For the day of his funeral, July 14, 2017 – by Susan Parlato Revels

“Vinnie,” I heard my mom say, “Susan is not breathing any better.” From under the towel with my head over a bowl of steaming water, I listened to my parents, Vinnie and Barb Parlato, discuss my condition. 

“I think I need to take her into the hospital,” said Dad. Once again, my lungs were the seat of some infection that constricted the bronchi. This time, the midnight steaming didn’t break up the phlegm. At 12 years old, on a bitter night in the dead of March, the only thing I wanted was to crawl back into my warm bed. Instead, I was bundled in a parka and into the truck, nightgown and all, and Dad and I headed out into the darkness.

It was one of those nights where the sky was cloudless and any heat the earth had gathered from the day was shunted off into space. It left the air crisp to the resistant membranes of my lungs. My fevered body withdrew deeper into the parka. The truck rumbled along to the sound of the tires muffled on snow packed pavement, and my wheezing. We wound through deserted streets and came to a stop at Oneida City Hospital on Main.

I followed my dad through the astringent air towards the entrance. What I didn’t know was how that air was causing a break up of mucus in my chest. As we walked through the doors into the vacant reception room, some congested plug deep in my lungs broke loose and completely blocked the passages. All breathing ceased. I dropped to the floor. Without air flow, I couldn’t shout out to tell my father something was wrong. I watched as Dad walked toward the nurse at the reception desk, unaware of the emergency unfolding behind him. How could I get his attention? I flattened my palms and began smacking them against the tiles, hoping he would hear the slaps. The nurse pointed at me. “Your daughter! Your daughter!” Dad turned to see me, and ran.  

He scooped me up and carried me down a hallway, busting through the doors into the emergency unit.

“My daughter can’t breathe,” he screamed. Staff whisked me into an exam room pulling off my parka and beating my back. Up onto an exam table. Lights. Shouting. Beating. Faces. Hands. One nurse had just pulled off my night gown when suddenly, the beating loosened the plug and with one wretching movement I vomited a great volume of green mucus into the hands of the nurse standing in front of me right into my nightgown. I looked with consternation at what had just exited my lungs.

“Wow,” I thought. “I am sick.”
I could breathe again, with strident whistles. They admitted me that night and put me in an oxygen tent. A tracheotomy tray stood at the ready if needed. Dad saw me settled in.  He went home. I went to sleep. Years later, reflecting on that whole incident, I never thought I would die, nor was I afraid. Why would I be. Everything would be okay because, my Dad was there. 

I remember being small and carried in the muscled arms of my father. The world looked different at 6’3”. We crawled on his broad back when he’d lay on the floor to read the funny papers which sometimes descended into tickles and laughter. On occasion, we’d watch fleas jump across the outspread paper. “Barbara! We have to bomb the living room!” The animals would all get new flea collars.

Dad always found extra work to supplement his day job as in industrial arts teacher at Canastota High School.  There was Ackerman Construction in the summers. Carl’s Drug Store at night. From our beds, we’d hear him return home from his night job. Did he bring ice cream this time? He’d come to the bottom of the stairs and shout, “WHO WANTS A MILKSHAKE?!” Five voices shouted, “I do!” and ten feet would stampede down the stairs. In his forties he decided to learn the horseshoeing trade, and that was his second job for the next 15 years.

Music often filled the house on Lake Road. When Clair de Lune was played, Dad would sit for the length of it with eyes closed. Nat King Cole, Frank Sinatra, The Glenn Miller Orchestra were regular fare. Mom and Dad would dance in synchrony around the family room. As a child, I’d stand on his construction boot toes and have him whirl me around in a fox trot. As I grew older, I learned the steps myself, and how to follow his lead.

