Bullies’ cruelty fades, but the memories never do

I've been writing community columns for the Times for more than eight years. Some pieces seem to write themselves. I pour a cup of coffee, sit down with the laptop and an hour or two later I have a community column to zap over to The Times.

This isn't one of those columns. This was hard for me to write and harder still for me to read. Over 40 years down the road, my eyes still sting at the memory of cruelties forgotten by everyone but me.
The catalyst of this angst was an 11-year-old DeKalb County boy named Jaheem Herrera. He came home from school on April 16 and hanged himself.

According to reports from family and schoolmates, he had been the victim of relentless taunts and bullying. His lilting Caribbean accent was enough to label him as "gay," his homeland in the Virgin Islands enough to inspire a snickered nickname of "The Virgin." His mother says she complained to the school on a number of occasions.

The school isn't talking.

When I read about his tragic death, I felt an immediate connection. I could understand his helplessness, his fury turned not at his tormentors but at himself.

When I was Jaheem's age, I was a chubby fifth-grader with thick cat's-eye-framed glasses and a bad Toni home permanent. Days before school started, I broke my leg and had to spend the next nine months on crutches. The resulting immobility soon morphed me from chubby to obese. And then the games began.

The teasing, the name-calling, the snickers and ridicule were unending. My labored clumping down the halls was a source of much amusement. I stopped speaking up in class. It only inspired piggy snorts from the back of the room.

During that year of almost constant ridicule, not one teacher offered one word of reprimand. Kids who I had considered my friends distanced themselves. To my 11-year-old mind, the only conclusion could be that I somehow deserved this treatment.

On Valentine's Day there was an elaborate envelope in my bag, much bigger than all the others. Excitedly, I opened it. Maybe I had a friend after all. On the unsigned card was a drawing of an elephant. Har-de-har-har.

I told a teacher. I told my parents. They all said the same thing: "Just ignore them and they'll quit." Like it's ever that easy.

Sunday nights were the worst. After a two-day respite, I knew I was facing another week of nothing but misery. Although I never made an actual suicide plan, I came very close. I remember thinking that a kinder God would have seen to it that I never woke up.

This morning, I dug around in a battered storage box and brought out a school picture of a chubby-cheeked little girl with artificially induced curls, ghastly glasses with pink glitter around the edges and a smile that doesn't go with the wary look in her eyes. I imagine someone gave a piggy snort just as the photographer pressed the shutter release.

When I started junior high, the clouds parted a bit. I grew four inches over the summer and, while never svelte, I was at least within a more acceptable size range. The taunts were replaced with indifference from my primary tormentors. Blessed indifference.

High school was heaven in comparison. I made friends who are still on my speed dial. I discovered writing, debate and drama and had teachers who encouraged those interests.

If this had been a movie, I would have either ended up as homecoming queen, a la John Hughes, or created a clever "Revenge of the Nerds" style payback. The real world, however, never provides cut-and-dried closure. I merely finished high school a year early. I couldn't put that chapter of my life behind me fast enough.

What doesn't kill us makes us stronger. I've never again felt that degree of helpless hopelessness that dominated my fifth-grade year. Possibly, if little Jaheem Harrera had managed to hang on until middle school, he wouldn't have, either. If you stick around long enough, life gives you tools to deal with the jerks of the world.

Sadly, sometimes the hardest part is the sticking around.

Jaheem, I hope you're at peace. B'shalom, sweet boy.

Originally published in The Gainesville Times on April 30,2009

E-mailers, beware — Web scams are clever, common

This is getting out of hand. When I opened this morning's e-mail and sipped my first cup of coffee, here's what I found:

There was a message from a Mrs. Monica Adams of Kuwait. Her husband died recently and left her with $3 million in a London bank. She's had a stroke and is now fighting cancer and needs my help in spending her millions in a "godly" way. She's offered to make me beneficiary of the account so that I can disperse it to charities as I see fit. Bless her terminal little heart.

Moving right along ...

There's a Western Union transfer of $1 million just waiting for me if I call Mr. Andreas Georgetown and claim my funds. Although I've never been out of the Northern Hemisphere, I've somehow been selected to help Bangkok's government track fraudulent money transfers or, as they put it, "This is to help us check-mate all the fraudulent activities going on here in Thailand and Asia at large. You shall be paid bit by bit until your total sum is completely received paid to right at the Counter of Western Union Money Transfer right in your Country." Say what?

