In Memory of LeGrand Gold

My husband of 26 years passed away last week after a long hard 2-year battle with colon cancer.

Go here for the audio of the reading of the obituary at the funeral. The audio is missing just the short beginning paragraph.

Here is the obituary script, written mostly by our daughter, Sophia Marie Gold.

LeGrand Gold:
A Little Life of a Large Man

July 22 1975 – February 8, 2024

Written by Chat GPT, Alice Wills Gold,
and edited (just a little, OKAY maybe a lot) by Sophia Gold

The following obituary is an educated guess as to what LeGrand would have wanted to say, had he not put off writing his own obituary for just one day too long. It is written in first person, from his perspective, and hopefully, if we did him justice, for just one more moment you might remember how he could make just about anybody laugh, and you may remember how loved a simple conversation with him could make you feel. Going into this obituary, it is important to know that LeGrand was adamant about remaining humanized after death. He reminds you all that he “is not a knight in shining armor or a kamikaze fighter. He is no prince, no saint, and he doesn’t walk on water.” To honor him best, we remember him “simply as someone you could always fall back on.”

Welcome beloved friends and family, brothers and sisters, thank you all for being here. If you are hearing this, it is because I have finally succumbed to a poorly dealt hand, consisting of colon cancer, a really big thigh zit, a little bit of liver failure, and Alice. But don’t let it get to you, because like I’ve always told those closest to me, “life is short and then you die, so don’t sweat the small stuff.” And if recent events have taught me anything, it’s that in the grand scheme of everything, my poorly dealt hand feels like pretty small stuff now. Except for Alice, we all know she’s larger than life, and I promise I love her for it.
My name is LeGrand Gold, with a capital G. I’m LG to those who love me most, and yes, I am including Dolly Parton in with the rest of you. I am speaking to you now, from the great beyond, through my little brother, Logan, who I entrust to present my obituary with the perfect amount of wit and humor. Which is incredibly important to this obituary, for these two reasons:

1. I would rather make you laugh than cry.
2. I really hate funerals.

My desire to make people laugh is why I wanted to write my own obituary. And now it makes sense to you all why this entire thing has been, and will be, in first person. Don’t worry, Logan is alive and well. He isn’t speaking about himself. I am still the dead one.

Now we move on to my player stats (which is a basketball joke, for anybody who didn’t get it). I was born on July 22, 1975 in Johnson City, TN, to my parents, Alice Faye Gold and Duane Gold. My childhood was a delightful mix of adventures with the neighborhood crew, riding bikes with the Vienna Sausages packed in my backpack, lightning bug face paint, one Eagle Scout award (which I am forever grateful to my diligent mother, for her determination in helping me receive), a few Nintendo consoles, a lot of basketball, one unfortunate zipline accident, and probably too many animals, all of which are happy to have me back. Although there is a paralyzed hamster up here with an odd fear of walls and some choice words for my rambunctious brother Jordan, and I’m sorry to say it, Jordan, but he is still really unhappy with you.

From early on, I’ve been a laid-back and down to earth kind of guy, which seems like maybe an understatement. In fact, I’m so laid back, I’m completely horizontal, and I’m so down to earth I think you could estimate I’m about 6 feet under. But on a more sincere note, I am blessed with incredible patience. I like to show off this particular skill set in most things I do. Meaning, I prefer to wait 3-5 days minimum to start things, and to really drive the point home, I like to wait an extra 3-5 days to finish those things. My wife has affectionately taken to calling this “procrastination”. I’m still deciding if I agree with her. Get back to me in 3-5 days, I’ll have my answer then.

I was patient with my siblings, friends, marriage, children, and from a place of love, I’m going to throw my marriage in this list one more time. I rarely complained, so this is my one opportunity to claim double points for a holy matrimony that could rival the most dramatic of March Madness matchups. A decade of counseling, a week-long stay in a mental hospital, a secret sauce of stubbornly choosing each other, and my high tolerance levels all culminated in pure joy, love and laughter. Marriage is hard but started to pay off when my wonderful, loud, talented, beautiful, smart, and fiercely independent wife got a job that kept some spare change in our bank accounts. Her insane work hours kept her prying eyes a perfectly far enough distance away, so I could buy all the baseball cards, Funko Pops, and a potentially surplus amount of stuff from Amazon without her ever even suspecting foul play. I am a collector of small stuff, and she was generous enough to take my advice to not sweat the small stuff, and only now can I admit that I have perhaps bought too much small stuff. She loves me for my flaws, for my strengths, and for my complete person. My dearest Alice will often joke about how incredible it is that after all this time I still managed to love her. To this I can only reply, Alice, you complete me. Since the day we met, my biggest fear has been losing you, but I am happy to report that I have been enjoying a porch swing built by your dad and all I can talk about is how much I am looking forward to an eternity of swinging with you.

I am a lifelong member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. My mission was served in Ogden, Utah, where I was a district leader for 18 of 24 months. This was perfect for me because I think that leadership is most effective, not when giving obvious directions, but by being an example of a humble and relatable human being. And for 3 of my 18 months of being a district leader, I got to look like I was important to a sister missionary that would become my future wife. Eleven months after my mission and five months after hers, we were married in the Salt Lake Temple, just like all of my Gold family ancestors back to pioneer times. I spent many years working with the young men, where 1-2 times a week I got to pass along my love for the great sport of basketball. My uncanny ability to connect with the youth, both on and off of the court, allowed me to yet again lead by example, and hopefully leave a legacy of empowered and capable young men behind me. Through my personal experience with Jesus Christ I lived as a living witness, and now a dead one, of how Jesus Christ and his Gospel can enable the smallest, biggest, or even the grandest of men to discover the power to find peace and joy, and live as a constant reminder to “fear not little flock” through any battle, even the uncertainty of dying young. I hope the quiet, nearly silent way I have lived has provided an example for my children, and anybody else who may forget, to leave room for a still small voice, and never to lose yourself in a world that is so full of extra noise.

