Sitting Shiva for The 11th Doctor
By Lesley Kluchin
I tossed and turned all night and couldn’t sleep….and this morning I awoke feeling like another of my dear family members had passed away. I realize that is an odd emotion because the only person I have lost recently is a character from my favorite television show, Dr. Who, and yet I am in mourning.
I also know, that it is silly for a woman my age to feel these emotions, and yet not terribly uncommon for someone like myself who once walked upon the stage and felt the fictional heartbeat of a character to the very depth of his or her make-believe soul. Those characters were brought to life through my interpretation and portrayal on the stage, and my understanding of the author’s vision. They became real to me while I spoke their lines and walked their strides and lived their invented life for the short time the curtain was up.
I am also someone who creates my own three dimensional characters and plucks them out of my head and drops them down onto a piece of paper to tell one of my stories. I try to make them dance off the page and become real enough so that readers can laugh, cry, love or hate them. And why do I do this? Because I am compelled to do so. I have all the great literary geniuses to thank for my passion to write. I have Shakespeare, Austen, Tolstoy, and Conan Doyle to thank for reading wonderfully descriptive three-dimensional characters in their plays or novels. Protagonists who touched my heart deeply because they spoke to me in a special way. I admit it, for years I have fallen in love with all my favorite literary characters. Yes, they all are very real to me and they visit me in my darkest hours and brighten up my world when I need them to make me smile. They are my friends, my comfort, and my salvation when tragedy strikes and momentarily blocks out the joys in life. They help me survive what is difficult and motivate me to endure and regain my composure. They bring me strength and courage and are my references to every situation I encounter.
All my favorite novels, plays, or poems can be read over and over again, and unlike a television show, they are a just a touch away on my bookshelf. Even walking past them brings joy to my face just thinking about how each character in every book instantly regenerates and comes back to life the moment I open the cover of the book. On a rainy afternoon I can reach for my beloved Pride and Prejudice and Fitzwilliam Darcy and Elizabeth Bennett emerge like the phoenix. They dance, sling insults, and fall in in love before my eyes as I drink in Jane Austen’s words. And Sherlock Holmes dashes out the door into the dimly lit streets of London solving crime after crime, investigating every unseen bit of evidence by observing what those around him fail to notice, and I cherish each and every case. Sometimes in my mind I join him… darting in and out of the corridors of the narrow streets of Victorian London as my heels click and clank on the cobble stone lanes and I lift my petticoats up slightly to gain a faster pace just to keep pace with my favorite consulting detective. I hold my breath as Hamlet beholds the ghost of his father, or Romeo first gazes upon his beautiful Juliet…..they all live forever in the pages of my precious books.
But last night a character that is near and dear to my heart died, and there is no hardbound novel or kindle story that I can run to in my hour of need. I can’t reread every page or touch my fingers to the words when he disappears or linger a little while longer to hold on to him before he dies. No, he is simply gone. And that is just too painful for me. It is too much like real life and that is what hurts the most. When certain characters die, they just die. Without a book to bring him back to me he is gone. Forever. This Doctor was MY Doctor..(Whovian fans each pick a favorite to become their very own, you know.) And the 11th was mine. But, this time the writers are my enemy….they got it wrong!!! He didn’t die in his prime and regenerate….he aged frail and weak like a real human being – too much like the father I lost, or the husband I watched suffer as he wasted away from cancer. No, this time my wonderful character- with whom I loved to travel the universe and escape the mundane world each week is no more. I can no longer step into the Tardis to help him save the Universe. This character has really died. And Just like all those I have loved and lost in real life, he cannot come back. The writers made sure that came to pass. And perhaps that is why I hurt so much and tossed and turned all night. Oh sure, I might glimpse an old episode now and then, but it will be painful to do so for a while. I am not ready to see his character so young and healthy when I know now how he ends up. Aged and frail... I don’t think I can bare that. Not yet.
Don’t you see??? Everyone knows that characters are real once they have been written. They exist for the reader, the viewer, the listener. They become real!!!
