A Word Edgewise |
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A Word Edgewise |
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Last Updated 01/20/06
For more literature go
to Clendenin Books
Email: mjclen@our-town.com
THE
ART OF BEING WISHY-WASHY
I guess you could call me wishy washy. I don’t even know whether sex education should be a required school subject, nor if drug education teaches kids to use drugs or not to use drugs. Can there be blanket rules for everyone? Should no exceptions be made when rules are set? Does everyone need the same things to be successful? W hat does it take to insure happiness?
You
see, there’s always something that contradicts what I think I suppose, I
imagine, when I’m sort of
convinced, think I have a definite opinion.
It was much easier to have a
dead set, definite opinion before I had much experience, when I was young and
considered everything had a right answer. Just living, knowing people, trying to
help kids make sense out of situations and ask questions before making major
decisions, has played havoc with my cut and dried answers. (Now there is an
interesting saying, “cut and dried”. Where did that come from?) See how
easily I am distracted? Back to the subject.
Many big questions in this world
fall into the category of debatable. Just to list a few about which I’ve had
two or three or more definite opinions:
Should we have dropped the
atomic bomb—or even have made it?
Am I in favor of the death
penalty?
Should people have the right to
make all choices concerning their personal lives?
Should the number of children in
a family be limited?
Is telling a lie always wrong?
Does
the parent have the right to choose professions for children?
Should parents be held
responsible for all their child’s behavior?
Should students pass a test
before being graduated?
On
and on the list could go. At one time or another I thought I knew the answers,
but life has convinced me that I may change my mind.
Let me tell you about a family
near where we lived in New Mexico. I
think most of the answers to those questions began to get muddled way back then,
in the 50s and 60s.
The Demmings lived in a shack in
the forest near the lumber mill, in conditions unfit for anyone. I was told that
in all she gave birth to 12 children, all but the youngest before we moved to
New Mexico. At least two, maybe three, were in homes for the severely crippled
and retarded, basket cases. Two or three died in early childhood. At least one
died as an infant of malnutrition. To make that worse, a man who ran a little
country grocery store was giving them baby food for the child—the father ate
the baby food.
The father was killed in a fight
with a cant hook at the lumber mill. When we moved there she was living with
another old man who was trying to take care of the family. He was not the
murderer, but the father of the youngest two children.
I’m concentrating on a year,
and some things that happened during that time.
The oldest two boys, James and
Bob had been taken out of the home where they were completely neglected and put
in foster care where they stayed for more than a year, but the mother had sued
the county and gotten them returned to her. However, in the short time away they
had learned something about personal hygiene, proper manners, proper food and
some other necessary things.
James seemed to be the only one
who would have any chance of successful independent living. At school, the
teachers had formed an unwritten, non-verbal agreement to try to get James
through high school that year when he was 19 years old. But it soon became
obvious that he could not live at home and maintain an emotional stability to
learn. So, that school year, through the week he stayed with us and went home on
weekends.
At home he tried to do laundry
and get two younger children, about 7 and 8 years old, ready for school the next
week. One week he came back to our house Sunday night, very upset—I mean we
knew he was there when we got home from church, but couldn’t find him. Melissa
found him on the floor of his closet, curled up in a fetal position. Among other
things, his mother had cut the cord to the washing machine when he was trying to
wash for them because she wanted to watch TV, and there was only one electrical
outlet in the house.
Teachers tried to help the two
younger kids. They came on the school bus to school, filthy, hair uncombed for
weeks, smelly. They got breakfast at school and two teachers took it upon
themselves to take them to the gym and give them showers, keeping a clean change
of clothing there. Worked well for a few days. (one of the little girl also had
epilepsy, untreated. Both were severely retarded.) Then the mother came up to
see the superintendent and put a stop to the bathing.
She said, “If I want my
children bathed, I’m put them under the hose.”
We did get James graduated. Did
he make the grades? He learned to read and write fairly well. He could do simple
math. He could work with others and converse.
Did we bend rules? Sure we did.
But James lives away from the family, holds a job, is married, has a home. I
don’t know how well he does. I’ve seen him only once since he was graduated.