Judge Not

From the time I was a little girl, sitting in a pew fanning with a paper fan and watching the preacher go on and on on a hot summer Sunday, I knew that the Bible he preached was absolutely real and powerful. I still believe in its power. I am no longer sure about the stories being literal any more, and that's OK by me. The power still permeates the literature. It is the power of the inspired written word. One of the tenents of that word was a simple message, "judge not, lest ye be judged." It was probably one of the most difficult lessons to follow, especially since I remember a lot of judgment coming out of that small church. I battle the temptation to judge still today at the age of sixty-three, but I know it is a worthwhile fight. Mama always said, "pick your battles."

However, sometimes, the battles pick you. No simple tenant covers the array of emotions one processes when that happens. Particularly when the one you are called upon to not judge is a judge. After having my faith in the judicial system shattered by a feckless judge who chooses to ignore both the facts and the law, I am once again dealing with the battle to "judge not, lest ye be judged." I have learned with time, too, that there is a fine line between judgment and discernment. As we work through our dilemma with the help of two competent, caring lawyers (after being deceived by one incompetent, deceitful lawyer and a pack of slanderous enemies in the Florida probate system), we will someday soon be able to close the cover on this messy tale and move on in peace.

In the meantime, I am now aware of faults in our judicial system that I never conceived possible. It adds credence, for me, to the cries of those unable to confront unfair judgment by unfair judges.  It, also, gives me a frightening insight into why it is so important for Mitch McConnell to put the significant legislation, being funneled from a hard-working House to the Senate, on the back burner in order to spend the Senate's energy filling judge's positions with men and women that he believes will do the bidding of the conservative right, in spite of their qualifications. It is happening at a phenomenal rate, and yet, the average American has no idea how much power lies in those appointments. America, we have battles to pick. It is time to prioritize the battle of the judges and place it higher on our list. It is, also, time to do it with wisdom and grace. We still have a tenant to "judge not, lest (we) be judged."

Peace. Love, Linda

Daddy Loved October

In a world torn by incessant drama and the power struggles of narcissistic strong men,
my little blue Honda Civic drives down  Lake Shore Boulevard
lined with rusted cypress, fall green oaks and weather-tried pines.
We're heading for McDonald's and an egg biscuit with an unsweet tea, no sugar.

Daddy loved October.
Today, it dances around me in mystical, morning light.
The leaves vibrate. Not northern dramatic, 
but southern calm. Calm.

Puddle remains splash tales
of why the grass is suddenly so green again,
and a balmy northeastern wind blows gently
carrying with it miracle one, the renewal of life
without fanfare or sound, 
and miracle two, somehow, it touched my soul.

Peace. Love, Linda

The Confidence Bag and the Effects of Long-Term Disrepspect

I wrote this almost ten years ago, but I ran into it today on my computer. It seemed fitting to reshare it today with my husband in mind, offering up prayers for wisdom, guidance, and light. Peace. Love, Linda

Confidence Bag

I’m awaiting arbitration because I spoke out about a writing initiative our new superintendent brought on board in our Florida school district. I was a Learning Resource Specialist for seven years, grades six through twelve, with a writing emphasis. The "new" initiative promoted writing as a test practice with extensive time spent mastering one single model essay for all, “with liberty and justice.”  Real world writing across the curriculum was not to be discussed, at least I was not allowed to talk about it; actually, after one eventful Friday the 13^th, I was not allowed to talk about anything, but this is not about the initiative or the elimination of my position; although, I would not be sitting at home at 8:00AM this morning writing a blog if it had not happened. The thought I am now putting to paper is about the after-effects of prolonged disrespect.


Picture a bag of confidence.  We are each born with a bag of confidence wonderfully crafted to expand. However, the yin, or is it yang, of that expansion, is shrinkage. Ouch. I felt a pinch. When disrespected (as I was when they placed me in a warehouse which I lovingly called the Rubber Room named after a video project from New York City, and they took away all peer contact and academic freedoms for expressing my opinions) for a period of time, insecurity worms began to sneak into my confidence bag. The longer they were there, the more opportunity they had to create homes and reproduce. These newcomers to the confidence bag do not yield expansion because they feed daily on the cloth of the bag, leaving nasty, little holes. My confidence began leaking out of the bag in tiny increments until my bag was small and tattered, but just as the coat packed in winter storage ravaged by moths is not evident until the temperature drops below 50 degrees, I did not realize my confidence bag’s demise until I entered into a situation when I pulled my bag out to use it again. The effects for me and others experiencing confidence bag depletion can range from niggling anxiety to all-out terror, no matter how daunting or simple the challenge.  I think, then, that what I am writing for you today is an FYI.  I started this with all seriousness, but after leaving the page to feed the birds and wash out the birdbath, I’ve lost my taste for this morsel, so I will end with this slogan for the day:

STAMP OUT CONFIDENCE BAG DEPLETION.

