Chivalry was Killed by the Women's Rights Movement

Each year I ask my Senior students to consider the following question: Is Chivalry dead in American teenage culture?

Typically, even after a two week unit on Chaucer and other Medieval literature, during which we address the concept of Chivalry and all its elements--Justice, Faith, Largesse, Humility, Loyalty, Courage, Franchise, Prowess, Defense, and Nobility--the majority of them are only able to muster: Chivalry is dead for some teenagers, but not for others.  These students then highlight how some teenagers hold doors or volunteer to be chivalric, but that those who are rude to teachers (or other elders) do not behave chivalrically.  (In my class, Chivalry also functions as an adverb.) Essays by these students revolve solely around the element of loyalty (or kindness in their modern perspective), and for that reason are quiet flat to read.  (And yes, they butcher the pronoun 'some' in the writing, making the essay vague as well as unoriginal.)

Occasionally a student successfully identifies possible reasons why American teenagers seem void of chivalric understanding and capability.  An eloquent commentary about Chivalry as a learned behavior that identifies a cultural shift away from serving a greater good and toward individual dominance transpires to show the student's awareness that the world just isn't what it used to be.  These essays stand above the previous example, but because they usually end with a trite claim that 'the world would be a better place if we all were a little nicer,' the cliche' squelches the argument.

And then there's the student whose perspective completely blows me away; a student whose depth of thought and understanding of culture far surpasses that of his or her peers; a student whose argument about the death of Chivalry compels me to question my own position on the topic.

This year a student presented such a claim.  The student--let's call him Dan--asserts that "Chivalry has become a concept absent in today's teenage culture and women are to blame....Whatever causes the increased promiscuity of females has made men lower their ideals of how to treat women.  Whether is it the media or just social pressure to accept the new 'norm,' when women lower standards of lady-like behavior, men will follow...If ladies refuse the lifestyle of loose dating and actually require guys to treat them right, they will get what they want.  What women fail to realize is that they hold the key to chivalry being reinstated in society."

Being a liberally minded, 'I am woman, hear me roar' kind of gal, my first response to Dan's position was that of annoyance.  How dare he place the blame for this problem on solely women when men hold equal responsibility in dating and relationships.  And then I reread the essay again and again and even again; the more I read it, the more logical it sounded.

Promiscuity and equality are not synonymous or contingent; having one does not mean accepting the other.  The Women's Rights Movement was founded on the principles of equality for women in regard to taxation, employment, property ownership, legal rights and responsibilities and other politically and professionally driven desires. (Want to know more about Women's Rights? Read The Declaration of Sentiments.)  Nothing in the historical documents indicates a correlation between these rights and the practice of Chivalry; yet many women, myself included from time to time, confuse gentlemanly behavior with domination and control, assuming that allowing (and even expecting) a man to treat a woman according to the fairness of her sex negates the progress made for women in the past 150 years when in fact, if what Dan declares is true, women hold the key to Chivalry in society.

If only all women could agree that females set the tone for equality and Chivalry; in that prospect lies great power--a manner of power that could change American culture in ways more profound the the Women's Rights Movement ever imagined.

Ghosts of Halloweens Past

If I were to pin-point when the enchantment of Halloween evaporated for me, I would readily be drawn to the year my sister was born, the year I went Trick-or-Treating as Strawberry Shortcake, the year of my first store-bought costume--the year I was seven.

Prior to that year, my mom elicited the aide of her Singer sewing machine to stitch for me traditional princess, witch, and clown costumes.  But none of these impressed me as much as the authentic Native American Indian attire she crafted with precision and care for both me and my younger brother.  Suede pieces latticed together with leather rope.  Beaded detailing on the smock of my dress and on the front plate of Travis's shirt.  My long, blond braids entwined with leather and feathers; his fine hair set away from his face with a simple, yet authentically inspired, headdress.  If not for the betrayal of our Irish, freckled complexions, we looked authentic.  Our mom's love was rewarded a thousand-fold with the compliments from strangers as we wandered the streets in search of treats (being far too scared of tricks).