I think I also received a similar offer in Italian but that's not my second language so I can't be sure.

Next click revealed a message that initially looked legit. It was someone asking about an item I have listed for sale on eBay. Closer inspection revealed that the e-mail didn't come from eBay.com but rather eby.com. Slick, very slick. Had I responded, they would have learned my eBay password and from that juncture there's no telling what damage they could have done.

Then I found where I can order my husband's midlife motorcycle: "I would like to present you a very good company and its Web site. It can offer all kinds of electronic products that you need to be in May, such as laptops, GPS, LCD TVs, cell phones, ps3, MP3 /4, motorcycles etc. You can take some time to have a control? It, there must be something interesting you want to buy."
Just show me where to type in my credit card number.

Then I opened what I initially thought was an e-mail from my gas credit card company, Chevron Oil. Silly me. The e-mail read (the caps, punctuation and spelling are theirs, not mine): "From CHERVON OIL COMPANY we have your e-mail address as a winner in our end of year e-mail ballotting promotion to celebrate the 50th anniversary and we have deposited a certified Bank draft of one millon, United States Dollars this e-mail is to notification to contact the FEDEX COURIER COMPANY IN WEST AFRICA for collection of your winning parcel."

It goes on to instruct me to send $100 ("ONLY one Hundred United States Dollars") as a fee to claim my million.
I even received an e-mail, supposedly from the director of the FBI, reassuring me that if I got any letters from the Bank of Nigeria I should "know that we have taken out time in screening through this project as stipulated on our protocols of operation and have finally confirmed that your contract payment is 100% genuine and hitch free from all facet and of which you have the lawful right to claim your fund without any further delay."

Gee thanks, Director Mueller. That's mighty nice of you.

The clincher came in the form of what purported to be an offer from a Sgt. Jarvis Reeves, who is supposedly deployed with an engineering unit in Iraq. He and his "partners" need my help to move $25 million in oil money out of the country. They can send it "to your house directly or a bank of your choice using diplomatic jet service."

There were more e-mails but at that point I quit reading and started hitting the delete key.

These computer carrion are preying on the desperate, the naive and, certainly, the greedy. I suspect they're making out like the bandits, they are.

An acquaintance fell for the Nigerian scam which promised she would receive millions if she sent a service fee of only a few thousand dollars. That was just the beginning.

She wired thousands of dollars to Nigeria and Spain. Then she was contacted by yet another scammer offering to get her money back for a hefty fee. More money was sent to Jamaica. She wiped out her savings, maxed out her credit cards and then began trying to borrow from family and friends.

Her family even orchestrated an intervention involving an agent from the Department of Homeland Security who tried to convince her that she was dealing with scammers and her money was gone for good.

She still desperately holds on to the hope that if she sends in one more payment, she'll get back all her money and much, much more. It's just pathetic.

If I've learned anything, it's that very few good things in life come easy. Or free. Or uninvited via the Internet. There are lots of robbers along the information superhighway. Lock your doors and hold on to your wallet.

Originally published in the Gainesville Times april 17, 2009

Don't get suckered in by the latest e-hoax

A couple of weeks ago, a good friend received a phone call. When she hung up, it was obvious something was wrong. She said her stepdaughter had called to tell her that there had been a warning on "the news" announcing there was going to be a gang initiation at Wal-Mart that night and three women were going to be shot.

I immediately saw it for what it was: an old urban legend that had been exhumed, brushed off and had life breathed into it yet again. I tried to tell her that but she was adamant. After all it had been on "The News."

OK, let's look at specifics here. What news outlet had made such a vague, irresponsible announcement? My money was on FOX News but that was just the Democrat in me talking. My friend didn't know exactly who carried the breaking story, just "the news." So which Wal-Mart? She didn't know. Best to stay away from all of them.

I again tried to talk reason. If this were true, why would these bloodthirsty gangs make it public knowledge? She said maybe an informant had put out the word. Anyway, it was on "THE NEWS."