Whew, I’m glad that’s off my chest. This verse fits beautifully, reminding us of our indestructible tool for stamping out confidence bag depletion:   “Truly I tell you, if you say to this mountain, ’Be taken up and thrown into the sea,’ and if you do not doubt in your heart, but believe that what you say will come to pass, it will be done for you.”  Mark 11: 23. Now that promotes confidence!

Love, Linda

Happy Birthday Nikky!

My daughter, Nikky, is the best contribution that I could give to this world. In turn, she has given the world my granddaughter, Bella Grace, the best contribution she could leave with this world. However, Nikky's contributions, in her first thirty seven years, driven by her own desires and her collaboration with her family, are far more than I have ever begun to give in my life time. I cannot say how much I love her drive, her zeal, her wisdom and her wit. From the time she was a little girl, skirting the edge of the sidewalk and falling off her trike turning to look at me with flashing eyes and exclaiming, "I am NOT going to say DAMMIT!", to her present day short, smiley faced texts of encouragement, she has added and continues to add great depth and dimension to my life. For this, I am grateful. 

Happy birthday, Nikky! Have a wonderful Easter, birthday weekend! Saying that just reminded me of your three year old birthday, which skirted Easter. We  got your cake at Sip-N-Dip, which back then was always full of coffee drinkers and smokers. It was a beautiful cake with an Easter theme, and when we cut into it and anxiously took our first bites, it tasted like stale cigarettes! Ahhh, but you deserved better. It makes me smile just to think of it. Two years later, we found you a recording for your birthday of a song that you  sang with gusto, "NOW I'M FIVE"! You always wanted to be a "big" girl. Love you, Nik, to the moon!

Like a Tree

The little French girl chattered through the chain link fence

and Nikky, beginning her world of international connections, 

turned to me with a quirky look 

on her two-year-old face and asked, "What did she said?"

She shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of waters that

 bringeth forth its fruit

in due season.

Six months beyond my mastectomy and chemo,

seventeen year old Nikky, independent, even then, and observant,

 invited me to lunch, when she said to me intently,

"Mom, you are going to live."

 She shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of waters that 

bringeth forth its fruit

in due season.

That observant little girl became a wise teenager and even wiser adult,

and now my thirty-seven-year old daughter, whom I love with all my heart,

I give you these words from Psalms as a gift,

And She "shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of waters which

 bringeth forth its fruit

in due season".

And I am in awe at the abundance and beauty of your fruits.

Happy Birthday! Love Always, Mom

Scapegoat

In the Old Testament in the book of Leviticus, the word "scapegoat" was originated. By God's instructions, Moses and Aaron were to sacrifice two goats each year. One was to be killed and the blood sprinkled on the Ark of the Covenant. It sounds bizarre, but much of the behavior in the OT is bizarre when put under a modern day LED. I am sure the future generations will say that about us. Oh yeah, they already do and rightfully so. Back to the goats, the second goat was supposedly the "lucky" goat because it was not killed. Instead, the High Priest layed hands upon the goats head, confessed the sins of the people, and released it into the wilderness, free to wander carrying its burden of sin. So, which goat got the best deal?

Today, psychologists use the term "scapegoat" to refer to the tendency to blame someone else for one's own problems. It may be a person, a group, or an object. It offers an opportunity to explain failure or misdeeds, while maintaing a positive image. I can see why it is such a hit. I find that it answers a multitude of questions about what is happening in my personal life as well as in our country and the world. As M. Scott Peck surmised in "The Road Less Traveled", people do not want to do the hard work of self evaluation. The scapegoat is the perfect answer offering a substitute for one's own failures and a broken mirror to one's own weaknesses. My thoughts today are not for the dead goat. We know what happened to it. My thoughts today are concerning the one set free in the wilderness. Lets just suppose the place they are set free from is home and family and "the wilderness" is life. Modern day Christians should understand this story completely. We worship a man who took on the roles of scapegoat one and scapegoat two. It's a tough "row to hoe" to say the least. However, sadly enough, big proponents of scapegoating are modern day Christians.

Something to think about. Peace. Love, Linda

Shadows in the Sunshine State

I live in "the sunshine state", a haven in the winter, a land of beautiful beaches and summer fun, the home of Mickey Mouse. I love this state. It is my home, but it has its own dark and ugly shadows. In the ninth district court system covering cases for family law, there is a scheme to defraud families of their money and their rights, and it is totally sanctioned. Every facet in elder care is involved either by complicity or by deliberate head turning, advocates, long term care facilities, guardians, lawyers and at the top, judges. What keeps this dysfunctional system alive? Dysfunctional families, resentment, jealously, the love of money, and in our case add to that mix, a mother who has lived two lives, one for her absent daughters, and one for her ever present, hard working son. Her divided family believes two different stories. Each story is forever frozen in time since her legal rights have been stripped due to a forced incompetency test and subsequent guardianship by the state of Florida. No one hears her any more, except her son whose hands are bound behind his back. They were perfect targets for this Florida justice system that is allowed to do all of its deeds in secret.

