A Medal Please, Mr. President

Dear Mr. President:

I would like to propose the awarding of a medal of honor for valor for the adult victims of the tragic events at Newtown, Connecticut. I realize that the Congressional Medal of Honor is not awarded to civilians. But medals are awarded to police officers and firefighters who lose their lives in the line of duty. On the morning of December 14, 2013 six courageous women, the educators and school personnel at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut, were killed in the line of their duties. That their duties included stimulating young minds and preparing them for a wider world notwithstanding. They honored their commitment to teach, to lead, to protect their students at the cost of their lives. This is the commitment that teachers are making everyday at their posts in the classroom. On reflecting upon the supreme sacrifice of the teachers at Sandy Hook Elementary School, I am reminded of the brave teachers of the South African freedom movement and movements across the globe, as well as, in our own country’s struggles for civil rights. Many teachers have been upon the bulwarks and clearly remain so. The individuals: Dawn Hochsprung, Mary Sherlach, Victoria Soto, Anne Marie Murphy, Rachel D’Avino and Lauren Rousseau, gave their lives in service to their students. I would like to think there is a medal for that degree of sacrifice on the part of a civilian. At a time that our teachers are maligned for political ends, it is perhaps the moment to recognize their valor in the line of duty. I sincerely hope you will consider this proposal.
Sincerely,
Breena Clarke

John F. Stacks, a Chief, a friend and a mentor

John Stacks was the only other friend or colleague who had been there, too -- The Heartbreak Hotel -- the place a parent goes when their child dies before them. When I returned to work after my son’s death, John invited me down to his office. I look back and wonder how I could come back. The support of my colleagues in the New York Bureau of Time -- from all of the News Service and from edit -- buoyed me.

And then again, John had come back. The bureau, the magazine, the company had supported him. That’s the kind of place it was - collegial, compassionate, supportive.

John and I talked about our sons and our loss. He was Chief of Correspondents then. We cried and smoked and drank diet coke. Those couple of hours we spent talking were more useful to me than the sessions I spent with a grief counselor.


John Stacks started me on the way to my novel writing career. I worked for him as an administrative assistant in the New York Bureau when he was Bureau Chief and again when he was Deputy Managing Editor of TIME Magazine.

TIME Magazine was, for me, the most stimulating place on the planet. I received a lot of writing advice there: learn to write faster; do it until its done; writing is a muscle that gets stronger with exercise; any deadline can be met.

I credit John Stacks with giving me the question that started me writing my first novel. He’d read a short story that I submitted as an assignment for a writing class at Columbia University’s School of General Studies. We had lots of perks then like tuition reimbursements and John always approved and encouraged. He said he liked the story. I was a bit disappointed that he didn’t critique it. I knew it needed improving. Instead he said this: “I wonder. What happens to those people - you know -- after . . .?”

Well, I felt like. . . Eureka! I knew then that I would/could/should write the novel that became RIVER, CROSS MY HEART.

Many of the things we talked about that first night, found their way into RIVER, CROSS MY HEART -- the parts about feeling like you’ve lost your life’s hope. That was the deeply painful territory we knew about. This bottoming out feeling that leads to resolve that leads to triumph became a theme for me for two novels.

John read drafts and discussed three of my manuscripts. His inquisitiveness helped guide me. He was always careful and respectful. He never tried to lard his ideas into the feedback.

When John became Deputy Managing Editor and I became his administrative assistant John was very generous with his vacation weeks. He never made me take my weeks at the same time he took his. So I got the benefit of his weeks and mine. When he went on vacation, he went – no calling – no projects. I got to write during his absence. We joked, but it was serious time.

John was the second creative mentor I lost this year. It's been a tough stretch! Once again the bottom, the resolve, the triumph of survival. I will miss John Stacks when I write. I write everyday because I knew John Stacks.

Vicarious

The nice part of watching other people swim in the Olympics is imagining yourself as a water sprite riding on the swimmer’s shoulder. Or maybe you’re a speck of something -- a fly on their swim cap. You go for the swim, too. The videography is so good now that you can see and feel the underwater swim as well. And, as I was told by the woman who taught me to swim at age 49, you can learn from watching other people swim. Yes, I believe it. I can think about my shoulders and watch their shoulders perform a stroke with strength, beauty and control and understand the ways I can improve my own. I recognize that I have to accommodate my shoulder’s aches and pains. I see how a lack of flexibility in another area puts a strain on that shoulder. Watching the Olympians I see how I can fix some things. At the Olympics I get to see the excellent form and I can put that image before me to emulate. It is a reversal of mentoring sort of if mentoring is about old giving to young. Instead I emulate their athleticism, strength, determination, competitiveness and practiced form. I’m no Olympian. I’m not even a good swimmer. I practice swimming for fitness, contemplation, inspiration and community. My wise teacher told me after I’d accomplished some aqua confidence that anything that gets you from point A in the shallows to point B in the deep and back can be considered “swimming.” Her point being that, though there are standards and techniques in our sport, there is a lot of benefit and pleasure even if you can’t quite get up to them . . . as long as you don’t drown. And, BTW, let’s teach more kids to swim to avoid more accidental drownings. During the Summer Olympics I can get very excited by the swimming meets. I’m the water sprite, the fly on a swim cap. I’m there!

