Teenagers

It came true. Maybe not everything; but a lot of it. Many people told me about it. Some were family members and others were friends, colleagues, teachers, and doctors. They warned me about it. They told me about the many things that my kids would do as they turned into teenagers. How they would change. How they would react. How they would some days not seem like my kids. What I could expect. What to watch out for. What to be flexible on. What to do about certain aspects of their behavior during this time. Some told me horror stories. But I didn’t really listen. I thought to myself, ‘no way, not my sweet son who still kisses me on the lips and asks me to hug him every night when he goes to bed. Not my baby girl; all she wants to do is have mommy-daughter time. She loves to cuddle and dress just like me.’ But I was obviously in denial. Both have changed in ways I could never imagine. Both have shown me that I cannot ever be sure of anything. Both have revealed a side of them I never truly knew. I don’t know if it’s temporary, but it’s certainly here now. And both have brought tears to my eyes – and no, not happy tears. Although I’m sure I can’t compete with others I’ve heard, I already have some horror stories of my own. 

This weekend was a tiring bit of heaven. Tiring because when a single mom has 7 kids to entertain, feed, talk with, direct, and most of all, send to bed over and over, it is exhausting. By the time I ‘made’ them go to sleep, it was time for me to get up. I had a splitting headache and I felt nauseous. I couldn’t fall back asleep, so I laid in bed staring at the ceiling for a while. Then I got up and started to plan breakfast and lunch while they slept. But I couldn’t be upset. As tired as I was, I was also thankful. Both my kids were with me and they were safe. They could’ve been out doing all kinds of crazy things, but instead they played basketball, volleyball and an hours-long game of monopoly. Who could ask for anything more? Not me. Just thankful for my teenagers.

Distribution Lists

Just two years ago I wouldn't have dreamed that I would be texting so many for so many reasons.  But my favorite way to text these days is via the distribution lists.  It's fantastic to share with many all at once.  I find myself informing, preparing, congratulating,  supporting, displaying, consoling, agreeing, voting, alerting, and encouraging via cell phone.  But the most use on these lists lately is the praying and responses.  There's obviously a lot of need; I'm not the only one doing this.  It's great to have a 'community' of friends come together to pray for one another in our good and bad times.  Although I know all this is virtual, during difficult times I've felt the encouragement.  Some send quick prayers, others send words of encouragement, while others delight in the sharing of bible verses.   As if many were there holding my hand; speaking soft words of wisdom.  Like small pats on the back.  Sometimes like tiny little hugs; priceless gifts sent from afar. 

Not my will...

I prayed for His help and for His will to be done.  I told myself that He is in control, but it still stung.  I thanked Him for letting me go through this.  We cannot love and trust only in the good periods of our lives.  It’s times like these that test our faith and our commitment to God.  And I want to trust more.  I want to commit more.  I want to love more.  But it still hurt.  We were never promised a life of all yeses and thumbs ups.  We were not promised happiness at every turn.  We were promised an abundant life if we believe, love and follow Him.  And that’s exactly what I want – a full life in Jesus in spite of my personal outcomes.  A few days ago I gave thanks for past failures.  Today I give thanks for being met with impolite rebuffs, difficulty, refusal, rejection and antagonism. I know, I believe, I trust that it all works for my good as a child of God. 

Storms

Thanking God for his gifts of peace, tranquility, clean hands and mind in the midst of the storms. 

