T is for Teachers and Teaching

This graduation season I believe T stands for both Teachers and Teaching. Teachers…those amazing people that impart knowledge and feed our sense of wonder…well, ok not all teachers, but hopefully we all have had at least a few amazing teachers in our lives.  We all remember those teachers who pushed us just beyond our comfort zone to think a little deeper. The first teacher I remember who pushed me a bit further was Ms Hanna in 5th grade. I submitted an essay on the Ku Klux Klan. All my facts were correct; I had references as required but she still sent it back to me for a rewrite. Go deeper she said, what did these people think, what were their beliefs, how did they get to the point of such hate?  Move beyond the facts and into the why. I did and I ended up with only a B+ for my effort but never forgot the push to go deeper.

For most of us in the US our educational process includes being taught to think, to question, to inquire. I attended 14 years of Catholic education and inquiry was at the core of most of it. It wasn’t always easy being pushed to ask why?  how,? or what caused what? We couldn’t simply answer for X; we had to show how we  got to the X.


 As my education continued my teachers increasingly engaged in a Socratic Method of teaching…debate, disprove to prove.  As frustrating as it was at times, without those teachers pushing me to think for myself I wouldn’t have achieved the life I have now.

But for many students growing up in developing countries the educational process is extremely different.  The basis of education for these students is learning by rote; teaching focuses on the memorization of subjects. I am not talking about phonics, the alphabet or multiplication tables where memorization is crucial, but rather all subjects. Students are taught to memorize everything with little or no inquiry into why of the subject. Dates and names are the focus. There is no exploration of process, no discussion on the evolution of an event in history or even how a scientific fact came to be. These are not classrooms filled with discussion let alone debate. The goal of teaching is strictly to impart basic knowledge.  And nowhere is this truer than in Haiti. 

The adult literacy rate for Haiti is about 52 percent.  Less than 30 percent of Haitian students complete 6th grade and only about 20 percent of eligible students attend high school. 


This data became important to me when I recently visited a nursing school in Leogane, Haiti. I know I mentioned this in a previous post, but I think it’s worth some additional space. The school is the only baccalaureate nursing program in the country. The other nursing schools are either two or three year certificate programs.  The most significant difference for FSIL*  is that it teaches its students to think; the school promotes the development of critical thinking and problem solving skills. It is a major shift in the education of nurses; it is empowering these students to be leaders as well as amazing healthcare providers. 


The transition to this type of learning isn’t easy for some students even for those who have defied the odds and graduated from high school and have gone on to pass the schools’ entrance exam.  Unfortunately more than a few students drop out during their first year.


I don’t want to paint the Haitian education system as Dickensian, it isn’t. The teachers know they have only a short period of time and they use that time, many would say wisely, to impart as much of the basics as possible before the students leave school at very young ages. The high dropout rates are largely due to the fact that families simply cannot afford the school tuition and fees. All schools, public and private, charge tuition and in addition to other fees for such things as books.



For the most part, nurses in the developing world are taught by rote and taught to the task. In other words they are taught to insert an IV, take blood pressures, and distribute meds and the like. It is an education focused on the technical.  In some countries chemistry is not required for a nursing certificate and the biology taught is often equal to that taught in most US high schools. Few nurses in emerging nations are taught anything about holistic health…looking at the whole body for illness as well as strengths.  What is missing is teaching diagnostics, the ability to assess a patient, to look beyond the task and into the needs of the patient and to engage that patient on his or her own behalf.

The FSIL baccalaureate program in Haiti is changing all that; About 100 nursing students in Haiti are now learning to problem solve, to do research so they can learn more and continue their own learning outside the classroom. Many of the faculty at the school are alumni as too few nurses in Haiti can teach to this level. Some of the classes are also taught by Americans who take time out from their own work to supplement the school’s teaching capacity. We are trying to raise funds to launch a Master’s program in collaboration with Rutgers to advance faculty education. To continue the school’s high standards for education the school needs a cadre of highly trained Haitian educators: teachers who know how to teach others to think for themselves.

Unfortunately, most folks are too wedded to the idea that the basics are good enough…it’s a rather condescending view of both the capacity and needs of people living in the Global South.
*Faculty of Nursing Science of the Episcopal University of Haiti

The Story of Ger In Ten Objects

100 or 10 items…what does it take to completely describe a person, a place or even the entire world?
The British Museum has featured an exhibit entitled The History of the World in 100 Objects. The exhibit is now a show on NPR. The objects include tools, pots, artwork, coins, weapons and even a solar lamp.  Each item reflects a particular achievement or other event of historical value.  Can we capture the world in 100 objects? Can I capture my life in a finite set of objects? Hmmmm…lots of different things come to mind. I would probably choose things that are connected to people as the priority for my list.

I will  start with my wedding bands, my own and my maternal grandmother’s which I wear together. My life as part of a couple shapes most of what I do every day. Marriage is joyous, fun  but also at times requires a bit of work, a lot of patience (never my strong suite), and love…love that fills your heart to the point of brimming but also love that sometimes needs to be nudged back to the surface.  Anyone who has ever been married will know that I am not being negative…I am being honest and simply being someone who is in love and wants to stay that way for many years to come. I never lost my individuality when I became a couple, I just added to it... and that addition has been tremendous and one for which I am truly grateful.

As I write this is it clear that my laptop is a must for this collection. It is how I do most of my writing, all of my research, and a significant means of my communication with family and friends.  It also reflects my job. I just left the freelance world which I wasn’t very good at (well not good at getting freelance work, once I got a job I was good at the work) and am now working for one organization. I do fundraising and program development with an international non-profit (no I am not a nurse as other’s thought based on my last post though I do work within healthcare).

Let’s add a bookshelf to this collection. I haven’t gone electronic yet with my books; I am sure that will happen soon enough but I doubt I would ever want to give up “real” books.  I love holding a book in my hands, I also have been known to write in books (gasp goes the crowd...the big crowd of about four people who will read this). Yes, I have been known to write in books of non-fiction. The bookshelf represents reading and learning, both of which are so important to me.

 Another contender for the exhibit would be an oversized antique steamer trunk. I store blankets in it but it would represent a connection to things past. If you read this blog then you know how important that connection is to me.  The steamer trunk was always in my basement when I was growing up; I am pretty sure my mother kept blankets in it as well.  I also believe that the trunk came from Italy with my paternal grandmother when she moved to America as a young bride. That must have been some adventure. 