Another trait I possess is an innate ability to go with the flow. My wife likes to call this one “indecisiveness”, but I really don’t care which one you call it. This is the trait I lean on to justify having 4 different college degrees and 3 different careers by the time I was 45. I prefer not to say that I couldn’t decide what I wanted to do, but that I was becoming a master at embracing the rapidly-changing, organic, and dynamic nature of life. Plus, I like to think that my 4 degrees is another one of my collections. This collection includes one associates degree, one Bachelors in Computer Science, one MBA, and one “Juris Doctor” from the University of Tennessee, which is more affectionately referred to in my home as “the forsaken law degree”. I personally value this degree in a more unique way than the rest, because a shiny, fancy law degree means, technically, you all get to address me as Esquire. I decided this fun fact deserved a spot in my obituary, although it was harder to find a punchline about the word Esquire than I had anticipated, so instead I thought I would just throw it right in the middle and let you all know that “Esquire LeGrand Gold” is an objectively cool thing to be called. And all it cost me was $150,000 of student debt. It was totally worth it. Plus I put my degree to good use and discovered a pretty great legal/financial loophole. It turns out, if you die, you never have to finish paying off those loans. Pretty clever of me, isn’t it?

I am incredibly proud to say that up until last week, I was the Highest Paid Computer Programmer 1 in my entire company. I was almost the Lowest Paid Computer Programmer 2, but I took a long look at myself and thought that I felt much more like being the Highest Paid Computer Programmer 1. Thank you Conservice, I appreciate yet another objectively cool title. In what can only be described as a full circle moment, my latest and favorite career was also the one I wanted to pursue in my 20s and was the first college degree I collected. In my youth I was too nervous that “computer programmer” was a career for smart people, so naturally I became a lawyer instead. It took me 4 years of law school, 2 attempts at the bar exam, and 2 years of practicing law to understand that I always was one of those smart people and that I was much smarter than I needed to be to practice law. After I had this realization it only took me another decade to actually commit to a career which turned out to be largely googling stuff. I really love googling stuff, so that worked out pretty well for me.

Somewhere in the middle of my life, Alice and I had 5 children: Abigail, Sophia, Bella, Caroline, and Maximus. They are my biggest accomplishment, and my most diverse collection. Alice likes to say they worship the ground I walk on, but I haven’t noticed. I’ve been too busy admiring the stars that they reach for. I am so proud of you all, and I am still watching diligently to enjoy who you are and who you become. I also solemnly swear, none of you are adopted, and you all have the same dad, no matter how many times you tell Bella that one of those two things isn’t true. To quote Mr. George Clooney, “I am the only daddy you got, I am the damn paterfamilias.” It is often debated which one is my favorite child. Is it Abigail? My first-born, who taught me how to experience unconditional love and who impresses me with her steadfast dedication and determination. She is my collector, my experimenter, and of all my children, only she has braved a math class I have not been able to assist with. Her intelligence rivals my own. Is it Sophia? Who tries so hard to follow in my footsteps, in career, sense of humor, music taste, and who has always made me proud. She is kind and patient. Of everybody I have met, she is the only one so far who is able to love exactly the same way as me. Is it Bella? Who has an unwavering testimony and who is so similar to my wife that it only makes sense I would love her just as deeply? She is opinionated, loud, stubborn, and fiercely independent, but she is also understanding, soft, open-minded, and caring. In those ways she takes after me. Is it Caroline? Who is a natural entertainer and care-taker, and who has put a smile on my face every single day of her existence, even on my hardest ones? She is patient and understanding. I’ve never seen somebody with a greater sense of empathy. I suppose somebody must have seen the future while picking the name for my sweet Caroline. Or maybe it’s Max, my only boy, my little buddy, my mini me. We have understood each other without so much as a single word exchanged. Our connection is somehow both a mystery to most, yet the one thing that has always made the most sense. Max taught me how to love myself, because he is a reflection of me, and I love him completely. The answer is overwhelmingly simple. They are all my favorites. Which becomes much less of a compliment considering I have always said that my favorite child is the one who needs the most help.

Children, you are all a mess, and I love you no matter what, please be nice to mom. Alice, please be nice to the kids. And please make sure all of your kids call me LeGrandPa, I’m picking out all of the best ones for you. I also want you to know that Olive, Kitty Bear, Kit, Ellie, three hamsters, two fish, and Cotton Eye Joe say hello, and they have been keeping these grandbabies equally as entertained and loved as they used to keep you.

On that note, I understand that I said I didn’t want to make anybody cry, but the most important part of a good sense of humor is to always stay unpredictable. And just so you all know, I’m really enjoying this funeral.

I am survived by my to-do list, my parents Duane and Alice Faye Gold, my four younger siblings and their spouses, Amy and Tyler Niebuhr, Jordan and Megan Gold, Alice Michelle Gold, Logan and Jill Gold, my beloved wife, Alice Wills Gold, our five wonderful children and their spouses/person: Abigail and Kaleb Sweeten, Sophia Gold and Michael Drummond, Isabella Gold and Davy Griffin, Caroline Grace, and Maximus LeGrand.

The party I’m joining has a guest list consisting of my grandparents, Uncle John, Nancy Boyer, cousin Chris, aunt Alice (I know a lot of Alices), father-in-law Rick, nephew Braxton, Caleb Smith, and my many Mormon pioneer ancestors.

I am the designated driver for my mother-in-law, Sharon Wills, who needed somebody to pick her up and deliver her safely so that this party could finally get interesting.

In lieu of flowers, to honor my memory, I request that you give yourself some grace for putting off that thing you’ve been meaning to do for 3-5 days now. And if you wanted to spend the flower money anyways, my children have a lot of degrees to live up to. I would love to help them achieve this without considering dying to avoid paying their student loans. Cheers to my life well-lived. May the laughter continue on your side, as I will also take it with me to every eternal cosmic jam session to which I am invited – well, at least the ones with apple pie and root beer.

You can donate towards LG’s childrens’ higher educations at the family’s gofundme.

by donating to The Gold Children Education Fund via phone at 1-800-748-4302 or in-person by visiting any branch of Mountain American Credit Union.

