My reaction to Cubby's Tees non-apology

(For what I'm reacting to, this is Cubby Tee's non-apology for pulling their Blackhawks "Chicago Stronger" shirt.)

I am a Boston fan and I make no bones about it.  Like Chicago, Philly and New York, we Boston fans live and die by our teams.  I like that you are like our own "Sully's Tees" who were fans that made fan shirts that are snarky but our true fan sentiments.

I also admire the grist of your fans is similar to ours.  It takes a set of huge, clanking brass ones for the lead singer of the Tossers - a fine Chicago Irish Punk band - to stand on the stage of the Middle East, look at my Bruins jersey and, with his Chicago softened Irish brogue announce, "Here's to the best team in the NHL, the Chicago Blackhawks and you Bruins fans can fuck off!"

That night my son turned to me and said, "I hope we have a Bruins/Hawks battle for the cup."

It is the wish the two of us have held onto for dear life over the past two months.  To me, there's little better in hockey than original 6 battles like the one we're in now.

Yep, Bostonians pretty much respect a fan that passionate (unless they're a Yankees fan, with the exception of 2001, then they can suck it).  Since that night, I've pretty much had Flatfoot 56's "Winter in Chicago" stuck in my head.  Actually, I've had the line "it's winter in Chicago and the Hawks are on tonight, so it's alright" while the rest of the song is sort mumble mumble mumble Lakeshore Drive mumble mumble....

(BTW if you haven't checked out either of these fine Chicago Irish punk bands, then shame on you!  Flatfoot's pipers are some of the best I've heard after years of listening to all kinds of Celtic music and I will always love the Tossers for playing "I'll Tell Me Ma" for "Miscreant's mom in the back of the room....")

Enough about Chicago, let me see if I can explain to you about "Boston Strong"and my gut reactions to both the "Toronto Stronger" and "Chicago Stronger" messages.

In that dark, dark week where a peaceful event celebrating the triumph of the human spirit was horribly marred, a dark gash was ripped through the very core of Boston.  To "run Boston" is more than to run a marathon, it's a high standard that runners dream about.  For runners like me, we dream about "running Boston" the way that 7 year old kid stepping up to the plate in Little League dreams of stepping up to the plate in the bottom of the 9th with the bases loaded and 2 outs in the World Series to win it all for their team.

Yeah, the Grande Dame of marathons, the Boston Marathon, is really that special.

So those bomb blasts that destroyed and changed the lives of the average people who had that moment in life to feel like that elite athlete was something that just can't be fully described.  For the first time since 2001, I finally understood how my friends in NY felt on that horrible fall day and they understood what it was like to be a bystander from a distance.

It doesn't matter where "Boston Strong" came from as a saying, it has become Boston's motto.  Even the FCC understood David Ortiz's utterance of "This is our fucking city!" and chose not to fine MLB or networks who did not censor that moment.

Right now we have our hopes pinned on the Bruins.  They are the rainbow in the sky at the end of the storm right now.  It's that odd foreshadowing the President spoke of at the Mass of Healing in Boston after the bombings when he alluded, to the chagrin of Chicago fans, that there would be duck boat parades in Boston.  The World Series is too far away and the Celtics choked the way most of us knew they would.  When the best the Pats have to offer is Tebow, well, is it any wonder why this city is pinning their hopes for sports redemption on the B's?

Most of us who are real B's fans will tell you that, up until 2 years ago, they were the red-headed bastard step child of Boston sports.  A few years back when they flew the team flags of Boston over the state house, the B's flag was not there (but the fucking Revolution had their flag flown).  That night the B's went back into action after the bombing and Renee Rancourt took to the ice to sing the anthem, something amazingly special happened - Boston sent one loud and clear message to the world: we're hurt but we're still here.  The Bruins truly became Boston's team after years of neglect.

We need them, we need this win and we need this promise that life will be normal again.