On summer mornings when teenagers want to sleep in, Dad would stand at the bottom of the stairs and yell, “Everybody up! We have work to do!” No stampede to these words. Weeding the very large garden with 90 tomato plants alone. Canning and freezing vegetables. Grooming horses. Cleaning the barn. During hay bailing season, my brother would drive the tractor. Two sisters would be up on the hay wagon. I wanted to be with my father, walking alongside and throwing bales up to my sisters, hayseed weaseling down inside my overalls. At the end of a long day, he’d plop down in his arm chair and put up his feet. “Can you pull my boots off please?” One of us would bend to untie his boots. Once the second one came off he’d reach out to try to touch us with his sweaty toes, laughing. “Ew Dad, Ewwww!” Seasons came and went. The leaves changing color - always a time of wonder for my father. And when geese filled the skies for their southern migration, Dad would shout, “Geese! The geese are flying!” and we’d pour out the door to stand, watch, and listen with him. 

Life threw its share of wrenches into the works. Jamie, my baby brother, died. My mom got sick. Our family was in trauma and as a teenager, for the first time I saw my father cry. When he leaned over to rest his head on my shoulder and weep, I felt inadequate. How could I, one so insignificant compared to this mountain of a man, be strong enough to support him in his need? I wished I could have been bigger for him. 

Time brought the children leaving Lake Road bound for college or the military. One winter I returned for an 8-month period while seeking my next job opportunity. After work, while sitting in the sunroom reading, I’d feel the room shake as Dad made his way to sit in a chair near me, just to talk.  This became a pattern between us for many months. I eventually found a job that would take me far away, to New Mexico. I could hear the dread in his voice as the day for my departure drew near. That day, he helped me pack my life into a car to drive 2000 miles across the country, alone.

“I want you to call me, every night, when you’ve gotten into a motel.”

“It’ll have to be collect calls, Dad.”

“I don’t care. Call me. Every night.” He hugged and kissed me goodbye, then walked back into the house choking back tears. He couldn’t watch me drive away. 

But their visits to New Mexico brought adventure. Their first time out I didn’t know what my parents would do just hanging around my house, so I planned a road trip.  How would it be traveling in the car with them for 7 whole days? But the first day out, a half hour into the journey, Dad said, “Geez every time you turn a corner here, there’s something new to look at!” His appreciation for the grandeur of nature became more and more apparent to me. We found potsherds at Chaco Canyon and went camping in the Kaibab Forest of the Grand Canyon. Sitting around the evening campfire surrounded by darkened forests, he kept the machete close at hand. “I don’t know about this,” he said smiling. “I feel naked without my gun.”

Over the years, we would talk of God and the future. “Look Dad. Isaiah says that God will create a new heavens and a new earth, and they will be so spectacular, we won’t even remember the old ones. Can you imagine? And Dad. Isaiah says, ‘They shall build houses, and inhabit them, they shall plant vineyards, and eat the fruit of them. They shall long enjoy the work of their hands.’ Dad, we’ll be working with our hands in heaven, planting, and eating the harvest.” He listened.

He resisted scripture at first. But as years went by, and life became more burdensome, Dad began to see God’s hand more clearly. A cane became a walker. A walker became a wheelchair. He began to see God everywhere. At first, it was in the parking lot at Walmart.

“Sooz, I’ll be driving up to Walmart praying about how I’m gonna get in the door.  And when I drive up, a handicapped parking spot opens, or someone’s coming out with a scooter!”

“Yeah Dad. Isn’t that amazing? And remember, God is more than just a parking lot god. He wants you to trust him with the big things, as well as your parking space.”

Dad began to speak to God outright and acknowledge Him day to day.  He turned to contemplate his life, and eventually came to recognize all along where God had stepped in to set a different course. He saw that nowhere more so than when as a young soldier, he was on his way to Korea, and Providence intervened to change his deployment to Japan instead, and he survived the war.  As his days grew difficult, he would call on Jesus to help him stand to his walker. “Help me Jesus. Help me Jesus.” Watching my father decline in strength and ability was grueling to witness. But hearing his whispered pleas to Jesus gave me that peace that goes beyond all understanding.

 My father could be opinionated and stubborn, as well as loving and loyal. But he instilled in us, his children, a fierce work ethic, and galloping independence. A respect for higher education, and an appreciation of nature. We are all highly opinionated, stubborn, loving and loyal….in our own ways. Although, we do get rid of a lot more things than he did. 