Fahrenheit-114 a.k.a How Legislators Try to Play Teacher

Screen Shot 2022-01-26 at 5.29.00 PM This image is being republished from one of my student’s MamaG Fan Accounts on Instagram.

Here is a letter I am emailing my Utah politicians today:

Hello to Representative Fillmore, Senate Education Committee Members, House Education Committee Members, & my UEA Representative,

The proposed bill SB114 is so horrific that it is being circulated repeatedly by a mass amount of teachers. I’ve personally found it in my email box three times.

If you don’t already know this, and I assume you don’t by out of touch some of this bill is with the nature of education: most teachers just go about their business doing their jobs and don’t have the time or the concern to typically worry about Utah’s legislative decisions. We have typically just trusted that you will all do the right thing on our behalf, but as our jobs are becoming more and more unmanageable, we, as a group, have started tipping our curious and altruistic natures in your directions to protect ourselves, our students, and our colleagues.

If you don’t already know this, as you are all terrified of educators getting wind of their power (as was remarked on the Senate floor last Friday – a representative’s fear that Utah educators will strike like those in Chicago), we as educators are terrified of more power being given to a small minority of Utah’s unstable parents. Why do we worry about this? Because we are dealing with these parents on the daily. It’s the thing that most educators list first when talking about the worst part of their jobs: the demanding, critical, unrealistic, and often ridiculous parents. They are unrelenting, and unfortunately, the group is growing. Even the best of administrators often will throw teachers under the bus just to get these parents off their backs. The more we give to these parents refusing to set healthy boundaries, the less and less enjoyable it is and will continue to be an educator. If you don’t believe me, ask any Utah teacher. I promise that they agree with me.

SB114 is catering to the very people who make our jobs H – E – Double Hockey Sticks: the ones who want to burn books, the ones who want to come to our classrooms every day and tell us how to do our job, the ones who are never satisfied, the ones who threaten homeschool over a set of educational standards, and the ones who will email a teacher 25 times to demand their child get an A (when the kid doesn’t even come to school, much less know the material.) Do you have any idea what a remarkable MESS you will be making if this bill passes? We can’t even get TWO parents to agree on anything, much less an entire LEA’s worth of them. There is great potential in this bill to leave absolutely nothing to be taught because parents won’t agree on anything. There is even greater potential that the state of Utah will no longer have any teachers to employ.

To help you understand my point, I would like to dub this bill Fahrenheit-114. If you’ve never read the amazing book Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury, it could be because someone’s parent, within a school that gave parents too much power, decided that it wasn’t any good for you. This book offers a sad tale about censorship and control and is a critique of a possible and fictional futuristic society that only consumes material that everyone has agreed is good…ultimately, even leading to cancelling The Holy Bible. SB114 is this fictional society becoming our today’s reality: it is exactly what Ray Bradbury warns us about – a society that fears anything and everything different, so they no longer have any differences. They are all controlled by the book-burning government employed firefighters. I would encourage each of you to read this book before voting on this bill. I will gladly mail you a copy. While reading, consider it and what Representative Fillmore is requesting of local LEA’s in the following bolded verbiage of his bill:

213 (24) (a) As used in this Subsection (24)(a):
214 (i) “Instructional material” means any learning material or resource used to deliver or
215 support a student’s learning that a local school board adopts and preapproves for use within the
216 LEA, including textbooks, reading materials, videos, activities, digital materials, websites, and
217 other online applications.
218 (ii) “Supplemental material” means any learning material or resource used to deliver or
219 support a student’s learning that an educator reviews and selects, including reading materials,
220 videos, activities, digital materials, websites, and other online applications.
221 [(24)] (b) A local school board shall:
222 [(a)] (i) make [curriculum] instructional material that the school district uses readily
223 accessible and available for a parent to view;
224 [(b)] (ii) annually notify a parent of a student enrolled in the school district of how to
225 access the information described in Subsection [(24)(a)] (24)(b)(i); and
226 [(c)] (iii) include on the school district’s website information about how to access the
227 information described in Subsection [(24)(a).] (24)(b)(i).
228 (c) In selecting and approving instructional materials for use in the classroom, a local
229 school board shall:
230 (i) establish an open process, involving parents of students enrolled in the LEA, to
231 review and recommend instructional materials for board approval; and
232 (ii) ensure that under the process described in Subsection (24)(c)(i), the board:
233 (A) posts recommendations online for a period of no less than 30 calendar days to
234 allow for public review;
235 (B) holds a public hearing on any recommendation, materials, or resources before
236 adopting the recommendation or approving the materials or resources that provides an
237 opportunity for parents of students enrolled in the LEA to express views and opinions on the
238 recommendations, materials, or resources; and
239 (C) approves the materials or resources in an open and regular board meeting for which
240 prior notice is given to parents of students enrolled in the LEA.
241 (d) A local school board shall adopt a supplemental materials policy that provides
242 guidance to educators on the selection of supplemental materials or resources, including
243 whether any process or permission is required before classroom use of the materials or
244 resources.

Above, I have bolded most everything that I have heard educators seeing as problematic. The problems with this bill are unending for us, but I will gladly scale down the teacher lounge talk to our Top 5 Reasons that Fahrenheit-114 is Ridiculous to Educators:

30 day notice on curriculum. Do you realize that sometimes we are figuring out the specifics and details of a lesson on the day or the morning or during the prep-period directly before instruction? We, unlike you legislatures, aren’t given the luxury of all the time in the world to do our jobs. This an absolute IMPOSSIBLE directive. Can you let me know what you will be doing even 20 days from now, so I can approve it or not? Of course not. That is not the nature of our jobs.
The potential size of our school boards. You obviously have no idea how many “learning materials” are generated on a daily basis by a single teacher. On a good week, I generate hundreds, and even on a bad week full of the other parts of teaching monopolizing my time, I generate at least 25. There is no way a school board of even size of The Utah House of Representatives would be effective enough to glance at (much less study) each and every teacher’s generated learning materials.
Catering to parents over educators. I really shouldn’t have to say much more here, but really, parents can be very very impossible to please. You would know this if you spent just one week doing our jobs.
Parents are NOT EDUCATORS. Do you really expect parents to review and recommend instructional material and do any semblance of a decent job? Let me put this in your language. Do you think I can come to the Senate Floor tomorrow and vote on bills that I’ve never even read. Can I come down there and even understand where I am supposed to go or what I am supposed to do? Right. I cannot. I have not been given the training. I don’t have the experience. Yet, this bill is telling educators that our State Senate thinks that parents can do the job that we have gone to college to do, we have obtained all the training necessary to certify for, we have researched, collaborated, and lost sleep over.
Trust is earned, not found. Just as in any profession, there are a few bad eggs. But, just as a school teacher was fired in Lehi this year from a student’s published video and another I know just got a “letter in his file,” we should all let the current processes do their job. They work. Even if you don’t think that they work, controlling every little thing for every little educator, is not the answer. That’s called Communism.

Most educators that I know are giving up so much (even too much) to offer a “fair education for every student.” They don’t need the meddling of untrained and unaware people who are afraid of the one bit of power they have been given: to teach. We have been trained on what is appropriate or not to speak of in a classroom. We know not to talk about charged topics: politics, religion, or even weather patterns in a way that causes uproar or offended parents. The last thing an educator wants is an offended parent, and the very last thing that they want is a student that feels ostracized in any way, shape, or form. Please just trust us to do our jobs. We’ve earned that trust with our blood, sweat, and tears. It’s what we live for. It’s what we work 70-hour weeks for. It’s highly offensive that we as front-line workers are being told by SB114 that we have to jump through even more hoops for the squeaky wheels. It’s highly offensive that Representative Fillmore has written legislation to cater to those squeaky wheels, and it’s even more highly offensive that the rest of our Utah State politician’s are actually humoring it. It’s also very very dangerous of legislation to limit teacher’s autonomy in this way. Autonomy is likely the ONLY thing that is keeping us in our professions because more than anything, we love our kids. And the challenge of engaging them is the why of why we are still willing to do a job that is way under-respected and even more under-paid.

Thank you for the time you have taken to consider my position, and thank you for your hopeful actions in fixing this horrific dystopian-esque nightmare of an education bill.

Book Review: Stalking Jack the Ripper

Stalking Jack the Ripper by Kerri Maniscalco
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Kerri Maniscalco is bloody brilliant! I just got done listening to this on audio. The British accented orator was so fun to listen to, but the writing was mesmerizing. The plot kept me wanting more, and the characterization is spot on. I didn’t know much about Jack the Ripper when I started this read, but one way we know that Maniscalco was successful is that I now know more than before AND I want to keep on Ripper research for my own. This is a book that I will be recommending to MANY students. It’s a very engaging novel.

View all my reviews

The Alchemist Inspiring Minds

Sometimes, I have to rub my eyes and wiggle my toes, just to make sure I am awake.

Why? Because I get to do what I do for a living.

I GET TO teach literature to young impressionable minds.

And, those minds enrich me right back.

Here are some recent Visual Quotes my students created.

They chose their favorite quotes from the book The Alchemist by Paulo Cohelo.

Check out the wisdom that they gained from reading ONE BOOK!

Imagine now that I’ve somehow managed to influence these students to repeat the simple task of reading a book and pondering on its meaning and how it connects to themselves over and over again.

That’s POWER!

Twenty-three years.

I’ve had the sacred privilege of sharing the last 23 years with a man that I love, respect, and adore.

It’s been a great ride with many ups and downs, but the roller coaster is what keeps it exciting. The challenges are what make us stronger.

In the last couple of years, it’s been especially tough, as my husband has struggled with connection. It’s left me very lonely, but I am grateful that he continues to choose me. Even if he doesn’t show his choice how I want for the majority of the time, I know at the end of the day, he’s doing the best he can.

It’s THE MOST BEAUTIFUL THING in existence to choose the same person over and over again.

Now, if you are happy at that sap, stop reading here.

Next, I am going to share with you my poem from last night. I’ve been writing a poem a day for the past two weeks. I plan to write one every day for 365 days straight. I am trying to think of the one moment that I found the most significant and write about it. Last night’s poem is depressing. It captures the loneliness I feel while my husband is mentally and emotionally checked out.

Now, don’t be mad. It is what is. It’s part of the roller-coaster. Even among the pain, we choose each other, and that is what makes our marriage beautiful.

Ignore the bullets. I couldn’t figure out any other way to get this poem to be single-spaced.

The Light He Never Sees

I wear a head lamp
to illuminate the
graphite scratches
containing all my hurt and loneliness
made to the rhythmic interruptions
of
slurping and
muzzling and
choking and
blowing
of his snores.
It seems it should be
impossible
for him to sleep.
Yet, he’s dead to the world
as I know it,
He’s oblivious of this small consideration
as he’s oblivious to the large services and the even greater care.
But, at least at night,
he’s got snores to blame.
During the day, it’s just neglect.

Pandemic, A Poem

Today is tomorrow’s yesterday.

Today, in my sleep, I went back to yesterday, and felt a little relief for tomorrow.

From my worn mattress and the heavy load

in the flaps of my overloaded BMI screaming for a life renewed.

Today, in my sleep, I escaped back to yesterday

Before the quarantine grind.

I went back and told myself that I was living in an unknown paradise.

Yesterday,

There was a storm, but I could breathe easily without a mask.

There was a fall, but I could hug and hold the injured hand.

There was a circumstance that required not a bit of sanitizer.

There was a school with students hiding phones under their desks.

There, electronics were the constant battle

And when I said, “zoom,”

it meant to hurry to the bathroom and back,

not a series of technical difficulties followed by thirty emails full of “my internet.”

There was a town hall where people could see the color of one another’s eyes

and make decisions that considered everyone.

There was a church meeting held in the chapel down the street instead of in the Bible on the couch.

There was a run to the store at midnight for the project poster,

and, believe it or not, the doors were open and the lights were on.

