Parenting in an era of school lockdown drills
Parenting in an era of school lockdown drills
As published in the Daily Hampshire Gazette
I remember my first school lockdown.
I was a student teacher at a high school in the Chicago public school system — one neighborhood away from Hyde Park, home of the University of Chicago and a future U.S. senator who would later become president.
My supervising teacher, Ms. Weiss, saw me as a promising teacher and the naïve suburban kid I was. On my first day, she oriented me to the stark reality of teaching in an urban school, something for which neither my upbringing nor teacher training had prepared me.
First, she instructed me, always keep the classroom door closed and locked, except between the bells of the passing period. This will keep violence in the hallway from entering the classroom.
Second, always keep the windows and blinds closed, no matter the temperature. This will deter gang members from shooting into the classroom from the adjacent courtyard.
Third, when — not if — the principal calls for a lockdown, keep the students in a corner of the room.
All three actions were standard protocol in a school familiar with violence — even though it was one of the premier academic high schools in the city.
That was the fall of 1988.
Now, in an era of high-profile school shootings — Columbine, Sandyhook and all the others — we suburban and small-town parents have joined our urban peers in sending our children to schools where lockdown drills are as common as fire drills.
I am both enraged and deeply saddened that our children, including my 8 and 5 year-olds, Zoe and Adam, live in a world where school such drills have become the new normal. And because my wife, Lori, was a parent-volunteer in Adam’s kindergarten classroom the day before the recent lockdown drill at his school, I appreciate what she witnessed — school staff demonstrating great skill and sensitivity as they paced children through practice for the lockdown drill.
I accept these drills as a prudent prevention strategy, but I also hope for something greater — that they become poignant reminders that public dialogue and action focused on the root causes of violence must become a daily practice in all communities.
Such dialogue needs to address the fact that all forms of violence — urban gang activity, mass shootings, domestic violence, sexual violence and more — are almost exclusively perpetrated by boys and men. This is not because boys and men are inherently violent — they certainly are not — but rather because boys and men are socialized — by men and women — in ways that subtly and overtly promote male – perpetrated violence.
Boys and men are taught to defend themselves and their women, even when the best defense is offense.
Boys and men are rewarded for beating up another boy or man that is perceived as threatening, even when the threat is simply being different in race, religion or sexual orientation.
Boys and men are rewarded for scoring with women, regardless of consent.
Boys and men who witness violence by other boys and men are encouraged to mind their own business, or face reprisal. After all, boys will be boys.
While socializing males this way does not mean all of them will be violent, it is irrefutable that these messages are universally directed at boys and men, not girls and women. As such, they undermine the possibility of men reaching their full potential as supportive partners, nurturing fathers and compassionate leaders.
So, as a father of a boy and a girl, I see lockdown drills as both necessary and insufficient responses to the perceived threat that someone — most likely a boy or man — will enter a school with a gun and kill people. And this propels me — as both father and activist — to join others in the work that is essential to the wellbeing of all families and communities — helping boys become compassionate, non-violent men in a world where lockdown drills are unnecessary.
John Engel is a father, husband, organizational consultant and the coordinator of the Healthy Men and Boys Network of Western Massachusetts. He can be reached through his web site, http://www.fatherhoodjourney.com.
With both kids in school, father cherishes the early years
Kindergarten is a rite of passage – for parents. So I wrote when our eldest, Zoe, boarded the big yellow school bus for the first time.
Even though Zoe had been attending pre-school three days per week, it was both exciting and unsettling to think that she, and we, had crossed a new threshold – the beginning of a 13-year journey of public schooling.
Now – two years later – our youngest, Adam, has begun this journey too.
On the first day, my wife Lori and I stood waving as the bus pulled away, Zoe beaming, Adam a bit anxious. Then, we strolled home, hand-in-hand, wondering – what now?
For eight years, Lori and I have precariously balanced at-home parenting and income earning roles. A perfect balance has eluded us, Lori wanting more time at home, me less, but the approach offered both of us precious time at home with Zoe and Adam. We have no regrets.