Failures

We don’t like to mention it.  As a matter of fact, I don’t believe I’ve heard this word in conversation in a few years.  Who even wants to utter the word?  It’s like the terrible, awful.  It’s like a nasty, despicable, horrible word.  When my kids were younger and they said something unkind I would tell them, ‘it looks like there are frogs and roaches and snakes coming out of your mouth.’  I think that’s how we think of failure.  It’s a very bad word.  It’s an unmentionable word.  Who wants to say, ‘I failed?’  Who likes to say, ‘oh yeah, I tried and failed at….’  It feels cruel and harsh and heartless; even if we say it of ourselves.­­­

But failure can be enlightening.  When we fail, and we inevitably look back, we can see so many things that we never could have had we not taken that road.  It can bring tremendous opportunities for evaluation and self-correction.  It can also give us a deep personal insight.  If we fail at whatever, won’t we at least have the chance to try again if we want to?  Won’t we be able to choose different next time?  If we don’t fail, how could we ever know what’s right?  What’s better?  What’s more convenient? What works?  What makes sense for us? We truly learn from our mistakes. 

­­And what about the byproducts of failure?  The consequences?  As a woman and a mother, I have failed plenty.  I thought of my divorce as a failure.  I think most people do.  Not because of what I did or didn’t do as sometimes we aren’t given a choice in the matter.  But because the result was the end of the marriage.  Something I never wanted.  I ached at the thought of my shattered dream of an intact family; a broken future.  I grieved over my children going back and forth between homes.  The images of becoming a dysfunctional family tormented me for months.  But even though the ex and I didn’t make it as a married couple, I still have a little family.  I have two children who are the biggest blessings in my life.  In this case, I would never think of doing something different.  I would do it all over again.  Every single solitary step taken to walk down the aisle with that man because the failed marriage yielded my forever family. 

Today I give thanks for all the failures.  Not because so I’m proud of them, but because I know many of them were openings for my personal growth and blessings to me and others­­. They brought me to where I am now.  They taught me be thankful and to do better.  To be a more productive individual.  To be a healthier mother, daughter, sister, friend, and human being. 

Too Soon

I have heard people say ‘he died too soon.’  I’ve said it too.  I said it about my dad when he died at the age of 50.  I said it about my brother’s best friend; he died when he was in his early 20s. I bet we all have someone in our lives who we consider died too soon.

What I remember most about him is his big, broad, but shy smile.  He had the most beautiful smile.  He was one of those people who could light up a room.  Not because he was the friendliest, most boisterous or engaging.  It’s because he was so understatedly charming and special.  So mature and thoughful for a teenager.  He was not just handsome; he was striking, with gorgeous dark curly hair against his fair skin.  So sweet and polite.  He didn’t just say hello.  It was more than that.  It was a shy smile, a kiss and a hug.  He didn’t miss anyone; everyone got a special hello.  And so kind.  I’ve heard many stories of his taking the shirt of his back – literally.  He gave away his clothes, books, food, money.  Never kept anything back.  So many were drawn and attracted to him.  But I believe it was the others, his true friends, that saw the truth.  They saw the vulnerable little boy; the maturing but still timid young man.  They saw his kindness and intelligence, but also saw the true inner light and love that radiated from him. Those friends knew him, loved him, cared for him, and still care about him.  Still remember him. Still love him.  Still celebrate his life.

Seven years.  It seems like a week ago he was here.  Those of us who knew him thank God for his life.  But we all know he died too soon. 

It is better to give....

I love presents.  I love gifts.  I’m not one of those people who invites you to a birthday party and ensures that the invitation says ‘no gifts please; the pleasure of your company is all I need.’  Nope, that’s not me.  I enjoy getting gifts.  Big and small.  When someone gives me something, whatever it is, I want to open it right away.  I want to see what’s inside.  I love the element of surprise.  I want to see what the person thought to get for me.  Now, I have to admit that the majority of the gifts I’ve ever received, I could go buy myself.  I can march myself into a mall right now and pick up a couple of dozen things I would like.  But it’s so not about that.  It’s not about the money.  It’s really the thought that went into it.  It’s the fact that someone took the time to go pick out something special for you.  It’s not the cost of the gift.  I’ve received tons of small, inexpensive, but priceless gifts.  The thought that someone put in the wrapping or the card attached.  The fact that they remembered something you said 7 months ago when you were window shopping together.  A book they knew would just ‘speak’ to you.  Your favorite color or something for a collection.  Something small that you would not thing to buy for yourself, but still needed.  A homemade gift.  I love and appreciate getting all of these.

