Author: DAN FUCHS

Remembrances of Canines Past

~ DAN FUCHS ~ 1 Comment
I had a funny memory while walking Ally last night.  I was imagining what it would be like to take her with us on a family vacation, the way we took Bo to the beach with us on a couple of occasions.
One vacation – to the Water Island section of Fire Island gave rise to a couple of good Bo stories.
The house we rented was in an amazing spot, nestled between the bay and the ocean, in the midst of rolling dunes.  We could see the little pink cottage where my parents shacked up early on in their courtship, and that my mother immortalized in a really beautiful water color painting.  For the two of them, I’m sure it was something of a romantic nostalgia trip.  For my brother and me, it was a summer of unforgettable, as well as an opportunity to do some epic complaining, which we were very good at doing.  
Our complaints had to do mostly with the lack of creature comforts to which we’d become accustomed – TV, McDonald’s, and chain supermarkets.  The rustic little general store, which I’m sure filled our parents with the warm fuzzies, didn’t cut it for Mike and me.  At one point, in an impressive display of smart-ass, we even spelled out “SEND MORE FOOD” in sea glass and shells on the beach, presumably for passing planes who might rescue us. 
The story I recalled involved the ocean side, which, to my dismay, was a nude beach.  Like much of Fire Island, it was predominantly male, so Mike, my dad and I eventually got into the spirit and took it all off. 
My mother was mortified and chose to stay dressed, her head in a scarf, as it usually was to protect her damaged ears from the elements, and big Jackie O sunglasses.  She looked like a celebrity trying to go incognito.
To avoid all the nakedness, my mother decided to walk the dog down the beach, keeping her eyes down as best she could.
Unfortunately for her, however, Bo was a barker, and there was something about all those dangling willies that just set him off.  He began barking wildly (and quite specifically) at the junk he saw passing by.
It made quite an image, this Greta Garbo-esque woman, fully clothed and trying to be apologetic while without making eye contact, all the while tugging at the leash of her dog, who was barking and snapping at the peters passing by.

Confessions of a Momma's Boy

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I was 15 when we moved to Grosse Pointe, Michigan.  It was about as different a place from where I grew up in Lower Westchester County, New York as you could dream up.  Where my schools were diverse racially, ethnically and socio-economically, I now found myself at Grosse Pointe South High School, where the demographics were, shall we say, “uncomplicated.”  Lots of well to do white children. 
The change was jarring for me in its unfamiliarity.  I was excited by the prospect of being in a new place where no one knew me and I could essentially re-make my identity.  And I did eventually get out there, make friends, have fun and get into trouble, as is the custom of people of that age group.
In the beginning, though, I was overwhelmed.  I remember walking down the hall of the high school, wearing an outfit that was all the rage in New York at the time – tight white pants, L’il Abner boots, and a velour shirt, tight on the biceps, and open at the neck. 
This was not what the boys at Grosse Pointe South wore.  They were the quintessential prepsters and wore alligator shirts, knit sweaters and cords.  For footwear it was docksiders or duck shoes. 
As if I wasn’t already mortified enough by how badly I stood out, one of the alpha preps, Andre Augier, called out to me down the hall, “Hey! Are those your sister’s pants you’re wearing?”  As one might imagine, there are few things you can say that will wound a 15 year old boy more than these words.  They stung as badly as if I’d been slapped across the face. 
I’m proud of the fact that I didn’t change my personal style; what I realized, and what Andre and his ilk realized, is that the girls kind of liked my New York style.  It echoed the idols of the time, like Travolta and Stallone.  I felt a little sense of celebrity as I walked the halls, and learned eventually to embrace my uniqueness, which, where I came from, had been a decided sameness. 
Rather than seek out a social life, when we first arrived in Michigan, I would ride my bike directly home from school and sit down with my mother to watch re-runs of M*A*S*H*.  Even though I had the distinct sense that I was too old for it, I would put my head on her lap, and she absently ran her fingers through my hair, which had always served to make me feel safe and cared for.  We would do what we loved to do most – laugh together.  (Watching horror movies came in a close second.)
I won’t be surprised when Jackson and/or Diego come running home from 10th grade, just to lay their head on Jeanette’s lap and let her fingers run soothingly through their hair.

