The thing about autism is

mikel and kate2

what it teaches you about others and about the world around you. The thing about autism is, educated people, concerned people, well-meaning people, professional people–when they put their efforts forth and their good thoughts forth and their words forth, it’s children they’re concerned with. Childhood is the shortest time of (most) life. Childhood is where, here in the good old U. S. of A. we have the most resources. Childhood, in the world of autism, is front-loading. It’s where you get the work in, where you roll up your sleeves, where you bank your effort. Childhood ASD gets the attention, the funding, the media. Childhood gets the support, public and private. Adulthood? Forget about it.

I was once an autism specialist, a Coordinator of Education and Training Programs for the state of Florida Department of Education. Whew. The job was more exhausting than the title. I lasted eight years. More and more at work among the professionals–and these were the best of the best, where I should have, as the wife of an autistic person, as the mother of one, been safe– I found myself in a hostile world. Yes, hostile. Here are actual comments from fellow professionals:

  • (Laughingly) I know! It’s like going into a NEST!
  • Well, he should just get over it and get a job. Any job. It doesn’t matter if he likes it.
  • He needs to build tolerance for nonpreferred classes/toys/foods/people/clothes
  • They need to throw him out
  • She needs to learn to keep her mouth shut
  • His/her parent/teacher/spouse is a SAINT!
  • S/he is so lucky to have you
  • He looks like one of ours. (this on observing a man waiting outside our office, pacing back and forth among other students outside a busy university classroom building)  He is! That’s Kate’s husband!

That last tore it. I was walking with colleagues, and although I tried to be gracious and the original speaker apologized laughingly (they were both laughing), that was the moment I realized that even this, what should be the ideal for someone whose most loved person in the world is autistic, was a toxic environment.

The chief factor of autism is loneliness. Any professional who is half awake in training, any teacher, clinician, even anyone who’s picked up a paper or read an article on ASD can tell you that. If you’re brave enough to listen, any person who can communicate and has autism will tell you that, too. But nobody talks about the loneliness of the husbands and wives of those on the spectrum. Remember, “they’re so lucky to have you!”

I’ve been married to an autistic man for thirty-seven years. It took a few years for everyone else to fall away. I come from a big family, his is a bit smaller. Not a single one of our siblings has visited our home in decades. It’s a nest. It’s true–people on the spectrum tend to make a nest. They surround themselves with things which insulate them from the world, and they don’t tend to clean up. If you are somebody they mate with, you live in the nest, too. I have known autistic people who have what the professionals call “restricted interests” in everything from pig hearts to ukuleles to mystery novels to skeletons, and everything you can imagine in between. They become experts, much better experts than you or I could ever be. They also tend to surround themselves with dogs. Dogs help with the physical challenges of autism, which is a physical disability; when presented with “nonpreferred” stimuli, autistic people get a fight or flight response. You might have experienced that last time someone pulled out in front of you on the freeway with semi trucks in both lanes beside you, or last time you were in the ocean close to a large shark. You know, “nonpreferred” situations.

Anyway, dogs make messes. Sometimes they smell, bark, sniff the crotches of visitors (if you’re still lucky enough to have visitors). But for many, they make life possible (even pleasurable) by giving unsarcastic, unsurprising, unbewildering, unconditional love. That makes life better for everybody in the house. One of the saddest things I ever heard one of my brothers say about us was when I was making a toast at a family wedding shower, at the bride’s request offering a piece of advice. I said, “The only marriage advice I can offer is–” My brother interrupted with, “Raise dogs!” and howled with laughter. I’d been about to say, “put your spouse before everyone. Everyone.”

It is sad when truly good people who love you don’t know you. It’s one of the loneliest feelings in the world.

Family falls away; it’s a known thing in the autism world. My boss used to try to get me to train professionals about it. For some, even the family they make falls away. We’ve been lucky that way–our children visit often, and all of them stay in close contact and offer their Dad and me support and love. We’re blessed. But the six of us, with our sons’ ladies, are a league of our own. Our sons had to grow up with the knowledge, without understanding why, that other adults simply didn’t care enough to come to our home.

Back to loneliness. Secretly I seethe when friends and family (yes, we have friends, good ones) gush about our love for each other. Our regard for each other is so obvious, our love so deep, even strangers remark on it. Candid, close friends and family frankly envy it. I can’t count the times I’ve heard, “I wish I had what you two have.”

“Really?” I want to ask, “are you sure?” Because what we have is the same as two people cast out to sea on a raft have: sink together or work together. That’s what we do. Nobody really wants to know what we have.  Adulthood lasts a long time. Autism is life-long.

One of the many upsides to loving a person on the spectrum and being loved back is the purity, the honor, the ever-fresh nature of the love affair. It is truly what everyone wants in love: fidelity, joy, pleasure, honor. I am never bored. I am the center of his world. We still ache for simply the joy of the presence of the other. Our love is sweeter than it was the first day. That’s because of autism. I won’t go into detail, you’d be bored. You just have to take my word for it.

The trade-off is, you have to not care that your life is a mess. You have to cast away care about superficial things like looks. If he wants to wear the same clothes every single day, until the holes are too big and you have to go through the agony of finding replacements that satisfy both the sensory and the routine needs, so what? You really need to buy into that “so what.” You can’t care about snide looks, remarks, snickers. You have to not care that even the people you’d go to the ends of the earth for don’t care enough to learn what autism really is.

You have to be prepared for people to honor the sensory needs of your autistic child and be rudely insensitive to those of your spouse. You have to be ready to step up to the plate when people who think themselves liberal and tolerant make bigoted statements right to your face about habits due to autism. You have to stand up. Over and over.

I sit here typing while the bravest man I know is out doing a job he loves. He has love, he has meaningful work, he has friends. These are the things we all want.  This, I know, would be what we used to call a success story in clinical meeting.

I sit here alone.

The thing about autism is, it breaks your heart.

mikel and kate 1


Our Modern Twilight Zone

This writing I do, here on this blog, is not professional writing. I process by writing, and in the current world of social media and blogs–although I blog and Facebook post frequently–I don’t take this sort of writing seriously. Obviously, I suppose, it isn’t my best writing. At least, I hope not! This is my casual writing, my social writing, my process writing. I know a lot of professional writers, of which I actually am one, don’t share that sort of writing; many of us do. I have shared here a few excerpts from some of my professional work. Because it’s my blog. Because I can. I often answer questions about, for example, my books. I have several published books, and several more in process. Lay persons, who are often readers or amateur writers themselves, are often interested in the publication process. “How do you do it?” is a common question. It’s a harder question to answer than one would think. It’s hard not to sound like a snob, or worse to risk turning an aspiring writer off. The answer is, I would never consider self-publishing. It isn’t that there’s anything wrong with self-publishing. It is just that it isn’t an option for professionals. How do you distinguish professionals from nonprofessionals in this business? The answer to that is easy: the same way you do with anything else, through education and experience. I am what is known as a working writer.

All of the above is a caveat to letting anyone who reads this blog know, this is not my professional writing. It is my hugely opinionated, personal, process writing about things I care about. I share it with whomever you are. I welcome comments, but please don’t expect the hours of background work I put into my serious writing. DO expect total honesty and fact-checking. If you know me, you know I don’t say anything I don’t mean. If you don’t, you can take my word for that. Or not.

The current American twilight zone we are living in is truly terrifying. I talk with other teachers every day of my life. I talk with people I work with, with friends who teach, with family members who do. Education is broken. So many ignorant citizens are screaming loudly about it that they are drowning out reasonable discussion, reasonable problem-solving, by the very professionals they yell, blog post, and stand on street corners with signs claiming they are trying to protect! Trite sayings and pat praise about how wonderful, hard-working, dedicated our teachers are seems to make these people think they are somehow on an academic level with us. They aren’t.

