What I do remember is hearing a sound like a loud handclap echo all around me. Then another loud clap. People stopped on the street and spun around in place, looking for the source of the sound. I heard whispers of “gunfire” and “gunman.” Everyone looked panicked. The next thing I knew, a man was holding open the door to a coffee shop and waving people inside.  “Move in, move in,” he said with urgency as he ushered me and several other people inside. The group of us huddled behind the glass window of the storefront, staring outside as others vacated the streets and filed into downtown restaurants and shops.  A black and white police cruiser zoomed by, lights flashing and sirens wailing. Another followed. More frightened whispers of “guns” and “gunman… gunmen?” passed between those of us who waited in the small shop.

I don’t remember how long we were there. What felt like hours was probably just a matter of minutes.

And I don’t remember much about leaving, other than someone simply saying “the police got ‘em,” and that was it.  The rest of us wandered outside, still wide-eyed and frightened. It wasn’t like a disaster drill in which you finish up the exercise and walk away with the assurance that all was well and you were free to resume life as normal.  This was real. But was it really over? That was the burning question on all of our minds. I didn’t want to stick around to find out, so I walked and walked and walked, as far away as I could get from Franklin Street.

I never saw the gunman, and never realized that he was a fellow student until I saw his picture in the Daily Tarheel the next day.  Two people had been shot and killed and more had been injured on Henderson Street, which intersected with Franklin at the block where I’d been standing when I heard what I was sure was the first round of gunfire.

Every time I hear about a campus shooting, which seems to happening more and more frequently these days, I’m reminded just how fortunate I was to walk away from one alive and unharmed. The people who died and were injured were students too.  Young, talented people with bright futures ahead of them, families and friend who loved them. There’s no rhyme or reason as to why they were killed or harmed, and others were not.  It could have been any of the other dozens of people in that immediate area that lost their lives.

It could have been me.  Call me lucky, call me blessed, but I was just in the right place at the right time when something went terribly wrong.

Life is a gift, one that we’ve done nothing to deserve or earn.  Some feel that life is gifted at conception, while others feel like it is granted the day one is born. I feel like I got the gift of life all over again that day of the shooting, and have received it every day since then. Each time I read about a campus shooting or see footage on the news, I’m reminded how dangerous the world is today, how random and indiscriminating violence can be, and how very fragile our lives are.

And at the end of all this, I guess I just want to say that I’m very thankful to be alive, and I hope that you will take a moment to be thankful for the gift of your life today as well.

My thoughts and prayers are with all who were affected by the recent high school shooting in my hometown of Fayetteville, NC.

Want to win a copy? Leave a post below and tell us what your facility did to recognize Breast Cancer Awareness Month! We’ll pick one winner from all entries to recieve a complimentary copy of the Nursing 2012 Drug Handbook. Entries must be received by November 30, 2011 at 12 PM EST!

You can also purchase the Nursing 2012 Drug Handbook at a 20% discount by using this link: http://www.lww.com/webapp/wcs/stores/servlet/product_Nursing2012-Drug-Handbook-with-Online-Toolkit_11851_-1_12551_Prod-9781609136192?promoCode=WBZ652BB&cm_mmc=Link-_-PE-_-outside-_-WBZ652BB

From Chicago I went to OSF St. Mary’s Medical Center in Galesburg, IL.  They invited me for an author’s visit and I had a blast!  Their nurse managers took me out to lunch and then I did a couple of presentations and book signings at their hospital.  The CNO, Cathy, and medical librarian, Michael, were wonderful hosts, and I want to thank them too for inviting me to spend the day at their hospital. 

I’ve received emails from several of you wanting to know when the third novella, ‘Through Other Eyes’ will be ready.  Rest assured, it’s coming!  Once it is in print, I hope you’ll agree with me that it’s been worth the wait.  ‘Through Other Eyes’ is a story about diversity, and I’ve put more time into researching, writing and re-writing it than I did for the first two novellas combined!  In fact, it’s still a work in progress at this point, but I wanted to let you know that it is mostly done and will be coming your way soon.

