Jaki Jean & Remembering Gifts from Nita Gulbas & her Mother

Nita Gulbas sent me a friend request.

Now, dear readers, this was a huge moment for me.

Because Nita Gulbas changed my perception of my life.  Of who I was.  Who I am.

When I first found her on Facebook, she did not remember me.  This threw me into despair – how could someone so important in my memory not remember me?

After a long while, I got over it.  After all, I was only nominated for & one of four finalists for Most Unforgettable at John Foster Dulles High School.  Lydia Court & Mary Louise Ruffino were apparently more unforgettable than Jaki Jean.

And I had left Coronado High School in the middle of my Junior year. Why should anyone remember me?

And then people I did not remember sent me friend requests & I had to dig out old yearbooks & look at younger faces to place them.  And my despair over Nita lessened.

I kept up with Nita via our mutual Facebook friends, especially Cate Poe.  Now I have to admit that I did not remember Catherine Poe – but I recognized the name.  Cate is a remarkable women & I often wonder how I missed her in high school.  My life is fuller for her presence in my cyber communications.

Nita tells me that she is slow to friend people on Facebook.  This is something I understand – I am most particular about who I allow to wander in & out of my cyber life. 

Nita is amazing – she trained & practiced as a vet, sold her practice & now pursues her passion – photography.  A true artist.  I so admire & envy that about her.

But this post is not about people from my past who I now admire & treasure.

It is about a day, late in January of 1971, when Nita Gulbas changed my perception of myself.

I knew in January of 1971 that my family would be leaving El Paso for the outskirts of Houston.  I didn’t want to tell anyone.  I wanted my last weeks in the mountains & desert & at Coronado High School to be as normal as possible.  I wanted to remember every ordinary moment of each day.

So that day, I arrived at school early & stood against the railing of a second story, looking out a courtyard.  Trying to create a portrait, a sustainable memory of my life within those courtyards.

Nita joined me against the railing.  I don’t remember if I told her I would be leaving the next week for the outskirts of Houston, or how the topic of our exchange moved from one thought to the next.

But Nita told me:  You don’t know how intelligent you are.  

Over the years, I have lost most of the remnants of that conversation.  But not that one.

When you go through most of your early life in school with really, really gifted & talented people, there is always someone smarter or more talented than you.  After time, as a child, you are no longer aware of your ability or your worth.  Gifted & talented is the norm.  You are just a part of the norm.  Nothing special.

Nita Gulbas was gifted & talented.  And smart.  

Nita Gulbas, like her mother who taught me eighth grade History, made me feel special & empowered.

It was only later that Nita’s observation began to sustain me.  It was o’kay to be me.

When a classmate at my new high school announced:  You just have to be different, don’t you?

I remembered that day, standing over a courtyard at Coronado High School with Nita.  And replied, Yes.

When my college roommate announced:  You would get more dates if you just did not act so smart.

I remembered that day, standing over a courtyard at Coronado High School with Nita.  And I replied, What?  I should pretend to be dumb?

When Philip Lopate announced to the creative writing class he was teaching at the University of Houston:  Do you think you are Noel Coward?

I remembered that day, standing over a courtyard, with Nita Gulbas.  And I replied: No, I know I am Jaki Jean Ettinger.

It was o’kay to be me.  

I have held onto that moment, that affirmation, that confirmation for decades.

Nita’s mother died on September 7th.  But her legacy, like that moment in the courtyard with Nita, lives on.  

Mrs. Gulbas made my eighth grade year bearable.  I took art as my elective that year, because Pre-Algebra seemed redundant.  And so I was placed in 8-D, later labeled as the 8-D Dogs, a mixture of nasty, vile eighth grade boys who took art as an easy elective, girls who did not want to tackle Pre-Algebra, and me.

My memories of the girls in that Homeroom class are not as vivid as those of the boys.  At that moment in time, in eighth grade, life & activities revolved around boys.  Girls bonded & grouped themselves & competed with one another to attract boys. 

I was gangly, flat chested, wore glasses & had unruly hair.  And I did my homework.  I was not a boy magnet.

I don’t know if boys ruled all of the eighth grade that year or any year.  But boys ruled the 8-D Dogs that year.

Boys who threw spit wads at you, boys who went into the girls’ bathrooms & tossed out soiled sanitary napkins, boys who tossed your purse to see if tampons fell out, boys who refused (vocally) to sit a lunch table with me because I was so ugly.

The 8-D Dogs boys were particularly cruel in Mrs. Gulbas’s history class.  They took advantage of the fact that she was hard of hearing, they made fun of her, they threw spit wads at every girl they considered ugly.  

Some of us persevered beyond the spit wads & learned.

I developed an aversion to public displays of spitting.

