Go fo' broke!

The families in my old Rose Street neighborhood were tight; we shared food over fences, babysat younger siblings and if any of us acted up, parents impartially yelled at the lot of us.  I never realized until much later how lucky I was to have grown up in a neighborhood with so many families with children near my own age. 

I recently attended the funeral of Mr. H., a former neighbor of many years and the father of my friend R (see "Turkey Tales," November 2010). Mr. H. was "old school"; that means he didn't always talk much but when he did it was because he had something to say and it was in your best interests to listen.  Like my grandfather, Mr. H. was gruff and did not waste time with social niceties--if he wanted something done, he said so, using as few words as possible.  He was not a big man but he had incredible presence.  I never thought to question him when he told me to do something and it never would have occurred to me to protest that I wasn't his child to order around.  Yet he was always kind to me and paid me the ultimate compliment of entrusting me with his daughter; R. is three years younger than me and if we were catching the bus to go to the beach or the movies, she could go--provided Mr. H. knew that I was going, too. 

Mr. H. took us fishing, swimming and hiking.  We helped him harvest vegetables at his relatives' farm in Kaaawa and he set up a tent in the backyard for us to spend the night in; in the back of his blue pick-up we explored corners of the island I would never have seen otherwise.  Mr. H. taught us to respect the sea and the legends of Hawaii.  I was impressed that he never failed to make an offering to the volcano goddess, Pele, whenever he visited the Big Island and if our travels included a picnic lunch, a small food offering was always placed by the side of the road.  "For the little people," he would say.

Many of my cherished childhood memories revolve around R. and her father but with all the time I spent in their company, there is one thing I never knew about Mr. H. until his funeral service; he was a member of the 442nd Regiment, the all-Japanese American regiment that fought in some of the toughest battles in WW II and became the most decorated regiment in the history of the United States.  As a history teacher, I lamented the passing of yet another first-hand witness to one of the most important events in the world's history.  As his longtime neighbor, I was saddened by the not-knowing.  How could I have spent so much time with them, at their house, and not have known of Mr. H.'s involvement with the 442nd?

At the funeral, copies of a speech made by US Army Historian Eric Saul were distributed.  The speech was given at a ceremony to honor Medal of Honor recipients on March 25, 2001.  In his beautiful presentation, Saul attributes the success of the 442nd and their willingness to "go fo' broke," despite the prejudices and mistreatment by their own government, to several very Japanese qualities; qualities like "giri" and "on" (duty, honor and responsibility), "kodomo no tame ni" (for the sake of the children), "gaman" (internal fortitude), or "shikata ga nai" (sometimes things can't be helped).

But the one characteristic that hit home for me was "enryo" or humility. Saul wrote:  "There's an old Japanese proverb that says if you do something really good and you don't talk about it, it must be really, really good!"  Mr. H., like my grand-uncle Dick who was also a member of the 442nd, never talked about their service during WW II; they didn't have to.  They went and did really, really good.  And that was all the rest of us needed to know.

Different Governor, Same Shit

2011 HOSA Winners

Twenty members of our school's chapter of Health Occupations Students of America (HOSA) qualified to compete on the national level at this year's state conference.  For the past 4 years, our travel expenses were supplemented by a combination of fundraising monies, donations (especially from our school's alumni association, FACF) and state funds.  This year was to be no exception.  FACF came through with our request of $8400 and after careful consideration of the state funds that were slated for us, we asked each student to chip in their share of $350. 

On Wednesday morning, my co-advisor delivered a check to the travel agent which represented the balance of our airfare and on Wednesday afternoon I received an email notifying all HOSA advisors that Governor Abercrombie had ordered our state superintendent to reject any out of state travel plans that utilized state funds.  The $10,000 that had been put aside for our travel, half of it from the beginning of this school year, and that we had utilized when making our requests from the alumni and parents, not only could not be used for our travel, it was to be returned to the state immediately.

We are scheduled to leave on June 19th.  Our airfare payment is no longer refundable.  To take away these funds with no warning and after the date for fundraisers has passed is not right and not fair.  My students earned the right to compete on the national level, the money had been earmarked for their travel, all our budgeting was based around that fund and now it's gone.  Families in our community often live paycheck to paycheck and even the $350 that we asked them to contribute took some financial finagling for a number of them.  To ask them to contribute more this late in the game...it's just not possible.

Time and time again, the public school students of this state are given the short end of the state's financial stick by politicians who are elected by promising that schools will come first and it's time to clean up education. The only thing that needs to be cleaned up is the Governor's mansion.  The b.s. accumulating there is now three-governors high.

Remembering Kirby

It is 2 years to the day since our beloved Shih Tzu, Kirby, crossed the Rainbow Bridge.  Kirby was my very first dog and in many ways he spoiled me for any other.  I never trained Kirby; he trained me.  And what an excellent job he did, too!