I shake a fist at you, Stephen Moffatt for writing the script the way you did. You took away Rory and Amy and now The Doctor??? And replaced everyone with Clara,( who I never really warmed up to), with a new Doctor who has a face I don’t think I can love….
Sometimes, you just aren't ready to let go...And sometimes you need to cling to a sweet kind face in front of a make believe three dimensional character that exists only on the screen because Television isn’t the same as having a book to hold. I can make up my own vision of a character from reading a novel. But, I have no book to cling to when I am feeling blue and missing the Doctor….I cannot jump into the tardis and be off into the past or the future with my smiling silly Doctor…..he is gone. And I hate that. I have enough to be sad about in real life….enough things to force me to forge ahead each day with a smile….so why Mr. Moffatt couldn’t you have left me with my one guilty pleasure? Why did you have to take away My doctor too?
Sometimes, when life and reality take away the flesh and blood souls we love in the real world, then the only ones we can turn to are the fictional beings we have come to care about….The phrase from Romeo and Juliet comes to mind….”Oh wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?” That is how I feel after last nights ending to The 11th Doctor. How do I fill this empty void in my heart???? Some people and some characters are just irreplaceable. And the 11th Doctor is one of those…he cannot be replaced. Therefore, I am in mourning. I am Sitting Shiva…So, Good night Raggedy Man. I will miss you. Dr. Who will never be the same.
Thursday, December 26, 2013
Sunday, November 3, 2013
The Beat Of My Own Drum
Lesley Kluchin
Today I was inspired….
I heard an interview with an author I greatly admire,
And when she was asked why she was drawn to the unusual…to the paranormal…
She explained with honesty and simplicity,
That vampires, ghosts, and werewolves were nothing more than a metaphor for those of us who walk on the sidelines.
Those of us who feel like we are on the outside of society looking in…
And I had an epiphany for my entire creative existence.
My whole life I have felt like I was on the outside. Different.
That everyone else was walking in a straight line, a set path, while I veered and swayed to the left of it and danced my way through life fighting past the looks of concern, scorn, pity, or sheer misunderstanding.
Always searching for those rare moments when I felt the warmth and acceptance from a select few who understood my dance.
I recall being but a young child and proudly getting up in front of the class bursting with anticipation and determination.
Excited about learning, and burning inside to share my science report to my peers who were waiting patiently with their tiny hands folded upon their wooden desks in neat little rows.
It was the 1950’s and a time of great speculation and fascination with outer space. An exciting decade in which to live. But an equally cruel and unforgiving time as well.
I tried my best to follow all assignment rules, but could not stop there. I always had more to contribute or so I thought….too much energy to contain, so much desire with every task.
I had a need to share my child-like visions in drawings and proceeded to show my masterpiece as I stood before the class with great trepidation…
But to my dismay, my schoolmates’ eyes were focused on my teacher’s scrunched up angry red face and not on the image I held with pride.
Miss Rich stood stern and tall and pointed to the corner of the room with condemnation rather than the adulation, which I had craved and thought was well deserved…
My fearless leader saw none of the imagination in my renderings, and had no understanding of my impish enthusiasm. Instead, she proceeded to punish me for veering off the path of rules.
I was sent into the corner of shame. Or that is what she thought.
But little did she know…that the corner had become my own special place of retreat. I had come to know it well to work off my outbursts of enthusiasm and innovative ideas that she did not approve of…
And as I stared at the cracks in the wall that I had begun to embrace,
I saw people, places and wondrous things, which swirled and danced in my head. I wrote stories and poems in that corner instead of atoning for the sin of thinking out of the box.
It was the 1950’s after all, and no one was supposed to veer off the learning path to the left.
And yet I did.
In art class, my elephant was purple not gray, and I was yelled at and punished for not following the rules!
And still I refused to change my picture because I wanted my elephant to be purple! Just like the stuffed animal my father brought home to me and who sat on my bed at night to comfort me when my dreams took me to scary places.
I twitched and turned and could not sit still which annoyed just about every teacher I came to know.