Even with signed documentation by his mom for everything he has done and a Trust document that states his parents are never to become the ward of any guardian, the state of Florida, with unfounded charges of abuse and cries of"undue influence", snatched away all assets and control from my mother-in- law and my husband. With the help and lies of an elder care "advocate" and sisters pushing for seven and a half years a case against a brother they have storied into a monster, for reasons they believe to be true, our lives are in a troubling limbo, and my husband is treated by the state as if he were a thief and a villain. My sister-in-laws readily jumped into a sanctioned bilking system thinking they have finally rescued their mom from their "wicked" brother, when, in fact, the state of Florida is gleefully spending their inheritance, and their brother's years of hard work and dedication is being obliterated. 

My husband and I need your prayers and positive thoughts as we traverse this temporary obstacle in our lives. Pray not just that we survive the ordeal, but that we will thrive and overcome. My husband has always been a good and dutiful son. My Mother-in-law needs your prayers for peace and comfort in her physical and mental decline. Her games are over, and she is just a sad, old dying woman who needs love. My sister-in-laws need prayers, too. They, too, are victims of this state and a dysfunctional family, living a life on the stage of comparisons. Unknowingly, they believe their stories whole heartily and the stories their mom shared with them. I am not sure the relationship between brother and sisters will be salvageable, but I am sure that God's grace will guide us through, and we will come out on higher ground, and as a warning to families far and wide, come to terms with your disagreements, and don't ever think that the courts are the answer.

Peace. Love, Linda 

In These United States- an Observation

In these United States,
a lower income child
who rises to middle class by a puritan work
ethic in parents who moved forward,
in spite of
hardships, health traumas, financial trials and fatigue,
sometimes develops, as an adult, a sense of wonder
at how it ALL works
and a high regard for the process
that when incorporated into this American life
propels many to that place we call
"BETTER".

In these United States
that can happen.

That is a good of this land.

But beneath that
good lies factions of self promoting "justice" systems
that have corrupted and broken into indiscernable pieces
so small they are not recognized as broken,
until the particulates of their fragmented glass
take a life on of their own,
rising up out of darkness to ambush
and cut their  targets visciously
without true cause or merit.

In these United States
that, too, can happen.

That is a bad of this land.

I Am A Work in Progress

I have reached a reflective time in my life, and I 

am reviewing the effects I have made on the lives of others with

a different eye than I had in my youth, seeing the

work that I have done on myself and the evidence of its outcomes

in light that shines sadly on my sins and proudly on my victories and

progress as a human, trying to grow my soul the best way I know how.

Peace. Love, Linda

The Hook or Caught Between a Setting Moon and a Rising Sun

It was two days until the “Ides of March” and a Friday. That made it Friday the 13^th. Hmmm. I was driving to work at that early part of the day we call dawn, not to be confused with the dish detergent that cleans oily ducks. As I drove down Rummell Road, a giant vulture flew from the left across the path of the car, narrowly missing me, but I just kept driving merrily along as if all was well. Well, it wasn’t. I just hadn’t figured that out, yet. I looked in the left driver’s mirror and caught an amazing view of a rising sun behind me. It would have been enough to elicit awe on its own merit, but what made it even more impressive was the fact that I was driving toward a setting, full moon. I was caught between a rising sun and a setting moon. That phrase, later that day, became the theme for a quick write exercise I presented in the last classroom I ever taught and the last class I ever visited, a classroom of middle school students, unusually cooperative, amusing and creative. The amusing and creative is not uncommon for middle school kids, but the “cooperative” can be a crap shoot, depending on the drama of the hour or the classroom management skills of the daily teacher.  So, what happened next?

I went to the office, and as I was putting my purse under my desk, the phone rang. It was a call from a high school teacher who was present at my last “writing” workshop-as the district wide language arts writing instructor, I had been stripped of my ability to introduce fun, enticing writing instruction and, instead, was given the responsibility of presenting, over and over, trainings to middle and high school teachers on how to teach a three paragraph essay for FCAT, the same essay fourth graders, or maybe third graders were taught to write- back to the phone call.  From the other end of the line, I heard the tear-filled voice of a high school language art’s teacher, sick about the weak curriculum.  She felt as if she were letting her students down, not giving them the instruction they needed for their futures. I felt her pain. She told me she wanted to speak up about the situation but was afraid she would lose her job. The economy was in the dumps in 2009, and a teacher’s job was more secure than most. I consoled her as much as possible and ended the call with this, “Don’t worry. I will be your voice.” I quickly pulled together the lessons I was going to use in my classroom visit and started for the door when I noticed I was way too early for my appointment, so I went back to my computer to check email. I couldn’t concentrate on anything I read. I was feeling tugged by a voice in my head or maybe my gut. I am not sure where that voice came from, heaven or hell, but it echoed so strongly between my ears that I immediately began to write an email to the world. Literally, to the world. Since the email was a protest about what we were being made to do with our FCAT essays, I put it in the formula of the essay for effect. It was effective. Yes, indeed, I should have paid more attention to my early morning omens.