That afternoon I heard several other mentions of the bloodbath scheduled for later that evening.

My daughter, Molly, received a text message from a male co-worker with the same warning and the added exhortation to "Text all the women in your address book NOW. This is not a hoax!! It was on THE NEWS!!"

When I arrived home that evening, I logged onto gainesvilletimes.com to see what they had to say about this looming threat to public safety.

I could imagine Stephen Gurr interviewing a sheriff's department spokesman to find out just how many gangs were actually going to participate in this scheduled initiation. Harris Blackwood would report on the statewide reaction to the situation and announce prayer vigils at each local church with "First" in its name.

Debbie Gilbert would interview Dr. David Westfall from the health department for tips on what to do about a gunshot wound until the paramedics arrive. The Times editorial board would come down staunchly against gang violence. Again.
Silly me. The story The Times actually ran was by Ashley Fielding and it was headlined, "Officials say text message about gang initiation is a hoax." Well, duh. Told you so.

For years, I've received e-mail warnings, forwarded by well-meaning friends, with dire alerts dealing with gangs who shoot anyone who flashes bright headlights at them, hide underneath cars in parking lots and reach out with knives to slash the ankles of passersby, leave infected needles in coin return slots of pay telephones (where they found the pay phones, I have no idea) and all sorts of other deadly mischief.

There have always been urban legends. One of the oldest is the Cinderella story. It's been traced back to ancient Egypt where it was said the slave girl Rhodopsis was washing clothes when an eagle took her sandal and dropped it at the feet of the Pharoah. After a kingdomwide search, he found her and they eventually married. And of course lived happily ever after.

Retread urban legends continue to make the rounds from time to time but now, with the help of the Internet, they don't just have wings, they have jet propulsion.

Hardly a day goes by that I don't receive messages about a missing child named Ashley Flores (that hoax has been going around since 2006); indignant e-mails about "In God We Trust" being removed from the new $1 coin (it's there, just moved to the edge); dangers of reusing plastic water bottles (overall, they're quite safe); and petitions against giving Social Security benefits to illegal aliens (bunk, total bunk).

A good way to differentiate between a legitimate threat and an urban legend it the Rule of Proximity. If the warning comes from an actual named individual, it may have credence. If it comes from some anonymous source, like the brother of a police official's secretary's grandmother, it's grain of salt time. Snopes.com is an excellent clearinghouse for urban legends as well as a great way to wile away an hour or two.

By the way, did you hear there was a UFO crash in Clermont in 1947? Authorities gathered up the bodies and hushed up the crash, but the remains are still here, cryogenically frozen in the basement of the Northeast Georgia History Center.

Really. It's true. My cousin's neighbor's daughter's babysitter heard it on THE NEWS.

Originally published in the Gainesville Times April 2, 2009

Spirited Shakespeare ‘Dream’ performance has a sad ending

OK, I'll come right out and admit it. I'm not a big fan of Shakespeare. I'm fine with a sonnet here or a snippet of "all the world's a stage" there, but to sit through two hours of grandiloquent oration? Thanks, but no thanks.

I was a little underwhelmed when my daughter brought home the news that her North Hall High School drama class was presenting "A Midsummer Night's Dream." I figured it was one of those productions that I'd just have to endure because that's what moms do. It's in the job description.

My interest was piqued when I found out Gail Jones would be directing the play. Gail and the Glazers go way back. When our Molly, now 23, was a preschooler in White County, Gail directed her in "Charlotte's Web" at the Sautee-Nacoochee Community Center. Molly's first lines, spoken as a baby duckling, were, "Honk, honk. Waddle,waddle. Beep, beep."

Molly went on to be cast in any number of other plays directed by Gail. There was "The Best Christmas Pageant Ever," "Oliver" and "Narnia."

Molly brought her love for theater with her when we moved to Hall County. She continued to study acting and theater in high school; her name is etched onto a star in front of Gainesville High's performing arts center. Now she's in graduate school with hopes of teaching language arts and theater in a high school somewhere, someday.

Throughout the years, Gail taught special education and ran the theater program at White County High School. Her daughter, Blake, and Molly acted together at the Holly Theatre in Dahlonega. As high schoolers, they performed in "Annie Get Your Gun" along with another of Gail's students, Blake Daniel. If the name's familiar, it's because he went on to star in Broadway's "Spring Awakening."