All because I heard the beautiful beat of a drummer in my head… pounding out a rhythm that made me want to jump and dance as it beat louder and louder… reverberating up into my brain with words and images that had to be written down or drawn.
It didn’t matter if no one else could hear the beat of my music. Because I could hear it.
Yes, Vampires, ghosts, werewolves, and me. We all heard the music… We all were on the outside looking in…. We wanted to jump and dance and whirl around to the beat.
So sometimes, even when I was supposed to stay seated, when the music was especially loud and wonderful, I HAD to get up and dance.
Even when I wasn’t supposed to.
Because you see, it was a happy, bright place filled with fantasy just on the outside of the line where I stood.
If only other people would join me there.
Then maybe their distain would disappear if they would just take one step on my side of the straight and narrow line….
Maybe then they would see that the world was much more colorful over here.
The music was louder and all the instruments played non stop all the time. Sometimes out of tune, but that never mattered.
The Instruments continued to play in my head…They blared on; drums, violins, harps, trumpets…. each one entertaining me with a symphony of notes, sometimes in words, often in colors, and it was always beautiful!!!!!!
And then one day, a very kind English teacher applauded after I shared a poem that I had written, and he pulled me aside after class.
He took me by surprised when he stated. “You’re special you know. You don’t belong in my class. You need to be with the advanced students. Why on earth has no one addressed this before?”
I sheepishly told him I thought it was because I talked too much, and was too much trouble. That I usually wrote my poems while I was in the corner and nobody ever heard them but me.
He smiled and let me know that he would fix things. He told me from now on I would feel at home in school and that there were others who would appreciate my poems.
And so that very day in 7th grade, when Mr. Wilson, a frail thin man with a smile as warm as freshly baked cookies, heard the rhythm of my music, it was then I began to realize that sometimes others could feel what I felt, see what I saw…
But, in reality, it didn’t happen very often.
I thought that as I started to grow things would change and the sound of my music would disappear…
But no, I still heard the beat.
And when I transitioned further on in middle and high school, the world was a very confusing place….
I watched as our beloved President Kennedy died and Martin Luther was dreaming his precious dream…
And I wrote it all down in words and turned them into songs and tears.
As the music continued to beat louder in my head my very close friends and I wrote what was in our hearts, and formed a band to tell the world how things should be if only people would listen and hear our music.
My classmates thought we were crazy because girls weren’t supposed to perform like boys. Girls didn’t play guitars. It just wasn’t done. Not in 1966... But we did it anyway…
As the beat blared thunderously in our heads, it was now vampires, ghosts, werewolves and rocker chicks…. who wanted the world to change and let equality reign in our songs.
And then in college as I sat with a sea of people tightly blending together and holding hands… a rainbow of colors heard my song.
I understood then that there were other vampires, ghosts, and werewolves out there trying to change the world too. Apparently more then I had ever imagined.
And I felt empowered and basked in the strength of numbers convinced that we could indeed change the universe together as long as everyone heard the beat.
A special literature professor named Mrs. Keenan took me under her wing and approached me with tears in her eyes one afternoon at the end of class. She confided that she looked forward to reading my essays and that whatever I wrote, always spoke to her heart. It made her want to sing and dance, and feel young again.
She begged me to never stop writing.
She told me that when she was submersed in my words, she felt like she was Juliet, Elizabeth Bennett, Rosaline all rolled into one.
This dynamic, beautiful lady played a monumental role in why I became a teacher. Her supreme joy in teaching affected every pore of my being and I lived and breathed literature when in her class. Her love of the written word glowed from her very spirit and washed over her students like a spring rain….and inspiration thrived in one tiny room on campus, and danced in my head when she defined the works of Tolstoy, and Chekov. Life was divine and everyone felt like an insider within the confines of her classroom.
But, life is filled with twists and turns and as I grew older and settled down, I strained harder to hear the music.
There was marriage, motherhood, work, divorce and putting food upon the table.
At the end of the day, my weary senses were somewhat dulled and the music quieted down.