The Importance of Laughter

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When I was in acting class at Syracuse University, just a few years ago (ahem), one of the activities we were assigned was to invent a game. I don’t remember the exact requirements, but I’m sure it had to have rules, a way to win and a way to lose. I ended up doing something with an egg, I think. You had to roll it from one point to another, or something like that. It was vaguely amusing and got an unenthusiastic shrug from instructor Larry Tackett, as if to say, “You phoned it in, Dan.”

What got me thinking on the topic of games was a compliment I received at work recently for my “radio voice,” after doing the narration for a recorded webinar. What’s the connection, you might be wondering? Stay with me. You see, I attribute my ability to read well to a game I co-invented with my brother back in 1979, at our home in Purchase, New York.

It was the middle of summer and hot. Because we had just moved into the neighborhood, we had no one to hang out with besides each other, and we were forced to make our own fun. Somewhat spontaneously, we came up with a game. (Yes, here is where it connects with the previous bit about my drama class, as I’ve so often kicked myself about doing the lame-ass egg-rolling thing. Why hadn’t I shared the game Mike and I invented? It would have brought the house down, sure as you’re born.)

So here’s how it worked: Two players face off, one seated in front of the other, knees nearly touching. Each player has a prop – player one the daily paper, player two a water spritzer, set on “STREAM.” Object of the Game: Stay dry by reading aloud clearly and without hesitation or laughter. How to win: Be the last player not to surrender and/or drown.

I may just teach this one to my sons, for a couple of reasons. For one thing, it was a hell of a lot of fun; I still recall laughing until I couldn’t breathe. Also, it was an excellent lesson in staying focused under extreme conditions. The gun was literally pointing right in my face, and I knew I’d be shot if I slurred, stammered, hesitated or laughed.

It was also great practice. We were two teenage American boys who willingly sat down to READ – already an unusual sight back in 1979.

More than anything, though, it was a great bonding experience for my brother and me. Few things bring people together as powerfully as laughter. When I think about all my best friends, I can immediately bring out-of-control , snorting moments of laughter to mind. (See photo above, with Ken Weinstein and Susan Dreyer-Leon in Big Indian, NY, during the summer of 1994 as evidence.)

I’ve been asked to record more webinars, so I can’t help but think that the silly, soaking wet summer days spent laughing with my little brother somehow contributed to my current success. I suppose the moral is this: Before scolding your kids for doing something that seems irrational and/or absurd, consider my simple, somewhat ridiculous story.

Remembering "Crazy Legs"

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Ally is roaming our backyard, nose to the ground, as I sit under the floodlight at 5:30 a.m. I decided to bring the journal book out here while she “does her business,” as the euphemism goes. I’ll ride my bike when she’s done, rather than walk her this morning. She’ll miss all the sniffing, I know…

I took her to her first vet visit yesterday, dropping a cool $155 in the process. Learned she has an ear infection which I have to treat, with J’s help, as it involves pouring medicine into Ally’s ears and squishing it around for 45 seconds in each. The vet demonstrated the process, even shoving cotton balls down there and digging out some pretty nasty black “gunk,” as he called it. (Love that medical jargon.)

I am not looking forward to that bit.

Thankfully I won’t have to do the other thing he did, which involved a digital exam and expressing a scent gland. No thanks. Any dream I may have had of becoming a vet at any point in my life was dashed when he explained that one.

They remarked on how good Ally was the entire time, which made me proud. She was a good sport – even when they were probing her various orifices. She did have something to say (a quick “YIP!”) when the vet clipped a claw too close. Otherwise, she was a model patient, and I was very pleased with the care she received at the Manor Veterinary Hospital. The fact that it’s a half mile from my house is icing on the cake.

Being there reminded me of the vet in White Plains where we used to take our pets growing up. The handler there was a burly Scott named Jack who amused my mother to no end. When we’d take our dog Bo in for an appointment, he’d see him and say, in a thick highland brogue, “Acch, here he comes. Here comes ‘Crazy Legs’!” Unlike Ally, Bo did not stand idly by while they prodded and probed. He never bit; I think he knew they were there to help him, but he wasn’t going to make it easy for them.

END NOTE: By the way, Ally ended up charming me into giving her a walk before I left for work. How can I say no to those eyes, I ask you?

My Genetic Disorder

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In a rare occurrence, I actually got to bed at a reasonable hour recently — about 10:15 or so. Gettting up at my usual time would give me about seven hours of sleep, a good, reasonable number.