At the beginning of this school year, Gail moved to North Hall High School. The plan was for her to teach special education and co-teach theater with Jan Ewing. She and Jan are both talented teachers and gifted directors. When the two of them combine their talents, the results are simply magical.

Take for example "A Midsummer Night's Dream." Instead of using the traditional Athenian forest setting, Gail placed it in 1968 San Francisco. The fairies wore India-cloth skirts, gauzy tops and flowers galore.

Lysander and Demetrius, the knights, sported uniforms right out of Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Heart's Club Band. There were tie-dye shirts, love beads and go-go boots. The band, which provided Greek chorus style introductions to the scenes, played 60's hits by the Turtles, Simon and Garfunkel, even the Cowsills' "The Rain, The Park and Other Things."

Our Rachel was the pianist and a vocalist in the band. I was thrilled and amazed when I heard my 14-year-old daughter unerringly channel Grace Slick in "Somebody to Love."

I went to the play the first night because I had to. I went back the next night because nothing could have kept me away. For the first time ever, I really enjoyed Shakespeare. I laughed until my sides ached as Cody Ballard's Puck wove his magic and turned a pompous actor into, literally, a jackass.

Gail, Jan and their students worked a miracle. They made a 400-year-old classic accessible to the Facebook generation, and to me.

I noticed there were lots of tears that last night as the cast and crew called Gail up to the stage and presented her with flowers.
It was only later that I learned the story behind the tears. Gail is one of the Hall County 100, teachers whose contracts will not be renewed next year.

That's a fine fare-thee-well. This woman has given so much, has still much more to offer our kids and she's being swept out the door like chalk dust.

I realize it's not a personal thing, just a matter of last hired, first fired. It doesn't make me any less disappointed at the thought that my Rachel won't get to benefit from working with this amazing educator.

Gail will, I'm sure, land on her feet. It would take a pretty shortsighted administrator to not recognize all she brings to the table. Oh, wait ... that already happened, didn't it?

Godspeed, Gail.

Originally published in the Gainesville Times on march 20, 2009

Hats off to a Georgia city that turned it around

More than three decades ago, I graduated from the University of Alabama with degrees in social work and counseling. I came back home to Georgia and proceeded to job hunt.

I made several treks to Atlanta to take state merit exams for positions like caseworker, counselor, behavioral specialist and the like. On a whim I also took the parole officer test. Wouldn't you know it, that's the one I aced.

I was supremely unqualified for the position: I'd never taken any criminal justice classes. I don't think I'd ever even met anyone who had been in prison. I can't believe I even got an interview, much less a job.

But this was a time when there was a big movement toward community-based corrections. Dozens of parole officers were being added to the ranks. I was offered a position in Columbus. I took the job without ever seeing the city. Good Lord, what was I thinking?

In 1977, Columbus was a city in decline. The downtown area was struggling. There were scores of shuttered businesses and, after dark, drug dealers and prostitutes took over the streets. If you were to drive through at midnight, you'd see a scene resembling a "Mad Max" movie.

It's not just that there was a lot of crime. It was gruesome crime, the sort that gets written up in tabloids.

Shortly after I moved to Columbus, the Wynnton Road Stocking Strangler began his rampage. In less than eight months, seven elderly women were sexually assaulted and strangled in their homes. I had rented a house two blocks off of Wynnton Road. It was an area under siege. Gun sales skyrocketed.

After 18 months, I was transferred to Gainesville. I left Columbus and never looked back. If I gave it a thought at all, it was one of relief that I no longer lived there.

When I was told that this year's Georgia Thespian Conference was going to be held in Columbus, my first reaction was, "What? Why?" Three thousand theatre kids all gathered in the armpit of the state. Great.

I had volunteered to help chaperone a busload of drama students from North Hall High School. Director Jan Ewing made it clear that she was counting on me so there was no backing out. I packed my pepper spray and boarded the bus. I wasn't looking forward to the trip. I figured it was something that would simply have to be endured.

Boy, was I in for a surprise. The Columbus of today bears no resemblance to the Columbus of 1977.

