Wednesday, December 29, 2010

Sent With Hope

In my first post, I said this blog would at times reflect my quest to manage a non-profit. Here's some reflection...

Helping people has long been a passion of mine. I actually like to do it. This is one of the top reasons I became a teacher. Every day, I help young people in many ways. It is equally satisfying to open a frantic student's locker, as it is to teach a new concept.

Until my life was catapulted in a different direction, I had never given much thought to non-profits. They were there, I knew about them and admired them, but never considering having one of my own.

After that fateful May day, I knew I needed help. Where does one turn for help in the twenty-first century? That's right... Google. I googled and googled and googled. Search after search came up empty. There was nothing of substance to help either myself nor my children. It completely frustrated me, but I put it aside and focused on helping myself.

Over the next few months, I talked with many people. They hugged me and helped me and supported me. Through the power of Facebook, I connected with an old friend from junior high. Her life's mission was to help people. She reached out through non-profit work. In fact, she runs a very successful non-profit. Talking to her made the cranks in my head start churning. Why couldn't I start and maintain a non-profit?

So, it was back to Google I went. I read countless articles about launching non-profits, managing non-profits, and read about people who'd done it successfully. I read so much it hurt my eyes.

Then, I said it aloud, I was going to have a non-profit. And, remember, if I say it aloud, I am going to do it.

After nearly a year of thinking and organizing and deciding and researching, I have a definite plan.

My desire is to help mothers, fathers, and most importantly children who are in a similar situation as we are. On any given day, there are two million American children with one, sometimes two, parents in prison. They have an alarmingly high rate of becoming a criminal offender themselves. These children are all but forgotten by support groups, non-profits... society.

Our non-profit, as it is mine and my children's, is Sent With Hope. Our mission is to provide a connection for families with a loved one in prison. We will provide donations of books, games, and puzzles to correctional facilities and hopefully in the future, help young people write letters to their loved ones.

Children with a parent in prison travel long distances to visit their parent for only a few hours. Many prisons have restrictions on how often they can visit. Once there, most prisons are not "kid friendly". There is often nothing or very little in the visitation rooms to make their visit more pleasant.

My idea came about the first time I visited a correctional facility. The entire experience was... for lack of a better word... institutional. As I sat there, I could not imagine how children could "thrive" in such a setting.With nothing to "entertain" them, how did families manage to pass four hours with little children? How did they have a bonding experience? Then, I thought about the vast amounts of books, games, and puzzles I had sitting at home, not being used anymore, and wondered why those things couldn't come here.

My own childhood had been filled with nights around the table playing games, or coloring an afternoon away, or spending time working complex puzzles. My children loved to do these things, and every time they did, it was quality time spent with them. I thought that these things could help families have quality time, albeit inside such a institutional place.

I went home and contacted several prisons to see if they would accept a donation of books, puzzles, and games for their visitation room. Many gladly accepted the donations. I called on family and friends to clean out their homes, and instead of passing things along to Goodwill, to pass it along to me. My garage quickly filled with books, puzzles, games, crayons, and coloring books. They told their friends, and I received more donations.

My children helped me load boxes and take them to the USPO. We sent approximately six boxes, and it got too expensive for me to do it alone. So, I stopped for awhile and really thought more about making this a legit non-profit.I knew I wanted to do it, but I began having doubts that I could... and that it would even matter.

We visited the correctional facilities many times since then. We watched many families playing with our donations. We saw children snuggling with their daddies, reading books together. We saw parents helping children fit puzzle pieces together. We saw children coloring pictures for their daddies. Most of all, we saw families gathered around tables, simply being families. We saw families forgetting they were inside a prison. These images told me it mattered, but on the other end of this is the institution. And, if they didn't appreciate all of this, where would that leave the non-profit?

Two days ago, my plan was solidified. At the end of our visit, a guard told me the warden wanted to speak with me. Immediately my stomach sank and I asked if I was in trouble. She chuckled and said she didn't think so. We were led down a long hallway to the warden's office. I explained it to my children as though we were going to the principal's office. Their Gramma is a principal, so they could make the connection. Had the children misbehaved? Did I make a guard upset? Had we taken too long in the bathroom? There are so many rules in prison, I couldn't imagine what one we'd broken.