Still, the prospect of 35-hours per week when we are not directly supervising our children – excepting Teacher In-Service Days, School Holidays, Sick Days, Snow Days, weekends and summer break – is also exciting and unsettling.
As we individually and collectively imagine the next stage of our parenting journey, we are resisting the urge to immediately fill the space with the many activities that at-home parenting has kept at bay. This is not easy. Every item on the list is preceded by the word “more.” More work, more house projects, more exercise, more time for us, and more time for me.
It is easy to see where a lifetime of busyness will lead us, if unchecked. I am under no illusion that with both Zoe and Adam in school full-time, parenting and life will be simpler. To the contrary, we witness – daily – the flow of family life for those further along the parenting journey.
Still, I see two opportunities. First, to ask the question, “How do I, us (as a couple) and we (as a family) want to be in the next stage of our family’s journey?” Second, to devote time, to reflection and conversation that will illuminate a forward path.
Holding to a lighter schedule, leading up to and following the start of school, has allowed for important family time, and for me, the space to feel sadness about the end of the early parenting years – a letting go. This has ushered forth feelings of joy about parenting choices, shared experiences and bonds forged along the way.
Reflecting on the early years, one of the lessons – perhaps the lesson – that Zoe and Adam teach me, again and again, is the importance of being present with each moment. Whenever I am with one or both of them, they want to feel that I am genuinely with them in the experience – not sending an email, talking on the phone or thinking about my to-do list.
So, on the last day of summer break – the day before Adam climbed aboard the big yellow bus – excitement filled our home at the sound of heavy machinery rolling down our quiet, dead end street. Adam raced to the window and announced, “Daddy, there’s a bucket truck…and an end loader… and a really big dump truck – let’s go see.”
Together we strolled to the end of the block, taking a seat in a neighbor’s yard – the yard with a gentle slope where Adam learned to ride his bike two years ago – for a closer view.
As Adam sat on my knees, his legs dangled ever closer to the ground. I wrapped my arms around him and felt his warm body relaxed against mine. Together we watched with excitement as one worker chain-sawed a dead tree to the ground, another loaded the pieces, and a third drove the full dump truck down the alley.
When it was over, Adam was done, satisfied with our shared experience. As we walked, hand-in-hand, back toward the house, Lori approached and asked Adam if he wanted to go grocery shopping with her. And just like that, he was gone – fully immersed in his next adventure.
Welcome to The Fatherhood Journey
Welcome to The Fatherhood Journey
Fatherhood is a sacred journey, filled with mystery and adventure.
Reflecting on the milestones and transitions of the journey helps me create meaning from these experiences, empowering me as a father. Through ‘The Fatherhood Journey’ I offer my writings as a means to promote private and public conversations about fatherhood – to explore the mystery and celebrate the adventure – conversations that too often remain unspoken.
These writings reflect my deepest gratitude for the precious gift of children, marriage, family, parenthood and community.
I dedicate these writings to my loving wife, Lori, and our children Zoe and Adam, whose collective presence has changed my life in the most amazing ways, and to all who experience the journey of fatherhood.
With gratitude,
John
Family finds creative paths to fulfilling lives
A family finds creative paths to fulfilling lives
As published in the Daily Hampshire Gazette, Tuesday, August 19, 2014
Connection is the antidote for longing. So my wife, Lori, and I were reminded when we recently visited the place where we found our selves, then each other and eventually started a family.
Five years ago, our migration from the Rocky Mountain foothills in Boulder, Colorado, to the Pioneer Valley was catalyzed by both of us being laid off, a desire to raise our growing family closer to kin, and wanderlust.
As soon as we arrived, we longed to return. Initially the urge was daily, then monthly. Then, each summer, Lori was emphatic that we schedule a visit to the place we swore we would never leave.
But we arrived in the depths of the Great Recession, without employment. And soon, with Adam’s arrival, we became a family of four. So, returning to Boulder, even for a visit, seemed untimely, unaffordable and unsettling.
Still, even as we adapted to our new community, eventually finding meaningful work, buying a home, connecting with neighbors and exploring the landscape, the longing continued.
