple, but not for teeth. I look like I have mouth filled with blueberries. Antioxidants and antibiotics do a number on the canines.

Teeth whiteners, brighteners lighteners. Creams to regenerate, rejuvenate, to blend crows-feet, cover age spots. Make ups to hide, tint, color, and resurface the skin. Consumers spend a small fortune pursing the foundation of youth in a bottle. Cover the mirrors, succumb to the battle, embrace growing old gracefully. And take it from me, never, ever leave the house without the dark shades.

Like a lot of women, feeling slouchier, slumpier and frumpier in the new year, I rushed to the nearest department store for a little inexpensive pick me up for returning to teaching. I tried on a pair of fitted, navy blue sweats in front of the mirror in the hallway of the dressing room, glaring at my reflection when I heard a voice behind me.

« Wow, you look great – slender and long legged. That’s the build designers had in mind, when they invented that style , » the clerk said… Check out your backside !

Now I have the perfect solution to ace the aging game, forget the face off, present the backside first.

Snow Storms Leaves Passengers Stranded in Europe, Including Me!

Well, that was an interesting voyage. Round trip to nowhere. We left the house before daybreak and ten hours later, returned home in the dark again. We never left the airport, yet felt like we’d travelled for weeks. Since most European countries lack heavy snow removal equipment even a couple, little snowflakes creates huge havoc on the entire continent.

Lechault’s snowed in at home

First bad omen: our taxi got stuck at the stoplight at the corner of our street. While our wheels spun on a patch of ice, a Renault Scenic smashed into the back of a Volkswagen Passat at the adjacent stoplight. Fifty yards further, a Mercedes slammed into the stoplight on the overpass knocking out the traffic signals.

In bumper-to-bumper traffic, we crept toward the airport. As soon as we arrived at the check in gate, a voice announced on the public address system, “Due to inclement weather, the Geneva airport will be closed until further notice.”

Ever optimistic, KLM personnel insisted we check our bags and pass controls to wait at the gate, just in case. But as soon as the Geneva airport reopened, the Amsterdam airport closed. We counted as one after the other flights across Europe to London, Paris, Frankfurt, Stockholm, Madrid, and Moscow were cancelled on the departure board. Our flight was rescheduled for noon; fifteen minutest later the red sign popped up, “cancelled.”

Luckily, Geneva is a small airport, so I felt at home in what turned into a mini reunion of the international school. All morning, I chatted with a colleague whose flight to London was delayed. In the afternoon, I caught up with a couple of 12th grade students who were booked on that same ill-fated, KLM flight. We waited for rerouting in a line that crawled forward a foot every fifty minutes. After four hours, we finally reached the rebooking counter, and I offered hopefully. “We could fly to Chicago instead of Minneapolis.”

Fat chance flying anywhere. During the Christmas holidays, flights worldwide were over booked. Forty-five minutes later the airline agent suggested, “Sunday, we have space on a flight to Paris with a stop over in Washington, then Minneapolis.” I collapsed on the counter!

“Pleeeaaasssee, I have health problems, can you recheck for a more direct flight?”

By then, I looked like I rolled under a cement truck, so she searched the computer screen again. A half hour later, she found a Continental flight to Newark then on to Minneapolis.

Last leg, flag down a taxi and head back to our own bed. Passengers across Europe slept the night in the airports. Since snow is a natural phenomenon, the airlines aren’t responsible for providing meals or overnight accommodations. It could be worse. In light of everything else that could go wrong in life, it is ONLY a cancelled flight. And when it snows, it is best to be stranded at home.

After the taxi dropped us in front our snow covered house, I discovered students had left a bag of homemade chocolates and a bottle of wine on my doorstep. There is a God, after all.

Bonne nuit. But will I sleep? Yikes, in 48 hours, I am flying over the Atlantic again!

Back to School in the 21st Century

In the 1930’s my grandma started her teaching day by shoveling a snow covered path to a one-room schoolhouse and splitting wood for the potbellied stove.

Today, we flash identity cards to guards at campus gates, open doors with electronic keys, display notes on whiteboards, take attendance on line, post homework on websites, keep in constant contact with parents, students, administrators and colleagues via the Internet.

Yet back to school in the 21st century has never been more challenging. No matter how long one has been teaching, la rentree is always stressful. To add to our anxiety, our nightly news reports teacher strikes, school shootings and failing test scores in academic settings around the globe. Teachers in France protest the retirement age. (Age sixty sounds good to me.) Students on the West Bank practice safety procedure in gunfire. Where we once learned to crouch under desks during tornado drills for natural disasters, today’s youth are trained to hit the deck to avoid manmade bullets and bombs.

Discipline is a whole new ball game. Chewing gum and wearing torn jeans are no longer a grave offenses Teachers reprimand students not only for talking in class, but for playing games on Laptops and, iphones. Now we confiscate cell phones, iPods and weapons during lessons.

Whereas teachers once caught cheaters red handed copying from a neighbors’ papers, now students take information word for word from the Internet and swear it’s not plagiarism because they got it off Wikipedia. As soon as new tools like Turn-It In are developed, techno savvy kids figure out a way to beat the system.

Text messaging and SMS are wreaking havoc with the language structure, pupils write essays in code. Every line includes “i” in place of the pronoun, “I.” Students can only follow instructions in 20-second increments. Sensory overload from too many electronic gadgets has obliterated their attention spans.

Hyper vigilant, ultra techy kids maneuver around cyberspace with the agility with which we once flicked paper notes folded into mini footfalls across the classroom.

At the touch of fingertips we are immediately connected to data bases filled with student profiles, parent background, and libraries full of facts.

How much information is too much information?

With online courses, videotaped lectures, assignments recorded on phone-in messages, one wonders will the teacher one day be obsolete? Yet, when was the last time the computer offered a smile of encouragement, a kind word or a pat on the back.

We are more connected than ever, but not always in a good way. The teacher’s role, though ever changing, is still invaluable retaining the tenuous link between generations, connecting – school, parent, child – and bridging family and society.

Recently the new superintendent of Chicago suburban high school welcomed back the teaching staff with this message. “I guarantee you my own children will not remember which university you graduated from or how well you know your subject content, but whether or not you connected and met his or her needs.

Perhaps our greatest role in a society that is changing faster than ever due to globalization and World Wide Web is to retain the human bond, to CARE. Communicate, accommodate, respond, and then educate.

I long for the good old’ days of grandma’s one room schoolhouse, when all the teacher had to do shovel the snow, stoke up the fire, clean the chalkboard and teach ABCs.