While we as educators serve at both the behest and grace of the parents of our charges, they are in the main noneducators. That is simply fact. While they may be professionals in other areas, they haven’t a clue what it takes to educate children, and the bombastic ones who endanger education by threatening to oust the guiding Board and Superintendent here in Volusia County, right now, are disingenuous when they do things like blasting on social media; taking up public comment time at board meetings which are meant for ALL citizens, over and over and over; lavishing sickly-sweet praise on hard-working educators in general terms, when we are actually not “angels,” not on a holy mission, not perfect or above it all. We are people. Fallible, professional, and as different from each other and as entitled to opinions as they.

Sadly, there have been several cases lately of evil people slipping through the cracks into our system and harming students. I think of three incidents right off the bat: a sexual predator teacher at NSB Middle; what I believe was a sexual predator, an athletic trainer, at the school I teach at, Spruce Creek High; a sexual predator substitute at Spruce Creek High and other schools, David Lee Davis. Davis ran a rather vapid and vitriolic Facebook group which I tried for years to bring some logic and reason to, The Volusia County School Forum. It is a fringy group which has a small number of citizens, just over 6,000, in it, and which has gained far too much attention in the educational dialogue here in Volusia. We serve thousands upon thousands of students; we teachers, here, number over 4,000. It’s easy to do the math and see what a small number that actually is–6,000. And, obviously, some of the people are crazy, evil. I finally left the group. I’m so glad I did.

Now it is being run by another citizen, one who recently applied–and was denied–for access to a private facebook forum I started a while ago for discussion among professionals. This individual is also one of the leaders of another lay group on Facebook, and claimed the “voters were wrong” in recently choosing not to elect one of her friends to the School Board. The nerve! I, for one, find that sort of opinion to be downright unAmerican, Twilight-Zonish, and dangerous to education. Just because you are loud and trying to pretend to be a professional educator doesn’t mean you are one. And when you say things like that, you are actually harming the profession.

One of the things which strikes me in the current, and you’d have to do media research to know what I’m talking about, out-for-blood quest to get our Superintendent Tom Russell fired is, the media is paying attention to these nay-sayers, these nonprofessionals, who have thrown their weight behind our past Union president, Andrew Spar. What many don’t realize is that those who supported Andrew in what has turned out to be a disastrous bargaining with our District for MY salary (not the salary of David Lee Davis, not the salary of any of the non-teaching parents, out there, not the salary of shameless failed Board wannabees who just. can’t. shut. up) are a minority of educators, here. Thank God Andy is gone! He was the leader who needed to go, not the excellent Board or the hard-working Superintendent. None of these big-mouths have been able to name ONE item on which Spar negotiated, on which he gave. The items, numerous, the District flexed on, are well-documented. Andy Spar used MY contract as a climbing tool into a new job.

I wish nonprofessionals would actually express the faith they shout about and let teachers and administrators and the Board and Tom Russell do our jobs in these difficult times. And if you lost a race for the Board? Please understand: it is the people who don’t want you representing them.

Last night the new VUE president contacted me, talked generously on her Friday night on the phone with me for more than half an hour, and tried at first to tell me what she wants from me—focusing on the future, making things better. I gently reminded her that she, nor anyone else, tells me what to focus on.

It was a good conversation, she wanted to meet; I said no. She asked for my support, and I told her the best I could do was stay in the Union to give her a chance to do the right thing, and if she does, we can meet and talk. I told her, if she wants my support, she needs to publicly correct the harm the past president has done to Mr. Russell by apologizing and working WITH him.

I will give her a chance, as requested, to do the right thing.


Valid reasoning using relevant & sufficient evidence


I teach English at an excellent public high school in Florida. By any standards, even today’s wacky, school-grade ones, it’s an excellent school. We’re currently the only A high school in our very large school district. I love my work, and I work hard at it. I take both the curricula and the goals (standards for students) I am given very seriously, and I work to have what I bring to the table–knowledge, experience, expertise–mesh with that to reach and teach students. Before students learn, they have to connect with text. Part of the beauty in teaching and learning in public schools is the diversity. As I tell my students when encouraging them to follow Cumiskey’s classroom rule # 3: Read, write, discuss: Politely with openness to new ideas–without difference, life would be very boring.

While it is fine with me for student to link what is happening in their lives, including politics, to text in order to interpret and extend it, I do not share my political views. But, in these unprecedented days I believe it is important teachers acknowledge what is happening and help students to contextualize it. Today I used current events to discuss something critical in success in English class, circa 2018.

One of the main State Standards students in senior English must master, one we hit again and again throughout the school year, is citing evidence from relevant sources to support an argument. As the title of this blogpost states (another critical standard), the evidence must also be sufficient.

We are studying a fiction text, the novel The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien, and and Dr. Martin Luther King’s speech at Riverside Church, New York, April 4, 1967 coming out fully against the government concerning our involvement in Vietnam. These are both complex texts. O’Brien wrote his experiences in Vietnam as fiction, but it is a true story–I met him and talked with him about it, and the story has been studied extensively. I am working to prepare the students for the cognitive dissonance some of them may experience when we get deeper into that book, and the narrator states his view on his own involvement in the Vietnam War, he was drafted. And, he says, “I was a coward. I went to war.”

Tim O’Brien believed at the time he went to war, in 1968, that it was the morally wrong thing for him to do. He believed he should have dodged the draft. While history has proven that our involvement in Vietnam was an error (something which also shocks some students), helping students to understand the thinking of a 21-year-old soldier, circa 1968, is a challenge. I try to bring it all home. One way I do that is showing them the lottery tables for the selective service and letting them locate what their draft numbers would have been. It is a sobering, very educational moment which helps them to tackle the text.

So, politics. It is impossible for a good teacher, even irresponsible, to ignore the current political situation. Today I used it to discuss citing relevant, reliable sources.

We talked about fake news. That got their attention, when I said, “fake news.” I explained that there is indeed fake news; it has been recently proven that Russian hackers have spread fake news stories on facebook. Then I mention that, just as Dr. King and O’Brien had the rights of freedom of speech and freedom of the press, so do all citizens, including American journalists. I asked the following question: If I say, The Guardian newspaper, The Orlando Sentinel, Facebook, Fox News, and CNN, which of the five is not a reliable source? While some students laughingly called “CNN” or “Fox!”, they all got the idea, and agreed that Facebook is not a reliable source.

Next, we discussed that, although journalists may put their own personal slant on it when they report the news, facts are still facts and calling all or a large group of journalists’ stories “fake news” is lazy, dangerous, prejudicial thinking. Whether it is Fox or CNN that reports that Paul Manafort and Michael Cohen are now felons, the fact is, they are. They were found guilty of felonious crimes. We are in unprecedented times, and I feel it is important to guide students in accessing and contextualizing and writing about facts. In order to do that, they need to be able to separate the wheat from the chaff in the news. And to do that, they can’t throw the baby out with the bathwater with lazy thinking. It is important that they can separate journalists’ opinions of events from the truth of the events, themselves.

The next place we went was to cognitive dissonance. I wanted to prepare them for the cognitive dissonance some may experience when they realize that O’Brien believes he’s a coward for becoming an American soldier. This is the example I used to explain the concept. First I checked to make sure I didn’t have any students who believed Americans had never been to the Moon. I didn’t. They all believed in Neil Armstrong, et al. Next, I asked them to imagine going to the Moon with someone who thinks that the Apollo program was a hoax, and as they are descending to the surface, pointing to the American flag and saying, “See? We’ve been here before.” Then, to imagine that person being unable to integrate what they are seeing with what they believe, because if they changed their minds, their entire belief system would collapse. That’s cognitive dissonance.

Students were very engaged with the examples and the discussion, and I feel they are prepared not only for making their own arguments based on the texts they are tackling, but looking outward to find other reliable sources to make their  arguments.