liquid courage

My brain never clicks off when I swim. Some of the time I'm assessing my technique -- goading myself at times. Some of the time I'm contemplating soulful matters and some of the time it is the sunlight on the water that reflects a little bird that sits on the roof. I had a great and exuberant accomplishment in the pool this morning. I was stroking around before aqua aerobics class. My front crawl felt good and smooth. When I reached the wall I tucked my legs and kept my head down and turned at the wall and began the swim back. I came up calmly when I’d made the turn and continued to breathe evenly. The next breath was a little anxious when I realized what I’d done. I had finally conquered the tizzy of panic that hits when I hit the wall at the end of the lane. I almost always pull up to take a safe breath for the swim back down the lane. This time I had the confidence and the strength to make the turn and take the breath in rhythm. My muscles behaved with assurance. There was no question of inability. It made me feel good that I did something I’d not been able to do before.

New Suit

Perhaps it's the psychological effect of having accomplished a slimmer suit, but I felt more energetic in the pool this morning. I've gone through a few suits in my twice a week aqua aerobics class. The chemicals are harsh. They take a toll. I replace them, but I don't throw them out – not sure why. This new one is a size smaller than the others. I got it because they didn't have my regular size. I think I've got a new regular size. It felt like the suit gave a little boost to the workout. The clutch of women who come to my class are always checking out Marshall's for suits. We can't be paying $70 or $80 for a swimsuit. We put them through a rigorous workout – for a period of about 90 minutes for each class. We note the progression of fading. It's pretty steep from bright and colorful to colorless. We try to stock up for the off–season. We worry about the suits getting threadbare along the back seam that goes over our behinds. This is so bad a look that even a woman who doesn't know your name will let you know you're exposed.

a hub of muscles and brain

People who exercise in water are smug. We have a lovely, satisfying secret. We have such a great time while we "fritz" calories because it feels good (really, really good) to swim. It is blissful to float and cavort and do exercises you couldn't attempt on land. The ceiling panels in our neighborhood pool are sometimes opened to the sky and when sun shines on the water it is very like a tropical beach. In the dead of winter we who attend the AA class have the pool mostly to ourselves and when we emerge we are like super heroes. Our bodies are so warm with blood circulation and exuberance that we are impervious to the weather. In the pool I am different. In the water I am nobody's nobody. The only expectations I satisfy are my own. I don't criticize my butt. I critique my preparation. Did I consume enough of the right fuel to keep from feeling hunger in the water? Did I eat too much so that I feel sluggish? True I check my joints for arthritic complaints, but I don't let a twinge in my shoulder keep me at home. I leave self-recrimination in the locker room with my wallet, my phone, my car keys and my glasses. This is part of the process: unencumbered, blissful exercise --- me and my always fading swimsuit. I am only a consciousness --- a hub of muscles and brain. I had a wise swimming instructor who told me that, once you learn to move from point a to point b without drowning, you're swimming. You don't have to be "accomplished" as long as you get there. Ironically,just this idea of personal skill and practice has caused me to acquire and improve my technique. My mother was an exceptional swimmer in an era that had few opportunities for African American women. My son learned to swim well despite that his mother hadn't ever learned. Both of these absent swimmers are my goals -- I reach for them when I touch at the deep end. I find it difficult to make the turn. I smile in the water and I speak their names.

The tyranny of vertical

Sometimes I wiggle my fingers beneath the water. It is an expression of glee and of confidence that I don't have to be technically perfect to swim -- swimming is to be enjoyed -- it is a personal practice. I learned this from the many people I encounter at the pool. Some go up and down the lanes doing things that my swimming teacher told me not to do. Yet they are moving contentedly and most any movement you make that doesn't drown you or befoul the water is good exertion/good therapy.