Speaking of travel and adventure, my own passport will make this list as it would obviously reflect my love for travel but also my interest in other cultures…especially the food from other cultures! Is there such at thing as a food passport?  And along those lines I would include my dining room table; I love to entertain, especially love to have our family and extended families over for dinner.  It’s getting harder and harder to have all three kids over at the same time but it is fun when it does work out. The two boys have gotten into cooking so I have turned my kitchen over to them on occasion and that has worked out quite well!  Elizabeth, my (step)daughter doesn’t really even boil water but she is a doctor so she can afford to get take-out whenever she wants! Besides, working a 12 hour shift is not really conducive to coming home and cooking.

My husband’s desk would be a featured item. It reflects many things, not the least of which is my husband himself! It also reflects his tremendous work ethic, his actual job which has afforded me the ability to be unemployed at times. The desk also reflects intangibles as well such as the feeling of contentment that comes with those moments when we are both working from home, both computers going… sweet.

I have two crucifixes in my house that have great meaning for me. One comes from Peru, a gift from my father and the other from Brazil, a gift Elizabeth brought back from Semester-at-Sea. The connection to my faith and to the people who gave them to me is what makes them special.  Unfortunately the crucifixes are just so, well, Catholic, and my faith isn’t limited to the church I attend each Sunday. I grew up with the crucifix as THE symbol of my religion, grew up wearing one around my neck but the problem I have with the crucifix is that it doesn’t reflect the Risen Christ; it doesn’t reflect the amazing hope that comes only because of the Third Day. OH well, just the same, they are included as one object (I am counting them as one) in my Story of Ger in 10 Objects. I probably wouldn’t include a Bible despite its importance to me. I feel rather like a heretic making that admission. Much of what fills my soul in relation to the Bible comes from study, from commentary and books that put the Bible in context…now that is very Catholic! 

An item that definately represents fun is a beach tag, specifically a beach tag from the Erskine Lakes Property Owners Association—ELPOA. The tag lets me into a small lake a few “blocks” from my house (we don’t actually have blocks, or sidewalks for that matter, but you get the idea). I spent every summer of my childhood on/in/near this lake and it is the definition of home to me.  I am related to about 35 people within a few miles radius of my house.  I was a lifeguard on this lake way back in the day. Yep, definitely will include a beach tag in this exhibit.

So far I have included items that reflect my family (past and present), work, faith, fun…what else, what should I include for my tenth item? I JUST turned 51 years old so what would be appropriate would be my eye-glasses but those just depress me. Any other suggestions? What are some of your items?

You are welcome to visit the “exhibit” anytime by just walking around my house, you can come for dinner.

S is for Starbucks, no really…

Last Tuesday I was in Leogane Haiti, a small town about 2 hours outside Port au Prince, two hours on a good day; It can take up to four hours or more depending on the rain, traffic, protests and what-have-you.  Actually it can take up to two hours just to get from one point to another within Port au Prince. Our first meeting in the city was at 8:00 am so I had to leave the guest house at around 5:00. The electricity went off the night before in the guest house so no fan and extremely hot sleeping…well, really no sleeping. 4:30 am rolled around and all I wanted, needed was a cup of coffee…not to be had!  No Starbucks along the route to Leogane.

The sun was coming up as we got in the car and with the sun came many of the people along the way. One of the things that struck me on this trip versus the last was the commerce; everyone seemed to be selling something. My last trip I was much further away from the capital and people had nothing, literally nothing.  But all the way to PaP people were selling something…mangos, bananas, beans, corn soap, combs, sunglasses, bags of water and juice, and even some books.  Most of the non-perishables come from the Dominican Republic and many of those things come from the US. Some of the stuff includes clothes that those of us in the States throw into those donation boxes around our towns. Companies sell that stuff either for rags or in bulk for re-sale to the developing world…so tons and tons of old clothes are cleaned and made ready for re-sale in Haiti. Everyone was busy selling something but of course no one was selling coffee. It was kind of amazing.

Only a few items are sold each day by these vendors so despite the constant commerce only a very little income is generated. But this is the only job in town.  Everyone is busy borrowing some money to buy stuff so they can sell it…All along the way were small huts, wheelbarrows, or baskets-on-heads serving as shops.  The closer we got to PaP the more clogged the streets became with these individual “shopkeepers.”    Unfortunately, this vast system of commerce exists outside any formal infrastructure. Understandably there will be no taxes, no rents, no real way of using this system to help rebuild the country.  It will keep families alive but do little more than that.

Here in NY you can’t swing a short stick without hitting a coffee shop (be it Starbucks, a diner, or deli). Just across the border in the Dominican coffee is grown and sold.  But “just across the border” is an entirely different world; while of course there is poverty there is also wealth, a middle class, lots of baseball, and great coffee. So I was forced to travel in the early morning hours without my trusty to-go-cup.  But what I was missing was made up for by the rich views of Haitian and Creole culture. In some respects my cup did in fact “runeth over” with some humility for all I had including constant access to quite a variety of drinks such as clean water (which makes good coffee).

All along the way was evidence of the earthquake: piles of rubble, houses missing walls, small tent communities.  The closer we got to PaP you would see more and more people missing a limb or in a wheelchair—victims of the quake. And dust and mud was everywhere…dust was constant and the evening rains turned the dust into mud making travel even more challenging.  We had a number of meetings so lots of in and out of the car…by the time I returned to the guest house that night I was pretty much covered in a film of Haiti’s brown dirt. 

Answers to rebuilding Haiti are complex and well beyond my ken. But I do believe that education will key if not the key. Unfortunately, few Haitians complete even primary school as the school fees are too costly for most families. At best, many families are able to afford the fees for one their children to complete high school.  Despite the challenges or maybe because of them, Haitians revere education.  All primary school students and even some high school students wear uniforms. As I was driving around I got to see a couple hundred kids heading off to and coming back from school. For the little ones, their uniforms included a white blouse and white sox.  And boy were they WHITE!  Amidst the dirt and poverty, no electricity, little water…somehow mothers made sure those uniforms sparkled. This is not out of vanity but out of pride in sending off their kids to school….I don’t really know how the clothes stayed so white, I felt it would be really condescending to ask…but all those kids in their uniforms…that is the hope of Haiti. 

I was in Haiti in part to help support a nursing school.  All of those students were also in uniforms.  This is a country where nurses still wear white at the hospital including their white caps.  There are about 100 students at the nursing school…all are the first in their families to attend college…for many, probably the first to compete high school.  When I was there they were preparing for the “capping” ceremony. At the end of their first year, they would get their caps and be able to wear them when they started their clinical experiences in the local hospitals.  Parents and grand-parents from around the country would attend this ceremony; it would be almost as important as their graduation. 

When employed these nurses would probably make around $650 annually. With that they will be expected to help support their families and extended families as many of these family members chipped in to send them to school.  But these students would also help create a middle class in Haiti…a key sign that a country is stabilizing.  A large middle class anchors a country…turns out it really is all about the 99%!!