And we never once had to mention a single politician by name.

Place Whence: Getting to the source

whole pick

I’m including some locative photographs with this post for a couple of reasons, one; it’s my blog and I can, and two; I’d like readers to think about place whence–where we come from. Place is important.

The new school year is about to begin. As ever, there are hot topics among stakeholders. I am sick and tired of educators complaining, particularly about pay. Yes, we here in Florida are at the bottom (49th) of the national teacher pay scale. You could whine and cry about it, or do something about it. Like, vote. Like, run for office. Like, write your representative. Because one thing educators don’t seem to want to do is hold themselves responsible for their own circumstances. But, while you are thinking about your options–yes, you have them–remember where you are. Between river and sea, in an ephemerally lovely place. If that doesn’t matter to you, move to Des Moines. Or New York. Chicago. Memphis. Rochester. Wherever they are paying teachers “better.” Oh? You don’t want to move? Then shut up. Refer to the above: deal with the lawmakers or become one. But quit blaming those who are NOT responsible: the Volusia County School Board. Reminder, you are here:


As a very active Volusia United Educators member, I was thrown by a discussion at a recent meeting about whether or not we should work to the contract as a negotiating tool with the District. Of course not! Teachers should ALWAYS work to the contract! Only a fool would donate time to a job and expect fair treatment in return. Our entire culture now expects teachers to donate not only their time, but their money. There’s a ripple effect to this: teaching becomes not a job, but some sort of sacred mission. Which it isn’t. If you are on a sacred mission, money is not your primary concern. Yet, I hear teachers constantly complaining about their pay, then turning around and taking papers home to grade, showing up on weekends to work in their classrooms, going out and buying supplies, and donating their lunchtime to meeting with students. Pure hypocrisy. You want to be treated like a professional, when you act like a volunteer or a missionary? Please. Give me a small break. Blame US. We are the reason why we aren’t taken seriously by the public. Don’t sit there and tell me you can’t go home at the end of the day. Pick up the keys, lock the door, and go out to your car.

If you are completely miserable in your job and you are not willing to make changes, such as applying for teaching jobs where the pay is higher, or changing your methods so you get work done at work, or running for office, then please shut up. Or at least do a little homework. The Board is not to blame for the pay. Yes, you heard me right. The State Legislature is responsible. The money isn’t just some pool that the Super and Board get to decide what to do with. Funds are limited. And, designated. There’s about 3% of the budget which is discretionary. And, all sorts of restrictions. One small example is, if a new school costs over a certain amount to build, the District is FINED by the state. Another is the idiotic Guardian Program. The State says we must have a “guardian” at each school, we’re one of the biggest districts in the state (yes, there are specifics, yes there are actual numbers involved such as a number of schools! A number of guardians! No, it isn’t just a general thing to gripe about), and the state in its educational ignorance has chosen not to supply enough money. Yet, we have to hire 44 PEOPLE, train them, get them in place. That takes a specific amount of money. And this was not done by Tom Russell, Linda Cuthbert, Melody Johnson, John Hill, Carl Persis, and Ida Wright. It was done by you. You put those people in the state house. And if you didn’t vote, shut up.

Insurance premiums go up. It is a fact of life in America, right now. The District contributes over $500 a month to employees’, as a benefit, premiums. They do not set the premiums. It is not the Board jacking up our premium this year by $60 a month, it is the insurance company. I guess it is a lot easier to moan about the Board than it is to blame the real culprit. But it’s lazy and ignorant to do so. Many districts don’t contribute ANYTHING to employees’ costs. Ours does. And, around here, there are thousands upon thousands of people who don’t have any insurance because it isn’t even offered through their employers, and they can’t afford to buy it. If they don’t go to work because they are sick, they can’t get treated and they don’t get paid. Many must go to work sick or lose their jobs. These are real people with real jobs, and real bills. Think of all the restaurant workers–name a restaurant in Volusia County which offers health insurance and sick days. Most don’t. And you are ignorant, again, if you think the only people who work in restaurants are kids saving for college and living at home at the cushy fly-in. Here’s a partial list of other VC jobs which don’t have the benefits we District employees do: mechanic, lawncare, supermarket workers, hotel workers, barbacks, taxi drivers, concessionaires, construction workers, carpenters, plumber’s assistants, roofers, tellers, pharmacy techs, realtors, HVAC workers, appliance repair personnel….and on and on. If their employers DO offer insurance, chances are they don’t kick in over $500 a month toward the premiums.

I am disturbed that I’ve seen posts and articles complaining about the Board stopping their contributions to our dental coverage in October when, in the negotiations two years ago Andrew Spar and all of us were in on this sunsetting this year. It isn’t a surprise. It was all spelled out and we agreed to it. Why be mad at the Board now about that?

The School Board has two jobs, hiring and supervising their employee the Superintendent, and setting policy. That’s it. If you use them for a target in all of your ignorance, if you don’t study the issues and especially the budget, then shame on you. You are here. If you want to change things, change them. That doesn’t mean just signing up for your four minutes at every Board meeting and letting all of us listen to you whine and complain. That means powering through the actual policies, laws, and numbers, then holding those responsible for the abysmal state of our schools responsible. Study, get busy, leave, or run for office, but please sit down and shut up.


A Mother’s Day Reflection


Not long ago I was at a district workshop for teachers of English Language Learners—over the next five years I’ll complete 300 professional development hours to certify in ELL, a requirement—and found myself chatting with one of the presenters during a break. I like her; although I know her husband better since I’ve worked more closely with him (he’s a teacher, too), I’ve worked in her classroom a few times. I like them both. She’s widely known as one of the best teachers in the county, but it doesn’t go to her head. We were swapping stories about our sons’ experiences senior year at the local high school when I said, “You have– how many children do you have? Four? Five?”

“Four. We had five. We lost one. One passed away.”

I was, of course, flattened. Taken aback. My eyes swelled with tears, I slumped. My head dropped.

“It’s okay,” she said quietly, kindly. “I know. It’s okay, really. Go on.”

After a moment, of course, I did. Because of her kindness, her tone. Because of course it was such a practical thing to say: go on. What else can you do?

All the way home I thought about how perilous it is, our journey. Particularly as parents. And strangely I kept thinking about all those teachers at the workshop, a good one, comments and ideas zipping back and forth about meeting the needs of students, students whose parents don’t speak English, and what resources we need to bring to the students and what they don’t have at home. And I kept flipping back to what it is to be a parent. How messy. How perilous. How terrifying. Sometimes, how devastating.

Any parent can tell you the highlights, the highs. Cute or emblematic tales which let you know who their children are or who they are becoming; I was telling her one when that happened. I’ll tell it now.

His senior year I got a call from my youngest son’s principal. “Jimmy’s really lucky,” he said, not sounding at all like he believed that, sounding instead like he wished Jimmy wasn’t so lucky, like he was a pain in the administrative backside; like he was relishing telling me how Jimmy went off the rails but he, the principal couldn’t, quite, bust him (although it sounded as if he really, really hoped I would. He didn’t know me at all.) because, “If another teacher hadn’t had her window open and heard and seen the whole thing, I’d probably be calling about expelling him and we’d certainly have called in law enforcement. It was his word against a teacher’s, but like I said another teacher heard the whole thing and came to Jimmy’s defense.”

Eventually, the story emerged. Jimmy was crossing the courtyard at school, heading for the media center in the middle of class. He had a pass. There was a student on a three-wheel bicycle, with an accompanying staff member, crossing the courtyard, too. This was a nonverbal child with Autism Spectrum Disorder. He was having a meltdown, and the staff member was trying to get him off the bicycle. Apparently, this involved some rough handling of the child.

