Experience #12 The Sugarland Concert

When I made my list of thirty-three experiences for the year, going to a live music concert for the first time was fairly high on that list. I’m sure at some point in the last thirty-three years, I could have decided to go to one. I considered it several times, but it always felt like one of those things that could be put off. And of course, because it could be put off, it was. That seems to be the basis for my list of experiences this year.

So when I added it to my list, I knew I didn’t want to just watch anyone. If I had put it off this long, I wanted the experience to be worth the wait. I thought of the artists that I like the most, and Sugarland made it to the very top of that list. At the beginning of the year when I researched all my experiences for the year, the band was only scheduled to perform two places, and Bayou Country Superfest was the closest.

The concert was well worth the wait. Watching Sugarland perform live was amazing, and I came home and downloaded even more of their music. I perform my own daily performances now. (Just kidding. Well, sort of.)

Listening to my favorite songs live was a spectacular experience, but it was a learning experience for future concerts as well. (Yes, I’m already planning to see Sugarland again.)

The first lesson learned was that I’m too attention deficit to sit in the back of the stadium with everything that happens at a concert. People go up and down the stands, and I find myself counting how many trips each person makes, wondering if they would prefer buying a ticket to the concession stand instead of the concert. Some people couldn’t figure out how to read their tickets, and people had to keep getting up out of someone else’s spot. The red shirts of the emergency staff ran up and down, and I would crane my neck to see where they were dashing off to. The people behind us got into an argument with the person on the side of them, and I thought we’d have to referee for a moment. I had no trouble focusing on Sugarland, but the other bands did not gain my attention as easily, or at all in some cases. Which brings me to the conclusion that either I need to be right up close to the stage or only go see bands I absolutely love.

The second lesson was not something that I did, but something I watched others do. While attending a concert all day in the sun, one should probably only have one or two drinks. Before Tim McGraw took the stage, there were 609 medical incidents, most alcohol related. The man in the seat next to us kept getting updated numbers from his contact on the emergency staff. If I’m going to pay to see a band, I actually want to see them, and I mean from my future seat near the stage and not from a stretcher.

And Lastly, concerts are like fashion shows. It’s all about what you are wearing. And FYI, dresses and cowboy boots must be in style, at least for a country concert. I was supposed to wear the cowboy boots, but I talked myself out of it because I thought it would be too hot. From now on, I will dress the part. (Of course, the fashion was another distraction as I had to critique the various outfits I watched milling around.)

Overall, watching my favorite musical group perform live was definitely an experience I want to repeat. After I strike a few more off my list of experiences, of course.

Two years later...

This week marked the second anniversary of the school shooting. Though, I can’t say that I think back on that day every minute of every day, it was on my mind this year as soon as we entered the month of May. In many ways, this year was more difficult than last year. The emotional numbness I’d subjected myself to was still firmly in place last year, but I’d decisively lifted that numbness last October when I’d decided I wanted to live again and feel all the emotions that came with living, even the pain and sadness that are bound to come.

In some ways I’d prepared myself for this day. I knew my feelings were stronger than they should be after two years since people always say that time heals everything. I knew I hadn’t healed completely yet. I can tell when I walk down the halls of school, and I see teachers who leave cracks in their doors because they automatically lock, and they become frustrated having to continually open them for students. The anger that runs through me is just a little too strong. I wish for their ignorance of bad things happening with open doors. I resent their feeling protected in the cocoon of their classroom. Instead, I’m constantly aware of my door. I open it and close it each time behind a student. I lose it occasionally on a student who attempts to leave it open so they can just come right back inside. I do not feel safe with open doors. That innocence was taken from me.

I realized the day before that it was all running a little too close to the surface, but time marches forth whether you are ready for it or not, and hard days arrive. One of my students brought it up in my class at the exact time that the student had walked into my room two years earlier, and for the rest of the day, my thoughts continued to return to it. I don’t know at what time of the day I realized that my son’s awards night would be held at the same school, but it took hold, and by the time I reached home that day my insides had begun to shake.

I’d have to walk through the doors of that gym, and though the shooting had happened in my classroom, it was the gym that caused me dread. I’d sat in the bleachers at the end of that day two years ago, having reassured myself that it was some random event, that it had not been personal. I’d sat in the bleachers of that gym as Sheriff Craig Webre had read my name from the student’s journal. In that moment when my name had slipped from his lips, what had happened had become real. I’d begun shaking that day, too. After remaining strong all day, it had hit me that my room had been a target, not chosen by chance. My denial had crumbled as I sat in those very same bleachers I’d have to watch my son receive an award from on the two year mark.