I had to rely on the sparkle in my son’s eyes for the songs to find me again. They were always there you see...just hiding in the darkness when life’s pain and struggles overshadowed the joy. But right behind the laughter of a child the melody continuously plays…
The hardest times were during my early teaching years when I was told to stop being so creative and to follow and conform to the rules.
To only use text books and throw away my innovative thoughts and ideas,
To tear down my 3- D bulletin boards because it made the other teachers look too ordinary….
And I didn’t understand.
Nor could I stop.
Because with each child’s face the music became louder and louder again.
A symphony sprang up from every student …
And when I gazed upon their smiles, my own beat emerged louder than before.
And so when I closed those doors behind me and faced the wave of children crammed into their tiny desks, I understood.
I finally knew why I had been given the gift of being able to hear the music.
Of being able to dance to my own beat. It was to let the children before me hear the music too and to give them the opportunity to create their own dance, their own rhythm.
I knew that no other child should have to be stashed away in a corner to hide their creativity or pretend not to see the whirling cracks in the wall. And that my purpose was to inspire my students and let them create all the purple elephants they wanted.
I had to let freedom and creative thinking inside the walls of my classroom.
And so I did… And 36 years later when I was asked by my superiors how I was so successful, why my students in particular always did so well….
I smiled.
I told them it was because I allowed children to think for themselves! To write down their ideas and hear the thoughts that were inside their heads and to trust themselves.
To know that their own personal voice was always something they needed to listen to.
And most of all, that in my room…they would always be safe.
They could hear their music, or dance their dance when they walked through my door. They could write and say all the things they weren’t supposed to do traditionally…. Because inspiration creates knowledge and perfection happens when students are inspired.
How ironic that at the end of my long career, I finally received recognition for being unique.
Suddenly, I was considered a wonderful educator. And yet, my methods had not changed just the data that recorded the scores. It wasn’t until technology put a number on smiles and happiness and equated them with percentiles, did administrators take notice of my gifts.
Ironic, because had they listened, they could have heard the music the moment they opened the door to my room….
And still….deep inside I felt that I was among the vampires, ghosts, and werewolves not being understood. Oh, the children understood, let me be clear…children always understand.
Just like vampires, ghosts, and werewolves,
Who always dance to the beat of their own drummer… Living on the outskirts of society.
I realized today as I write this poem, that those who are the visionaries, the innovative souls who may look a bit different, sound slightly off kilter, laugh at things others might not hear or see,
Listen to music that is not apparent to everyone’s ears… Those are the souls who can change the world for the better….
Those are the individuals who see what others avoid….
So, bless the vampires, ghosts, and werewolves and teachers…. they are my inspiration.
They keep me hearing my own music and the pounding beat of my own drum. …
And for as long as I hear my own beat, I will keep on dancing…
Lesley Kluchin
Today I was inspired….
I heard an interview with an author I greatly admire,
And when she was asked why she was drawn to the unusual…to the paranormal…
She explained with honesty and simplicity,
That vampires, ghosts, and werewolves were nothing more than a metaphor for those of us who walk on the sidelines.
Those of us who feel like we are on the outside of society looking in…
And I had an epiphany for my entire creative existence.
My whole life I have felt like I was on the outside. Different.
That everyone else was walking in a straight line, a set path, while I veered and swayed to the left of it and danced my way through life fighting past the looks of concern, scorn, pity, or sheer misunderstanding.
Always searching for those rare moments when I felt the warmth and acceptance from a select few who understood my dance.
I recall being but a young child and proudly getting up in front of the class bursting with anticipation and determination.
Excited about learning, and burning inside to share my science report to my peers who were waiting patiently with their tiny hands folded upon their wooden desks in neat little rows.
It was the 1950’s and a time of great speculation and fascination with outer space. An exciting decade in which to live. But an equally cruel and unforgiving time as well.
I tried my best to follow all assignment rules, but could not stop there. I always had more to contribute or so I thought….too much energy to contain, so much desire with every task.