Stepping into the warden's office was like stepping into an entirely different building. For one, it was very colorful. The walls were painted a deep cranberry color, which was such a contrast to the institutional gray colored walls outside his office. There were photographs everywhere and a large comfortable couch along one wall.

The warden stood up behind his desk and in a very soft drawl greeted us. He told me he was very happy to meet me. I concurred. He motioned to our most recent bag of donations and warmly thanked me for them. All the nervousness sank away. I slowly exhaled. He told me that he was very interested in my non-profit (I'd written him a brief letter about my desire to launch it in the new year) and that he planned to share that information with a woman at the state level who coordinated all the facilities. I was beyond thrilled! I grabbed his hand and thanked him over and over. I felt like we could go on and that I just might have a successful non-profit.

We left the facility and a new zest grew inside my chest. I could not wait to get home and get to work!

In the next few days, I will file all my paperwork with the state. In the next few months, I will, with the help of a good friend, create a website. I will also be shipping out more boxes filled with delightful things for all those children to enjoy. And, I will keep you posted about all these adventures. Until next time...

Tuesday, December 28, 2010

The Degree I Didn't Earn in College

I am the type of person that when I say I am going to do something, I do it. First, I plan it all out in my head. Sometimes this take minutes, sometimes years. Once the plan is made, I say it aloud. Now, once I say it aloud... and someone has to hear it... I believe it is "out there...in the universe" and therefore, must be taken care of. It is my way of making promises and keeping them.

Now, from the time it is said, to the time it actually gets done, again, sometimes minutes, sometimes years.

The summer between my senior year of high school and my first year of college was by far the best summer of my life. There was a vibe to that summer that can not accurately be described. It was the last summer of being a child and the first summer of being an adult. It was the summer I actually felt my life change.

One hot summer night, my two best girlfriends and I went to a "party in the field". This is ironic because we truly lived no where near "fields", we lived smack dab in the middle of suburbia. But, this party was far enough away from our civilization to be deemed a "party in the field". I don't remember much of it, except it was when I decided I wanted a boyfriend.

This probably sounds very silly. Here I was, eighteen, and deciding I wanted a boyfriend. Plenty of girls I knew had had boyfriends. Some of them had had them since eighth grade. But, I wasn't like a lot of girls. Sure, I liked boys. I drove my parents crazy with my boy talk, and boy phone calls, and boy pictures. But, in reality, they scared me a little bit. The whole concept of one boy ogling over you, and carrying your books, and calling you every night, and then kissing you... just made me nervous.

At the party in the field, I remember there being a bonfire. Friends of ours had a band, and I remember them playing endless songs. One boy in the band made my heart beat quicker than it had ever before. He had long, shiny hair. We danced around the fire. I liked the way he held my hand, and later walked us back to our car. On the ride home, I told my girlfriends I wanted to date him. I wanted a boyfriend.

Twenty years later, I can not remember his name. 

Less than two weeks later, I left for college.

My college was a small, religious school. Not long after classes started, talk of a certain degree filtered through halls, the dining room, the bathroom. Everyone was talking about which girls were there to get their M-R-S degrees. Now, my parents had sent me to school to earn a bachelor's degree, and I naively wondered if I had signed up for the wrong courses. It took my quite awhile to understand what that degree was.

Once I figured out that some girls were there to simply find a husband, I scouffed at the absurdity of that notion. I was not paying all that money just to find a husband. And, I didn't. I found a boyfriend.

Not a month into school, I met my boyfriend at a friend's college. Like it was just yesterday, I remember the first time I saw him. We were walking back to my friend's fraternity house, and my soon-to-be-boyfriend walked up behind us. He was tall, dark, and handsome. His deep brown eyes glimmered from the reflection of the streetlights. With his hand tucked under his backpack, casually slung over his shoulder, he quietly said, "Hi" to us. In that moment, I knew that boy would change my life.

And, he did. In many ways... both beautifully and tragically. The rest of our story is for another post.

Sunday, November 14, 2010

"You Did What in College?!"

In trying to decide how to best explain my current situation... I found few answers. So, I'll just start where any good writer would... the beginning.