Job, the most ancient book in the Bible, is about a man who lived well before the Law was given to Moses. Job knew that God was his Redeemer. He was tested beyond strength, yet in his testing he said, “For I know that my Redeemer lives and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth.  And though after my skin, worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh - shall I see God: Whom I shall see for myself, and mine eyes shall behold, and not another.” Job believed in the resurrection, and when God returned to stand upon this earth, Job would be there, in his very flesh, to see God with his own eyes. My father will be there too. And so will I. Until then, Clair de Lune will always move me to tears, and hearing the mournful call of geese flying overhead will stop me in my tracks. 

One day, I will see my Father again. But he will be different. No gray hair. No weakened muscles. He will no longer have need a of a walker. And he will run. He will run to me and whirl me around in his arms and say, “Sooz I’ve missed you!” and then show me around Paradise. We will dig rows in the soil and cover over the seeds with our hands. And I’m sure, we will each reach for a sun-kissed tomato from his 90 tomato plants, pull them fresh from the vine, rub them against our shirts, and bite into their sweet warm flesh, again and again, and again. 

My name is Susan Parlato Revels, Vincent’s daughter. Thank you for coming out to remember my father today.  Thank you for listening to my stories. At the reception, I hope to hear some of yours.

My father sat in the cardiologist’s waiting room as the nurse took my mom back for a stress test. It would be awhile. Dad thumbed through magazines and people-watched to pass the time. 

“Mr. Revels,” called the nurse. 

Dad looked up when he heard the name. Revels, he thought. An older Black gentleman stood to follow the nurse. My father watched him cross the room and wondered if he could be related to my husband. Revels was not a common name. This was upstate NY, and I Iived 2000 miles west in Albuquerque. There couldn’t possibly be a connection, he mused. But he waited, and watched the door for Mr. Revels. 

Dad was Italian, and growing up Italian in the 1930s and 40s meant that like many other first generation immigrants trying to assimilate, there were challenges. If your last name carried a vowel at the end, you were closed out of some circles of society. The dark-skinned Sicilians especially were targets of mistrust and contempt. In the south, they were sometimes listed as “black” on census forms, and some became victims of lynching. As they vied for social mobility in direct competition with those in the Black community, schisms formed between the two cultures and Italians worked to distinguish themselves from their rivals. My dad tried to teach his children to do the same. He taught me his tricks. His fears. His angst. His wheeling, dealing way of bargaining through life.

I grew up hearing the Italian words that communicated contempt for Black people.  When my sister dated a mixed-race young man in high school, Dad bit his lip. “She’ll grow out of it,” he said. When I started dating Black men in college, Dad disallowed my youngest sister from attending the same university out of concern for my influence on her. “I don’t want another daughter dating tsootsoons”. 

But time and contact with my circle of friends began showing my father a new way to connect with Black people. He slowly started to disengage from the assumptions of his past. It was a feat then for him, years later, to say yes to my husband Scott, who is Black, and Scott’s request for permission to marry me. My father was adding to his repertoire of tools for engaging the world. 

Dad watched the door for Mr. Revels to emerge, hoping it would happen before my mom was done. His mind ticked off the questions he might ask this man, if he had the chance. 

The door opened. 

“Excuse me,” said Dad. He stood and approached the gentleman. “Did I hear your name was Revels?”

“Yes,” said the man.

Dad said he had a puzzled look on his face as Dad came near. “My daughter married a Revels. Scott Revels. They live in New Mexico. Do you happen to be of any relation to Scott?”

“Scottie? In Albuquerque? ” said the man. “Yes! That’s Jim’s son! With his other two boys, John and Jim! And daughter, Andrea. Yes those are my cousin's children!”

“Wow,” said Dad. “He’s my daughter’s husband. This is unbelievable. What a small world we live in. I’m Vinnie Parlato. So nice to meet you.” He held out his hand in greeting.

“Nice to meet you,” said the gentleman. His look of puzzlement bloomed into a smile as he took my father's hand. “I’m Thomas Revels. So Scottie is your son-in-law?”