We decided to train Kirby to "go" on puppy pads.  Our yard at the time was an overgrown, weedy mess; the one time I let him out to roam, he came back covered in burrs and stickers--to the point where his fur was plastered against the sides of his face and body.  Since the children were young at the time, I also thought it would be easier to supervise his toilet training if he was in the house.  All I had to do was show Kirby the pads and correct his few mistakes.  He was trained in a week.  I was amazed to learn that Shih Tzu are supposed to be notoriously difficult to potty train.  Apparently Kirby never got that memo.

The only commands I made it a point to teach him were:  sit, stay, come, down and off.  Everything else he picked up simply because we talked to him all the time.  He quickly learned that "where" meant he needed to find something and "do you want" indicated something good to follow (a walk, some milk, a treat, a brushing).  Not only did he have excellent receptive language, he was also an incredible communicator.  His vocalizations went far beyond the normal whines and barks; he yodeled and moaned, sighed (often in seeming exasperation), chuffed and for lack of a better description, "yarled."

Yarling is a series of undulating notes that Kirby emitted when he was especially anxious to communicate with us.  A low, throaty yarl was used to get my attention and let me know something was wrong; when he was still quite a small puppy, I forgot to put out clean puppy pads for him.  He sat in front of me, stared intently and gave his muffled "mmm--arl."  Once he got my attention, he leapt to his feet, ran to his corner and stared pointedly at the empty space.  He danced with glee when I put the pad in place.

His louder, open-mouthed yarl indicated that something was really wrong.  Not long after we got Farley, I let the dogs out into the yard.  I did not know that E had left the side gate open.  Kirby immediately ran around the house to the front door and yarled at me.  He looked agitated and when I asked, "Where's Rusty, Kirby?"  He yarled long and loud and rushed to the front fence.  There, across the street, were Rusty and Farley.  They had escaped via the open gate and were setting off to explore the neighborhood.  I was amazed that Kirby not only did not join them, he came around to let us know that his "brothers" were loose in the street.

Though Kirby was flexible enough to allow me to sleep in on the weekends, he did let me know when he thought I'd been indulged enough.  He would march determinedly up alongside me and stare hard at my face.  If his laser eye trick did not work, he chuffed; a mixture of a sneeze and a snort.  The chuffing sound and light spray of moisture was usually enough to wake me out of the deepest sleep.  And once I opened my eyes, there was no turning back.  I was awake and breakfast needed to be served!

I did try to trick him a couple of times.  Once when he did his march up toward my face, I kept my eyes closed.  I was awake under my eyelids so even his usual chuff did not elicit the desired reaction.  I peered out carefully and when I noticed his face was averted, I blew at the side of his face.  His head whipped around to face me but my eyes were closed; obviously, I was still asleep.  Three more times I blew at him and three more times he whirled in my direction.  That final time, when I craftily peeped out to see if he was looking, he was.  Quick as a flash he smacked his front paw against my mouth and when my eyes popped wide open in surprise, he leaped off the bed and headed for the kitchen!  Objective reached; stupid human was awake and now it was time for breakfast!

Kirby became hypothyroid when he was four and by the time he was seven, he had developed a heart murmur.  For five years, life pretty much went on as normal; he continued to enjoy his usual activities and meals and daily walks with Rusty.  By the time he was 10 and Farley had joined our little family, it was clear that Kirby's heart was beginning to decline. His walking pace was so slow that I had to walk him separately from the younger dogs.  He had occasional brief but terrifying black-outs.  By March of 2009, he could no longer climb the stairs to the second floor without gasping; I slept on an inflatable mattress on the first floor from then on.

Our vet warned told us Kirby's heart was the worst it could possibly be and other than the medications which made him more comfortable, there was nothing further we could do.  Though it was devastating to think of Kirby's passing, it was nightmarish to think about the manner in which he might go.  Heart disease is horrifying in its unpredictability.  We might come home to find that he had died peacefully during a nap or we might come home to find him in agony and pray that it hadn't been for very long.

We knew that the time would soon come when putting Kirby to sleep would be the only and best option for our little friend.  But how do you know when?  In between his blackouts, he acted normally; he ate well, showed interest in his toys and people.  He was just slower and tired so easily.  At what point would we say, could we say, "That's it, he's had enough" and KNOW that it was the right thing for him? Everyone I asked told me the same thing.  You know.  You just do. 

I should have known that Kirby would tell me himself.  On that fateful morning, Kirby refused his breakfast.  He sat in front of me and stared long and hard into my face and that was it.  I had received his final lesson and all that remained was for me to carry it out.

Kirby crossed the Rainbow Bridge on May 4, 2009.  It was his 12th birthday.