Store-bought costumes (as manufactured in the early 80s) just didn't cut it.  The plastic, front only masks, held on by a length of elastic that, in a feat of gravity would twist itself around your hair like a python on a man, ripping it out in clods, were a flimsy rendering of the character's features.  The costumes themselves choked at the neck, rose in the crotch, and anticipated a flood at the ankle.  Instead of embodying believable characters, the costumes bred laughter, and, as a result, my discontent.  And thus, I abandoned Halloween as a magical time of year (and sought that magic in literature and movies--and, much further down the line, in parenting--instead).

As a mom, I understand the mystery and wonder that Halloween holds for children.  I enter each witching season intent on building for Braden an experience similar to the ones my mom crafted for me, to brainstorm homemade costumes for him to wear Trick-or-Treating.  For his first official Halloween, he was set to go as Winnie the Pooh, a hand-me-down plush costume (not homemade), but when he saw the factory manufactured bee costume I had donned, he 'buzzed' after me until I let him wear it. That year started an eight-year tradition of purchasing Halloween costumes for Braden instead of making them, a tradition much less festive, yet much easier, than concocting something original on my own. 

The closest I came to original costuming was the year he went as a ghost, but you don't really have to be crafty or innovative to cut up a sheet.  Sadly, before that night was over, the ghost costume had to be hung like a toga. It seems five year old boys don't glide as gracefully as Casper, and after the fifth or sixth face-plant, a college frat boy seemed safer than a friendly ghost.

In defense of store bought costumes, the frightening skeleton he paraded as when he was five and ominous zombie skateboard punk he embodied last year were both much cooler than anything I could have imagined; yet I wonder if, as his mother, I should demand more from myself for All Hallows Eve.

And these are my mommy-fueled fears:  Does Braden enjoy the rituals of childhood in a manner as memorable as I had the fortune to experience as a girl?  Should I gauge his experiences by my own past or by a barometer we set for ourselves?  Do I allow the ghost of Halloweens past to haunt the present or do I exercise them while Braden still shivers at things that go bump in the night?

13 Nights of Halloween, Saucy Wench Style

Each year, ABC Family heralds Halloween by airing its annual "13 Nights of Halloween" programming, which includes a litany of spooky movie must-sees such as Beetlejuice, Hocus Pocus, and The Adams Family.  The standard scares, mixed with a new ABC Family Feature movie and a few frightening tales from some of the ABC Family series, provide thematic showings guaranteed to raise the haunted spirits of even a Halloween Scrooge such as myself.

In homage to ghosts and ghouls, shivers down your spine, shadows on the wall, things that go bump in the night, and monsters under the bed, I bring you "13 Blogs of Halloween," a series of posts dedicated to frightening topics in the world of the Saucy Wench.  Like ABC Family's "13 Nights of Halloween," it promises to be spookily entertaining.

Come for more tomorrow...if you dare...

It's All About Perception

Yesterday, Braden capped out his detailing of the events of his fifth day of 4th grade with the statement, "And tomorrow Ms. Allen expects us to read literature and I just don't think I'm going to like it."

Alarmed by his sudden dislike of reading, I inquired further.  "But you read literature all of the time.  Why don't you think you're going to like it?"

"Mom, I read fantasy and adventure and magazines about skateboarding and "National Geographic" and "Boys Life."  I have never read literature and I don't know why Ms. Allen wants to change that."

"Braden, all of the things you mentioned are literature.  Harry Potter.  Greek Mythology.  Magazines.  It's all literature.  All written word is literature, even the ones you don't enjoy reading."

Silence flooded the backseat of the car.  And after a pregnant pause, Braden grumbled "well I don't know why Ms. Allen has to be so fancy.  She nearly ruined reading for me forever."



Braden (who obviously gets his flare for the dramatic from his Aunt Tessa) reminded me of something we educators--or people in general for that matter--often forget:  A perception of a thing is often more powerful than the thing itself.

Braden is no stranger to literary discourse.  Currently on book six of the Harry Potter series, he constantly reviews chapters with me, applauding Rowling's ability to set life to his imagination.  He questions me about my current reads and knows that I read for both pleasure and academic enrichment.  Books are part of my core; books are part of his core.  Yet one word--and his perception and his teacher's presumption--caused him to momentarily amend that core.

