Best Friends and Bullies Make Strange Bedfellows

“Bullying” has always been a buzzword to me, not entirely unlike “life skills” or “at risk.”  The similarity lies in the fact that I know the definitions of these words and I even use them occasionally, but they seem more like fodder for grant proposals or annual reports than concepts which exist in real life….or at least in MY life.

However, this year I’ve learned more than I want to know about real life bullying.  I can say in earnest that my quick education on the subject has been different and more painful than I expected because it involves my child.  I never thought I’d use the words “my 6 year old” and “bully” in the same sentence, but the reality is that these very sentences have consumed much of our recent dinner conversation as we’ve attempted to help our daughter solve some very real problems.

My child has a bully.  An interesting and complicating factor is that her bully is also her best friend.

As background, like many kids her age, Bailey tends to form friendships of convenience. She has played with her current BFF more than others in her classroom because they have a similar after-school situation.  This is not to say that the girls don’t have a good deal in common or share mutual affection, but being readily accessible is just as important to little developing minds.

At first, I was pleased to see Bailey buddied up with another strong personality.  The moment I discovered my child’s stubborn nature during the toddler years I developed a fear that she would choose friends based on ease of ability to control or manipulate.  I certainly don’t want my child to be the dictator in the room and have been relieved that this hasn’t been the case with most of her friendships thus far.  She and this little girl seemed to be a good match and played together well initially despite some run-of-the-mill little girl arguments.

Then, we started hearing stories about the friend’s antics at school. Continue reading Best Friends and Bullies Make Strange Bedfellows

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The 2011 Imaginary Family Project – Week 15

#15 of 52 : DAVEY
Imaginary Family Project Week 15

External Photo Clues:
None

Imagine:
That’s my cousin Davey.  We were about the same age and lived just a couple of miles from each other for most of our youth. We didn’t have any brothers or sisters and so were pretty close — as close as anyone could get to Davey, that is.  Davey was a Cub Scout.  Always tryin’ to do good.  At least that’s how it seemed.   As for me, I’d do right if the situation arose, but I didn’t go outta my way.  Still don’t.  

Anyway…that dog in the box?  Well, there’s no tellin’ what its name was cuz it was just one of several strays that Davey had a propensity for takin’ in.  By the time we were seventeen, I betcha he’d brought in about five different dogs that eventually died or drifted off again. Why, so many dogs used to come around that I figure they must’ve had some sort of signal between ’em, tellin’ each other where to go when things got tough.  I guess in that respect Davey’s nature wasn’t so unusual; a soft heart for strays, be they animal or human, well, you hear about that every now and again.  Continue reading The 2011 Imaginary Family Project – Week 15

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In Defense of the Pocket Knife

The following is a guest post from David Roberts, who is one of the best high school English Teachers in the land by day and a defender of all things awesomely manly by night. He also happens to be my brother-in-law. The next three Wednesdays will feature posts by him as I am take a few weeks off off blogging to tackle a few other written pursuits. Enjoy!

[michael]

***************

I won’t claim that real men carry pocket knives. What I mean is, pocket knives are neither exclusive to Real Men nor a requirement for Real Manhood.
However, if you carry one, have carried one, have thought about carrying one, or don’t know what a pocket knife is, please read on.

The giants of my childhood carried a knife in their pocket or on their belt: grandpa, dad, step-dad, uncles, Rambo. In my mind, the correlation was clear: men carried knives.

I saw my grandpa skin raccoons, open envelopes, cut rope, dig out splinters, clean fingernails, all with the same pocket knife. I suppose that’s the root of why pocket knives, seemingly a vestige of some older time when dudes needed to carry sharp objects to protect themselves, have continued to be popular: so many situations render them necessary. Have you ever needed to cut fishing line, slice open a package (particularly those 100-ply-polymer-blend-government-grade plastic packages that kids’ toys seem to come in), pry a flat object from an even flatter place? In such situations, the inevitable query is, “Anybody got a pocket knife?”

I’ll tell you what: it feels good to be able to say, “Yeah, here’s mine.”

Many of the accouterments of manhood seem a bit like our appendix: nice to have, but not essential for existence. A pocket knife, on the other hand, has so much utility.

So whether you carry Buck or Case, Swiss Army or Ka-Bar, Gerber or Browning, know that you stand in solidarity with me and many others. Carry on.

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Music From The Man Cave: Sunny Sweeney “If I Could”

There is a lot to be said for music that makes listening fun.  A lot of folks really take themselves and their music WAY too seriously.  There is also a lot to be said for music that you stumble across accidentally.

Yahoo! used to have a “radio” website and one of the stations they offered was called Americana.  I love just about anything categorized as Americana so I tried out the station and was introduced to all sorts of artists I’d never heard on commercial, broadcast radio.  And are they missing out!  Consequently, the rest of us may also be.

So, in an effort to…no, to heck with the grandiosity.  We’re in the man cave so I’ll try to keep it real.

This song is a short little blast of joy called “If I Could” from an artist named Sunny Sweeney that is part rave-up, part rockabilly and a whole lotta toe-tappin’.  Let me know what you think!

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A Father-Son Moment on an Ethiopian Balcony

Editor’s note: Five and one-half months ago, Josh submitted this post as a dedication to a turning point in his life of Fatherhood.  Last week we submitted a post on “Five Questions to Ask Yourself” about adopting and/or fostering a child.  We’re re-submitting this piece as a human experience complement to those questions.  ~ RDK

by Josh Bottomly

Staring down at my adopted son’s new visa and passport for the first time, I did a double take when I noticed something very odd.  The bold print read:  Tesfamariam Josh.  I asked Tafesse, our Ethiopian driver, if there had been some kind of misprint or mistake.  Tefesse grinned and then explained:  “In Ethiopia, a child’s last name is his father’s first name,” Tefasse explained.  It’s our tradition.”  I looked over at Amy in confusion.  “So my name would be Josh Roc,” I asked Tafesse, “and Amy’s would be Amy Glen?” Tafesse nodded and said, “In our culture, naming one’s child is a sacred act.  It’s a blood ritual.  It denotes a very special bond.”

Later that night, I woke up around 4:30 a.m. to Silas’ whimper.  Since it was my turn to take the night shift, I gathered Silas up in my arms and took him out onto the hotel patio, the only “cry proof” place in the hotel.

As I scanned my eyes across the city streets hushed under a blanket of fog and mist, I rocked Silas in my arms and sang quietly over him.  Suddenly, an image surfaced and bobbed on the wake of my mind.  It was of a photograph of my father and I, now yellow and faded with time.  In the photo, I was scrunched up close to my dad like a koala bear.  I must have been no older than Silas.  Dad and I were at the beach, both wearing lemon-colored swim shorts.  The sun reflected against our pale white thighs, and because of the sunhat on my tiny head, it was hard to see my freckled face or any of the tufts of my reddish-blond hair.  Dad’s face unforgettably was contorting and howling like a wolf as ten pounds of squirmy flesh scratched up against his chest hairs, sending tickle bumps through his body. Continue reading A Father-Son Moment on an Ethiopian Balcony

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Showcasing Red Dirt culture ~ authored and managed by contributors with connections to the great state of Oklahoma.