I was able to accomplish a smooth turn at the wall in the pool a couple of days ago. This is the first time I've actually completed it. I usually get a tiny sliver of panic/uncertainty that I can turn and swim away without being overwhelmed. It is an unrealistic, emotional response of fear that distracts me/impedes me. So I come up at the wall and take extra breaths before heading back. It is exciting to conquer this tiny panic. Swimming offers small triumphs -- for me. When I feel changes in my physical responses -- more graceful movements, better posture, deeper breathing, more strength, more stamina - (stamina is a thing easy to observe and gratifying to document) - I credit swimming. When I thrust a pair of hard, foam dumbbells into the water between my legs in fifth position and jump up and kick my legs to right and left diagonally I always laugh heartily. It's an exhilarating feeling. I ponder how many complex, exhilarating, deeply pleasurable movements we don't perform on land because of social convention, physics and THE TYRANNY OF UPRIGHT STANCE. Are we not in our finest moments when we are horizontal: sleeping, swimming, making sex, dead? Straight is possible -- perhaps more possible- in the horizontal. I often feel that when I straighten in the water -- trying to accomplish my best technique my body engages all of my sometimes very lazy abs and back muscles and I can tell that I am as straight as I will ever be. I push my fingers toward an aqua horizon - my forehead is at the water's lips as I try to do the stroke right. I'm reaching and I put all that I am reaching for just ahead of my fingertips so that I will keep forward. For the first time yesterday, I realized the confidence to make the turn without fear -- without breaking for a "calming" breath -- and begin to go for the other wall. Sometimes I wiggle my fingers beneath the water and I smile, too. I'm sure underwater smiling is good for the face.

Memorial Day 2009/RED TAILS

I went to see the much ballyhooed RED TAILS - the George Lucas film about the Tuskeegee Airmen. It's a good enough action flick. There were no moments of intense meaning. There was only the opportunity to see a clutch of young, seemingly courageous, beautiful-looking men. It was very like I'd imagined it was for young men like my father who served in WWII. My father, James S. Clarke, was not an airman. He was in the army -- in a transport corp. He served in France and England and was a part of the Normandy invasion -- one of the thousands of ground troops who sucked up their guts and landed off those transport boats onto the beach -- yes, Black soldiers were there, too. My father remained a competant, confident driver well into his nineties because of skills forged by driving through the French countryside under the circumstances of WWII. One of the charms of Lucas' movie about the airmen is that it is some measure a small movie. Despite the publicity promotion it isn't a biggie. It is a competant movie about a group of men who went through a particular experience together. This movie purposely - I think -- limits itself to a core story, tells it briskly without much ruffling of feathers -- of any kind. The film could not tell all of the stories of African Americans in WWII. My father who was in the European theater, my uncle who was in the Pacific theater, my cousin's step-father who was in the Italian battles, my aunt who guarded German prisoners stateside. And also all of their friends and further relatives who donated blood and medical supplies specifically for "colored" troops and who wrote letters and sent packages and waited by the radio and read the telegrams. When my father died in 2009, I was pleased that it was Barack Obama who offered the gratitude of a grateful nation to my father for his military service. My father voted for him and I thought it quite fitting.

Next movie: African American Women in WWII. A Veteran of World War II

Luise Higgins Jeter March 8, 1918 - January 14, 2007

poses with her niece, Breena Clarke at the Women In Service To America Memorial near Arlington Cemetary



Her war anecdotes were about the facility she was assigned to that housed German POWs stateside. She said they were treated with an excess of respect -- officers allowed to keep their uniforms. She related a story of riding in a deep south town in uniform on a bus. She said the other "colored" riders were nervous for her. She said she sat up front until she got off at the military base. She was a courageous young woman. There were a couple of funny tales about drilling and falling into a ditch and how she and her fellow Black women had dealt with petty racism. Gladys Henderson


Auntie remembered this woman and got a little tearful looking at her filled up with feeling that, at last, there was some recognition of the role she and others had played.


a hopeful, courageous face in all of its hues Pvt. Luise Jeter was given veteran's honors at her memorial service in 2007. After her military service, she worked for the Veteran's Administration in Washington, D.C. and in Detroit, Michigan.



Auntie was proud of her service and proud of Col. Oveta Culp Hobby. She spoke of how proud the women were to wear the cap that was designed by Col. Hobby and named for her. She was very happy the day we visited the memorial
.
Cheryl, Barbara, Auntie and Breena visited the National World War II Memorial on the Mall in Washington, D.C. Auntie was excited about it. There are so many beautiful intangibles about this portrait. She inscribed it: To Harry - my darling Husband -- Luise



Happy Memorial Day, Private Luise H. Jeter!