How many times during my fourteen years in the classroom have I done the same thing?  Have I ever, unknowingly, shaped a student's perception of literature in a negative manner?  And if I have, did he have someone at home with whom he could he discuss his concerns--someone who would reassure him that his perception was okay?  Or did he have the courage to come to me, his teacher, and seek further clarification about my meaning and intent?

Thanks to Braden and Ms. Allen, I have a new perception of perceptions.  And so today, and tomorrow, and every day to come in the classroom, I will create an environment where perceptions elicit positivity.

Say Good-bye to Rationality

Rationally minded people do not live life in fear that they will be the victim of a crime.  This is not to assert that they live recklessly—rationality, after all, implies a modicum of caution—but they do not allow fear to impede living.  While those more brazen may find rationalists boring, rationalists do, in fact, live life.

I have never feared living life.  I make the appropriate concessions to my safety by locking doors to the house and car, leaving my name unpublished in the local phone book, avoiding interactions with suspect people, traveling down well-lit streets as opposed to dark alley-ways.  But I have never feared living life.

The possibility of failure and isolation from all that was familiar did not stay me from moving to Georgia and building a life for myself (and then Braden) even though many—early on—questioned my decision.  The attacks that darkened America on September 11 did not temper me from boarding a plane for a friend’s wedding nine mournful days later even though many were—and still are—grounded by that terror.  The homeless man who forcefully attempted to enter my car when I pulled up to his intersection one afternoon did not chill me against homeless men at intersections even though many—shamefully—are wary of homeless men all the time.  As a rationally minded person, I approached these unnerving experiences—and others too tedious to address—as moments to live with caution and awareness, but never with fear.

And then I was the victim of a crime.  And now I am afraid.

In the scope of life, the crime committed was menial; no physical harm came upon Braden or myself, a blessing for which we are truly thankful.  A selfish punk (or two) broke into my car and freed from its securely locked trunk two suitcases containing ten days worth of vacation clothing, a camera holding record of a 9^th birthday celebration less than two weeks passed, and a blossoming wizard’s collection of Harry Potter movies, years one through seven.  The car was parked, upon urging of my rationality, beneath the window at the front of Marriott hotel at which we were staying—a hotel I selected because of its seemingly safe location in a suburb of Kansas City.  (A location we had frequented one other time without reservation.)  Three days after the crime, all of the clothing items (short one pair of sandals), were discovered in a trashed room on the very floor of the hotel in which we had stayed.  The criminals rolled our full suitcases in through the front door of the hotel on Friday evening, rummaged through the contents, discarded what they did not want, and rolled our practically empty suitcases (now holding only stolen electronics) out through the very same doors on Monday morning.

The return of our clothing does not erase the pain of the violation or subsequent fear that has followed.  Caution has been replaced by incessant worry.  Worry that I left the car or front door to the house unlocked.  Worry that I left the garage door wide open.  Worry that even with the doors locked, someone will again break in and steal from us.  Worry that the thief will come to the address on the luggage tag, and carry his violation into our home.

And now, instead of being a rationally cautious and aware woman in control of her world, I am a woman fearfully aware of her vulnerability in a world she cannot control.

A lifetime of firsts

Humans measure memorable milestones by their first occurrence.  First word.  First steps.  First tooth (both to come in and fall out).  First day of school (captured in film by emotional mothers for as many years as children will permit).  First crush.  First kiss, date, love (firsts certain to repeat themselves frequently in most lives).

Interestingly enough, we also account moments we most likely wish to forget in firsts.  First speeding ticket.  First fight (both physical and verbal).  First loss (of a job or loved one or a game).  First night of drinking till you puke.  First lie that caught up with you.

As a classroom teacher, I have experienced many firsts with my students.  Breaking up my first fight.  First time I made a student cry (as well as the first time a student made me cry).  First time teaching freshmen (and sophomores and juniors and seniors).  First student to faint in my class.  First student death.  First student to thank me for imparting wisdom and encouraging greatness.  These firsts, as well as others too numerous to list, line my memoirs with relationships and remembrances time cannot erase.  But some firsts--the first time a student cussed at me, the first time a student plagarized a paper, the first time (or any time) a student came to school drunk/stoned, the first time a student brought drugs to school, the first time I discovered students being overly affectionate--cause teachers, students, and parents alike to wonder what in the world would cause a student to make such a negative decision.