Mrs. Gulbas died just short of her 100^th birthday.  Born October 27, 1913.  Died September 7, 2013.

During her life as a teacher, hundreds of students passed through her classroom doors.  Some of them left her history class with the dubious talent of tossing spit wads.  Some of us left her history class informed & inspired & wanting to learn more.

My favorite memory of Mrs. Gulbas is outside the classroom.  Nita invited me for a sleepover on a Friday night.

And I watched Mrs. Gulbas light the candles for the Sabbath & pray.

 During that observation, I felt God’s presence.

In each of our lives, we cross paths with amazing people.  Sometimes those paths last for years, sometimes only for moments.

But the important moments remain.  And the gift of those moments & the blessings they reap remain.

I have been lucky enough to cross paths with Nita Gulbas & her unforgettable mother, my eighth grade history teacher.

Both crossings were important to my growth & are embedded in my memory.  

 

Nita & Her Mother, My Teacher

Jaki Jean & the Chupacabra

The chupacabra who attached my hanging basket of serrano peppers has now devoured all the leaves of my hanging basket of cherry tomatoes.  And all my fledging habenero peppers & I see signs of its presence attacking the okra in the herb garden.

The basil will be next.  Or perhaps the chupacabra does not like basil.

All my efforts at organic gardening have failed to stop this attack. 

This grieves me, because I want to garden organically.

However, I want healthy, producing plants more than I want to avoid insecticides.

This particular chupacabra is insidious – eating all the leaves & vegetation off the plants.  Even the fruit of the plants.  Leaving the stems. 

I stay up at night & try to see what this chupacabra, this devourer of all things living, does to my plants.  It is unseen, unknown.

I am going to do something that I hate, something I am opposed to doing.  I want a harvest. 

 

I am just a back yard farmer.  I wonder how farmers who provide our fresh produce annihilate the chupacabra. 

Launching an attack does not make me happy.

But I want a healthy harvest.

I want to defeat this chupacabra.

 

Jaki Jean & Stainless Steel & my Sister

In my somewhat eclectic past, I have lived in spaces without a dishwasher.  None of my spaces in the inner city had dishwashers.  Although the house on Caroline Street had a portable dishwasher, we only used it on holidays or for parties.  My apartment on Virginia Avenue in Washington, D.C., had a dishwasher, but my space in Arlington, Virginia, did not.

So I know how to wash dishes by hand

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At times, I find it soothing.  Standing at the sink, looking out the kitchen window at my neighbor’s wall, thinking about anything but washing dishes.

Most of the time, I hate & avoid it. 

 

A long day ago, I cannot remember exactly when, the dishwasher in Jean’s house died.

And while I know how to wash dishes by hand, my love/hate affair with the process escalated.  I behaved badly, allowing the dishes to stack up, punishing myself for it during the subsequent cleaning.

Recently, I decided to leash my directionless obsessive compulsive tendencies toward keeping up with the dishes.  No dishes allowed to rest unwashed in the sink

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And then my sister bought a dishwasher for Jean’s house

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The dishwasher was not a pressing need.  After all, I know how to wash dishes.  The stove top went out & when Janet bought its replacement, she bought a dishwasher for Jean’s house.

While I was resigned to the absence of a dishwasher, I missed a working stove stop.  No way to cook chick peas for hummus, no way to create the week’s tomato sauce.  No cooking greens or omelets or steaming vegetables.

The new stovetop is beautiful.  And a bit intimidating.  I approach it carefully, clean it after every use, marvel at how nice it looks.  I even read the instruction manual.

The dishwasher was a surprise.  An unsolicited, unexpected gift from my sister.

And I find it amazing.  It smells new, like a new car smells new.

There are little slots for the forks, knives & spoons.  Slots I can use to organize the utensils.  All of this plays into my obsession with organizing the loading of a dishwasher.

I still find myself wanting to wash dishes & pots & pans & forks & knives & spoons before loading them into the new dishwasher, 

And then I remind myself that Jean’s house now has a dishwasher & I can rinse the dishes & load them in the unit. 

I think of all the things I have taken for granted over the years – dishwashers, disposals, central air & heat, a car, a safe place to land, my family’s love.

Somehow this surprise of a dishwasher reminds me of the wonder & beauty & grace of a sister’s love.  A daughter’s love.

I have written before that I am not the hero of this journey my siblings & I are taking with our Mother Jean.  My sister makes it possible for me to care for our mother. 

She is my hero.

Jaki Jean & Jean & Rush & Communion & Memory

So, this afternoon, watching a James Cagney flick (Blood on the Sun, circa 1945) with Jean, as I am battling what I am sure is a case of Shingles & Jean is dealing with all my battles & complaints & groans, Jean brings up the Lord’s Supper.

