Brought to You Courtesy of the Red, White and Blue

This past week at school, a colleague of mine asked me if I was bothered by a student in his homeroom who questioned why we said the "Pledge of Allegiance." The student quipped,"When you say it every day, it doesn't really mean anything." I immediately responded, "Yes," which is ironic, given that in my thirteen years of schooling, I never once said the "Pledge of Allegiance." The average public school student theoretically recites this pledge over 2,300 times during his or her thirteen years in the system.  But being raised a Jehovah's Witness, I never participated in this daily ritual because I could not pledge allegiance to any government aside from one established by God. In grade school, on the first day of school, I would sheepishly sidle up to the teacher's front desk with my first day of school paperwork along with a handwritten note from my mom explaining our religious convictions and thanking the teacher for her anticipated cooperation. While most public schools expect students to recite the pledge every morning, the Supreme Court ruled that no student is required nor can be punished for not saying the pledge. Each morning at school, I would politely stand, hands by my side, as my classmates recited the pledge. As a child I was incredibly shy and obedient, and drawing attention to myself on the first day of school to break a "rule" was mortifying. When I entered fifth grade, my parents didn't write me a note but rather told me to proudly share my convictions with my teacher, Miss Brown, who routinely wore army fatigues to school. I can only imagine what she thought as I told her I wouldn't be reciting the pledge. As I matriculated from grade to grade, my abstinence from this morning routine became less and less noteworthy as my own classmates' enthusiasm for reciting the pledge waned. By my senior year of high school, my classmates' ennui for the pledge was palpable. After graduating high school, I knew I would never be placed in this awkward position again. Until I decided to become a teacher. When I did my student teaching, I informed my homeroom students they were required to say the pledge, but I would be refraining from doing so because of my religious beliefs. My students looked at me in confusion, but fortunately, they had already been exposed to the hypocrisy of their parents and other teachers and agreed to "do as I say, not as I do." Every morning, I prompted them with a nod of my head to stand for the pledge while I stood respectfully, hands by my side.

On my first day as a "real" teacher, a student announced over the PA system to stand for the pledge at 7:35. I stood with my students, placed my hand over my heart, and recited the words in a loud clear voice. Seeing I had listened to the words over 2,300 times, I had no trouble keeping up. Was it a life-changing moment? Not really. I did feel a little relieved. After thirteen plus years of having a spotlight on you every time those words were uttered, it took some time to overcome the Pavlovian response of my stomach churning with nerves. My first principal at that particular school felt strongly about students respecting the flag and the pledge. I remember being told to stop any student in the hallway to promote a sense of respect. We wanted the student body to respect their country and the opportunities afforded them by that country, namely the guarantee of a free education, but how introspective are teenagers at 7:35am?

One morning I do recall reciting the pledge was Wednesday, September 12, 2001. After watching the second airplane hit the World Trade Center on live TV with my eleventh graders the day before, I remember the heaviness in the air and my heart. As we stood and recited the pledge and paused for a longer moment of silence, I remember the co-mingling of sadness, fear, and anger. As we stood in solidarity, I reminded my students the best way to counter these attacks was to go about our routines and not allow the terrorists to instill us with terror.

Do I reflect as I say the pledge every morning? Many a morning I am caught off guard in the middle of my frenzied, frazzled dash to get ready for the school day as we are asked to rise.  Nevertheless, I try to set a good example by enthusiastically reciting the pledge while my students shuffle to their feet and half-hardheartedly recite the words. Some mornings I do think about the people who enable me to stand in that classroom. As I look at the flag, I consider my brother-in-law who has spent the past two decades in the Air Force, former students of mine who serve their country, and countless other individuals who would promptly protect our freedom, our liberty. Some mornings I ponder my grandfather, a straight A student who had to drop out of high school to help support his younger siblings, a relatively common injustice during his lifetime. I like to think that no student, straight A or not, would have to give up schooling without a fight today. I ponder the Life Skills students in our building who fifty years ago would have been denied an education and most likely institutionalized. I'm fortunate to have one such student in my homeroom. As we reviewed his spelling list on Friday morning, he told me he was going to fail his quiz with a glimmer in his eye. I quizzed him on all twenty words, he spelled all twenty correctly, and we both beamed with pride.

I contemplate the greatness of a country that aspires for liberty and justice for all. We are given the liberty to believe whatever we want, and in our schools, we encourage our students to be free thinkers. I recently just finished reading and discussing "The Flight of Icarus" with my seventh grade students. We considered the moral Greek children were to take away from the story--always listen to one's elders and respect the gods. They all nodded their heads at this sage advice. The next day, we then discussed  a poem about Icarus which suggests he rightfully tested the boundaries, pushed himself to his limits, overcame ignorance, and, yes, plummeted to his death. How could his father Daedalus have given him wings to fly and then tell him not use them? My students smiled and nodded as they contemplated the idea of pushing themselves to their limits and "breaking the rules" when they saw injustice.

In eighth grade, I remember reading The Diary of Anne Frank and contemplating how fortunate I was to live in a country that granted freedom of religion. Jehovah's Witnesses were targeted by the Nazis during World War II and nearly 1,500 Jehovah's Witnesses died in concentration camps or were executed. They could have simply signed a paper renouncing their faith to escape this fate, but for many, their beliefs were more important than their liberty. While I may no longer share those religious convictions, I recognize the importance of respecting and protecting people's beliefs.

In an attempt to heal a nation torn apart by a Civil War, Abraham Lincoln gave one of the shortest and most powerful speeches at Gettysburg to unite a country and grant liberty to people who had been enslaved. He famously uttered our country is a government "of the people, by the people, for the people" and as I "pledge allegiance" every morning to that country, I like to think I am making a pledge to myself to foster liberty and freedom in my students. Encouraging them to not only be free thinkers but consider the responsibility and respect implied with that freedom. While they may not consciously think about the meaning of the pledge the 2,300 times they say it, just like they don't think about breathing in and out 23,000 times over the course of the day, I hope at least once they pause to consider how fortunate they are to not only be alive but more importantly free.