I recently experienced one such first*.  After the situation escalated and subsided, a student in class, who also witnessed the first, stated, "Welcome to our school.  This place is messed up."

I spent much time this week considering this first--trying to to blot it from my brain--as well as the observant student's claim that "this place" might possibly be to blame.  I refuse to blame the place for the student's actions.  Nothing about the place where I teach welcomes, encourages, or condones such behavior.  Assuming that the place has any culpability in that student's actions is absurd.

And in my opinion, it's equally absurd to assume his parents are to blame.  I know little about his family life so it is completely possible that he lacks parental guidance and support, leaving him primarily responsible for his moral behavior; however, it is equally possible that his parents are conscientious, caring people who have raised him firmly yet lovingly, only to find that at 17 he, like many teenagers, is straying from their teachings to discover his own way in life.

Whatever his reasons for his actions, he made a choice--a choice he made for himself regardless of his parental influence at home and the character education program at school.  A choice that was shocking to me and his classmates, but a choice where the blame lies solely with him.  Parents and teachers do what they can.  We model and prepare, but in the end, all we can do is set our children and our students out in to the world and hope they make the right decisions--decisions that will create a lifetime of memorable firsts instead of the forgettable ones.



*The details of the first are purposefully undisclosed as it is not the first that matters so much as what we learn from it.

Bloodline

This morning a television commercial made me cry.  Was it for Hallmark?  Or Children's Hospital?  Or Jared? Or Folgers? (C'mon, you know you cry every time they air a new segment in the series about Peter.)  No.  None of these obviously saccharine advertisements evoked such emotion.  Instead, a commercial for the new Jeep Compass moved me.

Born of a deep-rooted family tree, but not content to merely live under it.  We all have a bloodline, but it takes a bold spirit to say "It's my turn; my destiny" and go out and prove it.

For the past eleven years, when people asked me why I moved to Georgia, I vaguely explained that I "just needed something else."  If Jeep had been around to speak for me, it might have moved my inquisitors to tears as their commercial did today because they eloquently summed what I have been unable to express on my own.  It was my turn.  It was my destiny.  I had to prove it.

Within Jeep's wistful discourse one also finds my reasoning for returning to Missouri:  connection to my bloodline, and more precisely, Braden's connection to his.

Of course, Braden knew his bloodline prior to our return to the Show-Me State, but most of our visits consisted of five day marathon sprints to squeeze in time with the members of three clans.  Breezing by blurred faces of loved-ones was no way for him to form roots.  And thus our return--or my return and his transplant--to the homeland.

That's it?  That's why I cried?  If only it were that simple....

Three weeks ago my sister Tessa moved to L.A.  Motivated by love, which to some may seem a silly reason to relocate 1800 miles, Tessa answered the calling of her spirit, boldly taking charge of her turn and her destiny, to see what more life may have in store for her.  In many ways, Tessa came to her decision to move with more clarity that I did mine eleven years ago.  She processed it for months and consulted with those nearest to her heart before jumping into the decision whereas I woke one morning with a plan and announced my intention without concern for the opinions or sorrows of others.  (Those who know me well know I am a planner, often to a fault, who cautiously considers every move before making it.  Yet with both moves--to Georgia then and back to Missouri now--I acted quickly--mainly as to not talk myself out of the decision because of fear.  Tessa, whom many assume--somewhat incorrectly--to be impulsive, considered every scenario and came to her decision with confidence and clarity.)  There were moments during her process when I wanted to beg, "Don't go.  I just moved back home. Stay and get to know me again."  (And I especially wanted to offer up the "your nephew needs you" ploy.)  But I did not.  Could not.  Mainly because I understood, possibly better than anyone else in our family, why she needed to go.

And this is why I cried.  Because I miss her like crazy.  But am proud beyond measure.


See the commercial in its entirety here:
Fast Fever 2011 Jeep Compass - "Bloodline" Commercial