There was that longest line at the DMV where people crowded the entire room

and someone coughed and no one noticed.

There was a last minute meet-up with a friend

for two cups of something while laughing at the same table and sharing just a taste.

We could pick up our own straws, and not worry if our skin accidentally touched the plastic.

There was a run for pizza without a dousing of Purel on the drive home

before reaching in the bag for a breadstick.

There was a thing unknown in today’s new normal called

baking and cooking for neighbors just to say I care.

There were visitors crowding the halls and living spaces

of the elderlies’ homes to show solidarity

instead of the touching of hands through glass windows. And no use of doors.

There were sports on the fields and courts

while also running on the bedroom TV while the husband ignored the kids.

There were dog-walkers who dared to chit about the weather

on the same stretch of sidewalk

while their animals sniffed one another’s butts.

There was empty space in the fridge full of possibility

Instead of mediocre produce

bought only every other week or in as few trips as possible.

And on those trips, one could wander,

and they didn’t get a dirty eye-stare when

Accidentally venturing down the one-way aisle in the wrong direction.</p>

And they didn’t have to imagine the look of the scolding at the mouth,

because it wasn’t covered.

When there was a smile,

It wasn’t accompanied by an oral declaration of, “I just smiled at you.”

At the bank counter there were suckers and dog biscuits,

not plexiglass or a “drive-thru only” service sign.

There were students hiding phones under their desks.

There, electronics were in constant battle with learning

Instead of the only means for learning.

No one was muted

And when the teacher said, “zoom”

She meant hurry back from the bathroom,

Not show me your pajamas

And email me excuses.

There were teachers at classroom doors

with hands outstretched for a five, a ten, a special handshake,

and sometimes even a hug.

There were busy restaurants where no one wore gloves.

There were gyms and pools

and bars and cars

packed to capacity with complete strangers.

There was an old lady at Target

writing a check on an ancient and sterile book

and a man behind her

with an equally sterile wad of bills

followed by millennial

Who, unlike me,

always knows just when to swipe or insert.

There were stadiums full of tearful parents

and so many simultaneous parties for hopping.

Caps and gowns were waiting to be shed

instead of just photographed.

The caps could be hurled and exchanged

without a worry at all by either the findersor the keepers.

There was international travel

To wherever you wanted to go

and many hotels without vacancies.

“No room in the inn” meant

hoards of people were paying a pilgrimage

not makeshift tents as a place for people to die

at an otherwise verboten and patrolled Central Park.

Those annoying celebrities

used to embrace and compare designer clothes

instead of chanting, “we’re all in this together”

From their annoying vacation homes

Transformed into makeshift studios.

And seriously, who picked out that horrible wallpaper?

Even us poor people wouldn’t have that wallpaper.

Sorry, you’re not more relatable.

There, doctor friends were in the Bahamas three times a year

Instead of selling off their VRBO’s

And taking skipped mortgage payments on their mansions.

Temple worship was the sharing of holy water before its possible contamination.

There. A hot flash didn’t require a thermometer

And a walk on the beach didn’t require 6 feet.

There was my sister who was always playing taxi

instead of complaining about not being allowed across the Idaho border

to go out to eat

because literally everything is closed in Washington

And those potato farmers don’t want her bacteria

Yesterday, quarantine was something for sci-fi novels and The Pentagon,

not a daily reality.

Social distancing was something only introverts did

And it was called being a couch potato

Or “netflix and chill.”

It never lasted more than a few days

Unless it was Spring or Winter Break

Or you were a thirty-something living in your dad’s basement

Because people were actually required to go to work.

.Corona that was a beer

and COVID sounded like something that maybe two people did on YouYube

instead of the excuse I use to justify my kids are watching YouTube

all day every day.

Back then, whenever it was,

Last February

Or five years ago

The unemployment rate was the best it had ever been,

and China was the place where we got cheap goods

instead of conspiring germs or gauged medical supplies.

Today is tomorrow’s yesterday.

And today is the first today ever

that I want yesterday instead of tomorrow.

Stay Gold, Knights.

Stay gold.

To my very first students:

I’d like to leave you with a story. It’s a short and simple one.

Once upon a time, a great American poet named Robert Frost penned a poem.

Nothing Gold Can Stay
By Robert Frost

Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

Years later another great author named S.E. Hinton wrote a book titled The Outsiders, one of my favorite novels of all time. I never got a chance to talk to you about The Outsiders, just as I never got a chance to tell you a lot of other magical literary things I would have liked to stuff into our last two months of school. However, I do have high hopes that maybe you were introduced to this great American classic in junior high. To jog your memory it’s about a bunch of American boys stuck in the socially-constructed life of violence. Read the book. You won’t regret it. Then, watch the awesome movie.

In Chapter 9, while struggling to breathe (that’s all I will say because you know how I hate spoilers) Johnny turns to Pony Boy and admonishes, “Stay gold, Ponyboy. Stay gold…” In his dying state, the one message Johnny has for Ponyboy is to “stay gold.” Here S.E. Hinton is making specific reference to Robert Frost’s poem. You should go back and read and analyze the poem to contrive so many meanings packed into these two words. Meanings such as:

Life is short.
Change is inevitable.
Carpe diem.
Accept what is.
Cherish the early experiences that shape you.
Shine to your fullest.
Everyone’s time will be up eventually.

My students, my last words to you are “stay gold.” Not just because I am Mrs. Gold, but because the message packed into the two words include everything I want you to know, everything I hope for you in your lives.

Stay gold.

I love you. I love each and every one of you. Thanks for sharing your lives with me. Thanks for teaching me. Thanks for giving me one of your golden school years. I’ve loved almost every minute I’ve spent with each of you and the minutes that weren’t so hot, I still will cherish in my heart forever. You are all some of the best people that ever happened to me.