As I pondered this, I realized that I suffer from a genetic disorder; I’m not sure what it’s called, and maybe I’ll name it and somehow make money off its study and treatment. It’s hard to believe there’s anything in this world that is undiscovered anymore, however, so perhaps I should google this condition first.

I’m afraid my genetic makeup is such that I don’t generally get much sleep. My father was an early bird — up by 5:30, asleep by 9:30 or 10. My mother slept late when she could, and was always the last one to go to sleep, due to her habit of staying up until the wee hours, either reading or writing or both, I suppose, smoking her high-tar Tareyton cigarettes, with the two red racing stripes on the white package, as distinctive a brand in my childhood memory as there is.

Mom slept in at every opportunity. On those days, it was my dad who got us fedand ready for school. He made us good breakfasts and always woke us up with a very cold glass of orange juice.

Somehow I’ve managed to inherit both sets of genes from them. So my inclination is to stay up late and to get up early. It’s a struggle for me to get into bed by ten, and itt’s difficult to get up after seven-thirty — even on the weekend.

In a word . . . I’m screwy. And I’m sleepy. Okay, two words. This is my new (school) year resolution — to get to bed by 10 or 10:30 every weeknight, and to wake up refreshed and ready to go the next morning. (Why, then, do I feel so exhausted?)

The Sameness of Days

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Every once in a while it occurs to me that my time on Earth is finite. It’s the thought that keeps me, and all of us, up at night. The planet is spinning on its axis, revolving around the sun – its motion terrifying in its ceaseless consistency.

Bill Murray’s work in the movie Groundhog Day is underrated: he walks a razor line between comedy and horror, waking up to the exact same day each and every day. Strangely, the premise of this film – that a man must re-live the same day again and again for eternity isn’t a story about immortality. Ultimately, it’s a parable about aging – a “cautionary tale” urging the viewer not to let his life fall into a numbing sameness of days. Instead, change things up. Take risks. Have fun. Do the thing you’re afraid you might not be able to do. Even if you fail at it, you’ll be able to say you gave it a shot. At least you’ll have done battle with the sameness of your days. It won’t slow down time, or stop the Earth’s rotation and revolution, but you’ll feel less like a hamster (or a groundhog) on a wheel.

First Day of School, Same As It Ever Was

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In about one hour from now I’ll pack my children into the car to cart them off to their first day of the new school year. Of course it brings back a whole boatload of strong memories.

I wonder if any of my friends from that era, or my brother Mike, would recall the little briefcases our mothers bought us at Sears. They were made of imitation leather and had metal clasps. I think mine was brown. There were metal runners on them like four stationary wheels, which made them really fun to slide down the street on our way to and from the bus stop. We used to have competitions to see who could slide their book-bag the farthest.

I remember wearing crisp shirts, also from Sears, along with jeans whose denim was dark blue and stiff in its newness.

There was the nervous quiet in the classroom on that first day, as we met our new teacher, hoping they would be nice, that they would be patient, understanding and tolerant of our shortcomings.

As I prepare to rouse my family from their sleep this morning, I find that I am wishing the very same things for my boys as I wished for myself back in 1971.

Now That We're a Pack

~ DAN FUCHS ~ 2 Comments

Our dog Ally has a lot of behaviors I enjoy, and one of my favorites is how she sleeps with the boys in their room. If she was allowed to, she would join them in bed. Apparently her previous owners permitted her to sleep in bed with them, which, according to one of the Town Lake adoption counselors, sent Ally mixed signals and can cause a dog like her to be anxious.

We have, indeed, caught her sleeping on beds and sofas on a few occasions (see photo), spreading her fur and odor in rather unpleasant fashion. We shoo her off and inform her she is a bad dog. She lowers her head and wags her tail close to the ground, as if to say, “I know I’m bad….but you still love me, don’t you?”

My theories about why she sleeps in the room with the kids are the following:

She sees herself as their equal in the pack hierarchy. They are her brothers. She is one of the kids.

She likes the sound of their breathing and, like Jackson, she’s comforted by the knowledge she’s not alone.

She has somehow recognized that Diego and Jackson are the smallest and most vulnerable members of our pack and it is her job to serve as their protector. Cesar Millan would like two of the three, but he’d school me on the truth, I’m sure.

Any way you look at it, I think it’s the cutest thing I’ve seen in a while — the image of this animal, who just one week ago was one of four hundred other dogs, barking and baking in 100+-degree heat, now lying on the carpeted floor between my sons’ beds, sleeping in the air-conditioned comfort of my home.