I finishd the email and shaken by my actions, I headed out the door toward my car, leaving my lesson plans behind, thinking about how many times I had begged my new director and the new superintendent to talk about their writing initiative. I began that plea, verbally, at the first meeting the new superintendent pulled together for district resource teachers and administrators for an introduction to his initiatives. When the superintendent began to present his plans proudly, I must say, I was astounded by the lack of depth in his plan for writing. The room watched and listened in awe, nobody saying anything of value in contradiction for fear of alienating the “new guy”. I am not sure why, but I did not get that message, and so I spoke up. I think I pushed it a little too far when two principals came and sat on either side of me and stared at me with that look that says, “please shut-up”. I did not, and so from that day on, “the new guy” cold shouldered me with deliberate intent. I sent emails and begged. I tried to talk about the data in our team meetings, but my new immediate boss came in from the “new guys” district. Therefore, I spent the fall and winter presenting mediocre material that set mediocre expectations for even our finest and brightest… until I didn’t. Then, I wrote the email to the world, literally, to the whole world.

My take down, when I came back to the district that Friday afternoon, was quick and painful. My computer and desk were remanded, my duties put on lock down, and I was sent to the IMC where they put the “bad” teachers awaiting punishment or reprieve. Some teachers lovingly named it "the rubber room". My job of nine years was cut completely by the next week due to "budget restraints". My new post was a table next to the loading dock. I was no longer allowed to contact anyone, the world, without it being viewed by one of the superintendents. I was no longer allowed to associate with any teachers, other than my fellow banished, nor do any trainings or have any voice at all. “I will be your voice,” was a bit presumptuous on my part. I worked on curriculum the rest of the year and tried to appeal to the "better persons" in the people who I thought had "better persons," but to no avail. After a series of appeals and a losing mediation, I left education at the end of that year, 2009, and opened a motorcycle repair shop with my husband, which I run to this day.

I am sharing this story because it seems appropriate. My message still stands, and what has happened to us as Americans in the last election, shows how timely the message still is. Here is a copy of the email: Change of plans. The email will not let me copy it, so I will just rewrite it as the original was written. However, you will not be able to see the evidence that I sent the email to "the world". Note: "The Hook"  and following titles are just  names given to the parts of an essay when using one particular writing model. Oh, I just had to revise the first sentence, only, just a little, for clarity. None of the meaning or intention has been altered.

Subject:  URGENT! PLEASE OPEN IMMEDIATELY!
Dear Friends,

The Hook

The power of the written word is once again made evident by the fact that many of you, because of the subject line, are reading this email when, otherwise, you may not have bothered. The written word is so influential that a simple email such as this can put a person's entire career in jeopardy. Yet, the instruction of writing is at risk throughout our pubic education system because it remains a secondary focus.

Support

The foundation of everything we teach as public educators has been passed down through generations of writing. I would even go so far as to say that our very existence depends upon where our written word came from and where it will go from here.

In spite of all of our slogans and campaigns, reading does not come first. That is not possible.

The 2008 report from Writing Now states, "Research cannot identify one single approach to writing instruction that will be effective with every learner because of the diverse backgrounds and learning styles of students...Still, current research on writing makes these things clear:  Instructional practices, writing genres, and assessments should be holistic, authentic and varied." (James R. Squire, Office of Policy Research)

Call to Action

Do not accept weak methodology and generalized programs of writing that target our children of low resources and imply they can only become successful, real world writers with tightly scripted, single model formulas.  Every child deserves the best curriculum we can possibly give them within our means.  Financial resources may be slim, but we are rich in human resources and possibilities.  The solution is not simple, but it is attainable. Give our students "real" writing across the curriculum, and train every educator to rise to that task. The power of the written word and the understanding of that power is a fundamental key to a bright future for us and our children.

Sincerely,

Linda Oliverio, LRS, Secondary Education

P.S.

Upon reviewing this piece, I would say that the power of the piece is not necessarily in the role or the topic, but it lies in the format and consideration of audience.

P.S.S.

To my Educational Leadership professor who stated that all movements in society are top down, I never believed that.