So why the objection to the Toronto or Chicago Stronger?  Well, I don't know if I made it clear enough of how this isn't a sports slogan even though it is used in a sports context right now.  Boston needs that victory to help us move on as we keep healing.  Remember when you're still young and invincible and you have that one kid you know that's your age die?  How, while you're still reeling, someone makes that one crack that makes you want to punch them in the face.  You know what I mean, that crack about how the good Lord doesn't give us more than we can handle or Divine will or something that makes you want to say, "What G0d do you pray to that does this because I'm 'strong enough to handle' it?"

That's what those shirts mean to us. We're still hurting here and it's too soon.  Yes we wave a "Boston Strong" flag, usually by a hero or victim of the bombing before the game.  Yes it's our arena chant for now.  But give it some time.  Maybe after we drink champagne from Lord Stanley's cup and have a duck boat parade or two we can just call you assholes and be done with it.

Until then, give it a rest rather than try to call no harm, no foul.  Realize you just kicked someone when they were down and, "Sorry man, I had no idea," then offer your hand to pull us up, give us a bro hug and offer to buy us a beer while we move on.

Oh yeah, and may the best team (the Bruins) win.

Ukelele Lady

Amanda Palmer really inspired me and when I ran into Mr. Music a couple of weeks ago, I saw this candy apple red Makala dolphin bridge soprano and had to have it. 

A few sea horse stickers to make it mine and it wasn't long before I could hack out "Ukelele Anthem," "Changes in Latitudes" and "Adventure Time."   She was right when she said it only takes about an hour to learn how to play. 

While bar chords still vex me (really only some do, others are fine), I'm having a great time tooling around on it.  

I'll probably never front a punk band singing song about how all college students look the same with a cockney accent.  I'll probably never be mistaken for an underground icon.  But I can sit and play and make myself smile and remember that there's something magical about that little bit of wood and plastic.

Being a Boston sports fan (or how I explained DNA to a 5 yr old)

The Bruins were on the ice in Toronto taking practice after their 2nd game shellacking by the Leafs when a kid in a Kindergarten room and I had a conversation about the upcoming game.  He predicted a shut-out.  I predicted a 6-1 Bruins win because Toronto is that hungry to get past the first round.

The final score of game 3 was 5-2 Bruins.

Yesterday he looked at me and said, "Ms. H, you had the right answer but the wrong number sentence."

This is how he viewed it: 6+1=7, 5+2=7; therefore, I had the right answer (7) BUT the wrong number sentence.  He then asked me a serious question.  He asked if it was possible he was a hockey fan before he was born because he felt like he had always been a Bruins fan.

I told him my theory that being a Boston sports fan is genetic.  It's written into our DNA which is something you get from your parents that helps make you you.  He thought for a minute and said, "That makes sense."

He asked my prediction for tonight's game.  I thought for a moment and said, "The Bruins win by a goal in OT."

He predicted the Bruins would win 100-1.

Yep, he's a Bruins fan.

I often refer back to a quote I saw on the wall of the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown.  It read, "It was as if something took me by the hand and whispered, 'I am baseball, come with me.'"  I think than an angel whispered that in my ear before I was born.  Maybe that's why I stood in the playpen chanting my favorite player's name over and over when he was at the plate (even if it came out "Eddie Soo!  Eddie Soo!" instead of Eddie Bressoud.)

In all seriousness, I do believe being a sports fan is somewhat genetic.  Why is it two people from the same family are so radically different in their perspectives?  The way one can be a total nerd that locks themselves inside to read comic books, play video games and is into sci-fi and anime while their sibling is the kid outside playing every sport (well) and can instantly calculate batting averages, ERAs or other complex statistical analysis of players?  It is something that psychologists study all the time, but I have to believe that there is something written in invisible ink on our DNA code that allows us to be interested in certain things.

For example, why is it I follow the Sox and Bruins but not the Celtics or Pats?  Why is it one of my siblings has the full-blown Boston sports fan genes and another has barely a polite but passing interest in sports at all while the rest fall in all shades in between?