They traded details about their lives and this odd discovery of having a familial connection with a total stranger. They lived a mere 30 miles apart. Dad pulled out his wallet and together they stood in the waiting room flipping through photos of my son and daughter - children that they were both related to by blood. 

“This is my grandson, Cole. And my granddaughter Gianina,” said Dad.

“Scottie’s children,” said Thomas, shaking his head. “Wow. Those are Scottie’s children.”

Dad called me immediately upon returning home that afternoon, excited to tell me about this chance encounter. He had reached a point in life where he was beginning to recognize God’s hand in orchestrating such strange occurrences. I was fascinated to hear him reiterate this story, and felt my heart skip a beat or two. You could hear the smile in his voice and his wonder at the impossibility of such a confluence of circumstances. I imagined them standing there, these two older men who had never met before - one Black, one White - as they perused pictures of two small children, their shared kin. It warmed me to know that my father carried around the photos of my son and daughter, and shared them with pride that they were his grandchildren. His brown grandchildren, whom he loved. The “old dog”. He had learned some new tricks. What a different man than the one I grew up with. Neither he nor I could have imagined this was even possible, fifty years ago. 
  
“No one is born hating another person because of the color of his skin, or his background, or his religion. People must learn to hate, and if they can learn to hate, they can be taught to love, for love comes more naturally to the human heart than its opposite.”
                                                         ― Nelson Mandela, Long Walk to Freedom
 
 
 

"Geez," said the barber as he looked at the pile of severed braids in my hand. "She bold alright. She bold. "

He watched as Lisa, his fellow stylist and the shop's owner, ran clippers through what hair was left on my daughter's head. She has the thickest hair I have ever seen on anyone. Beautiful, but dense hair that took hours for me to wash, comb, condition and style when she was little. As Gianina grew older and took on the responsibility for her own tresses, the laborious care became overbearing. Recently, she decided she'd had enough and was ready to go ahead with getting "The Big Chop". Yes, she is bold.

Lisa the owner giving Gianina "The Big Chop" at Hair Studio L-M in Albuquerque.  Check them out on Facebook at Hairstudio LM. 

"The Big Chop is the process of cutting off the relaxed or permed ends of one's hair when she is transitioning from chemically processed hair to natural hair. Timing the big chop is a big decision for many napptural women who have decided they want to wear their hair natural. " That's what they say at NaturallyCurly.com

My daughter never had a perm. Her hair was occasionally straightened. Often braided or twisted.  Black friends and even strangers frequently remarked on how much hair she had and how healthy it was. Recently, two African-American women selling flat irons at a mall kiosk wanted to sell her one.

"Oh honey you have such beautiful hair. Let us just straighten one little piece to show you how it looks."

"Well," said Gianina, "the iron might work nicely but I'm getting it all cut off on Saturday."

"Whaaat?  Why? All cut off?  But it's so pretty!" They could not fathom her desire to lop off all that length.

There has historically been a strong association between femininity, beauty and a copious mane. This is true in most cultures, but especially so in the Black community, which has in turn spawned an industry well supplied with wigs, extensions and weaves. Additionally, finding the right products for moisturizing, de-tangling, deep conditioning, de-frizzing, and curl-activating among the thousands on the market, can be daunting. Black hair is a demanding task-master for both time and purse if you're going to wear it long. Yet for decades, there has been an inter-generational dialog about how "good" hair in the Black community was too closely aligned to the idea of having long, straight hair as represented in a White standard of beauty. In the past few years,  more Black women have begun to question that standard and have looked towards embracing the ease and beauty of wearing their hair short and natural. 

Enter my daughter, Gianina, and her discovery on youtube. One just has to google "big chop" and up pops a myriad of videos of Black women documenting their journey to natural. Many said that too often with their hair styled longer, people only saw their hair and stopped there.  With the short do, their faces shine through, and their real beauty can be seen. They stand taller, and even walk differently.  Several days of viewing caused Gianina to come to me and ask if she could get a TWA a.k.a. Teeny Weeny Afro. I smiled.  My baby girl, so dauntless and daring at sixteen years old.  I wanted her to feel empowered by her decision. 