S.E. Hinton started writing The Outsiders when she was fifteen. That is younger than most of you. I challenge you to really think about that. Some of you might not bloom until later. I hope I can write just one mediocre novel before I die. I don’t know why some people can do things at fifteen that I am still working towards, but I will never stop trying to play catch up. And neither should any of you. You all have miracles to create of your very own. It might not be in writing. It might not even be in reading or speaking, but it will be from our three class principles: listening, learning, and loving. Your miracles will be something that comes from your heart. Teaching you all was a labor from my heart. I know I wasn’t perfect. In fact, I know I was far from perfect, but I am better because of each of you. Every one of you has shaped me into more of an S.E. Hinton than when I started as your brand new teacher. And, that is a miracle that I will never EVER forget. If any of us exist after this life, I will look for you. I will always be looking for you to tell you I love you and I believe in you, no matter what.

Stay gold.

The Riptide Otherwise Known as Teaching

sea turtle As you all know, my blogging has taken a BIG back burner to my new adventure as a first-year high-school English teacher. WOW. Do I have so many stories to tell someday! Like, only after I retire, so no one can sue me for privacy infringement. If I had to describe this year, I would say it’s been like learning to surf. So much sea-water has jammed its way down my throat into my digestive system that I lost count.

I’ve been sore on the daily from the mental and emotional anguish called teaching. I’ve laid in the shallow water with sand all up in all my body parts just rubbing me raw like I was some kind of beached whale — the bathing suit crotch pocket was loaded with at least two pounds of sand and rocks. Every. Single. Day. [If you don’t get this crotch-pocket reference, it’s because you’ve never been a female who lived on the beach.] Every day, as a teacher, I would show up at 7 AM hoping to learn to surf and pray to go home by 7 PM, but it rarely happened. The only thing I could ever count on was the water, the sun, and the sand. And, the only thing I couldn’t count on was actually riding a wave. I can say that surfing happened very rarely. Being a rookie teacher is a lot like being a novice surfer. It’s all work, and very very very little euphoria. In fact, this year, I had just a few rare moments of euphoria, but compared to the surfing experience I had in the 80’s with my former boyfriend, Travis Parker, teaching was much of the same: I never even was able to paddle out to the really good waves much less own a single newsworthy ride. I barely even got up for more than 20 seconds. Why? Because it was my first time! And teaching is as hard as hell. The kind of hell that only a teacher knows. Surfers don’t even know this kind of hell. Even after they’ve been bitten by a great white and lost an arm.

Teaching has a lot in common with the trauma I experienced just last November. You see, I went to Hawaii with my husband. On our last day of our 22-year-delayed honeymoon, before flying back home, I went out in the water to get one last snorkel session in. I was alone, and I knew the riptide was dangerous. But, I thought I could handle it. I didn’t even take fins out. I think I had a mental lapse assuring myself that I could still swim as a native Californian. Except I haven’t lived in California since 1995. I planned to stay close to the shore, as my husband was napping. I knew there was no one around to save me.

All was going well until that damn huge sea turtle. I was enamored. I followed it away out. I watched it in awe. Then I saw another. And another. Was I in heaven? How did I get so lucky? Then, before you know it, I had a sickening realization — the coral was way too far underneath me. I pulled my head out of the water searching for the shoreline, and I almost died of an immediate panic attack. Or was it a heart attack? I’m not sure. I was probably at least half a mile from the deserted shore. I started paddling and kicking for my life. My CA girl instincts kicked in. “Go with the shore diagonally. Don’t try to go straight in. Don’t panic. Use the waves.” I got about halfway in, and my body that hadn’t had any serious exercise in years (unless you count childbirth) succumbed. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t do it. I started to scream. Louder than I have ever screamed. And, I’m a screamer. Just ask my kids. My entire life flashed before my eyes. I thought about my perplexed husband wondering why I never woke him for our missed flight home. My younger-year threats about trying out homelessness for the adventure would be ringing in his ears. Except I wouldn’t be homeless, I would be at home to whatever existence my spirit earned. My body would be devoured by sharks. My five children would go the rest of their lives wondering if I had been seduced by Jack Sparrow. Yes, all these thoughts and 37 million more went through my head during that 45 seconds of screaming.

So, what am I really trying to say here? Back to teaching. Teaching is a B$#(^. The only people who sign up for the gig are 30% insane, 30% masochistic, and 40% passionate dreamers. The pay sucks. You all already know this. As an intern teacher this year, the pay was half of suck. I thought being 46 and having five kids would have prepared me to be a rock-star teacher. I thought being a recent college graduate with the latest theories and pedagogies stamped into me by some of the best college professors would make me 500 times better than any other new teachers. I thought being hired by one of the most prestigious high schools in the state of Utah with amazing capable colleagues would fill in the gaps. But, none of any of these things made my job easier. Every day, I was half out to sea with just myself to save me. This year, it felt like the only thing I had going for me was my willingness to show up day after day to be pounded. And, my sheer stubbornness that wasn’t going to let ANYONE (and by anyone I mean tyrannical teenagers) pull my dream of inspiring a generation out from under me. I mean, I might have lost the board many times every day, but lucky for me it was always tethered to my ankle. There was no way I would ever give up and untie the board. Also, lucky for me, I never drowned. “Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming.” And swim I did. I swam a lot, but I only got up on the board a few times. For less than twenty seconds. I might have done better than that. In fact, I probably did, but I was too tired to really notice or acknowledge it because another riptide was coming.

But, next year. Next year, I will get up on that board at least twice as much. And, in five more years, I expect to sign a contract as a Pro. I just have to make it that far. Did you know that 50% of teachers leave the profession in the first five years?