So the next time you look at a sibling or relative and wonder where the hell they're coming from, ask yourself this, did perhaps they get some genetic trait - dominant or recessive - from someone way back when in the family tree... or maybe they are just an apple that didn't roll too far from one side.

Perhaps, like me and my kindergarten friend, some angel whispered in our ears and took us by the hand to lead us to the sports we love.

Last night, Amanda Palmer spoke to me (or why I wear red sparkly shoes)

It's true, last night Amanda Palmer spoke to me.  Of course she also spoke to the rest of the ballroom full of people at the Grub Street Boston event, but in many ways it felt like she spoke to me directly.

I'm not talking about my Q&A question about how can we teachers and writers can keep sparking creativity in the children for whom we are responsible.  I'm talking about her whole premise about how creative people are the ones that, at some point, notice the dots and start to connect them.  We are the ones who then get excited and want to share our observations and then are often the ones told to be quiet because now is not the time.  She used a metaphor of creative types alone in the garrett starving and struggling while the bustling marketplace is going on downstairs just outside the front door of our building.  She spoke of how "new" media is like yelling out the window to the market place to invite up friends and have them bring friends and sharing your work that way.

I jotted down her words: "Once you share your art, it's not about you any more."

There were points during her talk when I wanted to yell, "Get out of my head bitch!" but I didn't.  I listened instead because she was speaking to me.

But, more importantly, she was speaking to my sons, who sat next to me in the ballroom.  One is a writer, one is a musician and artist.  They both have had struggles in this world because they are the kids yelling "look at this, the patterns are emerging when you hold things at this angle!"  They are the ones being told to be quiet, this isn't the time.

The one who was listening the hardest, hanging on her every word was the one I have the deepest concerns about: my Pi guy.

Yesterday was a day where time, which has the job to keep everything from happening at once, failed to do that.

Pi and I have taken the Boston Marathon bombings hard in our own ways.

Last week I had my cathartic moment at the Dropkick Murphy concert.  For me, two weeks of holding back tears and pushing down the fear of everything came to a head when the Boston Police Gaelic Column took to the stage.  I felt the tears streaming down my face and, for the first time in two long weeks, I didn't try to stop them.  When the Murphys took to the stage and sang "For Boston" with them, I screamed the words while I jumped up and down and cried.  I cried through the next three numbers, particularly when the Irish step dancers took to the stage and I thought of a 6 year old girl who had just started step dancing lessons facing the challenge of life without her leg now.  The tears and the screaming were my release valve and I could finally breathe.

I know Pi was still struggling when I looked at the artwork he created this week.  I will say this, when I got home from school Friday and saw the image of a skater carrying his board that had "Keep Calm" written on the deck, it blew me away and I knew he was close to breathing again.

Yesterday was the first time I felt like Pi was breathing again.  We started by making cookies for our friends on the Roxy's Grill Cheese truck and the Mei Mei Street Kitchen truck and delivered them to them during the food truck throw down.  We stood in lines, we ate food and we voted for our friends before deciding to walk through Faneuil Hall to see if there were any free comic books at Newbury Comics.  Stopping in at Build a Bear, we mad bears, almost got thrown out of the store for putting pleather chaps on Rainbow Hug bear (seriously... who the hell thought pleather chaps were appropriate clothing item for your build a bear bear AND thought it was a good item when there was a Rainbow Hug bear in stock and people who act like 10 year olds?)

It was a day of laughing and breathing, so having it end with Amanda Palmer was fabulous.  It was the first time in almost 3 weeks that the day felt normal.


When the Q&A session started, he hesitated.  He looked and whispered, "I have a million questions, how do I pick one?"  He did ask her about what do you do to be heard.  She gave him great advice.  It wasn't the question he thought or meant to ask, but he felt great.

After we dropped his brother off at his apartment and were heading home it struck him and he asked, "What do I do if Amanda Palmer actually shows up at my spot outside the Fenway T stop after a game to listen to me?"