"It's your hair. It will always grow back if you don't like it," I said.  "You do with it whatever makes you happy." 

What resonated the most with her from the videos was the word "freedom." She was reaching to recapture the time her hair demanded of her, giving her the breathing space to do other things.

Thank you, Black women everywhere, for being such role models for my daughter, and for sharing your bravery and your knowledge.  We made the appointment.

"Okay, are you ready?" asked Lisa, scissors poised at the first braid. 

"Yes," said Gianina. No hesitation. That bold grin radiated across her face.

Snip!

One down. Ten to go.

Liberation. 

                                   Eliza with her baby running to freedom.

I  just got back from a morning walk, which took me past a bike lane underpass. Two young homeless men were camped out there with a spread of tents, shopping carts, and a dog. They were out working on their stuff. One was shirtless. I stopped briefly, said hello, exchanged beautiful weather comments, said, "Be safe", and went on my way.

Walking back home and past them again, I hollered, "Don't get a sunburn!"

"I already got one!" the shirtless man said, grinning back.

"Ach. Okay. Well take care of yourselves!" They waved back. 10 seconds later I hear footsteps running up behind me.

"Excuse me ma'am!"

I stopped and faced the shirtless one as he approached, thinking he was going to ask me for something.

He has something in his hand.  "Most people are rude. So......"

Then he handed me this watch - the one on the right. He wanted to GIVE me something, out of his treasure.

"Oh! Thank you!" I said. And hugged him. And put it on.

"Oh," he said. "And it's not stolen. I found it."

"Well, I didn't go there," I said."

"Well, some things just have to be said," he assured me.

It's a cheapy little thing without a crystal. But how precious. The treasure is not in the value of the object. The treasure is in a heart that was touched, simply by words spoken, human to human. I'll wear it because I need to remember this young man, and the response of the human heart, no matter the race, creed or color,  to respect and simple kindness.

Vincent F. Parlato - early 1980s - my father

The garbage truck roared it's way towards our house. My sister, Lisa, and I, jumped up from the couch to peek out the window. This was before the days of automated sanitation trucks that lift your plastic trash bin with a mechanical arm. Back in the day, it took real men all sweaty and muscled to hoist your trashcan by hand and dump it in the back of the truck. Men with youth, and vigor, ripped abs and brawny biceps in jeans and t-shirts clingy with perspiration. For two teen-aged country girls living in rural upstate New York, the weekly arrival of the garbage truck was a Junior Chippendales event.  

My father, "Vinnie", chuckled at our gawking, amused with his oldest daughters and their newfound interest in the masculine form. 

"Who's out there today?" he said. 

Dad walked up to gawk out the window too.  The truck halted at our driveway and two young men emerged and descended upon our trashcans.  One was Black.  One was White. 

"Hey, the moolie's here! " he cracked, laughing.

"Daaaaad! Stop it!" my sister and I both said. 

Moolie.  Short for "moulinyan", an Italian word meaning "eggplant".  It is a derogatory term that refers to a Black person akin to using the "N" word in English. It was difficult to hear my father say this.  Harder still to stop him from saying it. Some internal force tightened in my stomach.

My dad was a first generation immigrant.  His father emigrated from Sicily, landing at Ellis Island in the early 1900s during "The Great Arrival", an influx of southern Italians seeking a new life in America.  Grandpa settled in Buffalo, New York. What I didn't know until years later was he entered into a society that, as it has been for decades, placed a value on how light your skin was.  At that time, Italians, especially the dark, swarthy Sicilians, were viewed with malice and suspicion.  In the South for many years they were labeled as "black" on census records, and even became the victims of lynching. The closer to "white" you were, the better your chance of obtaining employment, safety and acceptance.  Italians and Blacks were in direct competition for jobs and upward mobility, so Italians made every effort to differentiate themselves from their African American counterparts. This was the atmosphere into which my father was born in 1932.  There he assimilated all the contempt and condescension towards a people he considered to be his rivals in school, in society, and in life. 