To best understand where one is, one must know where they've been. A long time ago I was an eighteen year old girl, full of spunk and ready to conquer the world. Now, really that meant I was ready to conquer the immediate world around me, as I was too terrified to leave the twenty mile radius around my hometown.

Therefore, my college years were spent at a small religious college a mere twenty minute car ride from home. There, two profound things happened to me.

My university offered several volunteer groups for students to join. The most popular was "Baby Holding." Once a week, students loaded into the university van and went downtown to hold sick babies. These babies were born drug addicted, some were born HIV positive, and others had serious medical issues. The students who joined this volunteer group rarely lasted more than three weeks. Who could blame them? I knew, without ever boarding that van, that was not the group for me. There was no way I could go, hold a sick baby for a few hours, and come back any better of a person. I'd have come back an emotional mess.

Therefore, I opted to join a group that once a week went to the Cook County Jail to tutor inmates working towards their GED.

Yes, all five foot of my spunk and sass waltzed into the Cook County Jail every Tuesday night for a year. I thought nothing of it. I hardly noticed the dilapidated buildings, dirty streets, and high cement walls surrounding the jail. I could not understand why one of my uncles told me I was nuts when I explained to my family over Thanksgiving break what I'd been doing with my time. And, I became upset that more university students did not join this volunteer group.

A typical Tuesday night went as follows: Approximately seven of us arrived at the jail by six o'clock. It was extremely important to be prompt, as tutoring sessions were held only between certain hours. We went to Division 5 and waited in a hallway with this old ornate stairway  that wound up to a (not kidding) dungeon looking door. I'm quite positive both the stairway and door had been there since the jail was built in 1928.

Once that dungeon door was unlocked (with a skeleton key), we stepped inside a waiting area. Everything had to be left there, everything. We were patted down, looked over, and ushered to a seating area. When given the "ok" another old, steel door was unlocked and we were in the jail. We were told to walk only on the thick line painted on the floor. We were told to not move off the line nor to speak to any inmates. We walked past hallways that led to cells. I remember groups of inmates sitting at the end of the hallway, watching tiny television sets, craning their necks to see what people were walking by. The trip down this hallway lasted only a few seconds. It never once made me uncomfortable.

The classroom area was located downstairs. I remember the first time I went, the director went over very specific rules and information. He assured us none of the inmates were considered "dangerous". Most were there for drug offenses and petty theft. They had to apply to be part of the program and had been carefully screened. The director reminded us to not share any personal information with any inmate, other than our first name. Our job while there was strictly to help with any homework they had from their daily classes.

So, that was what we did.

Over the course of that year, I helped two inmates who struggled with their English classes. James was an older guy (and by older I mean he was in his thirties) who had a gruff voice and a low laugh. He told me he'd stolen a car. I didn't really care what he'd done, I just wanted to help him with his homework. That's why I'd joined this group. I wanted to help people who needed it. I longed to encourage people that education could provide them a good life.

It often bothered me that James just wanted to chat. He could talk about anything... television shows, the weather, sports, daydreams, the numerous times he'd been in jail... anything but course work. I was too naive to understand that these tutoring sessions provided James with much more than homework help. They were a gift from "the outside". The only other thing I remember about James was that he once told me he'd rather be there than where he was from. I can still hear his voice saying that. I still wonder how bad where ever his home was that he would rather be at the Cook County Jail.

The other inmate was a young guy named Paris. We were probably very close to the same age. Paris enjoyed flirting with all the female tutors. He was quite charismatic and had the smoothest skin I have ever seen. He was smart, beyond smart. I could not understand why his high school hadn't tracked him into advanced classes. He told me he rarely went to high school.

The school year came to an end, which also meant the end of tutoring sessions. Summer vacation loomed in front of me, where as another day at the Cook County Jail loomed in front of James, Paris, and countless others. I left and proceeded to live my life.

I have no idea what happened to either James or Paris. They've come to mind often over the years. I can only hope that education did, in fact, set them free. 

My days as a Cook County Jail tutor helped me to understand the numerous students that would one day share with me their stories of visiting loved ones there. It helped me affirm that education is vital to being a productive citizen. It also opened my eyes and made me realize that the "system" was not perfect.