I thought for a second and replied, "Ask her to join you."

He nodded.

I could see him connecting dots in his head in that moment.  Amanda's words from earlier in the night struck me: "The impulse to connect the dots and share it makes you an artist."  I taught my kids that lesson through out their lives.  It's the lesson I give my students.  I know people tell me that I should be grown up about working with kids in school but I really do believe my job is not to teach them to conform so they pass the tests.  My job is to warp their little minds the same way guys like Dr. Seuss, Maurice Sendak, Ray Bradbury and so many others warp minds.  It's a lot easier to see the dots if your thinking is reformed from a linear view to an organic view.

Last week when the kids at school asked why I was wearing red sparkly sneakers I replied, "They make me smile and that makes me happy."

Most of them could understand that sentiment.  I'd like to think it gave some of them, particularly my 5th graders who do worry about fitting in, permission to take that chance and wear sparkly shoes, draw a lion, play the ukelele or whatever makes them smile and be happy, in spite of knowing the rest of the world expects of you.

Last night Amanda Palmer spoke to me and I am a richer person for it.

Sitting here in Limbo....

I fell asleep watching "Project Runway" (really, they cut Daniel?) and flipped to the news as I fell asleep on the couch... again.  Around 1:00-1:15 am or so I woke up to the sound of a siren buzzing past on the Mass Pike and the voices on the TV began to register: there was a major police action happening a few miles from my house.

My first reaction: fear.  I quietly crept upstairs to see if my 21 year old son was sleeping.  He was.  Had he been awake, I would have told him to get dressed and we would have driven to a family member's home on the South Shore.  So I crept back downstairs and called my husband and told him I was scared.

My husband is a good man and he stayed on the phone with me for an hour.  Yes he had to walk into an office bright eyed and bushy tailed.  Yes there was nothing he could do outside of talk to me.  Yes he was just as powerless as I was, but he was there and suddenly cowering under the blankets with a death grip on the cat didn't seem like a necessary thing to do anymore.

He pointed out that if the police were telling people not to stop for anyone and these guys had carjacked someone, then exposing ourselves to get to the relative safety 20 miles south was not necessarily a good idea.  He was right.

What he didn't say was me driving at night on little to no sleep is a bad combination and there are people who have witnessed why this is a bad idea and have (fortunately) lived to tell the tale.

As tired as I thought I was, the poor news anchor on one of the Boston station kept making gaffes that couldn't help but make me laugh and wish someone would bring her a cup of coffee or let her take a nap.  By the time I fell asleep around 4:30 this morning, I had slipped back into an ice cream sandwich eating angry woman... or so I thought.

Being ticked off about being stuck inside on a beautiful spring day with no half and half, no bacon and no cookies (but plenty of Guinness from the other night - so there's a bright spot) was nothing compared to a stupid tweet from an elected official.

My friends are reporting about armored enforcement folks knocking on their doors to make sure they're OK as they do door-to-door sweeps.  Friends in the neighborhoods being evacuated are checking in via social media so we all know they're OK.  Once again I'm giving thanks and wondering how this is happening here when I see this:

Is this asshole serious?

Well Rep. Bell, as a Bostonian that was scared but found my balance and center I say this:

Bite Me

If the son of a bitch had shown up on my doorstep, I suspect the police who are TRAINED to use an AR-15 would have been right behind him.  I know how to shoot and I'm a damn good shot but I never once wished last night, even in my darkest hour, that I had a gun.

I'm from Boston, I don't need a stinking gun.  I'm also educated and have something called common sense (you may have heard of that and I don't mean the pamphlet by Thomas Paine) to know that if you shoot a maniac wired with explosives, you're going down as well unless you're a sniper and can pick him off from a safe distance.