I loved my dad.  6'3" with massive arms and legs like tree trunks.  He was big and hairy and loud in language and laughter.  His presence filled a room.  I was safe with him, and I was sure he knew everything.  I remember the day I found out he did wrong things sometimes.  I was in first grade, sitting with my little girl friends around a cafeteria lunch table.  Amid glass milk bottles and the crinkle of the wax paper around our sandwiches, we complained about boys, and Rodney in particular. 

"I don't like Rodney," said Nancy. 
"I don't like him either.  He's mean," said Faith. 
"Me neither, " I chimed.  "He's a real bastard."
Collective gasp. 
"Uh ohhhhh!" said Shirley. " You said a swear word!"
"No I didn't."  I knew I hadn't.
"Yes you did," said Janice.  "That's a swear word!"
"No it's not.  My dad says it all the time." I sucked my teeth.  What did they know! 

I was sure my dad would never swear.  Until I went home and asked my mom. 

"Mom, is bastard a swear word?"
"Yes, Susan, it is.  You should never say it." 

Wow.  My dad - swears. I was so crushed and confused.  My dad is good.  Why does he do this bad thing? 

As I grew older I eventually learned about slavery in America, the Triangular Trade, the Civil War and the tragic history of my country.  As a New Yorker, I self-identified with the abolitionist leanings of "The North", wanting to disassociate myself from this brutal past.  I was glad my genetic roots hailed from somewhere outside the US.  I learned in school that oppression of Black people was identified as something immoral and destructive.  But here in my own home, was this father I loved, who spoke so disparagingly about Black people.  A father that said and thought "bad things."  And then there was my mother, who taught me to never use the "N" word.  How could my parents be so different?  How could I reconcile all this in my heart? 

Young adulthood would bring further division, and further challenges to the contradictory beliefs in my head vying for definition. Enter the age of cognitive dissonance and it’s crucible of discovery. 


         "Racism is still with us. But it is up to us to prepare our children for
          what they have to meet, and, hopefully, we shall overcome."

                                                                                        -  Rosa Parks

Whether you like new Secretary of Education Betsy DeVos or not.....there is a larger issue. In the past number of years, including my relatively few months on Facebook, I have read all manner of complaints about our nation's public school system including the following:

1.   Standards- too much testing; teaching to the test; Common Core – to keep or not to keep?
2.   Teachers- being UNFAIRLY evaluated based on test scores of students - TEACHERS THREATENING A WALK-OUT IN ALBUQUERQUE
3. Non-competitive salaries - teaching is one of the lowest paid careers for bachelors/masters level professionals; ALBUQUERQUE PUBLIC SCHOOLS (APS) wanting to CUT SALARIES THIS PAST FALL
4.   Shortage of teachers – who wants to go into the profession THAT PAYS SO POORLY???
5.   Large class sizes
6.   Race Disparity – children of color are increasingly under performing in reading and math readiness in our public schools, and the gap continues to grow https://www.brookings.edu/…/7-findings-that-illustrate-rac…/
7.    Breakdown of family- family issues that teachers must remediate; lack of family involvement; single parent families-stressed parents and children
8.   Poverty- lower student vocabulary and language abilities upon entering school leads to lack of school readiness; poorer sleep and diet; students tired and hungry when arriving at school; large number of students on free lunch and breakfast programs
9.   Poverty areas –less money to schools; FEWER RESOURCES; HIGH CRIME AREAS; BROKEN DOWN FACILITIES; DEPRESSED ENVIRONMENTS IN WHICH CHILDREN MUST LEARN
10.   Budget cuts - in music, the arts and physical education; obesity epidemic; reduction of nurses, counselors, social workers – all while dealing with the needs that come with special needs students, fractured families and at risk-children living in poverty
11.    Passing to next grade level for social reasons (age of student) when student has not mastered reading and math; IF they are college bound, number of college students in remedial classes “to catch up” has increased
12. The ABYSMAL number of “failing schools” in Albuquerque: http://aae.ped.state.nm.us/SchoolGra…/…/School%20Listing.pdf

Recently, when DeVos was going through the vetting process, there was an uproar about her being against public education. Accusations of privatization! School choice! HORRORS! Why? The public education system is a shambles. Fewer and fewer people want to consider entering the teaching profession since our culture so devalues it already! The government has had DECADES to try and address the miseries of the system. Money has been thrown at the problem for YEARS….across both political parties. Yet here we stand.