“Your son put his hands on a staff member and literally removed that person from touching the child,” the principal told me, in a not-very-nice voice, “Lucky for him, a teacher had their window open and saw and heard the whole thing and backed your son up. We will deal with the staff member, but you need to make sure Jimmy understands that he can’t touch staff. He could have been arrested.” Unceremoniously, he hung up.

When Jimmy got home that day I casually asked him, while driving him to work, how his day went. “Fine,” he replied.

“Well, the principal gave me a call. About something that happened in the courtyard.”

“Oh yeah, that. Well, this teacher was abusing a student who was in the middle of a meltdown. I took control of the situation, got her off of him, and said, ‘You want to know how to get a person with autism to do what you want? Here, I’ll show you.’ So, you know, I calmed him down and took him to the office. Poor kid.”

“Jimmy, you could have been arrested.”

“There was nobody else around to help him. It’s no big deal, Mom. She didn’t know what she was doing. She was abusive. Some things are worth getting arrested for.”

I was driving, my eyes filled with tears and I blinked them away. Jimmy is a fearless, happy-go-lucky, full-tilt boy. Jim Tager, who was both his middle school and high school principal for a bit, always lights up like a firefly when I see him, “How’s Jimmy? I just love that kid.” Jimmy’s father and I spent a lot of sleepless nights over this, our youngest, boy. At that moment, going over the North Bridge to Clancy’s, I realized he’ll be okay. This boy will be fine. He’s got his priorities straight.

This Mother’s Day, I think about Jimmy, that story. Now is a time to stand. For all of us. Sometimes it’s scary, we doubt ourselves, we wonder who’s watching and what the results of our very human efforts, if any, will be. But not to stand in a time like this is the worst kind of cowardice. It’s time to put concerns for self aside and speak up.


Teaching as a profession–my take

mlkI’m reposting an edited version of this article, as I’ve been thinking about these same issues before school starts again this year. Teaching continues to go downhill, be undermined, here in Florida. I was struck, recently, in a meeting with our Union (I’m a trainer and active member) when there was discussion of “Work to the contract” as a tool to gain attention. That’s ridiculous. Teachers should always work to the contract. Teaching is not treated like the profession it is by the lawmakers. I blame teachers. We need to define our own profession and that begins with NOT donating your own time or money. How can you expect to be treated as more than a volunteer when you volunteer these things? Logic. It’s our friend.

Most individuals are quick to acknowledge that in this nation’s public education system, teachers are professionals; people say that, but do they really believe it?  We must have college degrees (at least a bachelors), licenses, pass tests and continue with professional development during our careers, and certainly behave in a professional way on and off the job. These are givens. But what actually makes a profession a profession? One element is professional autonomy.

With professional autonomy, as I learned working on my first degree at the College of Education at the University of Florida, comes responsibility. One is part of a cohort of professionals responsible not only for the above individual elements, but for defining and changing the profession to meet emerging needs. I’ve noticed a nearly hysterical perspective on the part of the public–through social media, print media, and televised media; conversations with noneducators; through legislation; and, most personally and alarmingly, in the behavior of students in the classroom who stare dumbfoundedly when I share that the classroom is not a democracy (neither they nor I choose the curriculum and I make the rules)–appropriating the profession. It seems that many people want teaching to be defined by anyone but teachers. I’m very conscious of this. Quite aware. And, I’m careful to let dealing with this dangerous falsehood guide some of my own behaviors. I push back against this, plodding forward in my tiny little career.

I have always believed, ever since college, that teachers donating their time and money to their schools, students, and classrooms undermines the profession. I still feel that way, in fact, moreso in these rocky times. I do not donate my time. I work from 7:15-2:50, and I take my lunchtime for myself. If I donate my time, it is of my choosing and not for the students I serve academically. For example, I run some clubs which meet in my room during lunch. I facilitate a professional learning community which also meets during lunch. I don’t meet with students during lunch.

When I share this with students, they are stunned. A teacher who doesn’t read e-mail or grade papers at home? I do not bring this perspective up with them, naturally, but they learn about it over the course of the year. If I am e-mailed to schedule make-up work after 3 on a Friday, I will respond to that e-mail on Monday during my planning period, not before.  Will this test be graded by the end of today? 

Well, no. My planning period was two class periods ago. I won’t be doing any grading until tomorrow.

Although I hope students aren’t thinking about things like professional autonomy with these behaviors of mine, they do eventually understand that I don’t work during my off hours. I take it as an indicator of past experience that they seem completely gobsmacked by this. They seem to be used to teachers who donate their time. This makes me sad for the profession. How can we expect to be taken seriously as professionals, as employees, if we don’t take ourselves seriously?

Although there is something elusively sacrosanct about teaching, especially the awesome responsibility of shaping young minds, teaching is not a mysterious job. It’s a job. Like any other. People do it for varying reasons. I became a teacher to have a schedule similar to my own children’s, to be available for them when they weren’t in school. It wasn’t a calling, a vocation, for me. It was a job. It still is. It’s a tough one, and I love it, but it’s just a job. I learned when I participated in a safety training that what we do to save our own lives in a school shooting is up to us. I found this a bit shocking–naturally I’d expect to put myself between a shooter and my students–but that’s not part of the job. If I chose to run, that is acceptable. I would not be shirking my duty. It is not part of teaching to put yourself in harm’s way. Like I said, shocking. But, it is in line with teaching being a profession, a profession of educating. Not stopping bullets or shooters.

I will add that along with schooling myself to stick to my beliefs and behave in the professional manner described above as to my work hours, I also (rather unpopularly with some of my peers) believe we are paid appropriately. I don’t feel my salary is too low. Because, on the weekends, in the evenings, and all summer long? I donate not one moment to my profession. This helps keep me the distinguished educator I am.

Here are a couple of interesting, albeit old! articles:



March 24, 2018: It’s time to speak

The April 2, 2018 issue of Time just arrived in my mailbox.

I was just sitting down to pen this blog post when my copy of Time arrived. Behind me, on the living room television, coverage of the marches taking place across this nation plays. It’s time to speak. There is a time for silence. There is a time to speak out. This will be a rambling post, I can tell as I work on it. That’s okay, it’s my blog–not one of my books. I’m the editor as well as writer and publisher. It’s just a blog. If it offends you, feel free to respond. Or not.

I’m an educator in the eleventh largest school district in the nation. One of thousands of teachers in that district. I’ve chosen to go back to the classroom after what seems to some a scattered career. Any special educator will tell you, if you don’t move around you burn out. I burnt out working for the state DOE at UCF as a Coordinator of Educational Training Programs at the Center for Autism and Related Disabilities. I fundamentally disagreed with the direction in which the programs were going–including such basic “professional” lingo as “nonpreferred” work & activities for persons with ASD when we were also presenting new research that making demands on these people caused a physical fight or flight response in their bodies. I see no choice in running for, or fighting for, your life. My input was met with derision, dismissed. I chose, despite perfect evaluations, early retirement. After the necessary waiting period to do so, I chose a new career–going back to the classroom as a newly-minted English teacher.

I love my new career. I have no argument with participating in all of the new teacher programs, trainings, requirements, because I am a human being and fallible and I grow older and welcome these opportunities to learn. Education is necessarily dynamic; as we learn more, we need to be open to learning more! However, my rich background in education as well as twelve years of college come in handy when it comes to my current job.

Teaching is an interesting profession. One of the problems with it is, it is often overlooked as a profession. There are multiple reasons for this, and it’s getting worse. Not the least of these is that here, in Florida, anybody with a high school education can be a private school “teacher”; more and more the lawmakers enable this unprofessional approach. Parents who never even went to high school, much less college, can legally “educate” children at home. This public and legislatively-supported perspective on education is dangerous. It completely undermines the field. Public education is the largest entitlement program in the United States (see previous articles for references). The local school district is the largest employer in our county. Our salary is tax-based. We are accountable to the public, just like cops, firefighters, paramedics, VA doctors, DOT flag personnel directing traffic on the tax-paid-for freeways and byways.