I had a need to share my child-like visions in drawings and proceeded to show my masterpiece as I stood before the class with great trepidation…
But to my dismay, my schoolmates’ eyes were focused on my teacher’s scrunched up angry red face and not on the image I held with pride.
Miss Rich stood stern and tall and pointed to the corner of the room with condemnation rather than the adulation, which I had craved and thought was well deserved…
My fearless leader saw none of the imagination in my renderings, and had no understanding of my impish enthusiasm. Instead, she proceeded to punish me for veering off the path of rules.
I was sent into the corner of shame. Or that is what she thought.
But little did she know…that the corner had become my own special place of retreat. I had come to know it well to work off my outbursts of enthusiasm and innovative ideas that she did not approve of…
And as I stared at the cracks in the wall that I had begun to embrace,
I saw people, places and wondrous things, which swirled and danced in my head. I wrote stories and poems in that corner instead of atoning for the sin of thinking out of the box.
It was the 1950’s after all, and no one was supposed to veer off the learning path to the left.
And yet I did.
In art class, my elephant was purple not gray, and I was yelled at and punished for not following the rules!
And still I refused to change my picture because I wanted my elephant to be purple! Just like the stuffed animal my father brought home to me and who sat on my bed at night to comfort me when my dreams took me to scary places.
I twitched and turned and could not sit still which annoyed just about every teacher I came to know.
All because I heard the beautiful beat of a drummer in my head… pounding out a rhythm that made me want to jump and dance as it beat louder and louder… reverberating up into my brain with words and images that had to be written down or drawn.
It didn’t matter if no one else could hear the beat of my music. Because I could hear it.
Yes, Vampires, ghosts, werewolves, and me. We all heard the music… We all were on the outside looking in…. We wanted to jump and dance and whirl around to the beat.
So sometimes, even when I was supposed to stay seated, when the music was especially loud and wonderful, I HAD to get up and dance.
Even when I wasn’t supposed to.
Because you see, it was a happy, bright place filled with fantasy just on the outside of the line where I stood.
If only other people would join me there.
Then maybe their distain would disappear if they would just take one step on my side of the straight and narrow line….
Maybe then they would see that the world was much more colorful over here.
The music was louder and all the instruments played non stop all the time. Sometimes out of tune, but that never mattered.
The Instruments continued to play in my head…They blared on; drums, violins, harps, trumpets…. each one entertaining me with a symphony of notes, sometimes in words, often in colors, and it was always beautiful!!!!!!
And then one day, a very kind English teacher applauded after I shared a poem that I had written, and he pulled me aside after class.
He took me by surprised when he stated. “You’re special you know. You don’t belong in my class. You need to be with the advanced students. Why on earth has no one addressed this before?”
I sheepishly told him I thought it was because I talked too much, and was too much trouble. That I usually wrote my poems while I was in the corner and nobody ever heard them but me.
He smiled and let me know that he would fix things. He told me from now on I would feel at home in school and that there were others who would appreciate my poems.
And so that very day in 7th grade, when Mr. Wilson, a frail thin man with a smile as warm as freshly baked cookies, heard the rhythm of my music, it was then I began to realize that sometimes others could feel what I felt, see what I saw…
But, in reality, it didn’t happen very often.
I thought that as I started to grow things would change and the sound of my music would disappear…
But no, I still heard the beat.
And when I transitioned further on in middle and high school, the world was a very confusing place….
I watched as our beloved President Kennedy died and Martin Luther was dreaming his precious dream…
And I wrote it all down in words and turned them into songs and tears.
As the music continued to beat louder in my head my very close friends and I wrote what was in our hearts, and formed a band to tell the world how things should be if only people would listen and hear our music.
My classmates thought we were crazy because girls weren’t supposed to perform like boys. Girls didn’t play guitars. It just wasn’t done. Not in 1966... But we did it anyway…
As the beat blared thunderously in our heads, it was now vampires, ghosts, werewolves and rocker chicks…. who wanted the world to change and let equality reign in our songs.
And then in college as I sat with a sea of people tightly blending together and holding hands… a rainbow of colors heard my song.