“Why do I plan to stay?” you ask. Because I broke up with Travis Parker before I ever learned how to really surf. And, I always wonder what could have been. With the surfing, not with Travis. {Hi Travis!! I still love you, but, you know, as well, as I do, that we weren’t meant to be. I hope you are loving your job as a more-seasoned teacher. Will you send me some advice if you get a second?}

So, back to the riptide. I kept swimming and kicking and praying. I would dead-man float every little bit and scream, but I couldn’t afford to scream long because the tide would pull me back out. After what seemed like the longest ten minutes of my life, a young girl appeared ashore. She was about twelve. The palm trees split and she arrived from the park on the other side with a lovely sun-shining conduit straight from heaven ushering her to the sand. I have never been so relieved to see another person in my entire life. She looked a lot like myself at twelve. She was overweight with a great tan and long dark hair. It was as if God was giving me a moment to observe myself as a totally unconfident but capable twelve-year-old watching my totally uncofindent but capable 46-year-old self. He was telling me that I was alright. Then. And now. Right as she waved and hollered asking if I needed help, I felt my feet hit the rocky bottom of the great Pacific. I rode a tiny wave in, and hugged the sand as the wave pulled my bathing suit off my top. I laid flat modestly only lifting my head and said, “Thank you so much. I’m okay. I’m okay.” She shook her head and shrugged her shoulders as if to say, “You idiot! What have you gotten yourself into now?” I was too tired to answer her, but a sentiment screamed from my cerebellum, “Aw. C’mon. Give me a break. I know I’m not a native, but I’m fine. I don’t need you anymore. I’ve got this totally under control. I made it this far, didn’t I?”

And then I went and woke my husband, drove to the airport, flew home, and went back to school the next day. I stood in front of that one class that was out to get me all year long and thought the same thoughts as they exchanged texts of ugly memes about me under their desks, “Aw. C’mon. Give me a break. I know I’m not a native, but I’m fine. I don’t need you anymore. I’ve got this totally under control. I made it this far didn’t I?” But, it felt like more of a lie than that silent conversation in Hawaii. I couldn’t feel my feet on the rocks. But, this lie was at least a little familiar. Why? Because I had told myself the same thing daily for the last 200+ days. That lie was the only way to survive the humiliation of first-year teaching, the humiliation we call figuring things out as you go.

Here were some pieces of hope along the way. Straight from the sea turtles:

Mrs. Gold, I know I didn’t attend your class too often but I really wish I had. You are one of my favorite teachers for lots of reasons, you’re funny, you’re kind, and you were always willing to help me with whatever I needed… you made it a safe place for me…and I really really appreciate everything you have done for my family.

Hi Mrs. Gold, I just wanted to say that I really appreciate all that you’ve done this year for us… As this was your first year of teaching, you did very well. If there was a rating system for teachers, I’d give you 10/10 for organization, 3/10 for staying on task (but that’s fine because it was mostly hilarious experiences that won’t be forgotten quickly), 10/10 for keeping teenagers entertained and interested, and finally 10/10 for being an amazing teacher overall. So, thank you for helping me with assignments when needed, thank you for making class a little more fun, and thank you for being a great teacher overall.

Hi Mrs Gold, I just want to say thank you for being the most amazing teacher! You definitely were my favorite and always knew what to say to make everyone around you laughing, feel loved, and happy. Thank you for always listening to me and especially the one time when I walked into class and you just saw me and knew instantly to ask if I was okay after I had gone through a heartbreak. Thank you again, I will miss you very much!!

Gold, Thank you for all that you have done for me. You have helped me have a confidence I didn’t even know I had. The memories that we have made will be with me forever. I have never had a teacher I have been so close to. You are such an amazing teacher and NEVER forget that!! You are practically perfect in every way (haha stole mary poppins line). I am going to miss you so so so much as a teacher. I can honestly say that I have never enjoyed English as much as I did while you were my teacher. HAHA you are hilarious and everyday I think of a joke or something you said, and I can’t help but laugh out loud!! I will always remember the things you have done for me and the big inspiration you have been. You are probably one of the biggest role models in my life. Thank you for supporting me in all the things that have happened in my life. You will be my twin forever. I love you!! …P.P.P.S MAMMA GOLDDD IN THE HOUSEEE WOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Gold, this year has been A.M.A.Z.I.N.G. All thanks to you. I remember the first day of your class I thought it was going to be the most fun adventure of my sophomore year….. and little did I know it would be so much more than that. From the very beginning you showed genuine care for each and every one of us. Each. And. Every. One. Through pushing your students, helping and caring, and opening your arms with love you have changed the lives of so many people this year. From the bottom of my heart I want to say thank you, thank you for being the best teacher on the planet, thank you for being yourself, thank you for loving, thank you for caring, thank you for lifting others up, thank you for hosting karaoke , and lunchtime parties, thank you for investing in what you love, thank you for showing dreams can come true and thank you for who you are. I truly believe I will never forget the amazing memories. The finger twerking, the karaoke, the pencil throwing, the messages on the white board, the Rick Astley memes, the off-key songs, the random videos we played in your room… the burnt popcorn smell, the walks, the unimaginable love, the genuine care, and the strength you have given all of us.

thank you! imma miss you!

Hi Mrs. Gold!
How are you? I miss your class!

Mrs. Gold, I watched your video tonight and you seriously made me cry! I love you so much and I can’t thank you enough for putting up with me and teaching me all that I have learned in English this year! I will for sure miss you and hope to get in contact with you after I graduate! I just owe you the biggest thanks! So thank you for everything!!!

Mrs. Gold, I just wanted to send a short letter to tell you thank you so much for all of your hard work on our behalf. Teaching is such a hard profession! My son … has loved being in your class! He says you are one of his favorite teachers he has ever had! … says out of all his teachers, you are the one that cares about the students and works so hard to prepare fun lessons that are interesting! Warmest thanks!

Hey Gold, I just want to thank you for all that you are doing for me and for all of your students, you really are a great teacher.

The sea turtles are the real reason we teachers teach. If you don’t believe me, just look around the country right now during COVID-19. Remember that the sea turtles that are in your homes driving you crazy are so enamoring to the few, the proud, the educators. We see them for what they are: majestic beings full of unlimited endless potential. We care that we don’t get paid anywhere near what we are worth, but like the surfers, we just take it for what it is because that HUGE wave and the Pro Surfing tour is waiting on us. And the sea turtles wouldn’t get to the front pages of National Geographic without the humans who see them for what they are.