I know that the kick of an AR-15 would do more damage to me than it would to him because, again, not trained on that kind of weapon.  You think it's easy for a civilian to use an assault weapon?  May I refer you to a semi-realistic scene from one of my favorite movies, "True Lies."  There is one point where Arnold puts an Uzi in the hands of his still stunned wife and directs her on how to use it.  She steps forward, starts to shoot and realizes she can't control the weapon.  That, sir, is how most people would handle any assault weapon - with fear, trepidation and not the results they were expecting.

In fact, most people carrying any weapon would handle it the same way I would an assault weapon: with fear, loathing and bungling.

Now had you suggested I wished I had a .45 or some such... perhaps.  I haven't shot one in almost 30 years and I know I tend to flinch when I do shoot (thus I aim for the chest and know I'll probably get the target in the face) but then I would also have to process the taking of another human life.  Unlike most folks who tend to judge and act as if the Creator was cast in their image rather than the other way around, the taking of another's life does not interest me.

A more worth fantasy would be taking the Boston bomber, putting him on the starting line at Hopkinton and giving him a 10 second head start with a full pack of marathoners behind him.  Mowing him down with an AR-15 is cowardly and lazy.

So yes, I will continue to jump every time I hear a Statie's siren on the Mass Pike for a bit.  I will sulk that I am inside on a beautiful day instead of going for a run or riding my bike on a day because a coward who thinks violence is the answer.  Instead I will make cookies, play with the cats and laugh with my son at the sheer ridiculousness of life, the universe and everything.

Understand that I am #Bostonstrong.  I am not a coward and I don't need a gun.  I have a that is set up in such a way I should never need one.  Should I chose to move to Syria, Israel, Bosnia, Kabul, Johannesburg or any number of cities in this world, we'll talk.  Being trained in use of and owning an AR-15 would make sense then, but not here.

Not in Boston.

And certainly not when I have well trained military and law enforcement officials in place to take care of this stuff for me.

Because #Bostonstrong is more than a hashtag, it is what Bostonians are made of: piss and vinegar with a big enough heart to tip the scales to make us some of the best people on earth and don't you ever forget that simple fact.

Boston you're my home

I don't do big tragedies well, never have and probably never will.  My heart breaks and all that passion comes out it unexpected ways.  So yesterday's cowardly and senseless act at the Boston Marathon finish line is no exception only this time my anger and pain was very different.

Boston is MY race.  Not because I've ever run it but my brother has run it 31 times.  For the last 5 years I have worked the Mile 18 hydration station making sure runners' needs are attended to and have walked more than my share of hurting runners to the med tents a quarter mile away.  I aggressively rake the discarded cups from the road before it turns to a messy paper maichê carpet, often thanked by the later runners who make a point of saying, "This is the cleanest bit of road I've run on all day...."

So it is fitting that I took this photo, my last of the day as I worked, of "the juggler."  Every year this guy does the whole route while juggling and is often the signal to us the road is about to reopen and we need to finish.  He was late this year and with a bunch of noobs in charge of the water station who were trying to do things by the book instead of listen to the experienced folks, I was concerned he wouldn't make it.  A couple of us were there to greet and applaud him.

A moment later 3 police cruisers raced past with sirens blaring and the news began to reach us.

In my mind I was calculating where my brother might be.  He had gone through about 45 minutes to an hour earlier and I was wondering about his pace.  I was thinking about his usual pacing and trying to factor in he had run the Paris marathon a week earlier and was in better shape but might be more tired.  I was praying he was no further than Kenmore Square when they stopped the race.

Having ridden my bike to the hydration station, about every quarter/half mile or so I had to stop because someone else was calling me and I won't ride and talk on the phone at the same time.

"Do you know where <insert name of family or friend here> is?"

"Are you and Pi safe?"

"Where are you on the course?"

I was also waiting for news on friends who were on the course running, watching and working.  I was thinking about my friends who work for Marathon Sports, where the first bomb went off.

It was the longest bike ride home I have ever had.  And much of it was in tears.