But as much as I adore being showered with gifts, there’s no greater feeling for me than when I give.  It’s not just the shopping, wrapping and giving.  It’s the anticipation of the mirror effect.  I give something and I see the joy in the person’s eyes and I’m sure they can see the joy in me.  Giving makes me happy.  But the greater gifts are the ones where you’re totally anonymous.  No one knows you gave.  No one is the wiser.  Only you know that you gave to a cause, to a person, to cover some need, or a special situation.  That kind of giving is more special because there is no immediate reward.  There is no one thanking you, eyes shining and wide smile.  There’s just the reward in your heart.  And as much as I’ve given throughout my life, I know I’ve been more than paid back in blessings and joy. 

Friendship

We had a fight.  Well, for us, it was a big fight.  We never raise our voices with one another.  We know and understand each other.  We are crazy different, but appreciate each other for what we are.  No mistakes there.   We have a very good relationship.  A long-term, dear friendship.  So this is a very rare situation for us.  I felt he yelled at me, talked over me and assumed my response before I said anything.  I was livid.  I felt disrespected.  What’s worse, when I tried to discuss the matter I got nothing.   Silence.  Not ‘we’ll discuss it later.’  Just nothing.  So I had a chance to stew over it a little.  Then as the days passed, I stewed over it some more.  Then, because I couldn’t stand it anymore, I made the call to fix it.  Turns out, he felt I shouted at him and interrupted him.  How can this be?  He felt disrespected.  I just didn’t get it.  Was he talking about the same conversation?  He was.  I insisted he was wrong and that he raised his voice and interrupted ME; treating me like a child and assuming he knew exactly what I would say.  I told him he should just accept when he’s wrong.  He should admit it.  Then he said ‘I’m sorry.’  It didn’t feel good.  I didn’t know what else to say.  I was looking for empathy and reconciliation and I got an ‘I’m sorry’ hurled at me.  I just said we’d talk later and hung up.

But then I thought a little more.  This time I didn’t stew.  I knew, immaterial of what was said by either of us, it wasn’t meant as it was received.  And it certainly wasn’t meant to hurt.  So this time when I connected with him I didn’t demand that he ‘get it’ or ‘admit it’ or ‘apologize.’ I told him I was really trying to clear the air because I didn't want this uncomfortable feeling hanging over us.  I wasn't looking for a simple and mechanical apology for the sake of getting one.  I was looking for understanding. So I said, ‘if we can't agree on what happened, let's just forget that it happened. You're my friend and I love you. That's more important.’ His response was swift.  He said he was sorry and meant it.  He said he may not always agree with me, but the fact that he made me feel a certain way is something he didn’t mean to do and felt really bad about.  He said a genuine ‘I’m sorry.’

Deep breath…and out.  What a relief.  So grateful for true friendships.

Don't Count Your Threes

I’ve heard that trouble or problems come in threes.  This is an old and superstitious position and it seems that we gravitate towards it when we have a problem; sort of ‘woe is me, I don’t just have one problem, I have three!!!’  We may have something legitimate going on and then we just lump a couple of other things on top of it to ensure we have our ‘three.’  I’ve seen my friends do this, ‘I have to have toe surgery and today I found out that my kitchen sink has a leak AND I’ve also gained 5 pounds!’  And I know many times I’ve said, ‘yes, you’re right, it usually goes like that, you don’t get one problem, you get several.’ 

But that’s life.  That’s reality.  This world is not perfect; life is not perfect, just as we are not perfect.  Life is not clean or tidy or without its problems.  And I find that sometimes you don’t just get three, you get four or five or more problems at a time. Life is only picture-perfect in movies and magazine covers.  I usually tell my kids ‘Hollywood is not real life!’  And sometimes I say it very loudly.  The beautiful homes with the beautiful people with beautiful perfectly behaved children with impeccable decorator touches and precise organization and they are all hugging and looking happy is not real!!!!  Let’s not even talk about digging up what’s underneath all that; puhleeze! 