So I walked into the gym alone, on a day that no one speaks about anymore as if by not talking about it, it never occurred. (Sorry, there’s that anger again.) I made it to the top of the bleachers on shaky legs, but managed to keep my composure. It was a moment of sadness so weighty that my lips could not rise in a smile, though I greeted my children after not seeing them for several days.

The gym looked different. There were new posters. The school had hosted Challenge Day and remnants of messages remained on the walls. In big letters staring at me were the words BE THE CHANGE.

How fitting? Isn’t that what I had attempted to do since that day? Even in the numbness, I’d known that breaking down would do no one any good. If my students in the class that day were looking to me to see how to handle it, then I’d return the next day and show them how to do it with strength and compassion. If students ask about it today, I know that what I need to do is show them what they can do to make students never reach the point where they want to bring a gun to school. And maybe, I need to be the one to bring about change. Even if everyone pretends that it never happened, it doesn’t mean I ever will or ever could. I will continue to tell my story when it needs to be told because denial and ignorance only means that it will happen again. 

Experience #11 Riding a Motorcycle

Wind in your face and the freedom of the open road. All points brought up when riding a motorcycle is mentioned. For my next experience, I decided to check out the open highway and see if I was missing anything by keeping myself tightly cocooned in my car.

It isn’t actually too difficult to find someone in my family that owns a motorcycle. For years, I could have experienced this thrill, but I never had any inclination to try. I’d call it a personal preference to keep myself in one piece. Though my mom tells a story about riding a motorcycle at eight months pregnant with me, she wasn’t asking me at the time if I wanted to ride, so I don’t think it counts.

As a teenager, I had a terrifying experience on a four wheeler that led me to fear the falling off part. My cousin Scott, his girlfriend of the time, and I were riding on a four wheeler after a Mardi Gras parade in Gheens. He decided to let her drive, and as she jerked forward attempting to take off, I fell backwards off the back. Hanging on by the bars, I could feel my head grazing the blacktop road. It caused a great deal of alarm, but I was a teenager so we continued on our way not telling anyone what had happened to avoid getting into trouble. Avoiding trouble is always more of a priority to a teenager than safety, of course. (It’s a good thing our mothers don’t read this.)

So with my New Year’s resolution this year of trying the things that I fear, I decided to give it a try. I thought maybe I could get rid of the image in my head of having layers of my flesh scrapped off every time I sat on a motorcycle or four wheeler.

What I learned is that the image may be permanetly ingrained in my mind, ready to be recalled anytime my butt hits one of those uncomfortable seats. Scott and I rode through Lockport, and though I felt no fear as we zoomed down the highway, wind rushing at us like it hadwhen we were children riding in the back of the truck, I couldn’t help but think how messed up I’d be if we tilted too far or if we hit a rock the wrong way. I imagined scenerios of skidding across the road and pondered the possibilities of damages.

When did I go from thinking that nothing bad could happen to what are all the possible bad things that could happen? Did it happen after I left my teenage years behind or when I became a mother? I suppose it was gradual enough not be noticed.

Though it was exhilarating to have nothing between you and the outside world, speeding down the road, wind rushing at you, feeling unprotected, it was not a relaxing activity. If only I could get my imagination to quiet down of those graphic images it supplies as I watch the highway pass by, I may be able to completely enjoy the experience. Oh well, off to the next exeperience. I have many to go before the year ends.

Mother's Day

On July 12, 2002, I became a mother for the first time. I did it the same way I do everything else. I refused to go to Lamaze class or tour the hospital. I did a little reading in What to Expect When You’re Expecting, but then I decided I didn’t want to know.

I didn’t ask mothers how labor would be… I have issues with taking advice from anyone.  I figured my son would make an appearance, and I’d figure out what I had to do then. It wasn’t like he could stay in there forever.

And true to that thinking, in all of his impatience he came three weeks early. I lived through the contractions, did what the doctor said, and was handed my son. No use worrying beforehand.

My daughter of course in her attitude of someone will do all the work for me, chose to wait and I had to be induced. Still, I did not prepare any more or less. I’d done it once and figured if it were different this time around, I’d figure it out.

I’m a planner, but not a worrier. If I can’t plan it out, then I believe it will all work itself out. This attitude has kept me sane through temper tantrums and hysterics.

What I have noticed about being a mother though is all the judgment that comes along with it. As we celebrate mother’s day, I can’t help but notice that it’s the only day of the year that the pressure feels off.

Whether you are a working or stay at home mom or a single or married mom, there seems to be no shortage of people who think you are doing it wrong.

As a new mom, I stressed constantly about if I was going to screw up this little person’s life. I thought if I focused on not making the same mistakes of my parents, I’d be okay. Of course, that meant I made my own, completely new mistakes.