To jump back for a minute to NNSDO this year, I wanted to mention that I had the privilege of hearing a great closing presentation by Marcus Engel.  Marcus was one of the most moving and inspirational speakers I’ve ever seen.  He is an author and professional speaker who talks to audiences about the life-changing experience of being hit by a drunk driver, and the extended hospitalization and multiple surgeries that followed.  His injuries were extensive and included a total loss of vision.  After the conference, I contacted Marcus and asked him if he would be willing to be a reviewer for ‘Through Other Eyes’ as one of the key characters is a patient who is blind, as I wanted to make sure that the patient’s experience was accurately written.  Marcus graciously agreed to review ‘Through Other Eyes’ and after doing so, gave me some excellent feedback that helped me make improve the story. 

Marcus has a website at www.marcusengel.com and his three books, ‘The Other Side of the Stethescope,’ ‘I’m Here:  Compassionate Communication in Patient Care,’ and ‘After This:  An Inspirational Journey for All the Wrong Reasons’ are available on the site.  They are also on Kindle for those of you with e-readers.  I’m adding all three to my own reading list.  There is also a wonderful short movie titled ‘The Drop’ about Marcus that you can view below or at www.TheDropMovie.com – it’s only seven minutes long and is excellent!  I encourage you to take a look. 

Hope you’re enjoying your summer!  Feel free to leave a comment below or email at nursingnovellas@aol.com.  I love hearing from you and I thank you all so much again for your enthusiasm for the forthcoming ‘Through Other Eyes.’  Hang in there, it won’t be long now!

The second song was the most memorable one for me.  It got everyone back into their seats and took the audience to a more pensive, emotional place.  It was such a moving performance that I made a beeline to the merchandise table and bought Pete’s CD ‘After the Parade’ just on the merits of that song alone.

The song was titled ‘Broken Heart’ and told a tale of love lost.  The lyrics that grabbed hold of me and wouldn’t let go were these:

Who’s going to mend my broken heart?

Not you…

Wish it was you.

There was a story in those words that was begging to be told.  Years later, I sat down at my computer and wrote a book about a nurse named Mel who was recovering from a painful divorce, convinced that she wouldn’t find love again.  Just when she was ready to give up, she met Devin, who proved her wrong.  Sadly, Devin died.  But their friendship had been so meaningful and special to Mel that it left her a changed person, ready to heal and love again.  I titled that book ‘Broken Heart,’ inspired by Pete Riley’s song that had made such an impression on me.

A few weeks ago, Broken Heart jumped significantly in sales rank and hit #4 in the Nurse & Patient bestseller category on Amazon.com’s Kindle website.  I was feeling appreciative and couldn’t help but think back to the source of the inspiration.  On a whim, I looked up Pete Riley online.  I found him on Facebook and sent him a message to let him know that the impact that his work had made on me.

The next day, I got a reply from Pete’s wife, Alison.  “Pete is on tour right now,” she wrote, “but I told him about your message when he called last night.  He was absolutely thrilled about it and so glad that he inspired you to write such a successful book.”  After a few more email exchanges with Alison and Pete, I sent them a copy of my book ‘Broken Heart,’ and they sent me a copy of Pete’s new CD, ‘Rivers Apart,’ which he recorded with fellow UK artist, Amy Wadge.

I was hoping there would be a MP3 version of Pete’s song ‘Broken Heart’ online so I could share it with you, but unfortunately it’s not available in digital version.  It’s on the CD ‘After the Parade’ by Pete Riley if you’re lucky enough to find the complete album!  In the meantime, Pete sent me an extra copy of his newest album ‘Rivers Apart’ to share with the lucky blog reader that wins this contest!

Here’s how you enter:

Leave a post below describing a person or an event that inspired you.  Did someone or something lead you to create a work of art?  Or help you overcome something that was holding you down?  Or just impact you in an amazing way?  Post it below.  And if you’re able, and you haven’t already, reach out to that person who inspired you and let them know that they made a difference in your life (even if he or she is living all the way across the ocean in another continent)!

Share your inspiration!  We’ll pick our favorite post and one lucky winner who will receive the autographed copy of Pete and Amy Wadge’s new CD ‘Rivers Apart’ as well as an autographed copy of the nursing novella ‘Broken Heart.’  The winner will be contacted on May 1 by email.

(You can find out more about Pete Riley and Amy Wadge and purchase a download of the album Rivers Apart at: www.peteriley.com)

a short story by Amy Glenn Vega

It was the picture that caught my eye and stopped me dead my tracks.  I was on the way out of the grocery store, my right arm loaded up with reusable shopping totes full of food; my left balancing a large bag of dog kibble on my hip.

