Because we want to. . .

Phoebe Prince

November 24, 1994 - January 14, 2010

I've been thinking about this post since April 5, but I haven't felt like dealing with it, what with the warm weather, pleasant breezes, and other things not so pleasant. On the front page of that day's USA TODAY was the story, "A watershed case in school bullying?," which described the brief life and tragic death of Phoebe Prince. Fifteen year-old Phoebe and her family had emigrated from Ireland not long ago because of her dad's job. They settled in South Hadley, Mass. an affluent suburb of Springfield. There, Phoebe became the target of bullies, who made her life hell. Maybe it was because she was "an immigrant kid", or maybe it was because she dared to try to become a part of the school's social caste system by falling for a football player. For whatever reason, Phoebe became the target of that new kind of bully, described in the article as "attractive, athletic, and academically accomplished--and comfortable enough around adults to know what they can and can't get away with in school and online." It appears that the school bully is no longer nicknamed Butch and is cruel because of his personal low self-esteem. The new school bully's name is Jordan or Tripp or Ashley or Brooke, and he or she is cruel with a word, a stare, an action, a text, or a FACEBOOK posting. And the teachers and administrators they see everyday, don't recognize the viciousness behind the bright eyes and scrubbed faces.

For months life was awful for Phoebe, and despite at least two complaints to the school by her mom, Phoebe's bullying continued relentlessly. On a Thursday, Phoebe's life became a tragedy. She had been,

"hounded in the library, the cafeteria, and the hallways. . . After school,

as she was walking the few blocks to her family's apartment, one of

her tormentors threw a can of the Red Bull energy drink at her from the

window of a passing car.

"Phoebe's little sister found her in a stairwell, hanging from the scarf

she'd given her for Christmas."

I had to take a very deep breath after reading that for the first time. The article went on to posit four possible explanations for the new bully: "Less play time in kindergarten and pre-school," "more electronic communication," "TV and movies with the wrong message," and "parental ignorance." All, I'm sure, do contribute, but I wonder about the sense of entitlement that these new bullies must have. They live in a designer world with Abercrombie clothes and unlimited texting. They play the upstanding/sweet role so well that, most adults fall for it, and in fact, assure them that they are among the most special of people, possessing so much already, and certain to receive so much more. Is that why the new bullies feel they are entitled to belittle and punish those that they believe don't measure up? After all, what could be wrong with a little physical or mental brutality, when one of the NFL's higher paid quarterbacks believes he's entitled to be a sexual bully.

What bothers me tremendously is that I have no idea what can be done about this horror. Nine teenagers face criminal charges in the Prince case, but the charges were filed at the end of March, and I couldn't find anything about their disposition. Heidi Mitchell recently e-mailed me that bullying laws are being considered by the New Hampshire legislature. Can we legislate against this particular immorality? Ever since I blogged about Columbine, I have given a good deal thought to the widespread nature of bullying and the terrible toll it takes on vulnerable teens. It both angers and frustrates me. I also worry about the lack of remorse bullies seem to show. Soon after Phoebe Prince's suicide, one of the girls who harassed her so constantly, posted on FACEBOOK the single word, "Accomplished."

The Tale of THE SCARF

One of my favorite words is "ubiquitous." I like the way it sounds, and how it requires your tongue and lips to really work out in order for it to be spoken. "Ubiquitous" means "seeming to be everywhere at all times." A synonym is "omnipresent." From my appreciation of the word, comes "The Tale of THE SCARF."

Several years ago, a scarf featuring a classy plaid, a tartan, I believe, began to appear around people's necks. I wouldn't have taken note, but it wasn't just a couple of necks, but dozens and dozens of them. Then dozens and dozens more. I began pointing this out to Linda, and before long, we'd be nudging each other several times, no matter where we might have been, and saying under our breath, "There goes THE SCARF."

The ubiquitous nature of this neckwear showed itself almost frighteningly one winter night at the Carrier Dome. I was leaning against one of the walls on the lower concourse waiting for Linda, who was in the ladies room. In the minute or so, I stood there, THE SCARF went by 11 times. If I were paranoid, I might have thought of the classic film, INVASION OF THE BODY SNATCHERS.

In an earlier post, I wrote about the ubiquitous nature of North Face apparel on college students. But THE SCARF knows no demographic. It's on kids and senior citizens and all in between. Also, THE SCARF is no longer just a scarf. I have seen this classy plaid on raincoats, pocketbooks, coat linings, driving caps, backpacks, and probably other items I have forgotten. From just THE SCARF, it has become the most ubiquitous of plaids. This plaid is pictured in the photo above. It's the second one from the left. If those of you who might read this have a moment, I would appreciate knowing if you do now or ever have owned THE SCARF in any of its incarnations.

Priceless!

Blaze the Wonder Horse had been hanging on a hook from our garage ceiling for a long time. Talk about an inappropriate place for a horse who had been riding the range under a variety of kids for nearly 60 years. Blaze, in fact, was my bouncing horse, when, in the late 40's and early 50's, my mom and dad and I lived in a tiny apartment behind my grandmother's house on Five Mile Line Road in Penfield, NY. My parents often tell me of the hours I spent riding Blaze and listening to the record the "Brave Cowboy Bill" over and over again. I seem to have a memory of climbing off Blaze's narrow back to start the record over, but that might be one of those memories that have been created by the retellings of others.