As I sat in a pub with fellow Mile 18 workers with a beer, eating fried food and transfixed on the news, my twitter and Facebook feeds I saw a call for me to check in.  I responded to a tweet from my husband about my brother's status and another friend replied he was not only glad that my brother was OK but that I had checked in.  Social media at it's finest hour - getting the word out quickly and easily to friends and family with a few keystrokes reminded me that I do indeed love technology.

Last night I originally tweeted, "Emotional eating may not be the answer but beer and cookies seem like a good idea right now."

Turns out it was because a lot of my anger began to redirect itself.  Do I still want to literally beat the shit out of the coward(s) that did this?  Yes, but it's back in the box where it belongs and my compassion and healing were unleashed with each sip of Guinness and bite of fresh peanut butter cookies from the local supermarket bakery.  BTW a thank you to the guy at the Packie who let me weep a bit and tried to comfort me as I bought the Guinness.  That helped diffuse things too.

I post this photo for a simple reason.  This pair of runners will be forever remembered for crossing the finish line as the bombs detonated.  It is NOT Rick and Dick Hoyt (who were hurting when they came through Mile 18 much later).  I don't know who these runners are, but if someone does, please let them know there is a photo of them where they can remember the triumph of their accomplishment instead of the horror surrounding their ending.

Also let them know that I apologize for not celebrating them the way I should have when I realized they were not team Hoyt.  I have met the Hoyts several times over the years and I did not mean to diminish this pair's accomplishments.  It's just that moment when you're like "Hey!" when you think you see a friend only to have a stranger stare at you and you feel silly.  I gave a cheer of encouragement, but I could have been more enthusiastic and for that I apologize.

I watched them and the wheel chair racers the same way I do every year, as a reminder that what does not kill us should make us stronger.  There are the blind runners who are tethered to sighted runners that come through, the people on blade runner style prosthetics, wearing "survivor" shirts for beating cancer and those wearing "In Memory of..." shirts for those who didn't.

Each year I remember that, even though I pretty much suck at this whole running thing. I love it so much and keep at it, but I'm fat and slow and have made peace with those facts.  It's cool but I have felt like a piece of me has been dead since that day I last ran when the plantar fasciitis brought tears to my eyes getting out of bed in the morning.  For months I slept in that uncomfortable and stupid brace but I have feared tying on my shoes and taking those first steps.  It's been gone for months now, but I have been afraid of it coming back and started training for a Century ride instead.  Today I will run, fear is no longer an option for me.

At the expo this year, I picked my Boston "pun" shirt.  In the past I have had picked out "Will Run for Chowdah," "Will Run for Lagah," "Boston, it's wicked pissah" and "Heart Breakah."  (The only year I didn't buy one was the "Wicked Fast Runnah," year because I'm not.)  This year it prophetically read, "To Hill and Back."

I run on Heartbreak Hill, which is a misnomer as it's really a series of hills.  I care for runners as those hills start to take a toll on them between the fire station and Newton City Hall.

One thing I have always said about the marathon, how can you not love a race where the logo is a unicorn head floating over a sea of jelly donuts? What a great sense of whimsy and inspiration for making the impossible possible.

Seriously, the mascot is a unicorn named "Spike."  Last year I saw a stuffed Spike at the Adidas booth and HAD to have him.  I got the last one they had on Sunday afternoon and he saw me through my MTELs this past year and has been there when I felt down.  This year, the yellow shirted Spike caught my eye.  She looked like she was wearing a ladies shirt instead of last year's mens shirt, so I decided Spike needed a girl friend.  I'm glad he has a friend to get him through now.  They sit here with me as I listen to Flogging Molly sing about living through the IRA years in Ireland before I go out for my first run in almost 6 months.