Eventually, we reached the conclusion that, in part, we longed to return to a phase in life that simply no longer existed — the freedom of an active pre-parent lifestyle in a place of amazing beauty — and that returning to Boulder would not restore this sense of loss.
So as our recent visit approached, I found myself protectively clinging to the aphorism that “No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man.”
That these words, attributed to the ancient Greek philosopher Heraclitus, have held meaning for 2,500 years helped me feel at ease with both the vulnerability and resiliency of being human.
And step into the river we did, with all eight feet. With the benefit of a two-hour time zone shift, we were at a neighborhood playground at 7 a.m. on our first full day in Colorado and we never slowed down until landing in our own beds a week later. And, as our kids approach 5 and 8 years of age, it was the most fun-filled and exhausting vacation we have had as a family.
We visited many of our favorite destinations, including our favorite parks, Zoe’s in-house day care, the Saturday farmer’s market, the downtown pedestrian mall, an indoor recreation center, restaurants, the foothills, the Continental Divide, and even the mechanical pony at the check-out line of the grocery store where Zoe use to enjoy a weekly ride (it still costs just one penny).
We also visited the mountaintop site of our wedding ceremony, on our ninth anniversary, where we restated our vows and shared with Zoe and Adam certificates that state our commitment to our marriage, each of them and our family.
And, after years of missing Boulder, the place and lifestyle, we returned home to realize that most of all, we had been longing for connection to the Boulder friends with whom we share deep, meaningful relationships.
This subtle but important distinction helps me reinterpret Heraclitus’ ancient wisdom. For while the river has changed, and we have changed, so, too, can we choose to change the way we structure our lives.
We are inspired by Colorado friends, who have creatively arranged their lives in ways that keep them connected to distant friends and family. One family — she is a native of Denmark and he a long-time Coloradan — spend six-weeks in Denmark every other summer. They report having deeper and richer connection with their Danish kin than with many of their Boulder friends. They attribute this, in large part, to the concentrated time they spend with people in Denmark versus the fragmented time they spend with friends at home.
They are not alone. Among our other Colorado friends, one family spends a month in South Africa each winter, one three weeks on the East Coast, and another three weeks in Michigan — all families with young children, who simply choose to live in a way that maintains strong connection to friends and family.
So, given our relatively flexible work schedules, we have started to imagine what it would be like to live in Boulder, for a few weeks each summer.
Based on our recent experience, this may be just the right antidote for our sense of longing.
And while spreading our visit over a few weeks might offer a more leisurely pace than what we experienced on our recent trip, any longer might be so exhausting that we would need to come home for a vacation.
Sweetness of Beekeeping and Fatherhood
Enjoying the sweetness of beekeeping and fatherhood
As published in the Daily Hampshire Gazette
Starting a beehive could be fun. So I thought after reading a book, “Robbing the Bees,” which chronicles the essential role of bees and beekeeping in producing honey, sustaining agriculture, and promoting biodiversity.
Given our family’s prolific honey consumption, learning that a healthy hive can produce as much as one hundred pounds of honey per year was also enticing.
So, after a few web searches, chatting with experienced beekeepers, and receiving used equipment from a family member, I confidently concluded that starting a hive would be a fun learning experience for the whole family – especially our soon to be kindergartener, Adam, and second-grader, Zoe.
The day after Memorial Day I visited a local beekeeper who happily sold me a starter-hive, which included a mass of bees crawling around on wood framed sheets of plastic board on which they build honeycomb for raising young and making honey.
I watched with awe as the seasoned beekeeper, protected by his white, hooded, jacket, entered his apiary. One by one, he calmly extracted five frames of bees from a small wooden box, examined each to note the presence of an egg-laying queen and placed them into my used boxes. After temporarily plugging the entrance and strapping the boxes together, he helped me gently set the hive in the back of our family car.
On the drive home, my enthusiasm waned as awareness that I knew very little about how to actually care for the bees grew, which was reminiscent of how I felt nearly eight years ago while driving home from the hospital after Zoe’s birth. And in this case, my wife, Lori, had already made it clear that I would be a single parent to the bees.
A week later, wearing my own hooded bee jacket and elbow length gloves, I marveled at the life force buzzing in my hands. Worker bees crawled about, crafting cells of honeycomb, making small pockets of honey and darting off in search of pollen.