Lost Dog, the flyer read.  The words had been scrawled in pencil by an unsteady hand, and a picture of a goofy-looking tri-color basset hound was taped beneath them.   His name is Boo-Boo and he is my best friend.  Please return him to Loretta Abernathy at 313 Meadowbrook Park Road.

A phone number had been written in six hand-drawn blocks at the bottom of the page, with five vertical cuts between them.  No one had taken of slip of paper with Ms. Abernathy’s phone number yet.

My heart sank as I turned my attention back to the photo of the dog.  I would have recognized that face anywhere.  With his open-mouth grin, those bloodshot eyes rimmed with sagging lids, and the little pink spot on the end of his black nose, there was no mistaking him.

He had wandered into my yard a little more than three weeks ago, the day I moved into my house.  I was literally unpacking boxes from the moving van when he meandered up the driveway and followed me onto my front porch, where he plopped down and took a nap.  I joked with him about being the first one to welcome me to the neighborhood.  I figured he would find his way back home whenever suppertime rolled around.

Hours later, when I finished unpacking, he was still on my porch.  I went inside, thinking that he’d get the hint and go home.  It was only a few seconds after I shut the door that he started howling.  I had no idea that such a loud, horrible sound could come out of such a harmless-looking little dog.  It sounded like a murder was underway in my front yard.  The hound was serenading me with all his might.  I did my best to wait it out, but he wouldn’t give up.

When I finally opened the door, he stopped baying and opened his mouth in a wacky smile.  A string of drool dripped from his chin.  He wagged his tail proudly as if to say, mission accomplished.

Against my better judgment, I held the door open.  He accepted my invitation and strolled in on fat, wrinkly paws with overgrown toenails that clicked noisily on the hardwood floor.  I gave him a bowl of water in the kitchen.  He indulged in a long, sloppy drinking session that left more water on the floor than in his belly.  I had a half-eaten hamburger on the counter from a mid-day run to the fast food place on the corner.  I offered it to the dog and he snapped it out of my hand, swallowing it whole.

I tried to send him outside after that, but the howling started again, this time with other dogs in the neighborhood joining in.  I didn’t want to brand myself a disruptive neighbor before I even had the chance to get to know the people living around me, so I brought the dog back into the house.  He slept on the floor next to my bed all night long.

The following day, I set up my computer and printer, pointed my web camera at him to snap a picture, and made a Found Dog flyer.  I printed several copies and blanketed street signs in my neighborhood, plus several of the other subdivisions and apartment complexes closeby.  I tacked flyers to the community billboards at the grocery store, Laundromat and post office.   Then I called the dog pound to report that I had found a dog.  I described him and they took my phone number, promising to call me if anyone reported a lost dog that fit that description.  When that job was done, I bought a collar and a leash for the squatter at my house and took him on daily walks, knocking on doors and asking people I passed if they recognized him.  Days grew into weeks with no one stepping forward to claim him.

With nearly a month behind us, and not a single response to any of my efforts to locate the owner, I finally accepted that I now had a dog.  We had started a new life together and had built our daily routines around each other.  Mornings started with an outdoor walk and breakfast on the porch swing if the weather was nice enough.  I filled his dish with kibble every morning, and while he was content to eat every bit of it, he still begged for my eggs and toast.  Most days I gave in and shared with him.

He stayed indoors while I went to work during the day at my new job, and I raced home during my thirty-minute lunch break every day to let him out.  In the evenings, we walked again and dined together on the porch.  He slept next to my bed every night.  I called him George, without really knowing what inspired the name.  He just looked like a George to me.  

Apparently, he had looked like a Boo-Boo first to Mrs. Loretta Abernathy, because that was what she had named him.  Looking at the picture of him on the Lost Dog flyer made me feel nauseated.   A million questions were running through my mind:  What had taken this lady so long to put up a lost dog flyer?  Why hadn’t she seen any of my Found Dog flyers and responded to them?  Did she really love this dog, and would she take care of him if he was returned to her?  Wouldn’t he be better off if I just pretended like I never saw this flyer, if I just kept him and let him be my dog?  Why had I allowed myself to get so attached to a dog that wandered into my yard, knowing that he had belonged to someone else all along? 

I took the flyer down and put it in my pocket.  At home, I took George for one more walk, fed him one last time, and sat down on the floor to give him one more round of back scratches and belly rubs. 