Now, it's a gem. There's the Riverwalk Convention and Trade Center in a restored Civil War iron foundry. There's the Springer Opera House, the RiverCenter for the Performing Arts and beautiful wide downtown boulevards sprinkled with sculpture and fountains.

Columbus State University is a presence downtown (actually, they refer to it as "uptown") with an impressive campus at RiverPark. Around it has sprung up coffee houses and boutiques, art galleries and rental lofts. If I were looking at colleges, I'd look long and hard at CSU.

I'm happy to report that the North Hall kids represented you handsomely with two amazing performances of "The Miracle Worker." Helen Keller was portrayed by Catherine Foote. During the standing ovation following the first performance, I heard the man in front of me say, "I think she's really blind."

I couldn't contain myself. I tapped him on the shoulder and proudly announced, "No, she's not blind. She's just that good."

Everywhere I went, I met Columbus residents who where proud of their city and what has been accomplished in a relatively short period of time. The catalyst occurred, they say, when their city was given the softball venue in the 1996 Olympics. Civic improvements that had been dragging along for years were suddenly put into overdrive. The results were astounding. Sound familiar?

I didn't have a car so I only saw a small portion of the Fountain City. I don't know what the rest of the town is like but I fully intend to go back and see at the first available opportunity. Road trip, anyone?

Originally published in the Gainesville Times March 6, 2009

There's no good reason not to buckle up

I bought my first truck about a year ago. Up until then, I'd owned just about every kind of vehicle except a truck. And a Hummer.

I'd had a couple of convertibles, a sedan and a station wagon. Once, I'd even owned a Jaguar. Granted it was 10 years old with an electrical system that defied repair but still, it was a Jaguar.

When the girls came along, I switched to minivans. There were three vans in succession. The last one, I drove for 11 years. It was the Tupperware of minivans.

You know how Tupperware is. It gets old and ugly. Those tomato sauce stains never come off completely. You're ashamed of it, but the lid still snaps on and burps out the air like the day you bought it so you don't have a good reason to get rid of it. Except that it's so darned ugly. I think that's why you see so much Tupperware at yard sales.

That's how my van was. The only reason it had a relatively decent paint job was because someone had decided to scratch the alphabet (through the letter "D") down both sides in 2006. Insurance covered the bill for fresh paint. It was much like putting lipstick on a pig.

There were dents and dings. I had worn a hole in the carpet below the brake pedal. Even though my youngest child was in middle school, you could still see where the infant seat had once sat, outlined as it was by grape juice stains and mystery sticky stuff.

Finally, I decided it was time to trade in the Tupper-van. I cleaned it out, feeling a lot like an anthropologist as I dug Sesame Street tapes out from under the seat (did I mention my youngest was 13 by then?) and found two CDs that I had accused my husband of borrowing and losing years before. Sorry, Arthur.

I had no idea what kind of vehicle I wanted, just something different. That's when I spotted the truck at a used car lot on Cleveland Highway. It was shiny red with a five-speed transmission and a killer after-market CD player. The price was right and the folks at the lot even sold my van for me, getting far more than I ever imagined it would command.

I figure some guy bought it and took it home, explaining to his irate wife, "See, honey, it's like Tupperware ..."

So, a year later, I still have my little red truck and I love it as much as the day I bought it. Each and every time I've driven it, I've worn my seat belt. Yet just recently, I discovered there was no legal reason for me to buckle up. Seems Georgia is the only state that does not require adult drivers and passengers in pick-ups to wear seat belts. It has something to do with ... agriculture?

Apparently Georgia farmers have been dead-set against any legislation requiring seat belt usage in their trucks. And they must have some mighty powerful friends under the big Gold Dome. Despite standing to lose about $4.6 million in federal highway funds because of failure to comply with seat belt use guidelines, the bill can't even get a hearing in the House of Representatives.

Hey, wait a minute. I have to send copy paper to school with my child because the school has run out and can't afford to buy more, all while yahoos in Atlanta are turning away millions because they don't want to require a simple action that will save countless lives and millions more in medical and rehab expenses. If I were circumspect, I'd say they were being shortsighted. But circumspect I'm not, and I say they're being a special kind of stupid.