I saw tiny eggs in open cells, worm-like larva wiggling about, and capped cells in which pupae developed, all evidence that the queen was happy. And, I imaged our family seated at the breakfast table, each spooning fresh honey on a steaming bowl of oatmeal.
During the first month, I visited the hive three times, observing and learning as the colony flourished. Zoe and Adam accompanied me; curious to know if what I saw in the hive boxes looked like the images we had watched together on a DVD about beekeeping. Mostly they were excited to play in the adjacent woods.
The day after my third inspection of the hive, while driving to our annual July 4th holiday at the Connecticut shore, Lori and I simultaneously received voice and text messages from our beekeeping partners, in whose backyard the hive sits. The bees had swarmed, meaning there was a mass of bees – thousands of bees – hanging from a tree branch near the hive.
So during the first couple days of vacation, while Lori and the kids enjoyed time on the beach, I read about how to prevent and manage bee swarms, traded voice and text messages with our beekeeping friends about the status of the hive, and obsessed about all the essential beekeeping knowledge to which I was oblivious.
I learned a bee swarm is a common and instinctual response to an overcrowded hive. The queen signals its time to find a new residence and half the bees dutifully follow.
When last examining the hive, I observed small, white, tubular structures and wondered what they were. Apparently, they were queen cells, each containing a baby queen. Since typically there is only room for one queen in a colony, the reigning queen often leaves just before the cells hatch.
The first queen that emerges instinctively destroys the other queen cells, killing her potential rivals to ensure her matriarchal status. She then takes a nuptial flight with a group of fertile males, and returns to resume the essential egg-laying function of a healthy hive – if all goes well.
So, while it is too early to know if our colony will survive, let alone produce 100 pounds of honey, I take solace knowing that beekeeping cannot be as complicated as fatherhood, or as sweet.
Embracing the growing pains of fatherhood
Embracing the growing pains of fatherhood
As published in the Daily Hampshire Gazette
“Promoting public and private conversations about fatherhood.” This is the mission I identified when I began writing this column.
The inspiration for this effort emerged from my own identity crisis as I stumbled through the early years of fatherhood.
Entering fatherhood at the age of 40, I carried the privilege of white, middle class origins; the product of a two-parent family, stable neighborhood, good public schools, regular church attendance, Boy Scouts, high school athletics, college education, international study and a variety of professional experiences.
I had also learned, through trials and tribulations, many ways that intimate relationships don’t work, which eventually motivated me to better understand myself, and how to be a more healthy person and partner — a work in progress.
But fatherhood, despite the benefits of a life well-lived, left me decentered, struggling to hold together both the pieces of me, which I had worked hard to claim, and us, which my wife, Lori, and I had been creating in our pre-parenting bliss.
I have come to regard this tension — the push and pull of the self, husband and father parts of my identity — as the growing pains of moving from a life that was about me to “us,” and now, to “we.”
As a father of two rapidly growing children, I often find myself reassuring them both that the aches they feel in their stretching arms and legs — the growing pains — are a necessary and natural part of their development. So, too, I have come to learn, growing pains of the heart are a natural part of parenting.
Nearly eight years a father, nine years married to Lori and author of 32 monthly columns about my fatherhood experiences, my work as an organizational consultant has propelled me into a new identity crisis.
For the past four months, I served as a consultant to the Men’s Resource Center for Change, Inc., supporting the design and facilitation of a summit, which served as the official launch of The Healthy Men and Boys Network of Western Massachusetts.
More than 100 participants, representing more than 70 organizations, from more than a dozen professional fields, engaged in a daylong program designed to mobilize those committed to promoting the healthy development of men and boys.
The event included a series of conversations designed to collect strategic input about the future of the emerging network.
Inspiring and award-winning presentations by three recent high school graduates, articulating what we can do to make a difference in the lives of Black and Latino men, produced standing ovations.
Provocative performances by a university-based men’s health dialogue and theater program exposed the raw tensions of the male-identity crisis and gender-based violence that permeate our culture.