Personally, I am for public schools, AND school choice. My son and daughter attend two different public high schools…...however…..not the local high school. We have always  taken our children out of district due to the under-functioning, even dangerous schools within our district. We applied for and received in-system transfers to schools with better track records and we have transported them since day one of kindergarten. BUT WE HAD THE ABILITY, VEHICLES AND MONEY FOR FUEL THAT GAVE US THAT CHOICE! How many people do not, and are then STUCK with the school that happens to be closest? If they are poor, too bad for them. I have also seen the increase of charter schools in APS……BECAUSE PARENTS ARE FED UP WITH THEIR LACK OF OPTIONS IN THE SYSTEM and the FAILING GRADES OF THE PUBLIC SCHOOLS! Somebody is sending all these children to this uptick in charter schools so my guess is, there are a lot of folks out there who are not so offended with DeVos' proclivities toward "choice". 

I also work in a private school for the deaf. I believe in the private education we offer. Why? Because the options for deaf preschoolers using spoken language in the local public school system is incredibly substandard. The special education system and the meager services it offers to special needs children is as broken as the regular education system. The law calls for a Free and Appropriate Public Education (FAPE) for all children with disabilities. It may be free, but it is hardly “appropriate”. It’s a band-aid on an evisceration.

School vouchers? If they give poor families the opportunity to obtain a better education for their children than their questionable local public option……then I am all in. Children living in poverty have enough counts against them to overcome. They can’t possibly keep their heads above water in a failing school where they are forced to go. Put the shoes on your own feet. How would you feel if you lived at or below the poverty line and had to daily send your children to a school that offered a sub-par education, possibly in disrepair, was crime-ridden, and offered your children little to no hope for their futures? Or do you live in a neighborhood with your needs fairly well met, and you can't wrap your head around the struggles of those less fortunate?

What I am also for, are our teachers. I have seen so many do so much with so little. It has been said, if you're a teacher, you must love teaching, because it sure isn't going to make you rich.

If you didn’t like DeVos because of her lack of experience or expertise……I can understand your opposition. But if you didn’t like her because she advocates for “choice” in education….when I’ve heard SO MUCH from friends and the public about the atrocious issues with our failing public educational system……then I respectfully ask about your motivation. Are you really all about loving public education, or did you just not like her because you don’t like this president? In other words…..was it just all about the politics? Because our public school system is SORELY lacking, and continues to put all our children….the future of our nation…..at further risk.

“People fail to get along because they fear each other; they fear each other because they don’t know each other; they don’t know each other because they have not communicated with each other.”
- Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Today my family went out to celebrate Martin Luther King Jr.'s birthday.  As is our custom now, we choose to do something together as a family that we could not have done 50 or 60 years ago.  We decided together to go see a movie, and sit side by side in recognition that once, in my own lifetime, we would not have been allowed to do so in many places in our country.   

When we got into the theater itself we found it to be a small space that was relatively full.  The higher seats were mostly taken and there were a smattering of single seats sprinkled throughout the upper section.  Normally we would have split up, but not today.  So we found 4 seats together in the lower section closer to the screen, sharing popcorn and the pleasure of spending time together. 

I'm thankful for those who have gone before us, who have made not just these  simple outings possible, but for the greater things.....such as being able to have the family that I have. I'm thankful for those who put their lives and well-being at risk, so that I could be the wife and mother to this husband, and these children.  It is because of the struggle of others that I can enjoy a sweet afternoon with my husband and children in safety.  Such a small thing as going to an afternoon movie, together, as an inter-racial family, has come at great cost.  Thank you Dr. King, and to all the others who have fought the great fight for racial equality and brotherhood, for making my life beautiful.