One dangerous element I am noticing at school board meetings, in news reporting, in conversations, and in social media, is the consumers of education appearing to appropriate the profession. As an educator, particularly on social media, particularly in so called “education forums,” I’m  seeing a public perspective that parents, students, and the general public can dictate the parameters of the profession of teaching. This has reached critical mass with the snowballing momentum of arming personnel in public schools. Our legislature has passed, and the governor signed, a complex bill opening the door for certain personnel to be able to carry weapons on public school campus.

The general public is debating, speaking out, holding forums, and wasting an awful lot of school board meeting time under the mistaken perspective that teachers are public service machines. We’re not.

Although of course “arming” personnel is a topic between we professionals in our off time–you know, lunch, after school, at the grocery store, when we go out to dinner together, at the park–it isn’t something we spend much professional time on. When we do discuss it, we tend to laugh at the absurdity. It’s Twilight-Zoneish. Picture the guy who cashes you out in the lunch line packing! Picture the tennis coach who teaches math in the next room, you know, the seventy-year-old woman who’s legendary for her availability during lunch and after school for geometry tutoring, chasing down a shooter and drawing fire to her room! Picture the veteran who has a part-time custodial job, and we all know has PTSD, packing. Picture a quarter of the teachers walking out when this happens. Picture that cafeteria worker, who got to school early and hasn’t eaten today passing out from low blood sugar, being disarmed, and some nut getting the gun; slaughter in the cafeteria. Picture the media center when the media specialist everybody who can read a newspaper knows is carrying when his back is turned and a Nicholas Cruz bops him over the head with whatever’s handy. Picture what happens next. We talk about stuff like that.

But, we don’t waste a lot of time talking about the increasing disregard for our ability to actually think and act. We’re used to public disregard. We’re used to being steamrolled, maligned, and public attempts to manage us. We’re used to sitting through board meetings where those on the dais are attempting to complete crucial, professional business, as well as to consider the concerns of the public, and the same people take up the time of every person in the room, every meeting, with their concerns. There are some parents who are at the forefront of what I consider the biggest threat to teachers of all–an assumption that taxpayers understand teaching just because they went to school or have children who do. It’s in the realm of absurdity, and it’s discouraging. With the current gun issues, it’s dangerous.

Assuming that you know what it is to educate, what the profession entails, is like assuming because you can purchase a cup of coffee and you do so daily, you know how to run a coffee shop. Assuming that you understand testing or curriculum-based instruction is like walking into a surgical suite at the VA hospital and assuming you can remove shrapnel from the patient on the table because you own and understand the same gun which was fired at him.

We as a nation, and each educational community particularly, need to be able to come together to solve the problems surrounding making schools as safe as we can. Until educators are acknowledged as in charge of their own profession (do a bit of research on what it means to be professional–part of that is controlling, as a group, the profession), we can’t get anywhere we need to be with the conversation. Parents need to back off on wanting to know everything, or, even worse, imagining they do. When it comes to safety, there are necessarily things even the students won’t know unless, God forbid, we are in an active-shooter situation. Sometimes, you have to let the professionals be in charge of the profession. This is one of those times. I believe that all the white noise of debate on facebook, and that aggressive time-wasting I speak about at meetings, makes us more vulnerable, not less so. There is a time to step back and listen to those who know. The role of parents who are noneducators in this needs to be one of supporting those who are the decision makers, or voting them out of office. Not blabbing until they become distracting. This isn’t a time for teachers, legislators, superintendents, administrators, or board members to be distracted. Please.

One of the things I’ve learned from my sister, who writes about her town of Sandy Hook, Connecticut (see previous posts for references), is that the students who survive school shootings are the students who obey teachers and administrators on REFLEX. We all know those kids; the ones who do what you tell them in the classroom and hallways even when you are mistaken or tired or cranky or flat-out wrong. The ones who always obey dress code, even if they or their parents think the rule is wrong, and even though other students get away with breaking the code. You know, just like drivers on the freeway who obey the speed limit, and when they don’t and get a ticket accept their punishment, even though others get away with zipping past. They don’t scream about “unfair.” Their parents aren’t the ones who loudly and rudely proclaim about how somebody’s ass is hanging out of their shorts at the parent-loop, and they saw the student walk right past a campus adviser, and they tell their kids the dress code is wrong and defy it. The students who survive are the ones who learn what rules are for, and the right forums for changing them. Further, these students go on to become the voters who understand that the framers of our Constitution meant it to be a fluid document (hence Amendments), changing to meet the needs of the citizens. The Parkland survivors are those students. Pay attention to them.

Right now, the citizens need to be safe from gun violence. The students leading the movement today are correct in their methodology: they epitomize what it means to be American. This, despite our own generation’s failures and the egotistical, bogged-down white noise of the non-professional adults about education, gives me hope. Hope that in live-shooter situations, the students have the correct reflexes with regard to their authority figures. That they will be the voters who FINALLY get rid of the damn guns–not increase their proliferation. The students above give me hope.

Time is one of the magazines I’ve purchase with my own money, along with the Sunday New York Times, to share with my students this year. I checked with our media specialist to make sure that was okay before I did so. I don’t think I’ll be tossing the above issue on the reading table.  I think I’ll frame it. And, buy another for the table.


Yes. It’s a mess.



Anyone who knows me well takes two things as a given: I speak my mind fearlessly (because I know how minuscule we actually are within the cosmos, thanks Dad), and I am a pie-in-the-sky optimist. My husband says I could see the upside of a plague. If you look back over this blog, you’ll see that I am a big fan of Volusia County Schools. I am. I’ve been educated here, chosen to educate my children here, and I’ve taught here. When things got really bad in the early part of this century I bugged out of the District and went to work for the state of Florida DOE. I just couldn’t pencil-whip IEPs. That’s what I was being told to do. At the district, I left when I was the administrator who had to take away team planning from the middle school teachers across the county–I was the front person for decisions far beyond my pay grade. Yes, middle school teachers used to have two planning periods; personal, and with the team which worked with their students. It’s what the middle school model is based in, team collaboration. Doing away with that is why middle schools don’t work. One reason.

I often remind my students that they are to do their job, and I, mine. That there’s lots and lots behind the scenes which they’ll never know or see which I base my teaching and expectations on, and they’ll have to trust me on that. By this time of the year, they really do. It’s a big responsibility to have dozens of young adults trusting you to guide them. It is. Sometimes, I stay awake struggling with what to tell them, what not to. They have to trust us on so many levels: Safety. Time management. College preparation. Curricula. This week, because they’re tired and I’m tired and we are pushing through some literature which some just don’t like, I pulled up the fourteen-page English 4 curriculum map and spent a bit of time going through it with them. The standards, the literature selections, the pacing guide. To put it mildly, they were stunned. We have to do all that? In a year? And you have to teach it to us? I don’t think I’ll be getting any more students slumped belligerently, refusing to read, who say, “I don’t want to read this. How come we can’t just read stuff we like? I know a book we should read. I should be able to decide what I study.”

By now, they trust me. I don’t let them down and they know it. I work hard. So do they. We all get tired and we all have to do things we don’t want to do to reach our mutual goal of them mastering the curricula lined out in the map. But there are things I can’t tell them, things which force me to either let them down in ways they’ll probably never know about, or make Herculean efforts to do work that isn’t my own. And that’s because education is broken.

I was an Exceptional Student Education teacher and specialist in various arenas for decades. ESE is what my first degree is in, and I learned at a cutting-edge college, the University of Florida. It was a great school, and I don’t say that cavalierly, one of the top ten in the nation at the time I attended.  Back then, ESE teachers had to earn their way into certain jobs, including consultation and coteaching. Both of those positions required, at the minimum, ESE teachers with three years of independent classroom teaching experience. Not now. Now, coteachers can come straight out of college into the job, without even certification. And it’s a disaster.