So, let’s not count our threes.  Let’s count the fours, fives, sixes, nines.  Let’s count the dozens.  Let’s count the hundreds.  Let’s count all the blessings, all the great things we enjoy every day.  Let’s count that we are all in the land of the living.  Let’s count our freedom.  Let’s count that we have families and friends.  Let’s count jobs and school and homes.  Let’s count a pet that loves us unconditionally.  Let’s count a great meal with a colleague.  Let’s count learning a new sport.  Let’s count a challenge that stretches our thinking.  Let’s count the help we can give someone.  Let’s count the many, many blessings and joys we have every single day. 

Expanding The Mind

I have loved reading my whole life.  Well, ever since I can remember.  I started school at the age of 8.  Kind of late in most circles.  Children start school and their ABCs at the age of 4 in pre-k programs; and I have heard of others as young as the age of 3 in pre-k curriculums.  Although a very shy child who routinely clung to my mother’s skirt or hid behind her, by the time I was enrolled in school I was ready.  I went directly to first grade.  I knew basic arithmetic and how to read and write - my sister taught me at home by reading Archie comic books.  Betty was my favorite character.  She was so pretty with her blond ponytail.  I didn’t anyone back then who had blond hair.   She loved Archie and was always so nice to everyone, even the lame and lazy Jughead.  So went my introduction into reading.

Many years and books later, I can honestly say that I love reading and enjoy just about anything that I can get my hands on.  There are a few exceptions, auto-mechanics and extraterrestrial novels just don’t work for me.  I remember when I was young sitting for hours at the public library.  I started with the very short, basic books and then graduated to chapter books.  Then in my teens I found romance novels.  Wow!  I didn’t care that these had multiple chapters.  I devoured them nightly.  But I also found great reading in high school.  Books like The Pearl, To Kill a Mockingbird, and The Catcher in the Rye were perfectly challenging in language and kept me reading. And The Good Earth, still much-loved to this day, “she smiled slowly then, the same slow smile that ended before it reached her eyes….”  Some things are never forgotten.  Later on in college I started reading Spanish works – this opened up a whole other world of authors and cultures for me.  Aunt Julia and the Scriptwriter is still one of my all-time favorites and makes me smile every time I read it.  When I had my children, I read every book I could read about child-rearing – What to Expect when You’re Expecting.  Can’t miss that one.  And other books after that – I didn’t want to mess up my kids with my own pre-dispositions and predilections.  And now that they are teens, I’m learning from books about letting go; honestly, I should’ve learned this many years ago.  Even though I’m busy with two teenagers, my reading list is still long.  But I have to say that my favorite reading, the one that always gives me peace, the one that brings me back into focus, is my spiritual reading.  The bible is not only a great book to read, it’s also a tool for knowledge.  It never gets old; no matter how many times you've read it.  Although I have enjoyed and still derive great pleasure from all types of books, I can’t go very long without reading my bible.  Many times I read it as part of a bible study.  But many more times I’ve just reached for it to find solace and peace in times of trouble.  And I find comfort every time. 

What a privilege to have so many books, so many genres, and so many authors available to us anytime and anywhere.  Some days I wish I could devote more time to reading than anything else!

 

 

 

Simple Pleasures

There are days that are full of joy and remembrance.  Days such as weddings, the birth of a child, a baptism, or a graduation.  Those are the days we remember long after they happen.  For years.  Then there are the other days that aren’t a great occasion or commemoration, but are wonderful just the same.  A simple invitation to lunch sharing good food, adults catching up while kids play.  An afternoon spent with the family.  Some days just are perfect in their simplicity if they are spent with those you love. 