I am not sure Haiti will be stabilized in my life time, sorry to say. But individual families will be better off because of these nursing students. They will provide amazing healthcare and they will be able to support their families…it’s a multiplier effect. These nursing students will probably never get the credit they deserve for really helping to transition their country, but I believe that is the case and now you know it too.

(oh by the way, our first meeting was at the US Embassy. As I passed through security and entered the main building…what was that lovely aroma? Ah yes, coffee… I headed to the vendor and bought a large cup of Dominican coffee and NOW I was ready to face the rest of the day…)

R is for many things

Reaction, Realization, Response and Redemption

As I was getting myself ready for this most recent trip to Haiti I blundered into some huge mistakes, on my part and on someone else’s, but in the end that latter really wasn’t what mattered.  I am working for a new organization and I don’t have relationships with the folks I would be meeting with /working with throughout my trip. I began to exchange emails with the primary person I would be dealing with once I arrived in Haiti. I was going to work with her on behalf my organization…we will call her H and my organization Morg.  H is Haitian though lived some of her life in the States; she is well educated and a  leader of an organization in Haiti. And at first she seemed somewhat eager to meet with me.  I was going to help her develop partnerships with other NGOs (nongovernmental organizations) as well as with the US government in Haiti.

So in typical American fashion I began my relationship with an email. Then followed up with another email that included a list of info I needed for my trip along with a bunch of requests for info or actions that I needed H to do.  And in typical Haitian fashion I didn’t hear back for several days…and again in typical American fashion I shot back another email asking if she got the first email and where was she on my list (more or less) and in typical Haitian fashion she responded a few days later indicating that she was working on things…then she went radio silence for another week.

In addition to partner development I was going down to see firsthand the program and gather some info to bring back to the new director of the Morg.  The organization I am working with helps fund H’s work which is a nursing school.  I had traveled to Haiti before and over the past seven years have traveled to other developing countries as well.  In most of my travels my colleagues or contacts “in-country” always made most if not all of my in-country arrangements: places to sleep, transport to/from airport, transport around the country, set up meetings, etc.   So naturally I assumed this would be the case this time as well, naturally.

I continued to send H emails with the list of “my needs” for the trip and again assumed she was on board.  And again days would past before I would receive any response; whatever response I did get was never complete. H would pick one or at most two questions for a response.  As an American I am used to getting email responses back with hours if not minutes and having each email respond to completely; even if all items couldn’t be answered, most American responders would note that they were working everything and often indicate when things would be complete. 

Two nights before I was to leave I began to feel like something was wrong…I hadn’t heard back about most of my questions including questions about my “accommodations.”…Hello H, can you PLEASE (yes in caps) respond to this email, with Please respond as the subject line…lovely.  Was I getting picked up at the airport and where was I staying?  I received very short response from H the guest house picks you up from the airport…Uh, what guest house?…Hello H, WHAT GUEST HOUSE? DID YOU MAKE MY ACCOMODATIONS????  Well maybe not both bold and underlined but definitely capitalized. 

A very short response…I didn’t make your reservations…ahhhh.  And, if you are not guessing already, this is where things really fell apart. 

I checked with other colleagues in the States…did they think she was supposed to make my guest house reservation?  Yes they did. What is with this chick…I am coming down TO HELP HER for crying out loud!  Why wasn’t she immensely grateful and the least she could have done was make my guest house reservations. Great attitude uh? .

A couple more emails…from me…PLEASE make the reservations, from her…here is the info to do so, not my job (more or less). From me to my boss…can you believe this chick, why isn’t she doing her job…another email from me about the reservations and  well, lets just say her response wasn’t pretty pretty…no not pretty at all.

(Insert here the sound of a car hitting the brakes)….ok, we need to take a pulse here, what is really going on. The following morning I got a call from H’s boss, an American who helped me understand some of my cultural transgressions. She was extremely gracious and apologetic. Some poor communication and culture issues clashed to create a real mess. She helped me step out the issues.

First of all, my goal of “helping” H was never really explained to her…all she knew was that I worked for Morg and was coming down. As I mentioned, H is the dean of a nursing school in Haiti and as such is extremely busy.  She is also extremely well respected both in Haiti and in the States.  My transgression # 1: asking her, a leader, a Dean, to make arrangements for me was extremely condescending in her opinion and especially in her culture. It came across as an arrogant American treating her like some sort of flunky. Ouch.

Transgression 2. Not really explaining to her my role and some changes that Morg was pursing. H’s job has never really entailed fundraising or partnership development. Morg is changing its expectations of its partners which now includes an expectation that our in-country partners increase their role with fundraising….  Transgression 3 was cultural. I know this may sound awful but it is very Haitian to assume that Americans will take care of the details with projects like arrangements, etc. It comes from years and years of Americans basically telling them what to do. Americans and others have been pouring money into Haiti and basically telling them what to do with it rather than helping them come up with their own solutions.  It’s a complicated and long history which includes colonization, a few wars, US occupation of the island and a boat load of  oppression from a lot of sources including the US.  Transgression 4 also cultural. H prides herself on knowing a great many people throughout Haiti, important people.  I sent her a list of people/agencies that we needed to connect with.  H didn’t know any of the people I wanted us to meet with…that didn’t faze me. I actually assumed she didn’t know them…the idea was to help her develop new relationships ( I knew the agencies but not the specific in-country people).   But from her perspective I pointed out that she didn’t know some “important” people…this shamed and angered her.  My organization helps to fund her organization and in her eyes I was pointing out her weak areas; I embarrassed her…doesn’t matter if it makes sense to me or not. What matters is that I insulted her big time.  Oye!

If Haitians are not comfortable with a situation, especially with Americans, they may tend to ignore the questions or simply say yes and hope it all goes away. As time went on and I wasn’t getting info back from H about the schedule for meetings and other arrangements I became increasingly frustrated. So I decided to set the meetings up myself…and told her so…again more frustration and more emails and  a lot less relationship building.

I approached this assignment in typical American fashion, develop a list, get the list out to people who needed to do some tasks on the list and send it all out via email and expected quick and efficient responses.  Chop Chop

Well chop chop is not not Haiti or Haitians.  It’s a slower pace and a slower world. The internet is iffy and email isn’t always available. It isn’t part of their culture to reply immediately, sometimes days or a week can go by before you hear back. 

I needed to redeem myself…I needed to stop reacting and begin to realize what was really going on. It was critical that I recall my own redemption and what that meant for my life. I apologized, I packed some chocolates as a peace offering, I turned off the New York speed and tried to slow things down. And most importantly I altered the purposed of my trip…I become the learner, the follower. There will be other times when I can set the pace (hopefully) but not this first time.

