A Very Rosh Hashanah Teachers Strike

My mom, who was a CPS high school French and Spanish teacher, died last March at the age of 92.  There were many Septembers when she would be walking the picket line.  My dad, who taught at Daley College, would be walking his picket line, too.  Never did I dream that, many, many years later, I would be a parent at the time of a teacher's strike.

As it became clear that a strike was imminent, I tweeted about my support for the teachers while at the same time hoping it would be short and sweet.  During the strike I would tweet things like, "Teachers strike, Day Four."  Or "Sanity Watch, Day Four."  Since my folks had been educators, I had a natural built in affinity for teachers.  The interior whine inside my head was, "The kids just went back to school.  Why do you have to do this now?"

I knew why it had to be right then.  I have seen two teachers leave their positions.  I have seen a third railroaded.  Whenever good teachers leave, kids lose out. Teachers neither have the resources nor the support they need to teach Gen Ed kids let alone the most challenging segment of the population.

As I walked south on Narragansett towards Oak Park, I encountered picket line after picket line. Was a beautiful day for a walk to shul.  Was a beautiful day to give a thumbs up to all the teachers I passed along the way.  For a while I was too emotional to speak.  I don't know if the teachers noticed that I had tears in my eyes.

Somewhere there is a photo of my mother from either the 60s or the 70s.  She is walking in front of Bowen High School, and talking with a woman with whom she had had violent disagreements about Israel and Palestine.  I remember many a time when she would come home fuming about her. But in that instant my mother is smiling as the two women walk in solidarity for a fair union contract.

As I walked past the men and women on the line,  I wondered if my mom were somehow able to witness the strike.  Towards the end of my walk, I was finally able to speak.  "With you in spirit," I called out. What I really meant was, "My mother is with you in spirit."  If she were still alive, she definitely would have been expressing her support.

Part of me wanted to ditch going to Rosh Hashanah services and hang out with the teachers.  I came really close to doing that.  I also knew that I needed a Rosh Hashanah experience, and so I propelled myself forward the final blocks to the church where this congregation holds High Holiday services.  As I
sat in the row, I felt I had the best of both Rosh Hashanahs.  Solidarity with striking teachers and praying with the secular Jews who resonate with my atheistic yet, yes, deeply spiritual connection with my Jewish roots.

I took a bus partway home.  As I walked the final few blocks, I saw sign after sign announcing Proud Union Home in solidarity with the members of Chicago Teachers Union, Local 1.  Better yet were the Support Our Teachers signs.  At  least one was homemade.

It did my heart good to see those signs.  I remember when even a friend's husband used to taunt my mom with "Those who can,do. Those who can't, teach."  I remember my mom telling me that some of our neighbors accused her of helping me learn to read, as if her being a teacher somehow made my early reading some kind of educational cheat.  I taught myself how to read, but what if she had helped me?  Isn't
it a teacher's job to teach?  What if our neighbors had been teachers?  Would they have begrudged their children any opportunity to learn?

I was grateful for the opportunity to connect with the teachers, even if only momentarily.  My mom inspired me to be a teacher.  I got a Master's in English and was a part-time instructor at several community colleges before moving on to the more stable job of legal proofreader.  I remember all those times, years after her retirement, when my mom would be stopped by former students.  "You don't remember me, but I was in your Spanish class."  Even when my mom was in the nursing facility after her last fall, middle aged women
put two and two together and realized that the elderly woman who looked vaguely familiar and eating at a table with their elderly mothers was none other than their former high school teacher.  Even in a nursing facility with many residents there for rehab, they were excited to see her.

The strike was at an inconvenient time, yet it was also the perfect time.  No better time to reflect on beginnings and endings and renewing connections.  So, thank you, Chicago Teachers Union, Local 1.  You gave me a Rosh Hashanah filled with meaning and one I will never forget.