Even if every night, usually in the dark, I had to paddle away from my sea turtles, back to a dirty house to make dinner for my own full home, do homework with my own kids, and clean the mess to be ready for another early morning, I always did so with the hopes that tomorrow I could reach the ones I was supposed to and ignore the ones that shook their heads and shrugged their shoulders.
And thanks to the sea turtles that I taught how to write, I think I didn’t end up doing so terrible. I mean, I didn’t drown or die of a heart attack. I at least made it back to the shore. But, next year. Next year, I will be in way better shape, and I am going to have a way better surf board. Bring on more sea turtles.

Hopelossness

Saber was his name.
My brother’s dog.
He belonged on the set of Sandlot.
Minus the growl.
Because he was a gentle giant
that wouldn’t hurt a fly.
Just like his human counterpart, Braxton.
My nephew had passed to the other side.
Too soon.
Paper angels filled their lawn.
What a shame it was that B was gone,
but his dog was there
laying, hanging his head on the stoop
waiting for his boy to come home.
The reunion never took place until Saber died, too.
I would have liked to have been there, Braxton
because in many ways I am still on that doorstep
my brain is reeling in the why.

Lucky was his name.
The little mutt with crazy wire whiskers.
He was a high-strung dog,
but how she loved him.
Her boyfriend relayed through sobs that he found Lucky
licking up her blood.
My hug that can’t be given is in that backyard fire
along with hers
among the coals and guts
wondering along with Lucky
where she went and why she went there.
Stephanie, my dear friend,
I’ll never stop
reliving the conversation
we had over messenger
a week before.
I told you there was hope.
You could still live a full life
even with a mental diagnosis.
I’m so sorry that I wasn’t convincing enough.

I don’t know their names.
One was a fat chocolate lab
and the other was a bronze retriever.
He walked them every day.
Twice a day.
Like clockwork.
Early morning and right after rush hour.
They dragged him along
and he held on tight
to both of their leashes
and their bags of poo.
But his own life was slippier.
Hey you, we said hi in passing
for years, but you never
had many words.
You let go of your life
and your dogs are probably
still sitting at the window
with scrambling paws
tangled in the blinds
waiting for their walk.
When our neighbor texted
to report the news,
I cried
because I wanted to see
those bags of poo
one last time,
so I could tell you that
you mattered.
To your dogs,
and to me.
Even if we weren’t friends.
Even if I don’t even know your name.
Daily, since the news, I drive the streets
that never again will know your soles,
and my soul feels empty.

Chinchillas.
He loved them.
He tried to convince me
to love them, too.
I wouldn’t even look,
even though my kids said they
were the softest animal on the earth.
Caleb was the softest human on the earth.
His smile.
His laugh.
His love.
His open arms
and funny jokes.
Everyone’s friend.
Everyone’s cheerleader.
His love for cooking.
I want to buy a chinchilla
just for you, Caleb
because I didn’t listen last time when you told me to
and because maybe
just maybe
the chinchilla’s fur
in my hand
will bring back my ability to breathe.
But mostly I want to travel back
two weeks and embrace your face
and tell you how much you taught
instead of just remarking
on how handsome of a young man you had become.

Dear Dad,

It’s 4 days until Christmas. You’ve been gone for what feels like forever. I miss you so much, dad. You’ve been with me so much this month. In the Walgreen’s aisle with Almond Roca. In every bad dressed-up Santa. In the bicycle aisle at Wal-mart, and as I drove past the Harley store and heard your gut-busting laugh as I reminisced about running into the front door. With the Old Spice and the shaving cream I bought for Caroline’s slime. The rootbeer that I got just to think of you. In my feather pillow. In the measuring tape I needed at work and just happened to have in my car. When LG and I somehow managed to fix our own washing machine, the miracle belonged to you, and the moment wasn’t near what it could have been if I could have called you on the phone to hear your pride.

I wish I could see you just for a second. I want to see your smile. I want to feel your rough weathered hands. I want to smell you and feel the whiskers on your face when you try to give me a kiss and I turn my cheek to your greedy lips. One of the last things I said to you is that I don’t do kisses except for with LG and babies. I grew out of those a long time ago, but it never stopped you from trying. Ha. Unfortunately, as real as the memories are, because you aren’t actually here, I have to be satisfied with the memories making you alive in the sights, smells, and sounds that are here. When Mr. Bing Crosby whistles in “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas,” I just pretend that you are right upstairs. And I know you are.

Last month I went to the temple. I prayed and pleaded with God that he would let me see you. I waited in the Celestial Room for a long time, but you never came. I didn’t understand. I forced myself to my feet and walked toward the door dejected and disappointed. Outside the Celestial Room, I threw my fifty tear-soaked tissues in the garbage and got a drink of water for my perched throat, and then I noticed a burly man in his prime wearing a white suit watching my every move from where he stood at the top of the stair-case across the breezeway.

As I walked straight toward him turning to ascend the stairs back to my stressful and crazy lifestyle, I felt a peace permeate me. The peace was a literal thing, and it pierced straight through my entire being. As I turned back to make sense of this feeling — this weapon of peace — that could entice me to do anything and everything to keep it, the man smiled and said “goodnight.” I returned with an automated “goodnight,” like a Walton’s episode, while also automatically turning back around to let the goodnight of peace propel me back to so much drudgery below. After two steps, I realized that this man (if it wasn’t you) represented you. You had chosen to offer me the greatest thing you had to offer — peace. And out of all the things you could say, you chose “goodnight.” As if you were really saying, “don’t fret, Alice. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Upon my recognition of what had transpired, I jolted my head back to catch you, dad, but all I got was the back of your suit headed back into God’s abyss. You had other stuff to do, and at that moment I knew you were just fine. Busy, but fine. You stole the moment for your grieving child. You stole it just for me because you are way more than fine. You are busy in a place of white. You will always be watching, but not necessarily 100% present except in memory. You didn’t even wait for me turn back because it would have been too hard to say goodbye instead of just a simple goodnight.

Oh dad, you are everywhere that I am. I take you with me wherever I go. I know you’re fine, but I sure wish I could feel that peace all of the time.