I understood then that there were other vampires, ghosts, and werewolves out there trying to change the world too. Apparently more then I had ever imagined.
And I felt empowered and basked in the strength of numbers convinced that we could indeed change the universe together as long as everyone heard the beat.
A special literature professor named Mrs. Keenan took me under her wing and approached me with tears in her eyes one afternoon at the end of class. She confided that she looked forward to reading my essays and that whatever I wrote, always spoke to her heart. It made her want to sing and dance, and feel young again.
She begged me to never stop writing.
She told me that when she was submersed in my words, she felt like she was Juliet, Elizabeth Bennett, Rosaline all rolled into one.
This dynamic, beautiful lady played a monumental role in why I became a teacher. Her supreme joy in teaching affected every pore of my being and I lived and breathed literature when in her class. Her love of the written word glowed from her very spirit and washed over her students like a spring rain….and inspiration thrived in one tiny room on campus, and danced in my head when she defined the works of Tolstoy, and Chekov. Life was divine and everyone felt like an insider within the confines of her classroom.
But, life is filled with twists and turns and as I grew older and settled down, I strained harder to hear the music.
There was marriage, motherhood, work, divorce and putting food upon the table.
At the end of the day, my weary senses were somewhat dulled and the music quieted down.
I had to rely on the sparkle in my son’s eyes for the songs to find me again. They were always there you see...just hiding in the darkness when life’s pain and struggles overshadowed the joy. But right behind the laughter of a child the melody continuously plays…
The hardest times were during my early teaching years when I was told to stop being so creative and to follow and conform to the rules.
To only use text books and throw away my innovative thoughts and ideas,
To tear down my 3- D bulletin boards because it made the other teachers look too ordinary….
And I didn’t understand.
Nor could I stop.
Because with each child’s face the music became louder and louder again.
A symphony sprang up from every student …
And when I gazed upon their smiles, my own beat emerged louder than before.
And so when I closed those doors behind me and faced the wave of children crammed into their tiny desks, I understood.
I finally knew why I had been given the gift of being able to hear the music.
Of being able to dance to my own beat. It was to let the children before me hear the music too and to give them the opportunity to create their own dance, their own rhythm.
I knew that no other child should have to be stashed away in a corner to hide their creativity or pretend not to see the whirling cracks in the wall. And that my purpose was to inspire my students and let them create all the purple elephants they wanted.
I had to let freedom and creative thinking inside the walls of my classroom.
And so I did… And 36 years later when I was asked by my superiors how I was so successful, why my students in particular always did so well….
I smiled.
I told them it was because I allowed children to think for themselves! To write down their ideas and hear the thoughts that were inside their heads and to trust themselves.
To know that their own personal voice was always something they needed to listen to.
And most of all, that in my room…they would always be safe.
They could hear their music, or dance their dance when they walked through my door. They could write and say all the things they weren’t supposed to do traditionally…. Because inspiration creates knowledge and perfection happens when students are inspired.
How ironic that at the end of my long career, I finally received recognition for being unique.
Suddenly, I was considered a wonderful educator. And yet, my methods had not changed just the data that recorded the scores. It wasn’t until technology put a number on smiles and happiness and equated them with percentiles, did administrators take notice of my gifts.
Ironic, because had they listened, they could have heard the music the moment they opened the door to my room….
And still….deep inside I felt that I was among the vampires, ghosts, and werewolves not being understood. Oh, the children understood, let me be clear…children always understand.
Just like vampires, ghosts, and werewolves,
Who always dance to the beat of their own drummer… Living on the outskirts of society.
I realized today as I write this poem, that those who are the visionaries, the innovative souls who may look a bit different, sound slightly off kilter, laugh at things others might not hear or see,
Listen to music that is not apparent to everyone’s ears… Those are the souls who can change the world for the better….
Those are the individuals who see what others avoid….
So, bless the vampires, ghosts, and werewolves and teachers…. they are my inspiration.
They keep me hearing my own music and the pounding beat of my own drum. …
And for as long as I hear my own beat, I will keep on dancing…
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
Down with Hashtags!! #%@$?????