Consultation and Coteaching both fell under me for the entire district for the brief period that I was acting Programs and Placement Administrator for Middle Schools, ESE Mild. That means that, including my other duties, I was in charge of both program design and teacher training for those two initiative across the entire district, all levels and settings. Although I was young and a little green, I took my work seriously and did a pretty good job. With such amazing mentors as Jewel Dickson and Joyce Lubbers, we trained, for example, coteaching teams for three full professional development days each summer. It was incredible. All were seasoned teachers; all were in those positions voluntarily. Those days are as ancient as the days of the dinosaurs at this point.

New coteachers walk into that position with sometimes zero classroom teaching experience. And, it really, really shows. One of the most incredible things some of my (anonymous) teacher friends have lately encountered is the minimalist approach to implementation of Individualized Education Plans–IEPs. I had a friend call, incredulous, to tell me she had a peer who was a consultation teacher of whom she’d asked about a student, “what is his exceptionality?”

The teacher replied, “He’s SLD.”

“Yes, but what LD?”

“Specific Learning Disabled.”

“Yes, but what is the disability? Auditory processing? Visual processing? Motor impairment? What?”

“I don’t know. SLD! The accommodations are the same for all of them, what does it matter?”

My friend was flattened. Depressed. This is a teacher who is responsible for implementing the student’s IEP and he had no idea what the student’s disability was. And, didn’t care.

More and more, this is what I am seeing across the district, when I get together with friends and I catch up on what is going on out there. I won’t go into, here, issues I have encountered, but I’ve encountered them even in the finest school I’ve ever worked in. Once upon a time, an IEP was a fluid document which supported a student in accessing his or her education in ways which accommodated his or her disability. These days, most of the time, the “educational experts” don’t even know what those disabilities are. Coteachers are pulled to administer tests, and have no idea whatsoever how to be the educational specialists they need to be. I actually viewed the current coteaching training for the district (at my request) last year. It consists of the same training materials I used to use–nineteen years ago–condensed into an hour-long presentation. Woefully unupdated, woefully impersonal.

We soldier on, but in my view (and I know, I’m a master of the obvious) education is broken.

I have no intention of leaving again, mainly because although my work is hard, I have not been asked to compromise my ethics in any way. That matters, to me. I can’t be less than my best, and I can’t not do the right things. But, I left ESE and it is very difficult for me to see the total disaster it is, now. There are some great people out there, but there’s no cohesion, guidance, rigor. Best practices is a thing of the distant past; even meeting the legal minimums of implementation of all accommodations is a chancy thing. When one discusses actually working together to ensure students with IEPs have what they need to access learning and to express it, and changing things when that isn’t working, one is met with blank stares or open derision. It’s awful. I know that I am blessed to be at the school I’m at, but I feel like I’m on an island in the midst of a raging sea, colleagues and their charges sinking around me. And the water’s creeping my way.


It’s okay to tell kids: This is not okay

Carol Ann Davis & Kate Cumiskey, Vancouver, British Columbia, 2006 Photo: Bret Lott

I like this photograph of my sister and me, taken by Bret Lott at a writers’ conference in Vancouver years ago. She and Bret worked together at the College of Charleston for a while, and by the time of this picture he’d moved to Louisiana to take over the Southern Review, and she and her husband (also a poet) edited Crazyhorse. We’d all been out to dinner, along with a bunch of students and Carol Ann and Garrett’s young son, Willem. Willem is now fourteen, and when I look at this picture I think of all of the changes we’ve been through.

Carol Ann, her husband Garrett Doherty–founding editor of Sixfold–and their two young children moved from Charleston to Connecticut in the summer of 2012; she was taking a teaching position at Fairfield University. Although it was a bit of a hike for my sister, the family searched for a town to raise the boys in, a town they felt they could stay in. Of course, the main factor was schools. They searched for the right school for Willem and Luke, then nine and five. And they found it. In Sandy Hook.

Happy to get out of Charleston and back to the northeast where Garrett was raised and they both went to college, then graduate school, it was an exciting time and my sister and I talked frequently. We’re close. She spoke of the fabulous character of the town, the landscape; the beauty of the school the boys would attend. The town reminded her, a bit, of the New Smyrna Beach of our childhood; it had that safe, small-town feel. Everyone, even little Luke, felt they’d found home.

When the massacre occurred in early December of that year, I was on the road with my husband and our oldest son between Gainesville and Orlando, driving to the airport. My cell phone rang, and Carol Ann said, “They’re alright. I want you to know the boys are alright.” She had to tell me why. We didn’t have the radio on and hadn’t seen the news.

Through a trick in zoning–what many in our extended family think of as a miracle–my nephews were bussed from their rental home to Hawley School, actually further away than Sandy Hook Elementary, while all of their neighbors attended Sandy Hook. The boys were alright. Nearly every friend my sister has lost a child.

Ever since the tragedy, my sister and her husband have consciously worked to do the right thing for their children. As all good parents would do. After, they asked Willem if he wanted to move. He told them no, this was home. And besides, wasn’t he safer here, now, than he would be at any other school in the country?

I take my cues from my sister when it comes to guns, and schools. I pay attention to what she tells me. And this is one hard lesson I’ve learned, through her: It is okay to tell the kids things are not okay.

After the church shooting in Sutherland Springs last week, I waited a day to see if the school district or the administration of the school I teach at would issue instructions for faculty in addressing this latest shooting in our nation. When I didn’t hear anything, I took matters into my own hands. I teach senior English, and I teach in a portable. I took about a minute at the beginning of each class period on Tuesday to go over some recent changes I’ve made to the portable with the students. I told them this: “Although you are all polite, I want, from now on, for you to always let me be the one to answer the door. You know I keep both doors locked. Well, if somebody knocks, even if it is just somebody late to class or coming back from the restroom, I want to be the one to answer. Always. You know that we do everything we can to keep you all safe–you’re part of drills all the time. What you may not know is this: taking those drills seriously is statistically one of the best ways to save your own life in a school shooting. Practice until it becomes reflex, knowing what to do. And remember, I am here for you. You might be bigger than me, or stronger. But it is my job to keep you just as safe as I can. And there are things which are constantly going on behind the scenes with the faculty and administration to improve safety. We are here for you. Safety comes even before learning in this classroom. Making it reflex to do what we tell you could make the difference between life and death in the event of a shooting. We cannot guarantee your safety. But I can promise you that if somebody tries to come through that door with a gun, they will have to go through me to get to you.”

The relief on the face of every student I spoke to, over one hundred and thirty of them, was uniform. It was both stunning, and sobering. These students think about this all the time. All the time. And they need to know these shootings are not normal, not okay. And, that we are thinking about them, too. It is critical that we let the students know our priorities and our perspective on the terrible massacres occurring with horrifying regularity.

After every shooting, I feel a very real need to call my sister and apologize for not voting in people who will take an aggressive stance against automatic and semiautomatic weapons, and for rigorous gun laws. I talk to her all the time about what Sandy Hook is doing for its children. I called her on that Sunday.

The following Thursday, I had a student in one of my classes get up to answer the door when somebody knocked, I said, (not his real name) “Joey, sit down. From now on, I always answer the door.” Other students quickly and quietly backed me up when he continued toward the door. He’d been absent Tuesday and hadn’t heard my talk, so I repeated it. He still had trouble understanding, was puzzled. Another boy put it bluntly for him: “If somebody with a gun comes to the door, she wants to answer it. She wants to take a bullet for you, if it comes to that.” Joey sat back down.

Parents, talk to your children about the routines of safety. Teachers, do that, too. And make sure they know that this is not alright, what is going on in our country.