As for the other profound thing that happened to me in college, well, that is for the next blog.

Tuesday, October 5, 2010

The Story Of Mad Dog & Claw ~ Part II

I spent the better portion of the day with my fabulous sister and thought it best to complete this story. Finally.

So... by August after that fateful May, my "new" life had begun to take on its own shape. There was some since of order and control to it, even if it be slight. In learning to overcome my arduous fate, Kara never faltered in her main role of "Claw". I was so absorbed in what was happening to me, I never saw the next piece of bad news coming. And so the saying goes, "Just when you thought things couldn't get any worse..." They did.

One August morning, Kara sent a text. It was direct, "I need you all to meet me for dinner tonight." She gave a time and place. She'd also sent the text to my Mom and Dad. All day I thought, "What could she possibly have to tell us?" My mind went everywhere... she's getting a new job, she was fired, she met the man of her dreams, she won the lottery, she's been transferred. My mind went everywhere, except where Kara was going to take us.

I arrived at dinner with my children promptly, my parents and Kara were already there. I immediately asked what we were there for. Kara said, "Oh, no, no, Let's eat first." You don't argue with Kara, so we did. We ate and laughed and talked and when the napkins were all thrown on the plates, I finally said, "Ok, why are we here?" Because, I truly couldn't stand it any longer.

The next few moments I will remember clearly for as long as I will live, though I wish I wouldn't. Within seconds, Kara had calmly told us she'd found a lump and she had breast cancer.

My immediate reaction was to laugh. I thought for sure it was a joke because really, come on! Had the universe seen what we'd been through over the last several months? Obviously, it hadn't. I leaped up from my chair and rushed over to Kara. I sat on her bag and smashed her leftovers and she scolded me. I know I was crying, we all were, but I remember not panicking. I was trying very hard to listen to the information Kara gave us.My mind spun with words I'd never thought would come out of my younger sister's mouth. Lump. Cancer. Biopsy. Cancer. Oncologist. Cancer. Treatments. Cancer.

The fear that rose in me can't be accurately described. For a few moments I feared losing my only sister, my Claw. Then, in the fog of information and terminology, I heard her say, "It doesn't matter, I'm not going anywhere." Either my Mom or Dad had asked her what stage and type of cancer she had. My mind halted and I thought only of her answer. I looked at my sister and from the depth of my heart, pride swelled. She was so brave. She was Claw, ready to claw back her health!

About a week later, Kara and I went to her first chemotherapy treatment. The experience was overwhelming. Upon entering the cancer center, I thought it would be very... hospital. It was anything but. Yes, there were very sick people there and nurses, and drugs, and IVs, but the thing there that most hospitals seem to lack was hope. A very positive vibe radiated throughout the center. I was glad my sister was there, she was in good hands. 

There was a vast amount of information to absorb. We watched a movie about chemotherapy, what it is, and what it does for the body. We learned the drugs they'd soon inject Kara with and those she'd have to take after treatment. We learned about side effects and ways to manage side effects. We nicknamed her second chemo drug, "Agent Red", as it was red in color. It was so potent, it had to be handled specially by the nurse.Even when it became completely overwhelming, Kara remained calm and strong.  I had to remind myself all of this was to heal Kara.

Her first round of chemo left her sick. In fact, she'll never eat broccoli cheddar soup again. However, the medicine to counter chemo side effects are so powerful, she never had to worry about being sick again. She was tired, a lot. Her hair thick, wavy hair all fell out, slowly. By winter, she had only several strands left, so she asked me to get rid of them for her. This was a far cry from quietly cutting each others hair while watching The Three Stooges as little girls. I just cut, only wanting to help my sister.

Helping her was one of my top priorities. My life was still in shambles, but I knew I had to be there for my sister. Any sister would be. I'd learned that when your life enters the crisis stage, many people reach out and offer to help. Most of them offer to help, but have no idea what to do. This is completely understandable, but also frustrating. Having gone through that, I simply told my sister I'd do all her cooking. I knew that was one way I could help both her... and myself. Sometimes, I think it is just easier to tell the person you want to help what you're going to do. So, I found a cancer cookbook, hauled out my favorite CrockPot cookbook, and remembered all my favorite "comfort meals" and got cooking. Cooking for Kara ensured my family ate, too, which is something people often forget to do when in crisis stage. I believe my meals helped heal us both. With every veggie, ever spice, every stir, I felt as though I was giving us a purpose... to go on.