You know, the other day when Doc Price & Pam came to have Communion with us, & Doc Price was talking about how Baptists have traditionally served Communion once a quarter & how Catholics & other churches serve it more often, I wanted to tell them about my Daddy.

For those of you who read me who don’t know, Jean’s Daddy Rush was a Church of Christ minister.  I imagine it was a very intense meeting between Rush Sims & my father, a divorced man, when Jack wanted to marry Jean. 

So I asked Jean, What did your father say about the Lord’s Supper?

He said, & her voice deepens to mimic Rush Sim’s amazing, engaging, authoritative,  voice, Every first day of the week.

So we talk, my mother & I, about why something so amazing, something done in remembrance of Christ’s sacrifice, of God’s sacrifice, is not celebrated every moment of every day.

I tell her that I have never understood, even as a child, why a sacrament so essential to Christian faith, would only be celebrated once a quarter.

And Jean says, Every first day of the week.

I ask Jean about something she told me a few weeks ago, that her mother Luna was not raised in the Church of Christ.   About how she always thought her mother smoothed the way with Rush when Jean joined the Baptist Church.

She doesn’t remember that conversation. 

This afternoon, I don’t weep.  This afternoon, she remembers that her father Rush believed in & celebrated Communion with his congregation every first day of the week.

I will weep later – for not realizing the wealth of text & stories & insight my mother houses in the filing cabinets of her brain. 

Tonight, I hear not for the first time, about when she dated J.R. Rambo, a friend of her sister Melba’s eventual husband, Robert, when she was in Dallas.

And then she tells me she had to return to Canton to finish high school.  That part was new.

That part she has left off over the years.

Now, she no longer intentionally leaves out anything.

Now, she searches & retrieves.  I see it, as her brow furrows, searching for what she wants to remember, for what she wants to express.

So, emulating  Roland Barthes’ braid of text, compiled from all text before, present & to come, I try to braid together the text of my mother’s memory & memories.  And all those pieces.

Gotta wonder what happened to J.R. Rambo.

Jaki Jean & Oscar Mayer, aka Anthony, Weiner

So, about Oscar Meyer, aka Anthony, Weiner.

I have read the incessant, omnipresent, continuous coverage of this man, his fall from grace, his bid for forgiveness, his attempt at redemption, his second (less humble) bid for forgiveness, his insistence on redemption.

It is insistence that his propensity for sexting & sharing himself with women not his wife has nothing to do with his bid to be the mayor of the country’s largest & most prominent city: that insistence irritates me

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Really, Weiner?

During Anthony Weiner’s tenure in Congress, he missed 5.5%. of rollcall votes.  Significantly more than the median of 2.6% of the lifetime records of representatives serving at the same time (govtrak.us). 

During Anthony Weiner’s tenure in Congress, he sponsored a number of bills.  All but one was sent to committee.  Death, in the life of a bill.

The lone bill on which he was the lead sponsor, signed into law, a 2010 measure aimed at reducing cigarette sales-tax evasion, hardly gives me confidence either he or his image would be good for the city New York. 

Or any other city or the nation.

It seems to me that Anthony Weiner did not resign from a successful or productive Congressional career.  While I am sure that identifying & prosecuting cigarette sales tax evasion must be profitable, it was hardly the stuff of which dreams & political careers are made.

His predilection for sexting & texting & sharing (his vision of) seductive photos of himself clearly took up his concentration, not to mention his time.  And, apparently, continued to take up his concentration & time after he resigned from Congress.

If Anthony Weiner does not understand why his behavior, combined with his less than stellar performance in Congress, might give New York voters concern about his ability to lead the most populated city in the country, he is delusional.

As is his much admired wife.  Her protests that his behavior is a matter confined to their marriage rings disingenuous.  Clearly her husband does not respect that marriage, or his wife.

How can voters expect him to respect & remain faithful to a much more demanding partner – the city of New York?

As more & more revelations about Anthony Weiner are touted by the tabloids & the mainstream press, as Mr. Weiner continues to appear in public & attempt to talk about issues while defending his own lack of decorum, the situation is beyond embarrassing.

For the voters of New York, for the country, for this man’s wife.

And I am reminded of a tune that all of us of a certain age know my heart, a tune I have paraphrased for this particular occasion:

His Baloney has a first name,
A-N-T-H-O-N-Y
His Baloney has a second name,
W-E-I-N-E-R
Oh it is time for him to go away
And if you ask me why I say,
Cause' Anthony Weiner has a way with B-A-L-O-N-E-Y.

As someone who loves the city of New York, I do hope that Anthony Weiner does go away.

Really, Weiner.

R-E-A-L-L-Y.