I am writing this in the airport on my Haiti.  We’ll see how it goes.  Be fluid, that is the phrase I was told would make any trip to Haiti easier…

Q is Quite

Just a short post for this week’s meme…
My husband and I just returned from Grand Canary Island. The trip was for my husband’s work. He has a meeting twice a year with a group of international attorneys.  The meeting is held in Europe and always at a lovely hotel.  Grand Canary Island is a big resort for Europeans, especially Germans. Honestly, I don’t think the Island is especially beautiful, it is quite rocky and brown but the weather is always warm and often sunny which I guess for Europeans that’s a big draw.

English is the “official” language of this association but when you walk into the room you will hear a mix of Spanish, Italian, German, Polish, and on occasion, a bit of Russian. The English comes in several varieties as well…American, British and Australian.  Everyone in the group speaks several languages…that is everyone except most of the Americans (unfortunately I am included in that last category).  I doubt that any of these people will ever feel the need to spend political energy in a fight to declare an “official” language for their country.   These are folk who move comfortably and frequently across borders and into other cultures.  Many of the locals, “Canarians” as they are called, whose native language is Spanish, easily slip into German as needed (the result of many German tourists coming to the island).  German with a Spanish accent certainly put a smile on my face.

The event is as much for socializing as it is for business. Each evening we attended a cocktail party where good Spanish wine was flowing along with delicious hors d’oeuvres  (or starters as the Brits would say). The time was spent catching up with old friends and meeting new people. With each conversation we would pick up a few words from another language and incorporate those words into our personal lexicon. Es it gut ya? Ya! Il problema con gli adolescenti…ah yes, the problem with teenagers, all the parents in the group had a story or two about this shared experience.  My morning chant was café con leche por favor.

With each conversation the distance between cultures decreased and the world became a little smaller, a little more personal, and a little more hopeful.

This is most assuredly a secular group but the relationships built over the years have opened the door a bit to sharing faith.  More and more we are comfortable saying I will be praying for you. It matters not that we don’t share a theology, what matters is the gratitude that is expressed for the concern, for the prayers. And with this concern, with this gratitude, with these prayers, we each are filled with a little more of the Divine.  Quite remarkable indeed...
off to Haiti next week...quite a different sort of trip...more to follow...

P is for Past

Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it. George Santayana

Does the past shape us? Or maybe the better question is to what extent does the past shape us?
I used to love holding my grandmother’s hands. I always felt that by touching her hands I was touching the past, reaching directly back into history. My grandmother died when she was 101 and I loved all the history that she held in those hands…history that belonged to me, especially when her hand was in mine.

In my life I have two very opposing perspectives on the role the past plays in our present. My husband believes we are solely responsible for our present, more specifically he believes that we are solely responsible for our behavior in the present. Our past makes for good and sometimes not so good memories but memories don’t define us nor control our behavior unless we let them. He believes that as adults we know right from wrong, even if we weren’t taught some of those lessons in our youth and that blaming our youth for poor decisions is simply a cop out.  On the other hand is my best friend. She believes that our past is 100% responsible for our present and that unless we closely examine our past and heal old wounds we can never fully grow up and live in the present.

I am somewhere in the middle. I know that my past shapes who I am.  I carry all those experiences of my childhood, youth and all the years through yesterday into my today.  Those experiences influence my beliefs, my hopes, what weighs me down and yes, even at times influences my behavior. And I actually love knowing that.  Some of those experiences in my childhood were difficult. I was bullied when I was in the sixth grade and think that experience led me to be a bit of a bully myself at times. Nothing I am proud of.  Thinking about those times when I was bullied still makes my stomach knot but I can choose not to be a bully despite that pain (and I am succeeding).  But not being a bully did require a bit of thinking about my past to determine what may have been pushing my buttons in my present.  The difference between me and my best friend is that I don’t dwell in the past.  I don’t think every decision I make today is controlled by my past nor do I believe that every childhood hurt has to somehow be healed before I can move on. The difference between me and my husband is that I acknowledge how the past does influence my present, actions included, and that at times, that’s really a good thing.

Another aspect of the past that I love thinking about is my family’s past…my ancestry.  My mother grew up very close to her cousins so I grew up very close to my grand aunts and uncles as well as my second cousins.  I never knew my great grandparents but I heard some of their stories, stories of hardship and stories of love. When we were in Sicily, my mother and I went to my great grandparent’s church in the little town of Sambuca (not the town famous for the liquor).  I loved touching the pews where they may have sat, touching the past, my past.   I loved knowing that somehow I was connected to that church, to that town.  I think of my ancestry as this amazing group of people standing just behind me, people whose strength is my strength, whose story is my story.  One of my sister-in-laws is especially good at instilling a gratitude for the past in her children. They bake things their grandparents and great grandparents baked; they celebrate holidays with some traditions pasted down from long gone relatives.

When people ask where I come from I still say Brooklyn even though I have lived away from that city for more years than I actually lived in it.  But it IS where I am from even if it is part of my past.  I think each of us carry our past into our present, the good, the bad, and everything in between. It’s what we do with it that matters. And just maybe taking a look at our past will open new possibilities for our future.

O is for Omelets at the Oakland Diner

New Jersey is famous for its diners…those all night restaurants where you can get everything from eggs to a steak dinner. Despite the variety, most people get breakfast food, deli stuff and burgers…or at least most people I know. Diners were a big part of my younger days. I should say nights, well for that matter to be perfectly honest—mornings, very early in the morning! They were the go-to spot at the end of a weekend night of revelry.  At that time pancakes would be just the thing before calling it a night. 

Don and I still eat at diners. Until not too long ago, Don and I had a steady Saturday morning date going to the diner. I would get an omelet (cheddar, tomatoes and mushrooms) and my husband would get French toast (made with rye bread, always rye). I would drink coffee and we would talk about the week that just past and/or our plans for the weekend, the chores we had to do, that kind of thing. We still go to the local diner, the one in the next town over, and we still order omelets and French toast, though not always on Saturday mornings. It’s often what we do when I don’t feel like cooking.

Is this a rut? Something OLD people do? Say it ain’t so. Well I will…it’s NOT a rut!  A rut is a groove dug without thought and one that you would probably want to get out of if you gave it any thought. Our steady diner diet is not a rut for us but rather a time when we can just grab a bite and talk. It’s an easy way to get something to eat without making a big deal of eating out.

My husband is not really a foodie…and that is to say the least. He would just as soon take a meal pill rather than eat an entire meal.  When we go out for a real dinner its usually Italian or steak, both foods he actually enjoys. He also likes lamb chops, so they may be ordered if it’s a good chophouse. But that’s about it for his menu of choice.  It’s not to say he is a picky eater because he will pretty much eat whatever is served but food for him is solely for nourishment of the body.