Then I called Mrs. Abernathy.  She answered on the second ring.  When I told her that I had her dog, she begged me to bring him home right away.

I put George’s leash on, loaded him into the car and drove to her address.  It was not quite two miles down the road from my subdivision; a modest one-story house that was in need of several repairs.

An elderly woman opened the door.  Her hair was as white as her skin was dark.  She peered at me from behind thick glasses, then looked down at the dog.  “Well that’s my Boo-Boo alright,” she said with a happy chuckle.  She stood aside and motioned for us to come in. 

The dog barked, wagged his tail and ran inside, nearly knocking her over.  She steadied herself with her walking cane and reached down to pet him.  Her tiny, dark hands were gnarled with arthritis.  They trembled as she ran them over the dog’s head.

“I don’t want to take up too much of your time,” I said.  Translation:  I wanted to get out of there as quickly as I could.  I didn’t want to prolong the reunion, because it was going to hurt me to say goodbye.  I looked down at George, trying to fathom that this would be the last time I would see him.  When those sweet brown eyes met mine, he wagged his tail.  I did my best to not cry.

“I can’t thank you enough for bringing my Boo-Boo back.”  Loretta settled into a well-worn armchair.  George circled the carpet a few times and rested at her feet.  “I wish I could give you a reward, but money’s real tight these days.”

“Oh, I could never take money for bringing Ge—I mean, Boo-Boo back home.  He just walked into my yard a few weeks ago and he’s been with me ever since.  I was going to keep him, but when I saw that someone else was missing him, I knew that he needed to go back home.  It was the right thing to do.”  Reaching into my handbag, I pulled out a notepad and pen.  I jotted down my name and phone number, then handed it to Mrs.  Abernathy.  “If you ever need any help with Boo-Boo, give me a call.  If you ever need a dogsitter—”

“I don’t get out of the house, I’m afraid.  I’m a shut-in.”  She took the piece of paper from my hand and held it up to her eyes, squinting to read it.  “But thank you for your kind offer, Miss Wick… Wiz…”

“Wah-jen-ski,” I pronounce my last name for her.  “My name is Tanya Wyczinski.”

“Miss Wah-jen-ski,” she repeated. “Is that Polish?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“You Catholic?”

I shook my head.  “No ma’am.  Jewish.”

She gave me a hard stare, then smiled.  “My Lord Jesus, he was a Jew.”  She raised her cane and pointed at a framed picture of a black Christ on the wall.

I nodded politely.  “That’s what I hear.”

“So what do you do Miss, Wah-jen-ski?”  She carefully and slowly enunciated each syllable with my surname.

“I’m a nurse.”

“Whereabouts?’

“Grandsen Assisted Living Center.”

“I know of it.”  She pointed to a picture on the coffee table of an elderly man in a three-piece suit.  “My husband, Luther, was there a little while ‘fore he passed.  I don’t remember seeing you around.”

“I’m a new employee,” I said.  “I just moved here from out of town.  And I’m very sorry about your husband.  When did you lose him?”

“Last month,” she said, staring down at the picture.  “He had a stroke and I had to put him in Grandsen.  He just never got better.  Before that, he was fit as a fiddle.  Luther was always the one who took care of Boo-Boo.”

The basset wagged his tail and looked up at Loretta.

“It’s been hard for me to keep up without him here,” she continued.  “Boo-Boo would get out of the yard and go wondering sometimes, but Luther could always find him and bring him back home.  I just can’t get out of the house like I used to.  Guess I’m going to have to tie him to the tree when he goes out to potty.”

“I see,” I said.  “You know, if you ever decide that Boo-Boo is too much to handle, just call me.  I’d be willing to let him stay with me.”

“Oh, but he’s my best friend.” Her voice warbled as if she might cry.  She reached down to pet him.  “Now that Luther is gone, he’s all I’ve got left.  He’s such good company.  I’ve got no one else, Miss Wah-jen-ski.”

I felt horrible for having made the suggestion.

“You married, Miss Wah-jen-ski?  Got any children?”

“No ma’am.  I just got divorced, actually.”

She rested her hands in her lap.  “I’m mighty sad to hear that.  How long were your married?”

“Two years.”