Boston will get through this.  Hold us in your prayers and thoughts, but do something practical.  Give blood, the Red Cross always needs it, and then put it on your calendar again and again and again.  Volunteer with a group like Back on My Feet if you're a runner.  Support a worthy charity with your time and money.  Get off your ass and start being more active if you're not already.  Hell, we're Bostonians and if you think getting your leg blown off by a coward will stop some of these runners, you're wrong.  We're the Massholes fighting with our insurance companies for a blade runner attachment so we can run the course next year - and years after - to let the terrorists know they lost because we're not scared, we're pissed.  You think messing with New Yorkers was kicking over a hornets nest, just wait and see what what we're made of here in this port city.  I can guarantee you Boston just got harder to get into than it ever was.

About 250 years ago we fired the shot heard round the world bringing down the world's superpower at the time, which is why we run a course carved for only the strongest on Patriot's Day.  We even ran it through a hurricane a few years back, it will take more than a coward's pipe bomb to stop us.

What has really helped put this all in perspective for me were the words of Patton Oswalt yesterday when he posted about his reaction to what happened in Boston.  He ended with, "So when you spot violence, or bigotry, or intolerance or fear or just garden-variety misogyny, hatred or ignorance, just look it in the eye and think, 'The good outnumber you and we always will.'"

I'm going for a run now.

An open letter to Diana Medley

(For background, here's an article about Diana Medley and her attempt to organize a straight-only prom)

Dear Ms. Medley,

I notice you are a Special Ed teacher.  As someone who provides in school support to a whole range and spectrum of students, I thank you.  Teaching can be a difficult field and Special Ed is among the greatest challenges for anyone in the field.  But, did you know that not that long ago people would have suggested there was no purpose for your students to exist?

Parents of cognitive and physically disabled children were often encouraged by doctors to put their children in institutions as they would never be able to have a "normal" life.  We now know that what happened in those institutions were often a horrific nightmare for those children with no purpose... mistakes of nature that just happened.

Look at your dyslexic students or the ones on the spectrum.  There was a time when they would have been beaten up on a regular basis, called names and been written off as having no real purpose.

I suspect that you look at your students and see purpose in them.  You look and see their smiles, their potential and the lessons they have to teach the world - yourself included.  Yet these are the same kids that were once hidden away and written off.

Now you honestly stated that you see no purpose in LGBTQI people.

Have you ever been moved by a poem by Walt Whitman?  Marveled at a photograph by Annie Liebowitz?  Has Lilly Tomlin ever made you laugh so hard your sides hurt on a day when your world was falling apart?  Did you dance to Ricky Martin's "Living La Vida Loca" because you just couldn't help yourself?  If so, then there is a purpose to LGBTQI people in your life.  The clothes you wear, the decor in your home, the art you enjoy, the technology you use and so many other things have purpose and may have been created by one of those people that had no purpose you could see at the moment in time.

To be honest, I have no idea what the Divine Plan may be.  I just know that I try to live a good and moral life according to a story about the great Jewish scholar, Maimonides.  It is said that a scornful man approached the great sage knowing Maimonides was exhausted and demanded the sage tell him the meaning of the Torah while standing on one foot.  He took a moment to think, stood on one foot and said, "That which is hateful to you, do not do to others.  All else is commentary, now go and study."

You need to live those words (or the Christian variants: "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you" and "Judge not lest you be judged") and stop pretending to know what the Divine Plan may be.  We are all taught that there is a time and a purpose to everything under heaven.  When you look at your students as you go forward, remember that.  Just because you don't understand what the purpose may be does not mean you should write off or hide away any student no matter what it is that offends or disturbs you.  At one time those statements were made about students like yours.

You've been given a great opportunity here, open your heart and learn.  Perhaps, if nothing else, the purpose of those LGBTQI students you hold at arm's length is to teach you.  I invite you to keep your heart open, your defenses down and accept.  Two girls or two boys together at prom are no big deal in a world where children come to school hungry, watch their parents go to war and so many real problems.  This is not one of them.

Pray, meditate, do whatever you have to do but remember that when push comes to shove, none of us should speak for the Creator, the Divine has their own voice and it is echoed loudly by the world around us.

Sincerely

Karla Hailer