Moments Between a Little Girl and Her Mother

One warm day a little girl and her mother were walking down the street.  The little girl wanted to run across the lawn and ring the bells in the church bell tower.  Her mother didn't know why her little girl wanted to run. Just that she wanted to.  She held on to the little girl's hand really tight.  At first the little girl strained against her mother's grasp but then she stopped.
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The little girl stood on the stairs and watched her mom sweep the steps.  "What is your name," her mom asked.

"Debbie Mouyay," the little girl replied.

"What's your name," her mom persisted, trying to get the little girl to say Miller.

"Debbie Mouyay," the little girl said loudly.

"What's your name," her mom asked yet again.

"Debbie Mouyay," the girl said in an exasperated tone.
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The little girl watched her mom do the laundry.  "I want to be a mommy when I grow up."   That was already the little girl's second career decision.  Her first was that she wanted to be a clown, which she had announced one morning at the breakfast table.  This announcement pleased her mother more.
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One summer day her mother promised her ice cream.  The little girl never got her ice cream that day.

"But you promised," the little girl cried.

Her mother never gave a reason for the broken promise.  The little girl never believed promises ever again.
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The little girl held onto her mother's hand as they crossed the street to talk to the neighbor ladies.  The little girl felt shy and a little bored.  She went underneath her mother's dress.  She looked up and saw her mother's legs and her mother's panties. After a moment she came out from there.
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The little girl came down the stairs one day and asked her mom, "what am I?"

Her mom looked up from the piano and said, 'You are a Jew," guessing correctly that the little girl was not asking about whether she was a boy or a girl.

The answer pleased the little girl, and filled her with pride.
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The little girl had tears in her eyes as she ran home from the neighbor's house. She had just been accused of killing "Our Lord," and sought her mother out for comfort.

"What's a Christian," she finally asked her mother.

"A Christian is someone who follows in the footsteps of Christ," her mother explained.

The little girl imagined people walking from giant footprint to giant footprint..  She was still unsure what a Christian was, but she kept it to herself.
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The little girl was being unusually rambunctious.  She was running around and around the dining room table.  Her mother,  playing hand after hand of solitaire, was uncharacteristically taciturn.  "You wouldn't be behaving that way if you knew your grandpa had died." The little girl stopped playing.
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The little girl's mother used to read to her from Arabian Nights and other stories.  She would kiss the little girl on the cheek and say, "See you in the morning, Mirtsishem.  (God willing.)
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The little girl was teased at school.  Her mother would say, "They are jealous of you because you are

smart."  "They are jealous of you because you are pretty."  "They are jealous of you because you are pretty and smart."

The little girl never really believed that, but she knew her mother was doing her best to console her.
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One night the neighbor ladies came over for a coffee klatch.  The little girl watched from the stairs and listened to the women greeted one another.  After they left the little girl went up to her mother.  "They don't really like each other, do they?"

"No," her mother replied.
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The little girl's mother taught her that if you put the leaf of an African violet in water, a root would eventually grow and you could start a new plant.
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The little girl used to watch her mother weed the lawn.
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The little girl sat in the window and watched the snow fall.  She was happy when her mom came home. That was the beginning of the blizzard.

The little girl and her dog played in the snow.  Later on her mother made her hot chocolate.
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The little girl went with her mother to the polling place in the church.  She watched her mother flip the lever for the entire Democratic ticket and then flip up the ones she did not want.  When her mother was done voting, the curtain to the voting booth opened up and they went home.
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One evening the little girl and her mother took their dog on a long walk.  She wanted to show the little girl where her dad was taking classes in night school so that he could teach data processing.
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When the little girl's dad started teaching, he wouldn't come home until well past her bedtime.  The little girl asked her mother to wake her up so she could spend time with him.   Her mom would do that.  The little girl would stay up about a half an hour with her dad and then go back to bed.
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The night the little girl and her mom and dad were moving, the little girl's dad had to teach.  The little girl and her mom sat in the parking lot along with the rest of their things.  They went to a nearby diner and carried dinner back to the car.  The little girl  read comic books out loud to her mother.  They laughed.
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The little girl's mother would tell her, "I love you.  Don't forget."  The little girl grew up.  She never forgot.