“That’s a shame, young lady.”  She tossed her head from side to side and clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth.   “My Luther and I were married for sixty-two years.  Your generation is different.  Young people don’t understand that marriage isn’t always easy.  It takes a lot of hard work, to love the same person all those years, to build a family with them, and have them by your side till the very end.  No offense, young lady, it’s just that young people just give up so easily and it breaks my heart.”

The room was filled with an awkward silence.

And for a second, I wanted to tell her everything.

I wanted to tell her how I would have fought hard for my marriage, had I been given a choice.  I wanted to tell her that in those two brief years that we were together, I suffered three miscarriages.  The sadness that followed turned out the light in my soul, and left me feeling lost and unworthy.  I wanted to share with her how my husband told me that he just couldn’t handle it anymore, and that he was leaving me to be with a woman that he’d been having an affair with for nearly a year.  When I asked him if I could change his mind; if we could save our marriage and work things out, he said it was far too late.  His mistress was expecting a baby.  I was so blindsided and numb that I didn’t know what to do but run.  I wanted to tell Mrs. Abernathy how I’d left it all behind in search of a place to heal in solitude and make and a fresh start; one that I hadn’t counted on sharing with a stray dog.

I wanted to tell her that I’d had no more of a choice in the love I lost than I did in the love that found me.  

And there it was at her feet in the form of a funny, sweet little basset hound.  I wanted to tell her how much I loved him, and how lost I would be without him.

Instead, I put on a brave smile.   I told her how happy I was that Boo-Boo was back home with his rightful owner.   I thanked her for her hospitality, and turned to leave.

When I put my hand on the doorknob, the dog stood up.  He barked loudly as if to say, aren’t you forgetting something?

“Well look at that,” Mrs. Abernathy laughed.  “He thinks he’s supposed to go with you.  I reckon he’s attached to you, seeing how you took such good care of him during the time he was with you.”

I opened the door.  Boo-Boo barked at me again.

Mrs. Abernathy stood.  “Hold on just a moment, Miss Wah-jen-ski.”

I turned to face her. 

“Do you love him?”

“I do,” I nodded.  “He’s a wonderful dog.  I’m going to miss him a lot.”

“Well now…”  She paused for a moment and scratched her chin, deep in thought.  “What hours do you work?”

“First shift.  Seven a.m. to seven p.m.”

“Well, nobody ever said that a dog has to have only one home,” Mrs. Abernathy said as she shuffled toward me.    “I suppose he could stay with you in the evenings and nights when you’re home.  And you can bring him back here on your way to work so he can keep me company during the day.   What do you think, Miss Wah-jen-ski?”

I felt myself grinning from ear to ear.  “I think that I like that idea a lot.  I think we should do it.”

“You hear that, Boo-Boo?” She asked, looking down at the dog.  “You get to live with both of us.  How do you like that?”

He barked.

“Good boy.  Good Boo-Boo.”

The name Boo-Boo wasn’t working for me though.  “Would you mind, Mrs. Abernathy, if I call him George while he’s with me?  I got used to calling him that.  He just looked like a George to me.”

“It won’t make any difference to me, or him either.  He’s a dog.  He won’t care what you call him, long as you feed him and give him a place to sleep at night.”

The basset hound barked in agreement.

“One more question,” I began.  “I had made an appointment for him to go to the vet next week. I thought he might need to get his shots.  And I noticed he’s not neutered.  If we get him fixed, he’ll be less likely to wander out of your yard and get lost again.”

She pondered my proposal.  “I believe that would be alright.”

I looked at my watch.  “It’s my day off today, and I’ve got some errands I still need to do.  I bet you and Boo-Boo have a lot of catching up to do, so I’ll leave him here with you.  Would you like for me to come back and pick him up tonight?  And bring him back in the morning on my way to work?”

“That would be just fine to me.”  Mrs. Abernathy smiled.  She looked down at the dog.  “Welcome home, Boo-Boo George.  To one of your homes, anyway.   You are a very lucky dog.”

***

On the far wall of the waiting room was a bulletin board plastered with pictures of dogs at local shelters that were available for adoption.  A sign on the board read Every Dog Deserves a Loving Home.  I looked down at my George, who was sleeping under my chair in the lobby of the veterinarian’s office.  His little legs were kicking wildly.  I wasn’t sure if he was dreaming about chasing rabbits or running from the vacuum cleaner, but at least he was getting some exercise.