Recently, Yet Long Ago

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My subconscious has been busy lately, churning out dreams almost every night. I’m not one of those people who generally finds dreams particularly interesting to talk about, and my conscious mind is good at blocking them out once I get up in the morning. They don’t amount to much more than a vague itch – an unmistakable sensation of having taken a trip somewhere recently, yet long ago.

It reminds me of when I look at my photographs from my travels in Europe back in 1987 and ’88, and I try to put myself back into that time. Can I recall the sights, sounds and smells of that particular place?

There are several moments that have stayed vividly with me over the course of all these years. One happened on the Greek island of Paros, where we stayed for a few days with our friend Sally Wattles. On a sunny morning I sat down at a café table with a cup of coffee and the Guardian newspaper. The restaurant sat right in the middle of the docks where the fishing boats moored. Old men with dried-apple faces smoked cigarettes, mended fishing nets and cleaned octopus, the rigging of the boats jingling in the gentle, steady rise and fall of the tide.

The coffee was a good, strong Mediterranean blend – the kind of coffee to which I became accustomed while living in Spain and which I still drink to this day. When I licked my lips, the salt from the sea breeze played off the bitter-sweetness of the coffee. The smell of seaweed and the morning’s catch hung heavy in the heat of that morning on August 2, 1988.

I know the date because of what came next. There in the midst of all those intense sensations I opened the paper and read the words “America’s Chekhov Dead at 50,” and there was a photo of a familiar face – my literary mentor, Raymond Carver, had died of lung cancer, his wife, Tess Gallagher by his side.

I read the article which recalled Ray’s difficult life and how writing had given him a second chance. Finishing my coffee, I thought about how sad it was that I would never again experience the thrill of opening the New Yorker magazine and reading a new Carver story.

Can You Change Something by Doing the Same Thing You've Always Done?

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An interesting thing is happening on the Satellite Academy High School NYC Facebook page. Graduates are posting their dates of attendance and which of the four sites they went to.

Some do it matter-of-factly – years, then site. But many take the opportunity to shout out their advisory group or “Strat,” as the “best ever.” Some single out their advisory teachers, or list a group of favorite teachers.

Not only do I remember many of these people well, but I even recall some of them in the intake interviews before they became Satellite students. Invariably they were nervous at this high-stakes moment in their young lives, and that anxiety took a variety of forms. The kids who became incommunicative or belligerent were sometimes the ones who didn’t pass the interviews, usually because one of the students on the panel insisted they would be a bad fit for the school.

As the teacher representative on those committees, I would then ask them to remember when they were in that chair. “Were you nervous? How did it make you feel, answering questions from four strangers, three of whom were your age?”

Sometimes they’d cut the kid a break, or I would, and sometimes they wouldn’t, or I wouldn’t. When we did, sometimes the kid worked out well, and sometimes they didn’t.

There’s a powerful book to be written on my experience as a teacher. I really am humbled by how blessed I was to teach where I taught, and to do it for so many years.

As I read the posts of my former students, now adults with children of their own, I wonder how different, if at all, their lives would have turned out had they never found our school. Perhaps it’s hubris to think we “saved” them. The thing to remember about young people growing up in poverty, as many of our students did, is that it creates an extremely thick skin. My students were, and are, resilient people. I am certain many would have landed on their feet, with or without me/us.

As I work with school after school, trying to help them help their students, my stories of Satellite Academy, advisory class, skills-based teaching, and portfolio assessment sound like extravagant tales from a distant land. It’s as if I’m describing a dragon I slayed, or a Holy Grail I discovered.

Testing has its place – as a way to help a student know what he has learned and what he still needs to master. I do thank NCLB for “outing” the achievement gap in this country. Being who I am (a firm believer in the “positive pre-supposition”), I have to believe the original intent of the legislation was to help public schools and the children in them. What seems to be happening instead is a full-on attack, with the suggestion that schools, and the teachers in them, are to blame for the very inequities, instead of a society that has denied its caste system and institutional racism since its beginnings. The testing and textbook industries have created a round hole into which they are trying to shove “pegs” of all shapes and sizes. We do the same things semester after semester, year after year, forgetting the old dictum about insanity (the expectation that you’ll get a different result by doing the same thing) and wondering all the while why nothing changes.

Ask a former Satellite Academy student; they might surprise you with their answers.