The Road Taken

Even though a part of me believes, the universe will send you where you are meant to be, I strive to teach my children and students the importance of good choices and exercising your free will. In my life, I can certainly identify choices  that have "made all the difference." Shortly after graduating college, two schools in the Philadelphia suburbs offered me the opportunity to interview for teaching positions. I conveniently scheduled them for the same day. The first position was a long term sub in Delaware County. I felt I had a great interview, and the principal informed me the long term position would most likely lead to a contracted position the following year. I left the interview feeling elated knowing the job was mine, and pulled out the directions for my next interview. When I reached the junction of 476  near Plymouth Meeting, I got turned around and ended up on the Northeast Extension. I panicked knowing I had gone the wrong way. I knew by the time I turned around at the Lansdale exit and drove back to King of Prussia, I was going to be late for my job interview which is probably the worst first impression to make as a teacher whose life is dictated by the ringing of bells. I seriously contemplated just bagging the interview since I felt  confident I was getting a job offer. Nevertheless, I turned around at Lansdale, sped back down the Northeast Extension, and arrived at Upper Merion High School breathless and seven minutes late. Fortunately, they were running late too. I began my interview by relating the story of my awful sense of direction and two weeks later accepted a full time position at Upper Merion. I like to think the universe pushed in the right direction that day, since that one decision has led to some of my greatest blessings in life. Eight years after accepting that job, I made the choice to leave my position to stay home with my boys. Probably many would consider that a foolish mistake especially if they saw Upper Merion's pay scale. But I don't regret for one moment the the years I spent with my boys, and the universe nudged me once again last year in a new direction, and while the pay scale isn't quite as impressive, I couldn't ask for better students or coworkers who make me laugh, sometimes uncontrollably, each day.

But for this post, I wanted to take the time to reflect on a decision I made six years ago. Being a stay at home parent can be one of the most tedious and monotonous jobs replete with dirty diapers, vomiting, endless crying peppered with soul crushing moments of beauty. When my oldest son was nearing eighteen months, I decided we both needed a little more socialization. While it felt a bit contrived, I decided to try out a MOMs Group. I began to do a little research to see what groups were in my area. Who knew these clubs had "boundaries" and other rules? I discovered I lived within the "boundaries" of the MOMS Club of Collegeville and attended one of their monthly meetings. The women seemed friendly enough, so I filled out a waiver, wrote a check for $25, and hoped to make a friend or two. I requested to be put in a playgroup. Since most groups were either full or too old for my eighteen month old, I was told I would probably have to form a new group. I was given the name and email of another new member with an eighteen month old who lived in my townhouse development--our backyards less than 500 yards from one another; although, our paths had never crossed. We set up a time to meet at the playground in our development, and I remember feeling so nervous. It was like going on a first date. I tried my best to be funny and witty and keep Nate's finger out of his nose. After our first playdate, we decided each other was normal enough or maybe dysfunctional in the same way, and set up another time to get together. A few weeks later, another member of the club decided to join us and six months later our foursome was complete. For nearly four years, we met up once a week to play at each other's homes and that day was often the highlight of my week. We commiserated over the joys and trials of our calling, jokingly complained about our wonderful husbands who indulged the financial folly of our chosen vocation, and bonded over our shared love of coffee, raunchy TV, and most importantly our children.

Whenever we were approached about adding another mom to our group, we always deferred saying our group was full since three of the four of us lived in townhouses and our combined eight children were a force of destruction ransacking our respective homes until every toy was strewn across the floor. I think we all felt protective of our bond and worried the comfortable ease of our group might be disturbed.

Along with our weekly play dates, we often met up at the playground, Dunkin Donuts, Chik Fil A, and other child friendly places so our children could play, and we could chat. We planned Valentine'sparties for our little ones, setup a Christmas exchange, and celebrated all our kids' birthdays. One of my fondest memories from our playgroup days include the summer we planned a Summer Camp for our kids. During our four weeks of camp, each of us planned crafts, activities and a field trip which kept our kids busy and gave us a little break from being a mom for the morning. We also looked forward to our monthly "MOMs Night Out" where we could really relax without our children. I still smile when I think of one particular MNO when I arrived home to my husband sitting on the couch at 2:30am feeling like a guilty teenager who missed curfew--sometimes you just lose track of time and your phone.

It's been over eight months since I've attended a MOMs Club Event. My babies aren't really babies anymore. I received my last "Weekly Update" from the club since my membership expired as of September 1st which made me a little emotional. In Arthur Miller's play Death of a Salesman, Willie's wife Linda tells him, "Life is a casting off." A profound, sad and accurate observation of the human experience. With the passage of time, we change, grow, and evolve and unfortunately leave things and sometimes people behind. It's time for me to cast off from a group that helped fill some lonely days and keep my sanity.

I no longer see my playgroup friends on a weekly basis. Our daily lives are now busy with school, work, soccer practices, Girl Scouts, homework, and figurative and literal laundry lists.  But we still manage to stay connected, and I'm always impressed how quickly we can return to that comfortable camaraderie we once shared. We periodically share photos on Facebook of our babies when they were babies, and we all feel a little weepy. We send a quick text to wish one another luck as we
embark on a new life journey or just to make sure the kids had a good first week at school. This morning I smiled as I watched my boys play with two of their playgroup friends who slept over last night and left the floor littered with toys like the good old days.  I like to think the universe would have found another way for me to meet these wonderful women, but I'm glad I made that choice six years ago.