A presenter with local, national and international credentials moved many to tears through a visualization exercise that profoundly demonstrated the vital importance of affirming our shared humanity.
I offer a version of this exercise for you. I invite you to settle yourself in your seat, take a few deep breaths, one more breath, and now, notice the energy in your own heart. Notice the quality of that energy, notice its color, and feel the power of this energy to heal and transform yourself and others.
Now, guide that energy to the heart of a father in Afghanistan who at this moment is secretly educating his daughter despite the risk of death they both face, to a teenage son who is speaking to his father about how hurtful it is to watch the domestic abuse of his mother, to a religious leader in Nigeria who is empowering the boys in his village to reject the social norm of sexual assault of girls and women, to a father that is comforting his son who is haunted by his experience as a soldier, to a passionate school teacher of young men whose life conditions leave them more prepared for prison than college, to a teenage boy telling his male friends that bullying a transgendered peer is unacceptable, and to a whistle blowing father in China who risks his livelihood to stop the wide spread polluting of his industrial employer.
This exercise, and its endless examples, awakens me in a way that stretches the boundaries of my identity – from the familial “We” to the “WE” of all humanity. And, while I feel overwhelmed by the magnitude of human suffering, I also feel empowered by the endless possibilities to alleviate human suffering by promoting the healthy development of men and boys.
Follow the emerging network on Facebook at Network for Healthy Men and Boys Western Massachusetts.
Foraging for fiddleheads ferns
Foraging for fiddlehead ferns connects father and son
As published in the Daily Hampshire Gazette
Time in the woods is grounding. After an especially long winter, the waking forest sparks a sense of wonder in our young kids, Zoe and Adam.
This spring, we added an element of adventure by foraging for fiddleheads — the curled tips of fronds on young ferns, which when blanched and sautéed, become a nutritious addition to an evening meal.
Novices at fiddlehead foraging, we made many trips to a patch of woods — only a 5-minute walk from our home — to scout and harvest these forest edibles during their notoriously short season.
On our first visit, the forest floor was more brown than green. Layers of maple and oak leaves crunched under our rubber boots. When we spotted our first emerging cluster of fiddles, the forest floor came to life for Zoe and Adam. They scurried about, arguing over who found more fiddles. We collected only mental images of the places in the landscape where we would return in the coming weeks, and headed home.
A week later we experienced our first harvest. Careful to pick only a few heads from each cluster, leaving the plant enough energy to sustain itself, we practiced the art of selecting the ripest fiddles, which we consumed with a sense of accomplishment a short while later.
The third visit produced about the same yield as the previous outing, likely because the days were growing warmer and we were foraging in the late afternoon despite reading that optimal fiddlehead foraging occurs in the cool morning hours. Adding to the disappointment, I over-cooked the fiddles that night.
By our fourth visit, it was obvious that fiddlehead season had come and gone — at least in the lower reaches of the valley where daytime temperatures had spiked into the mid 80s — leaving us with little to show for our first season of foraging.
So on this visit, alone with Adam, we quickly turned our attention to other adventures. Waist-deep in ferns and skunk cabbage, Adam led us along the main drainage in search of critters. As he hopped from bank to bank, slippery frogs darted away. Eventually he captured a baby toad, marveling at his accomplishment, before gently releasing his catch.
Later we spotted a fresh raccoon track at the brook’s edge and then, as we reached the far edge of the forest, three deer bolted, white tails waving as they raced away.
I extended my hand and Adam quickly reached up to grab it.
“I like holding your hand,” I said.
“I like holding your hand, too,” Adam replied.
After a brief pause, Adam shared, “I like holding your hand when I am scared.”
“Are you scared now?” I asked.
“I am always scared when I am in the woods because I am afraid of bears in the woods,” he replied.
Inwardly I smiled, thinking that during most of our forest adventures Adam has boldly explored far ahead, often out of sight, always reluctant to return when I have called for him to stay close.
But now, I relished the soft feel of his soon-to-be 5-year-old hand, hoping he will always be comfortable telling me when he is afraid. We continued along the path toward home, chatting about bird sounds and shapes of trees, our bag empty of fiddleheads.
Fatherhood Journey 