Oh how we differ!  Food is an event for me, be it the cooking or going out somewhere…food is something I love to share with friends and family.  My mother always served great special meals for holidays and other gatherings (my father actually did some of the cooking at Christmas) and sharing those meals were a big part of my childhood. Part of the excitement was not just the eating but the shopping, the cooking, and even the beautiful tables set for these events. I love serving up our own traditional (and not so traditional) meals to create memories for our family.  Fortunately the kids are much more adventuresome eaters than their Dad.

It does cause a little stress at times between us…this difference of opinion about food.  My family will sometimes choose to celebrate some events at high-end restaurants and my husband doesn’t see the point of spending the money on food.  Why not just have the meal at home?  Because that is ordinary and the event is extra-ordinary!

But my husband has taught me a lot about food. For one thing, I battle weight and he doesn’t and that has as much to do with way food was treated in childhood as it does my behavior and my genes. For another, he has taught me that I can seriously simplify those special meals and they would still be special because of the time spent with those we love.

Food is one of those things in life where it’s all about balance and it’s one of those things for which, at least for me, it is oh-so-easy to get out of balance.  Getting back into balance once we find ourselves tipping, or worse, completely flipped, isn’t easy. When we are at tilt with anything everything seems skewed. And when everything seems skewed getting back in balance becomes overwhelming and can seem like a daunting task.

At those moments in life it’s helpful to remind ourselves that serving a simple meal will get the job done just as well as an elaborate effort. In other words, take it a step at a time. Unfortunately, when I get out of balance, with whatever, is when I most easily forgot the basics and conjure up a need to create and serve a complicated menu getting myself even further out of whack. I spin myself up.  I lose sight of the most basic of prayers: Give us this day our daily bread and I fail to remember that the answer to that prayer is sufficient.  I need what is sufficient and nothing more.  

Getting back into balance begins by answering God’s invitation to break bread with him and celebrating that invitation with each other. It is about a simple meal that will be sufficient. Maybe even one of omelets and French toast (made with rye bread).
                                                         

N is for NEW YORK YANKEES!  The boys of summer are back baby!  The Yankees are a big part of my family and my marriage. We are a Yankee Family, that's for sure.
When we got married, we went to Vermont for our honeymoon. Friends and family gave us a wonderful suite at a lovely B&B. It was in October.  Before we confirmed the reservation we had to confirm that the Inn had cable TV…it was the play offs and we couldn’t miss that!  May not sound romantic to you but to us it was to us.  When we returned from our honeymoon, my brother greeted us with tickets to see the Yankees play in the World Series…that was quite a thrill.
I am actually not a huge baseball fan. I would never watch a game that didn’t involve the Yankees. I actually don’t mind missing some games early in the season…but when August comes, I get seriously involved. Because I am such a Yankee fan, there are some games I have a hard time watching. For example, I have a hard time watching the Boston/New York series. I always get too anxious. And forget the play offs…I am a wreck! I watch between my fingers as I hold my hands to my eyes.
I love the Yankees but don’t share that feeling with the team’s owners. I never cared for father Steinbrenner; it really angered me that he built the new stadium and limited the number of cheap seats. The new stadium is ok, but I think the Yankees would have been better served by renovating the old Cathedral that was Yankee Stadium.  But there are so many more reasons to love the Yankees…because well,  they are the Yankees for crying-out-loud.

I am a very different kind of fan then my husband. He yells at the players when they make an error. And don’t get him started on Girardi (the manager)…he gets so angry at some of the decisions he makes. Even when I think they deserve it, I wouldn’t yell at the players. Somehow I think that is not being a good fan. Now the funny thing is that my husband only gets angry at two situations: Yankee mistakes and stupid drivers, especially drivers driving slow in the left hand lane. I on-the-other-hand can yell at the drop of a hat. I do have a temper…it rises in a flash but then goes away just as quickly…must be an Italian thing.
Sports fan are pretty good at showing anger…throwing down their caps, screaming at umps who can’t hear them, and of course cursing, lots of cursing. My guess is that with those bursts of anger most sports fans release the emotion and move on to the next play.  But are sports worth getting angry at? If not, what is?
 Anger is a natural human emotion. It serves a purpose when handled well, but how many of us handle anger well?  Not handled well anger can fester and turns into bitterness and hatred. It grows exponentially and takes over; it then takes less and less to trigger our anger.  Anger is a dangerous emotion, one that I dance with too closely. Saying it’s just an Italian thing is a poor excuse. I need to learn to let go of my anger and, more importantly, not got too angry to begin with…I need to remember the words from James:
This you know, my beloved brethren. But everyone must be quick to hear, slow to speak and slow to anger; for the anger of man does not achieve the righteousness of God. James 1:19-20,Well this is a short post because the Yankees are on and they have lost their first few games of the season…but I am not angry!

M is for Mend

M is for Mend…I am on the Mend! Last week I was felled by a wicked stomach virus. I was truly knocked out. Is there anything worse than stomach stuff? Well of course, but seems like not when you are in the throes of such an illness.  My poor husband got it the week before while I was out of town. The illness is why I skipped the letter L in this meme series and hopped onto M.  We think the culprit was one of our peanut sized grand-nieces who came over one evening and promptly informed us that the night before she “spitted up a lot!” Thanks for sharing Dani!

For as miserable as I felt ( I am not a good sickie, just ask my husband), the feeling of joy was even greater at the moment when I realized I had turned the corner, when I reached that point in time when I realized that I was in fact  on-the-mend! With a little help from a prescription my wretched stomach had calmed itself enough to begin the process of mending. I couldn’t have been happier though tired, wiped out even, but indeed grateful that the worst was now behind me.  I was on the mend to being made whole again.

We spend a lot of time as human beings on-the-mend, though I am not sure we realize it. We spend much of our time healing from the small and not small tears in the fabric of our well-being. Those scrapes and bruises that come from daily contact with other human beings.  We bristle at the coworker’s indifference, get irate at being cut off on the highway, frustrated by the young person’s teenage eye rolls, or whatever happens to get under our skin. For the most part we are able to release these things and not even realize that our bodies processed pain, released it, then, even on a cellular level, began to repair the damage that the stress has caused. We are in a state of constant mending.

Marriage is filled with times of being on the mend. Not major events of some consequence but rather moments filled with simple opportunities to mend. We tick each other off only to realize that  we were wrong, by our action, inaction, or reaction, then apologize and begin the mending process. A simple heartfelt apology sets in motion momentous mending.  Most often it’s something so inconsequential that it doesn’t even warrant a discussion but the mending process is no less real. 