I wondered if he realized just how special he was, and if he had any idea how rare his circumstances were.  While so many dogs longed for just one home, this fortunate soul had charmed his way into getting two. 

The lady at the reception window pushed the sliding glass window open and poked her head into the waiting room for me.  “Wiz… Wick… W-”

“Wah-jen-ski,” I said as I rose to my feet.  George startled awake and waddled at my heels to the reception window. 

The receptionist pushed her bifocals up her nose and read the new client form that I had completed when I arrived.  “Wah-jen-ski,” she repeated. 

“Yes ma’am.”

“What are you here for today?”  She read the form aloud, answering her own questions.  “Adult dog exam, shots, heartworm test.”

“For starters,” I said.  “I’ll have to wait till my next payday, but I want to get him neutered too.”

“Not a problem,” the reception said with a polite nod.  She continued reading, and her eyebrows shot up with surprise.  She stood and poked her head through the reception window again, her eyes following the leash in my hand all the way down to the dog sitting patiently on the floor at my side.  “I just had to see what kind of dog has a name like Boo Boo-George Abernathy-Wyczinski.” 

“A very, very lucky one,” I said.

And my dog – our dog – thumped his tail loudly on the floor upon hearing his name.

Let’s face it, those kids had a serious mean streak, and most of the time they unleashed it on poor old Charlie Brown.  They called him a Blockhead more than they called him by his name.  Lucy picked up the football each time he tried to kick it, always resulting in bodily harm for him.  Poor old Chuck even got rocks instead of candy in his trick-or-treat bag.  And his own baseball team yelled at him so loudly over his poor pitching, he got blasted off the mound each time.  Maybe that’s why Charlie Brown is such a beloved and widely recognized figure around the world.  Everyone can relate to him!  We’ve all been there – bullied, mocked, embarrassed, and abused in variety of other ways by our so-called friends.  

It just makes me sad to see that everyone accepted how badly Charlie Brown was treated.   None of his friends ever stuck up for him.  Nor did his sister.  Nor did his dog.   Charlie Brown was so downtrodden that he didn’t even stand up for himself.  Every time the gang lashed out at him, he just absorbed all of the abuse with a sad, frustrated sigh of “good grief.” 

When Charles Schulz, creator of the Peanuts comic strip retired, he officially retired the Peanuts gang as well.  That was probably a good thing.  Had Charlie Brown ever matured to adulthood, there’s no telling what kind of troubled soul he would have turned out to be.   I imagine that his response to every challenging situation in life would have been a defeated sigh of “good grief” as well.  God forbid he might have pursued a career in nursing.  Can you imagine what that comic strip would have looked like?

Lucy:  Charlie Brown!  The patient’s going downhill, fast!  Call a code!  Get the crash cart! 

Charlie Brown:  (Resting his elbows on the nurse’s station, sinking his face into his hands) Good grief.

I’m thankful that nurses today aren’t saying “good grief” to lateral violence anymore.  I am so glad to see that nursing as a profession and healthcare as an industry are acknowledging that lateral violence is a problem, and are demanding change.  I’m grateful each time I hear about nurses who stick up for their peers when they are treated badly.   And I am especially thankful that nurses are growing more empowered and comfortable with standing up for themselves.  The “good grief” mindset of passive acceptance is on the way out.  Still, there’s a long way to go before lateral violence lives no more in the nursing profession, and  I’m hopeful that nursing will achieve the transformation someday that Charlie Brown never could.

Did you know that Peanuts is considered the most popular and influential comic strip of all time?  It has been in continuous circulation since 1950, with 17,897 strips published in all.  According to Professor Robert Thompson at Syracuse University, it is “arguably the longest story ever told by one human being.”  What a history, and what an accomplishment.  I’m very thankful to the late Charles Schulz for bringing these delightful little people into our lives. 

Still, in the end, I wish that the world had been just a little bit nicer to Charlie Brown.

How far has your unit or organization come in the battle to eliminate lateral violence?  Is it still just “good grief” or has progress been made?

Dear Ann Slanders,

I really hate school!  I have heard about some accelerated academic programs.  Do you know anything about them?  What is the quickest way to get through school?

Hatin School

I should warn you, Ann Slanders had a knack for taking everything literally.