There's been an attempt to mollify the farmers by exempting trucks being used "in connection with agricultural pursuits." I'm not quite sure what that means. Am I exempt if I toss a bag of fertilizer in the bed? Puh-leeze.

Passing this legislation would achieve several objectives. The first would be to save lives and minimize injuries. Then there would be the additional federal funds that would come from the state being in compliance with federal guidelines. It would also make our elected officials appear to be working to benefit of all of the people of Georgia and not just special interests with deep pockets.

How refreshing that would be.

Originally published in the Gainesville Times February 20, 2009

If 8 is enough, then 14 is way over the top

For seven years I was a single parent. I had one sweet, healthy, bright child. I had a job and a home and some savings. It was still one of the most difficult things I've ever done.

My memories from that time consist of a mish-mash of exhaustion and self-doubt, always wondering if my decisions, no matter how small or inconsequential, were the right ones. There are no decisive manuals for mothering. I could only do my best and hope it was good enough.

Now, more than two decades later, I realize that whether you're a single parent or part of a traditional two-parent household, you have your first child for practice. Probably as much in spite of me rather than because of any efforts on my part, Molly has remained that same sweet, healthy, bright child, just in a taller package.

Please understand, I love my children more than my life. I cannot for one instant imagine an existence without my two girls being a central part of it. That being said, there's no way I would ever want another 12 of them.

Horror is the only word that describes my reaction to the California woman, an unemployed single parent who, through in vitro fertilization, recently gave birth to octuplets. As the story unfolded, it was revealed that she already had six children under the age of seven, all conceived through in vitro. So that means she'll be coming home to as many as 12 children in diapers at one time.

This lady strikes me as being a few ounces short of a full sippy cup. I can't help but hear the ka-ching of a cash register. I'm sure People magazine will have a heart-warming cover in the near future with the smiling mother (and a couple of helpers) holding her mega-brood. There'll be a photo spread for which the magazine will no doubt pay a hefty six-figure fee. The mom has already hired a publicist to make sure she gets top dollar for her photos and story.

Raising even one child is an expensive proposition. A healthy child born without complications costs more that $187,000 to rear to adulthood. And that's here in the South. In southern California, I suspect that rate would almost double. If you have a calculator handy, multiply that amount by 14. Ouch.

I love cats. We have four. Every now and then I start agitating for a kitten. Each time I get voted down. First there are the veterinary bills. Then there's my asthma. And how will the other cats feel about this interloper? They are all valid concerns and I always demur to the more practical minds in the family.

But deep down I know if I lived alone it would be easy to add a kitten here and a rescue cat there until I suddenly became the crazy cat lady of North Hall.

At that point I'd stop being a cat lover and become a cat hoarder. It's an obsessive compulsive condition that even has it's own category in the DSM-IV, the manual that provides diagnostic criteria for mental disorders.

Do they have diagnosis criteria for child hoarding? This California woman's case seems to certainly warrant consideration for a new section when the DSM-V comes out.

This situation makes a mockery of all of women who deal with infertility issues. I remember the heartbreak before my first child was born. I had several early term miscarriages and even now, 20-years later, I can tell you the date of each one of them. I don't have birthdays to celebrate, just sorrowful days to remember. We were considering seeing a fertility specialist when the miracle that is Molly came along.

In vitro fertilization has become big business. One of Molly's college friends is considering becoming an egg donor to off-set the cost of law school. Apparently the going price for a healthy egg is around $6,000. This technology is a godsend for people who so desperately want a child. It's time for the ethics to catch up with the technology.

As more of this saga is revealed, I doubt we'll learn anything redeeming about this woman or the clinic that so irresponsibly participated in this maternity train wreck. I shudder when I try to imagine what the lives of these children will be like, even if they manage to dodge the bullet of serious health complications common to multiple and premature births.

I can't help be reminded of the Dionne quintuplets, five Canadian babies born in 1934. They were treated as a sideshow and were made part of a tourist attraction known as "Quintland" where tourists paid to watch from an observation gallery as the girls played. Subsequent chapters of their lives weren't much better.

Call me cynical, but a 2010 grand opening of "Octuplet World" wouldn't surprise me, not one little bit.

Originally published in the Gainesville Times, Feb. 5, 2009