Bare Walls

I’m not a minimalist, but I play one on TV.  Ha!  My daughter doesn’t like my naked walls.  She declared the other day ‘when I have a job and a house, I’m going to buy a lot of art and put it all over my walls.’  I think she says that because the only thing up in my house is a large mirror –    N-O-T-H-I-N-G else.  I like simple and uncluttered spaces.  I’m not a very fussy person; and my style is very plain.  I would like to say that I’m a minimalist, but I’m not.  As a matter of fact, I have too much.  Right now I’m sitting on a few boxes in my bedroom and many boxes and bags in the garage.  All full of stuff.  Don’t ask me what stuff.  Okay, stuff I brought back from different trips.  Stuff I bought just in case someone has a baby.  Stuff to give to someone at church.  Stuff to send to Goodwill.  Stuff for a garage sale; and stuff I have to go through and maybe throw away.  My kids are teens, but I still have a play table full of Legos, army men and other trinkets.  I also have coloring books and boxes of crayons and coloring pencils.  I keep them because when my nephews and nieces come over…..well, you know.  I also have to cull my books and pick through the sets of silver.  I have clothes in my closet I haven’t worn in years.  I have beach purses I’ve never worn to the beach.  My linen closet has too many ‘just in case’ towels.  Just in case what?  I decide to host the Rangers overnight?  I’m just not ruthless when it comes to discarding things; but I do have empty walls.  Maybe someday I’ll find great art to put up on my walls, but for now, I love those bare walls. 

 

 

 

9/11

I was at home with my mother, my two-year old son and one-year old daughter.  I was recently unemployed and newly separated.  It was a tough day.  My mom was watching the kids while I racked my brain and tried to figure out how I would pay for my mortgage, my car, my bills, groceries and everything else two toddlers would need.  Then we got the call.  We immediately turned on the TV and the images left us speechless.  I remember vividly how the children, so young and unaware, kept playing around us while my mother and I could only watch in stunned horror.

My family immigrated to the United States via New York City.  We grew up in the Upper West Side.  We lived there for 14 years and it was our home until we moved to the South.  But having grown up in New York made us New Yorkers.  We didn’t believe we were immigrants, didn’t feel like we were immigrants - we were from New York.  And, as everyone knows, New York is a state of mind.  So that was us.  Being raised in New York meant that our roots, our friends, family and our hearts were still there.  When the cowards hit 'our' towers, it was as if they had bombed one of our homes.  We were directly impacted.  Fortunately for us, none of our friends or family members were hurt or died during the bombings.  But so many others were.  Thousands.  And our hearts ached.  We could not feel anything other than we were part of this catastrophe.  Experiencing the disaster from a distance didn’t spare us from the grief.  For days we were like zombies.  The pictures of the devastation running over and over in our minds. It was all anyone could discuss in sadness and disbelief.  We prayed and watched the news and reports incessantly.  We marveled upon hearing the side stories of near misses – the employee who woke up late and didn’t take his regular train, the flight attendant who switched routes with another at the last minute, the heroic efforts of so many police officers and firefighters.  This event forever changed the lives of so many in New York City and around this country.  The unity felt during those days was palpable.  We all felt like New Yorkers.  We all felt like Americans.

Today I remember all the beautiful souls who died in 9/11.  And I give thanks for their lives, each of their names, and their legacy.  We will never forget. 

Clean Slate

I don’t know anyone who likes moving.  I haven’t moved in the past 16 years, even though I have been tempted several times.  I’ve seen a lot of friends and family move over the years and it’s always a tedious, boring and stressful process.  With the culling of clothing, books, kitchenware, tools and taking the time to get rid of years of stashing and maybe even a little hoarding.  It’s not always easy to weed through meaningful family treasures and mementos or souvenirs from vacations of long ago!!  They all bring back memories. 

But a move forces you take a critical look at your possessions and helps in the downsizing.  Nobody wants to take unwanted or unneeded stuff with them.  Who doesn’t like the idea of a clean slate?  When you move, you always have a fresh start.  No matter where.  Whether it’s an apartment, a house, or even an office, you have the great opportunity to begin anew.  Thankful for the prospect of a new beginning, a new launch, or even the probability of a new creation.  But it’s still a lot of work! 