Dear Hatin,

The quickest way to get through school is to open the door at the front entrance, walk all way down the hallway, and exit through the rear door.  You’ll get through school even quicker if you take this walk while class in session, so that there is no traffic in the hall to slow you down.  All the best,

Ann

Sometimes people wrote in with typos in their letters.  Those were fun!

Deer Ann Slanders,

I want to get a present for my teacher at the end of the school year but I don’t really know of a good present to give a teacher.  Do you have any ideas?  She is a really great teacher.  She is such a deer and has been so sweet to me this year.

Teacher’s Pet

Ann was so proud of her response to this one.

Dear Teacher’s,

She is such a deer, you say?  Well, I hear that deer really dig salt licks.  Give that a try.  Good luck!

Ann Slanders

Ann Slanders didn’t just dabble in school issues, but dealt with matters of the heart, too.

Dear Ann Slanders,

I am so in love with this guy in my English class.  The problem is, he doesn’t even know I exist.  What can I do to get his attention?  I love him so much I could just die!

Imin Love

Ann had a fantastic idea:

Dear Imin,

So you say you want to get his attention, and you love him so much you could just die?  Well, I think the best thing for you to do is just go ahead and die.  Lots of people go to funerals and chances are, one of them will be your big crush!  He’d definitely notice you then!

Ann Slanders

Good thing we kept a disclaimer at the bottom of the column that it was a parody and that the advice was not, by any means, to be taken seriously.

I wonder if I’ve still got it in me.  Do you have a question for Ann Slanders?  If so, please pen your letter below and I’ll do my best to get back in touch with Ann and respond to you!

The first note said:

Your paper topic was supposed to be a child health program. I subtracted fifteen points for poor word choice everywhere that you wrote “kid” because kids are baby goats, not children.

The second note said:

The word “kid” was written in your paper more than 40 times.  You are very fortunate that “0” is the lowest grade that I can record for this assignment. 

I made an appointment to speak to my instructor later that day.  I figured I had a good case for bringing my grade up.  The points that I argued were:

1)      The news articles about “Kidcare” that I used for reference were submitted to her in advance.  If she’d had a problem with the term “kid” and the very subject of my term paper was about a program titled “Kidcare,” it seems like she could have pointed that out to me before I wrote the paper.

2)      More than half of the times that the word “kid” appeared in my paper were in direct quotes from the articles. I had cited the quotes correctly, and reminded her that these were articles that she had approved in advance of me writing the paper.

3)      I brought three dictionaries that I had checked out of the library and lugged along with me to show her that “child or young person” was one of the recognized definitions of the word “kid.”

4)      I offered to rewrite the paper, substituting the word “child,” in every place that I had written “kid.”  I offered to remove quotes from my paper containing the word “kid.”  And if that didn’t suffice, I offered to select a completely different topic, do more research, and start from scratch.  My grade for the entire semester was on the line.  Even if I made perfect scores in all over class assignments and projects, I was still looking at a low C with a “0” recorded as 30% of my grade.

My instructor refused to relent on the term paper grade.  She refused to give me any feedback on any of the writing that I did, aside from my misuse of the word “kid.”  She denied me the opportunity to rewrite the paper.  Her goal, I assume, was to teach me a lesson.

And she did.

Not that “kid” means “goat,” and that I should never again use the word to refer to children.  I still call children “kids,” as does the rest of the world.  Last time I checked the dictionary, “kid” still included in its list of many meanings “a child or young person.”  The lesson that she taught me was that she had power, and I had none.  She had the choice to make me or break me that semester, and she had chosen to break me.   I deserved far better for all of the effort that I had put into that term paper, but a “0” is what I got in the end.

It was same year in college that I decided to become an educator, so I saved that paper to remind me of the kind of educator that I don’t ever want to become.  I will never intentionally set anyone up for failure.  I will never withhold important information, then smile and say “gotcha” after it’s too late.  And I certainly won’t ever deny someone the opportunity to redeem themselves when they ask for a second chance.  Looking at that big red zero on my twenty-page term paper was a powerful reminder as to what it felt like to be on the receiving end of all that.  Being an educator, a preceptor, a manager, a mentor, or in any other role that involves leading and serving others is a privilege.   One I won’t ever take lightly.  And anyone that I ever educate, mentor, lead or otherwise serve will be treated far better by me because of it.  

Isn’t it funny how sometimes, the people that treat us the worst actually bring out the best in us?   

Are you a better person because of someone who wronged you?