Somewhere in the last few years, I’ve decided there is no perfect way. I’ve seen enough children as a teacher to know that it’s sort of like a game of cards. You play your best hand, and it’s up to chance how the cards turn out. All we really ever do is the best we can.

I may not do it the way others would like, but I’m still happy with the mother I am. So if I seem to not be listening as someone tells me that my children will suffer for whatever they think I’m doing wrong that day, it’s because I’m not. I’m too busy being the mom I believe my children need..

Family Roots

As a child, my extended family spent a large amount of time together. We had Sunday dinners at my grandmother’s house, we visited aunts and uncles every week, and we spent weeks at our great-grandparents’ house sharing beds and space. Because of all of this time together, I had cousins who were as close as sisters and brothers.

Of course, as I’m sure for most families, family squabbles and time drive you apart. One moment you are a kid with playing as your daily agenda, and the next moment you are an adult with a to-do list that has no time to visit with extended family.

But when you are an adult, and the people who were such a huge part of your childhood need you, would you be there for them, even after all the years that you weren’t?

Recently, I’ve had to answer that question for myself. Most people who know me or follow my stories, know my cousin Scott has been going through a rough time. (He posted a letter of apology on my blog March 5, 2011). I’ve noticed people look at me strangely when they realize that he is a cousin. I care deeply about what happens to Scott as he is like a brother to me. I’ve shown up at a hospital, a jail, and a treatment center where I have been asked who I am to him. I have been treated as if I don’t have a right to want to see him as a cousin. As I questioned the DEA agent, I was in return asked twice how I was related to Scott. It was apparent that my concern, as a cousin, was not readily accepted or understood.

Our story is much more complicated than the simple label of cousin. It’s not that he’s family or that quote about blood being thicker than water. I have family that I barely know or have seen in years, and I wouldn’t jump to help them out as much as I would Scott.

The fact is roots of childhood run deep, and I can’t remember my childhood without thinking of him. The thought of him not being there when I show up at his house hurts more than any uncomfortable place I will have to trek to see him until he gets his life straightened out.

I truly believe that family is more about how far your roots intermingle and fuse together than sharing parents or blood.

To me, Scott will forever be that boy who played Superman to my Wonder woman along with my superhero sister and two other cousins. We were the superheroes battling evil, not old enough to understand that sometimes the evil of the world are not bad guys. We’d huddle together, throw our hands into the center, and yell out as we ran around catching the imaginary bad guys. We didn’t understand then that the world was not so black and white, and that the bad things would not be so easy to chase away.

Scott is the kid that needed protecting when after the death of his brother, we learned how cruel children could be. I stood up for him then. Sometimes I was terrified as I yelled at older kids who’d upset him, but I never backed down. For I’d lost one cousin already, and I was not about to let them torment another. I didn’t want to see him sad; his tears broke my heart more than the fear of standing up to a bigger kid.

But the seal on that bond that made us more than just cousins and more brother and sister came as teenagers when we lived together. For four months, we did everything together. We were inseparable. But it was really those late night conversations when I’d be studying or reading and he’d throw himself across the bed, and we’d talk about girls on his end, guys on mine, what high school was like, and everything in between that brought us together and made him call me sis. He was the one constant in my life at the time, and though I know he looked up to me then, he was the one person who didn’t make me feel disconnected to the world.

And even though life attempts to sever those deep connections as you grow up, the roots run deep when they are intertwined together and who you are is a conglomeration of the memories you hold. Many acquaintances speak about brothers and sisters who have disappointed them and how they’ve given up on them. Some have said that they refuse to help loved ones anymore. But Scott’s wife pointed out at one point in her anger that we were doing everything to help Scott and nothing to help her, who she views as the victim.

Her roots do not grow with ours though. She was not there when the roots of our family were being watered and fertilized. He was, and the connections created run deep and will not be severed by the mistakes people undoubtedly will make.



Who else will remember where you’ve been so that where you stand now matters? Who will share your story about the broken arm on the Ken doll or the Easter snooping as our mother’s filled the Easter baskets? Who else has caught crickets with you or dyed Easter eggs?



Scott’s actions may be a cause for disappointment, but it was more of a disappointment that his self-destruction had gone unnoticed. We’d failed him by not noticing from the start. We will not give up on him or believe that he is hopelessly lost. His story is part of mine, and I will make sure the two continue to grow.



This picture was taken about thirteen years ago. This was the last time that the five cousin "superheroes" were all together as adults. Left to Right: Top: Cousin Christy, Sister Erica  Middle: Me, Cousin Stacy  Bottom Row: Scott