Here is a link to an award-winning essay Carol Ann wrote about her experience with the Sandy Hook tragedy, read it and drop her a line at Fairfield, if you’d like:

Ana- a novel

Sorry for the pixilated nature of this draft of the front cover! The text on the right is a foldover for the front cover-imagine it just inside the book.


I’m excited to announce that my novel, Ana, will be out from Silent e Publishing in November! Ana is a fifty-eight-year-old widow living in coastal Central Florida, a transplant from New Jersey. Ana has secrets, and she wants to keep them that way-secret. Widowhood provides the perfect cover.

The format I chose for Ana allows the reader to chose how to read the book; as a light, ladies’ novel, or as a difficult comment on that most difficult aspect of the human condition-relationships. How I did this is, I added an appendix to the book which lets readers get to know characters with a sketch of each one. The story holds together, either way. You pick what you want to know about people, just as you do in real life.


Chapter 1

Usually when Ana got to the hospital for her Friday night shift on the ER desk, she was in sneakers and work out pants, and took a quick shower before she changed into her Pink Lady smock and slacks. She hoped nobody would notice her black dress and ballet flats, touch of lipstick; but the nurses, and Charley the security guard, knew her on sight. Since none of the other volunteers worked weekends, somebody would remark on her attire. Sure enough, even though she had a tearful ten-year-old with an ice pack on his wrist and a pair of anxious parents in the triage room, Judee the R.N. on duty called—as Ana scanned her keycard for the door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY—“Looking good tonight, Ana! Out on the town?”

“Just the annual library appreciation dinner.”

“Ana, I swear, you’re the busiest person in town. They ought to give you a key to the city. Not too bad in here tonight. Pretty slow for a Friday.”

Judee turned back to the little boy, Billy Preston. Ana knew him from church. He was the waterboy for the J.V. football team; somebody must have fumbled right into him. Ana let the door close behind her and headed for the locker room. She passed local Art Guild paintings and photographs in the wide hallway. Her favorite was John Clinton’s panoramic photograph of the Confederate oak at Old Fort Park, across from the city marina. A wonder it never sold; she’d been here going on four years and that picture greeted her, day and night, on her way to change.

The locker room was in the old part of the hospital, along with the morgue and the laundry; its door required an old-fashioned key. Ana kept one on her ring and fished it out of her one and only black pocket book; a leather hobo bag Frank brought back from Quebec. She usually left the purse rolled in a towel on the top shelf of her locker. Ana almost never dressed up, and customarily carried a backpack. Before she rewrapped the bag in the towel, Ana took her sneakers, sweat pants, and t-shirt out of it. She put the sneakers on the floor, tossed the clothes in the uniform hamper. Saturdays she washed and ironed all the volunteer smocks anyway, and nobody else was going to be in before she did that. Never hurt to add a few of her own things to a load.  The budget committee was glad to spring for the washer, dryer, iron, and ironing board when Ana proposed she do all the uniforms for the week after her Friday shift.

She sat down on the bed, surplus from when the hospital upgraded, to remove her stockings and flats. The flats fit neatly next to her leather bag; the stockings she stashed in the delicates bag hanging from the locker’s cross bar. Her own uniform smock and slacks hung on a wire hanger and she took them with her into the bathroom to change, even though nobody else was coming in. She preferred to change in private, not take a chance of an embarrassing moment. Above all things, Ana valued privacy.

Ana liked working the weekend third shift, and the staff appreciated it because most volunteers worked days or early evenings, so the paid staff had to screen incomers to the ER themselves at night. Billy had been taken back by the time Ana sat down behind the reception desk. The security guard sat alone in the waiting room, watching Fox News. Ana would probably work until about two in the morning, unless things got very busy. Generally on the weekends there were a few walk-ins, but the more serious cases came in by ambulance, bypassing Ana completely.

There were forms to sort from the morning shift—Peggy Phillips and Roger Ahern had worked together; they always left paperwork on the reception desk. Ana gathered the intake forms, scanned her security card for the double doors to the hallway, and slipped them into the inbox for the insurance department to handle Monday morning. She returned to the waiting room to find a bleeding man in the chair, patiently waiting, next to her desk.

“Hello, I’m Ana. I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you came in. What’s your name?”

“Andy McNamara,” replied the man. He had a dirty white t-shirt pressed to his forehead above his right eye, visible scrapes on both elbows. He looked about sixty: he was deeply tanned, with a white beard and moustache, and the yellowed eyes of an alcoholic.

“Well, Mr. McNamara, if you don’t mind I will just fill out your intake form for you since your hands are full, and you can sign once we get you cleaned up, how’s that?”

Something snapped to attention, a sort of puzzlement crossed his face, when Ana said Mr. He straightened his spine and pushed back into the chair. “Alright,” he said softly.

“Okay, so why don’t we start with what happened.”

“Well, I fell off of my bicycle. I saw the sign for the hospital, I was right down on Dixie Freeway, and walked my bike here to see if I could get fixed up.”

“We’ll get a nurse to take a look at you soon.” Out of the corner of her eye Ana saw Judee studiously ignoring them. She was great with locals—and tourists with insurance—but not so good with drunks and the homeless. Ana, on the other hand, had a talent with downtrodden patients. “What is your age?”



“Well, ma’am, I’m traveling. I’m just sort of…passing through. I’m originally from Teaneck, New Jersey.”

“We get a lot of visitors here from New York and New Jersey. Particularly this time of year and also in winter, when they like to get away from the cold weather. And do you have any insurance?”

“Well,” his gaze dropped, “I haven’t gotten round to applying down here.”

The security guard gave a loud snort, not taking his eyes from the television, beer-belly bouncing beneath crossed forearms.

“Okay. Don’t worry about that right now. It can be taken care of, retroactively,  after you’re seen. Here’s a worksheet on that; I’ll put it with your paperwork. You can complete it at the local library, because some of it needs to be done online. It just needs to be done within thirty days of being seen here. The library is right down the road, about a quarter mile south of the hospital. Here. You can sign after you get cleaned up; give the hospital copies to the staff back in the ER after that, please, and let me put this bracelet on. Which hand do you write with? Thank you. You can stay right there until the nurse can see you. As you can see, we aren’t very busy at the moment.”

Ana could see Judee and was willing to bet she wasn’t charting anything, but playing solitaire on the computer. She smiled at the patient, got up and carried his paperwork to the triage room. Yep, solitaire. Judee closed it with a deep sigh and shot Ana a conspiratorial, put-upon glance: Don’t you just hate dealing with these people? Ana kept her face carefully neutral. Judee was the professional, after all. Ana was just a volunteer.

“Andy?” Judee called from across the room, not bothering to get up, “In here, please. Let’s get your vital signs.”

At that moment, the automatic doors to the outside slid open and a pack of teens came in escorting a boy wearing dripping wet baggies and a rash guard. Night surfing, no doubt. Ana put on a careful smile and handed one of the kids a clipboard with a blank intake form. It might be an interesting night, after all.

Sample from the appendix:


Page 4.

Usually when Ana Ana (Therill) Mills is 58 years old. She was born in Gainesville, Florida, on October 6th, 1956. She grew up in Flagler Beach, Florida, the fourth of five children. Her mother was an avid reader, volunteer at the local library, and chair of the visitation committee at the First Baptist Church. Ana was baptized on Mother’s Day, 1964. The Therill family attended church on Sunday mornings for Sunday school and worship service, Sunday evening, and Wednesday night for prayer meeting throughout Ana’s childhood.  Her father was Sunday School director and chair of the finance committee. He was from Greenwood, Mississippi, an orphan, and earned a degree in civil engineering from Georgia Tech through the Navy ROTC program. He worked for a surveying company in Jacksonville, Florida, after the Navy, where he met Ana’s mother. When Ana was four years old, he went to work for NASA. Ana didn’t know what he did for a living but she got to watch all the launches at Cape Canaveral from the VIP stands with her mother, brothers, and sisters.