Marriage isn’t a series of negotiations but rather an ongoing recognition of the need to mend. It’s the recognition that both partners are fragile, easily torn but that with each tear, the person and the marriage become stronger by the opportunity to strengthen the binding. Of course some of the tears are deep, but fortunately rarely so permanent that love’s binding qualities can’t repair. I am not saying the repairs are always instantaneous; the tear may stay torn for awhile. No doubt about, we are not perfect, just people on-the-mend.

This Palm Sunday (actually every Palm Sunday) the Passion was read. At the moment of Christ’s death we learn that the curtain in the temple is torn in two, from top to bottom. This is the curtain which separated the Holiest section of the temple from the rest of the sanctuary. Prior to this only the High Priest was allowed to enter this area and he only once a year.   The tear of course symbolizes the end of the old ways of keeping the people from accessing God. Christ’s death opens a pathway to the Father. HE IS the pathway. Although it is symbolized as a tear, Christ’s death and resurrection actually heals, binds, mends.  His resurrection sets in motion the process by which we continually seek healing from our often self inflicted tears because we are people always on the mend. Fortunately, we believe in the great tailor who is capable of mending whatever shredded garments we bring His way. 

K is for Keepsake

A Keepsake is a memento, something you can give or something received that reminds you of a special event.  It can be a souvenir, though I think of keepsakes as something sweeter, something that trigger’s wonderful memories and a souvenir as something you buy at Pedro’s when driving to Florida for spring break. Those kind of keepsakes have become an industry.  Folks are always hawking coins, cups, and other “collectables” on TV. Did you get your memorial dish of the royal wedding?  But are those things really worth keeping? Even the term “collectable” is relatively new…when did we start an obsession with collecting these so called collectables?


Keepsakes are not new. People, it seems, have always had keepsakes of one sort or another. My most favorite keepsakes are those that are associated with the people I love more than places or events.  Some of my favorite keepsakes are: a few of the menu’s from the SS France, a cruise I took with my parents when I was still in elementary school; crewel pillowcases I purchased in Afghanistan, a trip I took with my eldest step-son; the bouquet from my wedding; and ticket stubs from some amazing rock concerts from the ‘70s that I attended with the woman who is still my best friend! I also wear my grandmother’s wedding band (next to my own) as well as her engagement ring. These are real treasures to me. They represent not only the love of my Gram but also my love for my husband.   I have some of my mother’s wedding crystal; I love those etched wine glasses.  Much of my mother’s good jewelry was stolen though I do have her diamond wedding band. I wish we still had her charm bracelet. My Dad had the charms made up with his badge number and house numbers when he was a member of New York’s bravest…NYFD!  I do have one of the charms that somehow evaded the thief.  I plan on turning it into a ring. That will be a great keepsake.
Two Christmases ago I gave my husband a collage of photos of the kids. They were all photos taken at photo booths from many trips to the Jersey Shore and Lake George over the years as all as a set taken at a photo booth at a recent family wedding. Lots of memories in those photos. A great keepsake.
Do we always keep things that are worth keeping? My mother recently downsized and moved to a very small apartment.  I was with her as she went through some her things and determined what she needed to give up. That was a difficult process.  She would no longer have a large dining room so she had to get rid of the dining room set. That table was the center of our house. So many holiday and family dinners were shared at that table. Hours and Hours of love were shared around that table. I think that was the hardest thing she had to give up; not the actually table but actually having the space to host those family gatherings.  One of my brothers now has her dining room set and we continue to share family dinners at that table. Christmas is now at my house but she still does the cooking! My mother has been living in her new place for several years now and I don’t think she ever gives a second thought to all the things she had to give up to make that move.  She was able to let go and make the transition.

It seems we all keep a lot of stuff that we could let go of. This is especially true of those intangibles…stuff like bad memories, grudges, heartbreak; we tend to hoard that stuff like they were gold coins. Letting go of that stuff is a lot harder than giving away the family china.  Wouldn’t it be cool if we could have a yard sale for that stuff? One table filled with childhood pains; another devoted to friendships that went south.  Grievances….that would probably take a few tables. Since it’s my yard sale, I would add a table with pet-peeves…now those are things we keep that really serve no purpose.  What would you put on your tables? Some expectations might be worth putting up for sale. 
Who would come to such a sale you may ask? Well, God. He is an eager buyer just waiting for these sales. He combs the papers everyday searching for those of us ready to have yard-sales-for-soul.  These sales are not easy; it takes work and commitment to give up our sense of indignation at old hurts. 

But it’s what we are called to do: to forgive, to give God those burdens, to clean out those collections that destroy our souls and keep us in the cycle of old pain. 

It may be time for all of us to downsize, myself especially included; to review our “collections” and determine what we have that really are keepsakes and what we keep that simply is krap.

J is for JAVA

J is for Java, the joyous juice of the coffee bean! Oh how I love java. I love the way it tastes, it smells, and even the sound it makes when it fills my cup. I love the way if feels when I wrap my hands around a warm mug. Coffee is more than a drink--- it’s a social encounter for those willing to take to the plunge!

I love strong coffee, but I am not a purest, I do take it with milk (no sugar). It has to be whole milk though; I won’t drink it if the only thing available is skim milk, turns the coffee a yucky shade of grey. I will, however, drink coffee black if it has a bit Sambuca in it!  

I don’t believe people should add flavors to coffee (other than some liqueurs) …if you don’t like the way coffee tastes, drink something else.

Yes, I am probably addicted to it which I guess is not a good thing but there are far worse addictions that’s for sure. I know that too much java can certainly make you jittery and I have been known to jump a bit when I over indulge. I can understand why the Mormon church bans it (somewhat understand it) but am grateful that when encouraged to ban it in the 1600s, the Pope refused saying it was a gift from God…and indeed it is! The Muslims tried to ban it at one time but the people revolted.

I always start my day with a cup of that black gold. My fellow “memer” Jean Wise writes about Journaling for her “J” essay. I sometimes do write in the morning and couldn’t imagine doing it without my cup of coffee. I use the same cup, its solid blue, large and chipped; it’s a relic from my wedding shower.

There is something wonderful about sitting on the deck, either alone or with friends, and drinking coffee. Joining friends for java is always a good time. The talk seems to flow all that much easier when it’s over a shared pot-of-joe. My parents would spend hours drinking coffee after dinner and talking. They made their coffee in a pot they put on the stove and boiled. My mom still makes a great cup of coffee though she uses an electric percolator these days.  I can no longer drink coffee in the afternoon but do enjoy a decaf after dinner and will make an exception to my no-caffeine-in-the-evening rule if it’s for an Irish coffee (hmmm St Patrick’s day is coming..). 