When I grew out of Blaze, other kid members of the Ellstrom clan rode him in my parents' basement. But for at least 5 years now, Blaze had been on a garage hook, and sometimes I thought I should take the old stallion to the road on garbage day. I just didn't have the heart, though. So yesterday, I decided to deliver Blaze to the Salvation Army in hopes that he would find a new home in some kids corral. I had just handed his reins over to the Salvation Army lady, when Mike Keville pulled up in his van, hopped out, and said, "You just turned a bouncy horse in. I'm going to get it for my kids." If I only had seen Mike a minute or so before, I could have delivered Blaze directly to the Kevilles. "Who did that horse belong to?" Mike asked. "He was mine," I said, and his name is "Blaze." "So his name shall remain," Mike assured me.

I drove over to gas station, filled up, got the car washed, and then stopped back at the Salvation Army just to make sure Mike had gotten the bouncy horse for his brood. "Yes, he did, " the lady told me. It was great. I was mourning giving up an old friend, and another friend bought him. The cost of one 60 year old bouncy horse named Blaze? You'll have to ask Mike. The knowledge that the Keville kids will be riding him into the future? Priceless!

Dreamcatcher

Having suddenly lost our wi-fi connection in our rented house on the river, I am blogging from the Olde Towne Coffee House in Port Royal this morning. I had intended on doing a serious blog today, but cyber-fate has intervened. Just as well. It remains gorgeous in the new South. I'll save the serious posting until we are home next week. Instead I'll share a photo of this natural dreamcatcher formed by a skinny branch and Spanish moss. According to Ojibwa legend, "Bad dreams would stay in the net, disappearing with the light of day. Good dreams would pass through and slide down to the sleeper." May all your dreams be good.

Police (long o, accent on the first syllable)

I have a serious blog topic I hope to deal with soon, but today was so gorgeous, I had to come up with something pleasant. After all, we spent several hours on the beautiful Hunting Island beach today, a wide strand of sand, winding off in both directions, lined by palmettos. Riding home from the beach, we passed restaurants with names like "Weezie's Seafood," "The Crab Shack," and "Gullah Grub." We also passed a bunch of deputy sheriff's cars lying in wait in hopes of laying a speeding ticket on some scofflaw. I thought about the police and the wonderful way some people talk around here, and an idea for a blog came to me. And though the idea has nothing to do with Hunting Island beach or South Carolina, for that matter, it does deal with the way different people talk around this country. It deals with something else, too--little devices used to trigger explosions called blasting caps!

At this point, my blog takes specific aim at people who grew up in the 50's and watched TV in the fifties. Other people, unless they're involved in the construction or destruction industries, may never have heard of a blasting cap. I have, because 50's television was peppered with public service announcements warning kids not to pick up or play with blasting caps, that they might find laying around construction sites. There were so many ads, in fact, that I soon believed there were misplaced blasting caps everywhere, just waiting to blow one of my feet off. Or worse, blind me. I and all my friends tiptoed carefully around any construction site we happened to be frequenting to "borrow" scrap wood to build our various forts with. These little things, which no one had ever seen, really terrified us. It was the Willie Mays' blasting cap commercial that really made us believe.

Willie, after all, was one of our heroes. He spoke in a wonderful Southern accent and pronounced police as "poe-lease" with the accent on the first syllable. I'll always remember Willie's warning, "If you see a blasting cap, do not touch it! Call a poe-lease o' fireman. Do not touch it. You may loose your hands o' eyes!" Willy's warning is a delightful memory which now makes me smile. Back then it scared the heck out of me.

Good Signs

I poked a little fun at a South Carolina sign a few blogs back, but when we were taking our stroll on another beautiful southern morning, we came upon two signs I just loved. I thought it was only fair to give equal time to the good signs as I had to the strange one. These two pieces of signage, (how I hate that word) mark the spot at Port Royal Elementary School, where moms and dads drop off their kids. I make a motion they be adopted in upstate NY school districts.

Did I Mention We Met Forrest Gump?

Last week we took Linda's sister Claire to Savannah. I love the city, and in order for Claire to see as many of the beautiful squares as possible, we took one of the rather overpriced tram tours of the city. As we were approaching Chippewa Square, the driver/narrator stopped. She explained that this was the square where the "box of chocolates" park bench scene was filmed in FORREST GUMP. To our left, she pointed out, was the church where the CG feather came wafting down. We took a slow drive around the lovely square and saw the spot where the bench had been placed for filming. When we were 3/4 of the way around, our narrator said, "Why look who's waiting for our tram." There on the corner was Forrest Gump. Sneakers on and suitcase in hand. Baseball cap atop his head. The tram pulled up and Forrest got on.

The young guy they had found to play Forrest was pretty great. He really looked like Tom Hanks and sounded like Forrest. He began to talk to us in Gump-ese, telling us that he was going to meet Captain Dan. Then he grinned Forrestly, waiting for someone to ask him a question. And the whole tramload froze up. No one said a word. I thought of asking him how Mama or Bubba were but was afraid he'd say, "they're both dead, don't ya know?" After a minute or so of babbling about chocolates and Jenny (who come to think of it, is dead, too), Forrest hopped off the tram and went running down the street at a Forrest "I'm crossin' the country" pace. And I bet he was thinking, "Another bunch of idjits with nothin' to ask me." Heck, I even forgot to take his picture.