Half way through her chemo treatments, Kara's two inch diameter tumor had shrunk in half.  In late December, Kara had her lumpectomy. It was a complete success. She began radiation and continued chemo after wards. Our entire family had a new zest for life, as Kara's recovery was a miracle!

By spring, Kara's hair had grown back and people were stopping her on the street complimenting her cute "do". Kiddingly, I told her it took her getting cancer to find the perfect haircut. By late September, her chemo treatments were completely over. She will see her doctor within the next few weeks and will soon have her port removed. (This is a device just beneath the skin above her shoulder blade where they stuck her every time they needed blood or to give her treatements.) If you saw Kara walking down the street, you would never know that one year ago, she was diagonsed with breast cancer.

My sister is my hero. She braved and battled cancer, and she won. I love my sister and I am thankful every day to have her in my life. I am glad for the opportunity to finally pick a good movie for us to see. She is and forever will be, my Claw.

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

The Story of Mad Dog & Claw ~ Part I

When we were little girls, my Uncle Tommy nicknamed my sister and me, Mad Dog & Claw. I was Mad Dog, she was Claw. He'd set up wrestling matches for us & give long, drawn out announcements before the match started. When the ding of the bell singled the start, we'd wrestle, like girls. There was a lot of giggling and hair pulling. There was a lot of , "Time out, time out, she kicked me hard that time!" I think my uncle longed for more nephews.

Today, I think a lot about these silly names my uncle made up to keep us entertained so many years ago. I wonder if he had any idea how relevant they'd be later in life. Because, I don't know a better Mad Dog or Claw than my sister and me.

My sister is fourteen months younger than me. Our childhood was spent playing. Real playing, the kind where your backyard or your living was transformed into a Barbie neighborhood or Lego land, because you made it that way with anything you could scavenge. Real playing, the kind where you were so lost in a make-believe world, you didn't know how it got to be dinner time so quickly. My sister was the best playmate because she got lost in that world with me. The things we played, the worlds we created... We played gymnastic championship on our front lawn in 1984 when Mary Lou Retton won Olympic gold. We made up a game called Wall Ball to play against the house on long summer afternoons. We decorated snow forts in the winter and made our own hills in the flat backyard. I think we actually believed our doll house families were alive! Their lives were our own personal soap opera.

Soon, we grew up and the differences in us became apparent. And even though we were interested in different things, we managed to stay close. There were many nights when I would sleep on her bedroom floor, just because I missed sharing a room with her.

In our early twenties, we decided to move out and rent our first apartment. I felt so lucky to have a sister who wanted to live with me and all my bad habits! Kara often acted more like the big sister, making sure we had groceries and that I had enough money to pay my share of the rent, or that I woke up from a bad hangover.

Life kept going, and changes came. I moved out of the apartment, to a new town.  I bought a town home, Kara bought a condo. Kara was my maid-of-honor and the first person to bring me flowers the day my daughter was born.

All through life, my sister has been there. I have never known a moment without her. She is the little girl who cut my hair during The Three Stooges, the young girl I made up to go to junior high dances, the young lady who was brave enough to move across the country for college. She is the one person who I could always count on to simply be there.

On that fateful Thursday, she was the second person I called, only after my mother. She was the one who left work, drove an hour, and sat with me while I watched everything I thought I had fall away. She was the one who planned my future for me because she had the sense, the knowledge, the calm, and strength to do it. After all, she is Claw. And true to her name, she helped me claw back many parts of my life and make them all my own.

Now, it would seem reasonable that the story of Mad Dog and Claw end here. But, has the universe ever played that fair? Never. The story of Mad Dog and Claw was far from over.

Wednesday, August 4, 2010

Your Most Comfortable Pair of Genes

In those volatile days after that fateful Thursday, I started planning. I planned my future. However, I needed to know how I was going to make it to that future.