Always an Opportunity

I doubt anyone, except lawyers and judges, feels comfortable in a court of law.  Although my case was not without its repercussions, it was not as ugly or contentious as others I heard that day.  The cases were mostly family issues tended by a judge who was either too tired of her job or going through some serious issues herself.  She was not pleasant, patient or kind.  Far from it.  She scolded everyone for the most minor things, such as not speaking clearly or not giving her the documents she asked for as quickly as she wanted them.  Her behavior was perfunctory, rude, impatient and unfeeling.  I suppose I expected a little different from her since this was family court after all.

A woman in her late 50s approached the bench.  She felt lucky, she told the judge, because the judge spoke Spanish.  Obviously I understood her.  She told a very exasperated judge that her daughter and son-in-law were in jail and would not be out for seven years.  She needed to take custody of her granddaughter.  The judge kept barking questions at her: ‘why did you bring the child with you?’ ‘Because I had no one to leave her with.’ ‘Where are your orders?’  ‘I don’t know what that means.’ ‘Do you think your daughter will contest this?’ ‘Ummm, no, she’s in jail for at least seven years.  I’m the only family my granddaughter has.’  Then she barraged this humble lady with more questions that she didn’t have a clue how to answer.  ‘Do you have an attorney?  Are you going to get one?  Did you notify your daughter?  When did you do that?  You have to notify her again.  Do you have new orders?  Do you know what orders are?  If you don’t know someone needs to tell you what they are.  You have to get them from the library.  You can’t come into my court without orders.’  The woman was reduced to nothing; didn’t have a thing to say.  The judge handed her a piece of paper telling her a court date had been set.  As she walked away holding her little granddaughter’s hand I couldn’t help but feel compassion for her.  She needed help.  I handed her my name and telephone number on a piece of paper and told her she should call me and I would explain to her what she needed to do.  She smiled at me through her tear-stained face and just said, ‘I will call you.  My name is Juanita.’ 

Today I’m grateful that, if we ask Him, God always gives us a tender heart and the opportunity to help others. 

 

Strength

I have met a lot of people in my life that I considered to be strong.  I’m not talking about brute strength, but strength of character, dignity and resolve.  For various reasons, they just seemed strong; were strong, are strong.  Like the single mom of eight children abandoned by her ex-husband.  When we met, she had been alone for many years; yet her children were the most well-cared-for kids I knew at the time.  The most polite, clean, well-dressed, kind and friendly.  She seemed to permanently wear a smile on her face; a genuine smile.  And when she greeted you with a hug and her ‘my love,’ ‘my sweet,’ or ‘my baby,’ you just knew she meant it!   She embraced you as if she hadn’t seen you in years.  She always had a word of encouragement for others.  Whenever I was invited or crashed at her house for lunch, she always served me a special plate taking care to give me exactly what I wanted to eat.  When she spoke, her words were a boost, a lift, so soothing:  ‘tell me how you’re doing precious, and how is God blessing you today?’  It really made me forget about whatever nonsense was going on.

Conversely, I have met a lot of people who seemed strong and were far from it.  Like the handsome guy in New York.  He was not only tall, dark and handsome; he was also smart, sensitive, and kind.  A guy anyone would want to go out with; except me.  We talked a few times.  It seemed to me that he tried too hard, thought too highly of himself and his good looks, his sensitivity, his kindness.  He thought we clicked; I didn’t.  And then I really had to tell him I wasn’t interested in a relationship.  Oh boy.  Things fell apart quickly.  He stopped talking to me, completely – understandable to a point; except we hung around in the same circles and went to the same church.  He immediately started dating a pretty girl we both knew.  And then….he started calling again, and again, and again.  Aaaarrrghhh!