I am really sick and tired of reading lines of gobbly gook with symbols that mean absolutely nothing to me. Have we gone so far into the future that the beauty of writing is now replaced with a symbol or an acronym? What happened to the poetic flow of words divinely written on a page that touches our hearts and makes us want to soar into the clouds??? We are suddenly reduced to a certain number of characters and that leaves me so unsatisfied and completely mystified as to why this has happened to our brave new world. To me, personally, this is a horrendous crime that should be punishable by imprisonment - In a classroom!!!!! And the perpetrators must be left in a room with dozens of well-written novels and a host of simple notebook pads and several pencils to fix their errors before they can be released! These grammar criminals must then be sentenced to answer essay questions in COMPLETE sentences in order to be released or achieve bail. Wouldn’t that be sweet redemption???
I ask you friends, what has happened to the splendor of the written word? Is it any wonder that we are raising a generation filled with grammatically inept imbeciles????? Isn’t it fantastic enough that we can talk to anyone in the world immediately on our computers, or on our phones, and text people in an instant? Have we become so lazy that we are now incapable of putting together a complete sentence as well????
I for one am rebelling!!! DOWN with HASHTAGS!! (Whatever the hell they are!!!!!!) I profess not to understand what any of them mean. They are worse than trying to read ancient Hebrew - without the vowels. AND, I grow weary of hearing that people are offended when their blatant grammatical mistakes are kindly corrected. When did it become a crime to enlighten people for their betterment?????? Mistakes left untouched perpetuate illiteracy and keep errors going on and on and on... and now that my generation has become the mentors in society, the parents, the grandparents, the teachers of all those who follow... we have a responsibility to set an example for our successors! If we don’t help them, they will never become fully rounded, educated human beings, and literature as we know it, will cease to exist.
I do try not to re- touch up anything that is said passionately or fix typos in other people’s emails or on Facebook, as hard as that is for a retired teacher like myself. Goodness knows I make a million typos myself in this world of instant responses and sometimes my arthritic hands get the best of me... but using double negatives? THAT demands instant correction! Those are like fingernails on a chalkboard and we must draw the line somewhere. There is no excuse for bad grammar in our brave new technological world when every electronic device contains a built in dictionary. And unless the writer puts grammatically incorrect language in quotes to make a point, I feel compelled to use my electronic red pen and fix those mistakes. SOMEBODY has to do it! We live a technological world where Google and Goodsearch are a click away. It has never been easier to find a solution to a problem or correct your spelling. Yet, people aren't taking advantage of this miraculous gift. If society chooses not to keep the written word going and remain relevant, than what are we reduced to??? Hashtags???? Blechhhhhhhhh!
Poetry is now re-emerging as an art form. taking rap into a Shakespearean thing of beauty....Society will turn around and we have to be part of that venture. Without our writers, our elegance as a nation disappears. The words of Abigail Adams written to her husband ( John Adams) when she begged him to "Remember the ladies" as we fought for our Nation's independence, was tastefully written with such charm and grace and directly to the point! We can't lose the art of communication and become cave men and women grunting and groaning again. Thus, my dear friends, you must understand that if I correct a couple of words now and then, I do so with love and reverence for the written word....G-d Bless Grammar!!!
And I respectfully say, Death to hashtags!!!!
I am really sick and tired of reading lines of gobbly gook with symbols that mean absolutely nothing to me. Have we gone so far into the future that the beauty of writing is now replaced with a symbol or an acronym? What happened to the poetic flow of words divinely written on a page that touches our hearts and makes us want to soar into the clouds??? We are suddenly reduced to a certain number of characters and that leaves me so unsatisfied and completely mystified as to why this has happened to our brave new world. To me, personally, this is a horrendous crime that should be punishable by imprisonment - In a classroom!!!!! And the perpetrators must be left in a room with dozens of well-written novels and a host of simple notebook pads and several pencils to fix their errors before they can be released! These grammar criminals must then be sentenced to answer essay questions in COMPLETE sentences in order to be released or achieve bail. Wouldn’t that be sweet redemption???