Before Starbucks, 7-11 used to be a hot spot for good java. Dunkin Donuts is still popular though no longer a personal favorite. McDonald’s had the worst coffee though I hear they have improved it greatly (haven’t eaten in one in more years than I can count). I must admit that I have become a fan of Starbucks but prefer locally owned shops whenever I have the options. My local bagel shop makes a good cup. While I usually love coffee out, I can't drink it if its in a styrofome cup.

Coffee is something I always seek out when in other countries. I Loved stopping in the café’s for cappuccino in Italy. The strong coffee in Turkey was a real treat.  But of course some of the best coffee I have ever had was in Africa. Good coffee was plentiful in Kenya and Zambia but my favorite coffee comes from Uganda (probably because I love Uganda!).  The Nile River starts in Jinja, Uganda and there are two java shops there that are fantastic: Flavours Café and the Source Café…Flavours caters to the tourist and the Source is more of a dive but both are fun and, of course, have some great coffee.  Even the tea in Africa is good! Former British colonies still serve afternoon tea. I have had coffee from Ethiopia but have never been to that country, at least not yet.  Good coffee was also had in Honduras and in the Dominican Republic.

My husband is not a coffee drinker, he pretty much sticks to water. He sometimes gets up early and goes to daily mass (I usually sleep in). Despite the fact that he doesn’t even like the smell of coffee, he has been known to bring me home a cup after mass. When we were in Germany we had to leave the hotel at 4:30 am to catch the flight home.  When I dragged my sleepy self into the nearly empty lobby, there, waiting for me was a large cup of java to go…my husband arranged for it the night before!

I am sure I will raise the hackles of coffee purists when I admit that I now use the coffee pods but I have found some great pods: Emeril has a strong pod (Big Easy Bold) and another company has pods called black silk and oh, it really is!

This is a short post and certainly not the most creative of my efforts but Java is what came to mind when I started to write my J entry…so Java it is, or joe or jamoke or simply joy…

I is for Intuition

I is for Intuition

Intuition will tell the thinking mind where to look next.- Jonas Salk

I have a feeling about this…a mother’s intuition…a hunch…

We have all heard the phrases and more importantly experienced those moments of clarity when you simply knew what to do in a particular situation. You didn’t need to give it much thought, the answer came from within:  Intuition. Intuition comes from the Latin word “intueri” which means to see within. Although I think it is more about listening than seeing within. Intuition is listening to that place within ourselves where God dwells. It is listening to the soul 

In the fall of 2010 Harvard researchers published the findings from a study indicating that people with a more intuitive thinking style tend to believe in God more deeply than those with a more reflective thinking style. A reflective style of thinking is weighing the pros and cons, looking at all the options carefully, or approaching decisions from a purely logical frame of reference. Intuitive thinking is an approach to decisions or assessments where one trusts one’s gut or intuition; where one looks internally for the answers more so than weighing facts. The study didn’t indicate which came first --intuitive thinking or deep faith-- only that those who tend to trust their intuition have greater faith than those who did not generally rely on intuitive thought. Both intuition and faith have been described as knowledge without reason. Faith is often unreasonable. Faith is an intuitive belief in a power greater then ourselves, a Divine Power. Faith is its own kind of cognition.   It makes sense then that those with a deep faith would be less inclined to solely use reasoning as a means of processing information.

For me, intuition and faith are inseparable, integral components of the Holy. I believe faith feeds our intuition.  Both are manifest in that small voice that speaks continually even though we, or at least I, do not always trust it or can even hear it. Learning to listen to our intuition and trusting it, it seems to me, would lead to greater faith. And the greater our faith the more likely we trust that inner voice. But that small voice too often gets drowned out by all the noise in our head. It gets pushed aside by logic that says that doesn’t make sense, it hasn’t been thought out enough. Grace is the courage to listen to the voice no matter what the mind thinks.

A Mystic is anyone who seeks a deeper relationship with God though most are known for their extraordinary experiences and expressions of faith. I would say that Mystics are experts at tuning into their intuition.  Through their faith and disciplined practices, Mystics readily connect with God within themselves.  Not seeking God out-there-somewhere but the God within. Intuition in this sense is that place where the mind listens to the voice of God dwelling within; its listening to the soul.  No one would call mystics logical and many did call them crazy.

Unfortunately, it isn’t an easy thing to tap into our intuition, at least not for me. It requires quiet and time, it especially requires pray erthat quiets the mind. Without practice it is easy to confuse intuition with an initial reaction to something.  I am guessing that most of us have had a first, gut reaction to something or someone that, upon further reflection, was proved wrong.  First thoughts are too easily tainted by prejudice or misinformation. One clue that what you hear is God speaking through your intuition  and not an initial reaction is that intuition will evoke a sense of peace whereas an initial thought may be disquieting or push us to ask even more questions. I think it is also easy to confuse intuition with the ego. The ego will also prompt us to act but its voice usually isn't so small and rarely quiet. 

"The intuitive mind is a sacred gift and the rational mind is a faithful servant. We have created a society that honors the servant and has forgotten the gift." - Albert Einstein,

Einstein points out that the logical mind should serve the intuitive mind. The quote indicate that both are important but indicates that one should serve the other…logic should serve the higher mind…intuition. St Thomas Aquinas argued that faith and reason must coexist. Thus, we find evidence of God in nature. For those of us with faith we see God in all creation: creation becomes evidence of God.  God doesn’t ask us not to think, he doesn’t want us leave our brain at the church door. He gave us that brain so expects us to use it. But our ability to be reflective must serve a higher purpose. We are thinking beings but our thinking, even for the best of brains, is limited. God isn’t limited and intuition channels God for those willing to undergo the discipline to learn to listen.

H is for Hours

H is for Hours

Especially hours spent reading which is something I do often. I read for several hours every day. Fiction, non-fiction, prayer books and daily readers. To say that I read is an understatement. It may be that I spend too many hours reading…is that possible? I would say no but in our harried, hectic world I am somewhat of an anomaly giving so many hours each day to reading.  The average for people under 65 is less than 30 minutes a day spent reading.  I do not have children living at home so I don’t have to drive them anywhere, correct homework or cook dinner for the hungry mob. I do freelance work and I work from home so no time spent on a commute.  My days are not hectic but somehow the hours do fly.

Sadly, a recent study by the National Endowment for the Arts indicated that Americans are reading less than 10 years ago…I wouldn’t have guessed that.

The hours I spend reading make me a better writer, even, in my opinion a better person. But should I spend fewer hours reading and more hours…doing…what?   Books are often the building blocks of relationships…they are certainly are good start to a conversation and what’s a conversation but a good start to a relationship

“Never trust anyone who has not brought a book with them.”
― Lemony Snicket, Horseradish: Bitter Truths You Can't Avoid

I have quite a few nieces and nephews and a growing group of grand nieces and nephews and my favorite gifts for them are books. Fortunately most of these young family members are avid readers. I spend more than a few hours reading books for young people.  It is definitely time well spent as I have learned that books deemed appropriate for young people aren’t. Or at least not for very young people.  And some books for young people are truly wonderful.