There are many qualities I appreciate and admire.  But strength is a big one.  We all know people whose strength is undeniable and true.  I can give thanks I have known many in my life. 

 

Copyright

She was a ‘friend,’ and we were discussing a very difficult situation I was experiencing.  She immediately went on to tell me that my ‘thing’ was nothing compared to what she was going through.  She one upped me.  Apparently, I had a little problem, while she had numerous, gigantic and intricate issues.  I didn’t know how to react.  It wasn't a competition.  Which led me to think - no one has a copyright on problems.  We all have them.  Big or small.  Some of us have them often.  Some of us have them often and a lot of them.  Sometimes we throw ourselves a pity party and think about our huge struggles.  We view our situation as the biggest, baddest, ugliest crisis.  No one on earth could be going through this.  No one!!!  We would like to assume that having somebody else’s ‘easier’ problems would be better for us.  We look at others who might not be going through the pain or the discomfort that we have and think we would be better off.  We could handle THAT problem quickly; easily.  But would we?  Could we?  Sometimes you hear people comparing problems – it’s like a contest – ‘you don’t get it, my problem is bigger, uglier, and more constant than yours.’  In the end, I don’t think any of us would really trade our problems for someone else’s.  We would like to think so, but if we were to assume the whole problem, and all the people involved, and all the consequences, we would surely always choose our own problem.  We would know how to handle that!  Thanking today that God gives me the grace and strength to handle my own problems. 

Dichotomy

Alcatraz Island Penitentiary was the first maximum security federal penitentiary housing the worst criminals of that era; including world-famous Mafioso Al Capone.  From 1934 – 1963, Alcatraz was designed to hold prisoners who continuously caused trouble at other federal prisons, a "last resort prison" to hold the worst of the worst criminals who had no hope of rehabilitation.  None of the staff were trained in rehabilitation, but were highly trained in security.  The prison itself was ‘escape proof’ with its full metal doors and surrounded by frigid waters and high currents.  Prisoners were counted 13 times a day in tiny cells that were 9 feet by 5 feet tall.  These cells were bare but for the diminutive beds, toilets and washbasins.  A small metal board protruding out of the wall served as a desk.   Alcatraz was touted as the toughest and most fearsome of prisons.  Prisoners complained about brutal punishments and inhumane conditions.  They had to obey a strict code of silence; and were only allowed to speak quietly during their 20 minute meal times.  If a prisoner was in isolation, he was relegated to his cell, ate his meals there, and had no other privileges but to be let out one hour a week in the courtyard – always alone.  On weekends, most prisoners were allowed to play for a few hours in the courtyard.  Favorite past times were softball, handball and checkers. 

What was so interesting to me is that, the penitentiary workers - guards and their families also lived in this very small island. Their living quarters were primarily four buildings of fully remodeled apartments for families, and single rooms for bachelors.  There were a few houses for senior officers.  At one point, there were 52 families living on Alcatraz Island, including 126 women and children of all ages.  The workers also had a social hall and club.  It was a venue for the guards and their families to unwind.  The club had a small bar, library, large dining and dance floor, billiards tables, ping pong tables and a two-lane bowling alley.  It was the center of social life on the island for the employees of the penitentiary.  It regularly hosted dinners, bingo events, bowling tournaments, and movies on the weekends.  The club was responsible for organizing numerous special events on the island, anything from ice cream and watermelon feasts to Halloween and Christmas parties.

Prisoners and guards and their families all lived on the same island. The guards and prisoners even ate the same food during the day; but with obvious vast differences in lifestyles - the imprisoned and the free.  While former prisoners recall the horrors of isolation, strict rules and punishment, the families of prisoners remember their days on the island as quiet.  The children’s lives were as normal and free as can be – days spent going to school, playing games all over the island, and fun parades. 

Alcatraz closed decades ago and is now a tourist site run by National Park Service.  It is visited by over 1 million people a year.  But learning a little about it made me realize the stark differences of the captured and the free.  I give thanks for our freedom today.