I ask you friends, what has happened to the splendor of the written word? Is it any wonder that we are raising a generation filled with grammatically inept imbeciles????? Isn’t it fantastic enough that we can talk to anyone in the world immediately on our computers, or on our phones, and text people in an instant? Have we become so lazy that we are now incapable of putting together a complete sentence as well????
I for one am rebelling!!! DOWN with HASHTAGS!! (Whatever the hell they are!!!!!!) I profess not to understand what any of them mean. They are worse than trying to read ancient Hebrew - without the vowels. AND, I grow weary of hearing that people are offended when their blatant grammatical mistakes are kindly corrected. When did it become a crime to enlighten people for their betterment?????? Mistakes left untouched perpetuate illiteracy and keep errors going on and on and on... and now that my generation has become the mentors in society, the parents, the grandparents, the teachers of all those who follow... we have a responsibility to set an example for our successors! If we don’t help them, they will never become fully rounded, educated human beings, and literature as we know it, will cease to exist.
I do try not to re- touch up anything that is said passionately or fix typos in other people’s emails or on Facebook, as hard as that is for a retired teacher like myself. Goodness knows I make a million typos myself in this world of instant responses and sometimes my arthritic hands get the best of me... but using double negatives? THAT demands instant correction! Those are like fingernails on a chalkboard and we must draw the line somewhere. There is no excuse for bad grammar in our brave new technological world when every electronic device contains a built in dictionary. And unless the writer puts grammatically incorrect language in quotes to make a point, I feel compelled to use my electronic red pen and fix those mistakes. SOMEBODY has to do it! We live a technological world where Google and Goodsearch are a click away. It has never been easier to find a solution to a problem or correct your spelling. Yet, people aren't taking advantage of this miraculous gift. If society chooses not to keep the written word going and remain relevant, than what are we reduced to??? Hashtags???? Blechhhhhhhhh!
Poetry is now re-emerging as an art form. taking rap into a Shakespearean thing of beauty....Society will turn around and we have to be part of that venture. Without our writers, our elegance as a nation disappears. The words of Abigail Adams written to her husband ( John Adams) when she begged him to "Remember the ladies" as we fought for our Nation's independence, was tastefully written with such charm and grace and directly to the point! We can't lose the art of communication and become cave men and women grunting and groaning again. Thus, my dear friends, you must understand that if I correct a couple of words now and then, I do so with love and reverence for the written word....G-d Bless Grammar!!!
And I respectfully say, Death to hashtags!!!!
Saturday, January 5, 2013
I Weep For The Children...
Tonight when I lit the Shabbat candles, I said an extra prayer for those brave students and teachers who lost their lives a week ago in Connecticut.
In all the other recent shootings I was heartsick, but this time I am heartbroken. I just can't seem to recover from the loss of those precious innocent children. Perhaps it is because for 36 years I got up each and every morning and walked into an elementary school only to see the beautiful shining faces of little children ready to start their day. I witnessed their sweet smiles, their delight when they discovered something new, and their total ability to bring joy to even the simplest of tasks. I was the lucky recipient of their hugs, their love, and their exuberant laughter. This horrific tragedy has devastated me and awakened a warrior inside the heart of a pacifist.
I will fight the NRA and our representatives in Washington to make changes. I WON'T let this go. And I WON'T do it with violence or with guns. I am not a coward who has to stand behind a killing machine to make a point. I will do it with words, with wisdom, and with common sense. I will undertake this task for all the children who died and for all those who live. I will do it with education, and with the help of every teacher and mother who never wants to see another child fall pray to a madman who was able to gain access to an assault weapon.
WE THE PEOPLE have to stop the madness. We HAVE to because the children of this nation need to know that they are safe!!! If we LOVE out children, we have no other option. We MUST fight for their rights. Our children and grandchildren have a right to be safe in their schools. We must DEMAND this!!!! As long as I live I will never stop fighting for the children. NEVER!!!!!!
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