And so first , like any girl would do, I looked to my favorite genes.

On both sides of my family, courageous, strong women have come before me. I'd like to use this blog to highlight just a few of them. Because, if you know them, you know me.

I must begin with my gramma. Her name was Thelma Pearl. She was born just before the Depression and was always tiny, therefore earning her the nickname, Tot. She grew up with very little and lost her mother when she was very young. Her step-mother, by today's standards, was abusive. As soon as she could, she fled Southern Illinois for Chicago. Once there, she met my gramps, married him, and started a family. She had a cackling, contagious laugh, the sweetest voice and softest hands I've ever felt. I miss her every day of my life.

Tot's older sister is my Aunt Dottie. Aunt Dottie vividly remembers the Depression, and speaks of how her father knew how to preserve fruit so they had enough to last through the winter. It was Dottie who brought Tot to Chicago and helped her get settled. In a time when it wasn't popular for women to learn trades, Dottie learned bookkeeping and made a living at it. She raised five intelligent, successful children on her own. Today, my Aunt Dottie is in her late 80's and can tell you a story from her life that would leave you mesmerized.

My Great Aunt Helen is my gramps' sister. She left her home in Chicago and raised a family in a small Nebraska town. She had her own business, in-home daycare. She once told me that sometimes she knew the parents couldn't pay, "and that was alright". Aunt Helen had five children, and not so many years ago, her oldest son passed away. And, still, Aunt Helen writes her letters, shares her stories, and smiles her gentle smile.

There's my mom, Nancy. Besides raising two exceptional daughters, she is the principal of an elementary school. When we were young, she went back to school and earned a master's degree. Then, she waited a long time until her glass ceiling cracked and she could be the boss. She stepped into her role with a zealousness and determination to be the best, and she has succeeded.

Recently, my cousin, Joyce, reminded me it has been seventeen years since she was diagnosed with colon cancer. She is a seventeen year survivor of the disease that frightens us all. She took hold of her life, and beat cancer because she knew she had a lot more living to do. Today, Joyce has five beautiful grandchildren that adore her.

There's my Aunt Judy, my godmother. She bought me my first (and only) pair of Jordache jeans. She does things like that, makes life, special. She made a list, either before she turned 50 or before she turned 60, of all the things she wanted to do before that age. A few people scoffed at this, but she went out there and rode a horse, for one! Last Easter, she was diagnosed with breast cancer. After surgery, she sat up in her bed and announced to everyone that she was going home. And, she did. Today, she is cancer free and enjoying life to the fullest.

Lastly, there is my sister, Kara. But Kara's story will have to wait. Because, talk about life kicking you square in the ass when you are already down...

These women, my genes, all possess similar qualities. They have survived heartache, meager times, turbulent periods in American history, oppression, and life-threatening disease. And they have done it with dignity. They never once complained, whined, or cried, "Woe is me".Their sadness never got in the way of their strife. Their determination to go on living was never lost. They simply, went on. With all this extraordinary family around you, you kind of have to.

So, when my calamitous time came, I studied my genes, wrapped myself in their comfort and went on. Just as the remarkable women before me have, and those after me, will do.

Monday, August 2, 2010

Lemonade Out of My Lemons

You've heard about it. You've read about it. You've watched it.  It being that person whose life was turned upside down, flipped over, and catapulted into a new direction in seconds.

I'm that person.

Just over a year ago, I woke up on a seemingly normal Thursday in late May. I showered, dressed and fed my children, dashed off to work, and proceeded to have another day in the life of me. My day could not have been any more routine. And, then, it just wasn't.

Now, I realize this leaves you hanging on the edge of your seat, but all in good time. From that moment, I emerged, the real me, the strongest lady I currently know. And, in her is a quest.

My quest is to make lemonade out of my lemons. Using this blogspot, I wish to help people understand anyone can, one, survive, and two, overcome anything that life may hurl at them. I also wish to show people that when life hurls that life-altering moment at you, you embrace it and put something good back out into the universe.

I'll share my "survival tactics". I'll share my journey of establishing and (hopefully) maintaining a non-profit... all from this keyboard. Amazing. I hope.