This blog is intended for the ear rather than the eye.
My thanks to Ray Lowe, retired financial planner and fellow Penn guy, for asking me to be on his podcast, Changing the Rules. My interview describes the unusual kick-starter for my writing career and how, through a chance meeting with actor Vicki Guiteras Giunta, Stages of Imagination, our nationally recognized children's theater company, was born.
https://changing-the-rules.simplecast.com/episodes/e-128-ray-and-jim-c
Every once in a while, I'm contacted by a former student. It might come via Facebook, email, this blog site, or regular mail. Over 37 years, from 6th through 12th grades in three school districts, a community college and a graduate school, I've interacted with a whole bunch of folks.
I heard from a student who received a Fulbright to Oxford. He wanted to thank me for making him read a lot, and write a lot, and rewrite even more.
I heard from a student who was so tickled by my reading her work aloud to the class, she decided to become a writer. She was the editor of a newspaper in small town America doing what she loved.
I heard from students who acted in my high school plays who were touring the country in professional theater companies. And I heard from students who were now in front of classrooms trying to encourage kids to read a lot, and write a lot, and rewrite even more.
All of these contacts were deeply appreciated. Some made me cry a little.
Two came totally out of the blue. They thanked me for their marriages.
Please note, Matchmaker was never part of my resume.
I deeply valued a classroom where students didn't have to raise their voices to talk over unruly, loud classmates. Many of my public school classrooms were packed solid with 35 students, often with a wide range of academic and emotional needs. I had to come up with a plan to create a stimulating, yet orderly environment.
The plan I designed was simple.
The first two days of a new school year, I allowed students to sit anywhere they wanted. Kids, whether 10 or 18, quickly scrambled to be near friends. Guys, especially from 8th grade on who were not keen to be in English/Language Arts class, headed to the back of the room, as close to the door as possible. That way, they could maybe enter late and leave early.
Only, on the third day, I announced as they entered not to get too comfortable. I was going to assign seats. They loudly groaned.
I told them the seat assignments were not based on anything more than my educator instinct to where they might be most successful. I spread the friends as widely apart as possible. I mixed male and female students throughout the room. And, most importantly, I brought the male students from the rear door area to the very front, surrounded by quieter, academic-oriented females.
Most hated it. Friends complained they weren't with friends. Guys wanted to sit with their sport buddies. And some of the academic-oriented girls, sitting now behind or next to a guy who wasn't known for stellar grades, quietly asked to be moved.
I asked them all to give it some time. Within three weeks, the groaning was gone.
Then, halfway through the school year, I mixed them all again. Kids who sat near each other had become friendly. Many were borrowing notes. Others were nodding to each other in the cafeteria. New kids who didn't know anybody on the first day were now chatting easily at the beginning of class to their neighbors. The room was getting a tad noisy.
Once again, they groaned when I switched them around. But only for a bit and not as loudly.
Toward the end of each school year, supervisors came in to evaluate me. I always received the same comments: orderly, quiet classroom/ easy sharing of ideas / respectful engaged discussions. Often, they remarked that students they'd observed in other classrooms either acting out or disengaged were just the opposite in my classroom. They sensed the calm demeanor and connectedness in my room. I explained to them the geography of friendship I'd established over the last nine months.
And the ones thanking me for their marriages?
They were two guys who were moved, unwillingly, from the back door to the front of the classroom. Slowly, over the school year and beyond, they became friends with one of their quiet aisle neighbors. They stated they never would've had the nerve to approach, let alone talk to, the girls that became their wives. They admitted their future would've been different if I hadn't plopped them smack dab in front of me, surrounded by a sphere of serious, academic-focused females.
And they were deeply grateful.
Joseph Brodsky wrote: "Geography blended with time equals destiny."
Copyright (c) 2022 by James Hugh Comey
I did go to Canada. Twice.
Once by car in the '50s with my parents, brothers and grandfather. My dad ran a tall stop sign he never noticed. We were in Trois-Rivieres, Quebec.
One minute I was looking out the window at the Saint Lawrence River. The next, I was thrown sideways into my younger brother.
We'd been broadsided.
No one was seriously hurt.
But, I did think something was wrong with my hearing. I couldn't understand a blessed word the local driver was shouting as he got out of his banged up car. A crowd gathered. No one in the entire town spoke English.
It was a bit scary.
Finally, a bilingual insurance agent appeared. My older brother and grandfather stayed in Trois-Rivieres while the car was repaired. The rest of us took a long Greyhound ride back home.
I went again in the mid '70s. This time by motorcycle with my father-in-law and friend, Jimmy D. After a weary trek through five states, we arrived in Canada at sunset in deeply wooded country.
We stopped at the only motel we saw. It was beautiful and quiet there. We were weary to the bone.
I was back in Quebec.
This time, I was ready. I'd studied French for four years in high school.
I had no clue what anyone at that motel and adjoining restaurant said. I could barely read the menu. Foreign language was not my best subject.
Aside from going to Florida when my parents lived there, and the Blue Ridge Mountains by motorcycle with a bunch of guys, I did spend a week in Ireland.
It was three months after I'd retired from public education. Together with my wife, older brother, and sister-in-law, we were going to tour Western Ireland by car and then take my dad's ashes to Ballyhaunis in County Mayo, his grandparents' birthplace.
No worries here. Aside from road signs in English and Irish and a tiny portion of some locals speaking Irish, this would be an absolute piece of cake.
Only, the steering wheel of the rented car was on the right side. The right of way was on the left side. The local roads were barely wide enough for two cars, with stone walls inches from the left door handles. The GPS was always loony and approaching roundabouts with my sister-in-law shouting, "GO LEFT, LEFT!" gave me grey hairs.
It was a bit scary.
My daughter and her family have travelled near and far. As I write this, one of my granddaughters is in Central America for a month. The other spent a month in Norway a couple of summers back.
My brothers have logged serious miles on the water, in the air and cars, exploring, tasting, enjoying what the wide world has to offer.
Me?
A lack of confidence, I suppose, to venture elsewhere. For the longest time, those of us in public education had little to spare on travel. We were too busy holding two jobs.
But also, a lack of desire.
Talented folks like Anthony Bourdain and Phil Rosenthal have given me a peek and vicarious taste of foreign places and fare. No airport transfer madness. No jet lag. No foreign coin exchange. No Covid testing before and after travel.
More importantly, for me, novels have been my mode of travel. They've taken me places, real and imagined, that satisfy my wanderlust. I agree with fellow homebody, Emily Dickinson: "To travel far, there is no better ship than a book."
Copyright (c) 2022 by James Hugh Comey