Ana met Frank Mills in drama class their sophomore year in high school. He liked her long blond hair and used to sit behind her and play with it. They married right out of high school; Frank did three years in the Army, then went to work for the Florida East Coast Railroad, and later for Amtrak. He was a station manager, and transferred to New Jersey. Their daughter Ella was born five years later. Ana stayed home with the children. After Frank died, she moved to the town of Robinson, Florida, forty miles south of Flagler Beach.

Sure enough, even Judee Marquetta Golden is 36 years old. She is a single mother, never married, of two teenaged girls. She has been a nurse for five years, having worked nights as a certified nursing assistant at a nursing home to put herself through nursing school. Her fourteen year old daughter is mildly mentally handicapped, and three months pregnant by someone she met at the all-children’s playground. Judee is a Robinson native, born in the hospital she works at. She doesn’t vote or care about politics, but she is deathly afraid of men and of sharks. She doesn’t swim and she doesn’t date.  Her oldest daughter is the result of a gang rape at a frat house party.

Judee turned back Billy Everett Preston 11,  is an honor roll fifth grader at Ponce DeLeon Elementary in Haven Beach. He has a big brother who is on the high school basketball team. Billy has red hair and freckles and his ears stick out. His parents won’t let him wear his hair long enough to cover them, so he wears a baseball cap whenever possible. He sleeps in a baseball cap in hopes that it will move his ears closer to his head. He gets teased at school, called Billy Billy Big Ears. His hero is his big brother, who got him the job as waterboy for the football team. They let him wear a ball cap to all the games. He has a secret crush on a girl in his class named Brooklyn who wears combat boots and long skirts year-round. She is skinny and has and auditory processing deficit, so she never says anything in class and has to sit next to the teacher’s desk.

Her favorite was John (no middle name) Clinton, 68, is a retired astrophysicist from New Mexico who moved to Robinson six years ago. After the desert, Robinson seemed impossibly crowded and close. He bought a good camera and started taking pictures of things which bothered him, like SUV’s and trucks and recyclables in garbage cans. Once he began to feel a part of the town and to accept it, he started taking pictures of flora unfamiliar from his past life in New Mexico. He is particularly fond of photographing live oak trees. He lives with his life-partner in a condo in Haven Beach, a retired army colonel  named Casey Lovett. They enjoy walking the beach at low-tide with a garden trowel and metal detector. The most interesting thing they had found, so far, is a World War Two era Nazi wristwatch inscribed, Hauptmann , Stumm, unter , und tödlich, Ihr Führer.

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Ana kept one Frank Marcus Mills (deceased) was born in 1955 in Kenosha, Wisconsin, the middle child of  Lee and Sarah (Clancy) Mills. He was raised Catholic and as the second son expected to go into the priesthood. When his parents moved to the Florida coast, Frank was fourteen. His father was part of a new real estate venture seeking to aggressively convert the small town of Flagler Beach to a wealthy retirement destination for northerners. Frank’s mother’s role was to run a wine and cheese store catering to these clients. The store was only partially successful; the Mills’ hadn’t counted on the tea-totalling nature of the local population. After their children were grown they retired to coastal Maryland, finding the Florida summers increasingly brutal.

Frank fell in love with Ana Therill the first time he saw her, walking down the beach in a brown and white cotton bikini which was too big in the butt and threatened to fall off every time she walked from the dune line to the water. He also fell in love with the ocean and collected soda bottles and mowed lawns to buy his first surfboard. Frank shared a bedroom with his brother, and one evening as they were falling asleep, Montgomery described in horrible detail a sexual encounter he had with a thirteen year old boy, a runaway, in Jacksonville Beach the previous night. Frank punched his brother in the mouth, got dressed and grabbed his wallet, climbed out the bedroom window, took his surfboard from the side of the house and went down to the beach. The next morning, Frank went to a phone booth and made an anonymous call to the department of children and families, reporting what his brother had done. He camped under the boardwalk and the following Monday enlisted in the Army. He never told anyone else what his brother had done, but he also never spoke to Montgomery again.

Frank married Ana and they had two children. He was eleven years short of retirement when he got sick and lost his job with the railroad. He had recently been converted to part-time but never told his wife. His death by Huntington’s ate up all savings and assets which were in his own name.

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There were some Margaret Bridgett (McNaulty) Phillips is 67 years old, and had been married at eighteen to her high school sweetheart, Roberto, in Charleston, South Carolina. She worked as an eighth grade science teacher at a private school and he was the custodian there. Both wanted children, but they were unable to have them. When they were sixty two, Roberto and Margaret retired to Robinson. Roberto spent his days fishing in a john boat on the Intracoastal Waterway. Margaret does cross stitch, watches soap operas on television, and volunteers three afternoons a week at the hospital. She fell in love and began a flirtation, what she hoped would turn into an affair, with Roger Ahern, a widower from Monterey, California.

Roger Ryan Ahern 83, is a north California native who worked in the canneries from the time he dropped out of high school at fifteen until he was seventy two years old. He is six foot five, and weighs three hundred four pounds. Powerful as a young man, all his muscle had gone to fat as soon as he left the cannery. Roger is a gregarious octogenarian who likes the ladies and had twin daughters, Breck and Brock, in the Navy. They would both reach retirement in three years and his secret dread was that they would retire to Robinson. He collects postage stamps and spends his free time and his saving studying for and traveling to philatelic conventions and auctions. He is fond of Mrs. Phillips but has no intention of entering into a relationship with her outside of joking around when on duty at the hospital. He volunteers because he swore he would to his dying wife, who passed away at the Robinson hospital of a burst appendix five years ago.

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“Andy McNamara,” replied Andrew Elvis MacNamara IV ,47. He served his country as an CIA agent based in Langley, Virginia, for fourteen years, joining the agency immediately after receiving his master’s in psychology from Harvard University at 23 years old. He came from a long line of patriots; both of his parents had been eastern bloc spies during the Cold War. His grandfather was a Navy flyer killed in the raid on Tokyo following the attack on Pearl Harbor. Andy had foregone family life and friendship for service to his country. In an undercover job in 2005, he failed to notice an asset slipping a powerful drug into his drink at a crucial moment; the mistake resulted in the deaths of three agents. Andy lost his job and climbed into a bottle; he eventually was evicted from his apartment and began walking toward Florida, with a vague notion of suicide in Key West as the sun sunk beneath the horizon and the revelers around him cheered. He planned to swim until he sank.

The security guard Terrell Elias Realmuto, 39, works two jobs; as a cop in Port Orange and as security guard at the hospital. He and his wife, Earline, lived with Terrell’s mother in West Robinson. They had two children in college, boys, at Florida State. Both won scholarships for baseball, one was a pitcher, the other a catcher. Terrell worked so much that he only had time for one hobby—he belonged to a hunt club where he hunted wild pigs with nothing but a bowie knife. He went on four hunts a year and bagged a hog every time.  Terrell drank Miller High Life and fell asleep in front of the television on his rare days off.


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At that moment Lynn Thomas Till, 17, had Asperger’s syndrome. The thing he wanted most in the world was friends, so he learned to surf. He read everything he could about surfing and surfers, and sat on the beach and watched for three years before trying it. He had perfect technique, and could not understand why the other surfers his age laughed at him or yelled at him no matter what he did or said.  He had heard some boys he knew from school arguing that nobody was brave enough to night surf in these shark-infested waters, so Lynn said, “I will.” The event was scheduled for Friday night, and all the boys showed up to watch; there was a full moon. Several girls showed up too, which Lynn hadn’t expected. Two of them, the Johnston twins, Jessica and Jenna, begged him not to go out. He got nipped by something after his first ride, close to shore. Jessica and Jenna drove him to the hospital, followed by a jeep full of boys.