“A children's story that can only be enjoyed by children is not a good children's story in the slightest.”
― C.S. Lewis

And I do spend time reading the Bible, studying it and learning from it…

“Ignorance of the Scriptures is ignorance of Christ.”

-St Jerome

So which of these hours should I give up? None I should say. These are happy hours, heartfelt hours, hours that are spent honorably.

Lent on Facebook

This year I decided to walk through Lent on Facebook. I called my FB friends to walk through the 40 days Lent with me by focusing on 40 days of kindness and wonder.  We are called to charitable acts, acts of mercy during Lent, hence the kindness. Kindness in all forms, especially the most simple. Through FB, I am calling attention not so much to the act of kindness but to taking the time to notice when kindness can be offered and do so. In noticing, I believe I will find that there are many more opportunities for kindness that I/we would typically not be tuned in to. Not to say that I am a selfish person but I do know myself well enough to know that sometimes am not tuned into others and can miss the chance for kindness: the sincere thank you for good service, letting a car cut in, things along those lines…simple kindnesses. My hope is that in recognizing that opportunities do abound, that I will take more of those times and share some kindness which will brighten my life and the life of whoever is involved.

I also called for wonder as a different take on the Catholic tradition of Lent as a time of reflection. I think we are surrounded with signs of God’s wonder. But I also think we miss them or fail to appreciate the wondrous nature of what is around us. We all could benefit from that which causes us to pause, to stand back in astonishment, something that grabs our attention in a positive way. Reflecting on the wondrous is reflecting on God. Just like the opportunities for kindness, I am guessing that wondrous abound but I miss it or mistake it for ordinary. So why not spend some time this Lent in finding all that is filled with wonder or fills us with wonder as a means of honoring God? I have asked my FB friends to do so and post same.

Hopefully it will go viral or at least get a bit of a snuffle …stay tuned.

G is for Gerardine

G is for Gerardine (or what’s in a name?)

Today I joined a meme (had to look it up…it’s an idea or anything really that repeats itself usually through imitation). So the meme I joined was/is a blog meme asking participants to write a blog post using the alphabet as a prompt.  And this week’s letter is G…well G is for Gerardine of course! That’s GeraRdine, two Rs NO L. I have spent most of my life telling people how to spell my name; that no, I didn’t misspell my own name  on the form; and asking people to take the L out when they insist that it should be inserted into my name.   You would be amazed at how many people try to correct the spelling of my name. 

My family is Catholic and we believe that the Heaven is filled with saints who pray for us each day.  My mother had a number of miscarriages and began to ask St Gerard to pray for her and her unborn babies.  St Gerard was a mystic and credited with saving the life of a woman in labor through prayer (well, actually credited with praying and God saved the life). Thus he became the patron of saint pregnant women. 

Three out of four of my Mom’s children have some form of Gerard in our name (Gerard, James Gerard, and me, Gerardine).  My oldest brother got away with John.  My name is pronounced JEr-a-deen) but most people call me Ger.

 In another post on this site I write about how comforting the familiar is to each of us and how it takes one from the outside looking in to get us to question the familiar. Some times that questioning has merit and sometime it can and should be dismissed.  It wasn’t until I was a teenager did someone feel the need to point out to me how odd it was that my brother and I had the same name…no we didn’t! My name is Gerardine and his name is Gerard…oh, yeah ok, so it’s somewhat the same. We were and are two very different people with two different, albeit similar names.  Funny how I never really thought about having the “same” name as one of brothers until someone told me to think of it that way.

Ah Juliet, What is in a name?  According to a Kabala website my name  means brave spear . Seriously? What the heck does that mean?  If you Google Gerardine, I pop up, as does a CEO of an electric company, an award winning film maker, a chemist, and Google also reveals that Gerardine is the name of a designer of shoes, (but unfortunately, in my humble opinion, not really great shoes). But not too many other Gerardines come up in the search.  So this brave spear is an odd name or rather a rare name…yes, I prefer rare, but I guess I didn’t need Google to tell me that.

Names do have a lot of meaning. When I got married it was hard for me to change my last name…I am Italian-American and my husband is Irish/German-American with a German last name. I didn’t want to give up my last name which expressed my family’s heritage. We compromised (something that we continue to do!). While I don’t hyphenate my name I do use my maiden name for my work but my legal name is Gerardine Luongo Ranft .

About 10 years ago I was at a party and was introduced to a woman whose name was Marcia  A. (full last name not included for privacy).  She told the group she was introduced to that this was her first night out with her “real” name… what did that mean?  She explained that she was adopted and estranged from her adopted parents.  She had learned that her birth mother was Jewish. In order to create her own identity she needed to create a new name for herself…first and last. She didn’t take the last name of her birth mother because, as she explained it, she didn’t really feel that much of a connection to her but she did want a name that acknowledged she was of Jewish heritage. So she named herself Marcia A. The name was completely different from the name she had for more than 35 years. Marcia believed that she needed to reject the name given to her by her adopted parents; she needed  to create a her own name as a way of establishing her own identity. But who was she for 35 years?  I often wondered if she felt connected to her name immediately or did she have to grow into it?

Malcolm X changed his name from Malcolm Little to distance himself from the last name that was imposed on his family by his slave ancestor’s owners. After he made the Hajj to Mecca he took on the name of El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz.  He too felt that a name could define a man and it was so important that his name reflect his own identity and not one imposed upon him by white supremacists.

Although no longer as common as it once was, we have all heard of celebrities who changed their name to be more marketable.   

Our name is one of the first things we learn to read and write. As children we put it on all our belongings…our backpacks, our books, etc.  At one time or another we have all worn the HELLO! My Name is…label.

At some point I sort of gave up fighting for the two R’s and No L and let people call me Gerry.  People have spelled Gerry with all sorts of variations and since I don’t consider it my REAL name I never cared how it was spelled (although I spell it Gerry).  I do prefer to be called Ger or Gerardine, the latter is what my husband calls me. What is important is knowing that the people who are most important to me call me by my name…as does God.

Yes I do believe God calls me Ger and calls me often.

But now thus says the Lord, he who created you, O Jacob, he who formed you, O Israel: “Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine Isaiah 43:1

God knows me and calls me by name .  And that is the importance of a name.  So G is for Gerardine and this Gerardine prays that I have the clarity to know when God calls me and the strength to say yes. 

Isaiah 43:7  Everyone who is called by my name, whom I created for my glory, whom I formed and made.”