She's Sherrie

Temporary Memorial in Parkland, Florida. Written by Dana, a Teacher, Somewhere USA. I communicated with Dana last night via Messenger and obtained her permission to copy her post.  We both feel that people should know what it is like to be students or teachers in the present state of gun violence on school campuses.  Please share this.  These are her words. Today in school, we practiced our active shooter lockdown. One of my first graders was scared, and I had to hold him. Today is his birthday. He kept whispering, "When will it be over?" into my ear. I kept responding "Soon" as I rocked him and tried to keep his birthday crown from stabbing me. I had a mix of 1-5 graders in my classroom because we have a million tests that need to be taken.  My fifth grader patted the back of the 2nd grader huddled next to him under a table.  A 3rd-grade girl cried silently and clutched the hand of her friend. The rest of the kids sat quietly (casket quiet) and stared a

Stuff During a six week period of time, my brother and a long-time friend had died.  One I was somewhat prepared for; the other was a total shock. The first four weeks were hell.  In the first two weeks, I had so much anger when my brother died that I pretty much just sat on the sofa.  Didn't eat much. didn't sleep much.  I had the TV on for distraction, but anything sad to the slightest degree would make me cry.  I had many phone calls to make and found it very difficult to speak without my voice quivering.  I understand that my feelings were attributed to leftover grief from my son's deaths and my mom a few years ago.  My family members, for some odd reason, are anti-grieving.  There was no discussion of sadness or feelings with them to ease my pain, so I am now dealing with all of my feelings.  I hate it.  Because I don't seem to have control over it.  I know it will fade in time, but for now, it sucks.  I'm referring to a family loss. Two weeks after my

Duck and Cover A very long time ago, school children practiced a drill called Duck and Cover throughout the United States.  These drills became a part of our school lives, a routine,  designed stupidly, to protect school kids from the blast of bombs delivered to us by our enemies, Russia or Cuba. The early 1960s were stressful times for everyone in the United States.  Life could be eradicated at any time by Nikita Krushchev, the leader of our mortal enemy, Russia.  Russia and the United States were enemies.  We distrusted them, with good reason, and they hated us because the U.S. stood in their path of spreading Communism by overtaking weaker countries.  We were like two pit bulls locked in a fighting ring, snarling at each other, one representing freedom, one communism. The tensions between the countries were so intense that private citizens were having bomb shelters built in their homes' basements.   Looking back on it and knowing what we know now about radiation and the

Today, my friend Connie was buried.  She did not die from an illness, she did not die from an auto accident; she died due to human error during a medical procedure—human error.  The misstep of a surgical instrument during a non-critical operation took my friend's life.  She should still be here.  But she isn't. She left a message on her Facebook page, telling her family and friends that she loved them.  She posted that early in the morning before she left for the hospital.  Did she know, did she have a premonition, a doubt?  We will never know. What she did do was to reinforce her feelings for those she loved, just in case.  I commend her for that.  She left no doubt, nothing unsaid, to those who would feel the pain of losing her.  It's something most people might not think about or might not do.  Her love for her family and friends was so intense that one of the last things she did was reassure everyone that they were loved.  Some of us never got to return that affir

On February 6, 2018, my acquaintance, co-worker, friend, and fellow CWA Union sister, Connie Sanders Glover Orms, was taken from the lives of those who loved her by a surgical procedure. Connie was the purveyor of Local 6215 faces, words, and events for most of her adult life.  In her own quiet way, she was a cornerstone of our local union office, just as much as Gene Vance, James Holbrook, Frank Crow, J.D. Williams, James Allen, and Carrol Magee were.  She was always there, and she was there as the local shifted into a higher level of activism as leadership evolved.  She didn't make speeches, she wasn't an extrovert, but she was always there, taking pictures of us at meetings, events, picket lines, picnics, conferences, and conventions. Still there, maybe you didn't see her, but she was there recording history. When I first met Connie, she was a single mom.  She always talked about her boys, and they were seen with her at union functions.  Raising boys alone were and

My brother, Staff Sargent Strickland, assisting a wounded MP at the US Embassy in Saigon, 1968, as reported by Life Magazine. In January 1968, in a faraway place of  Saigon, South Vietnam, during a celebration of the new year known as Tet by the locals, my brother Ronnie, an MP at the Embassy, lost his life.   He and all of his brothers in arms were engaged in combat with North Vietnamese forces who had successfully penetrated the secured area's grounds.  The battle to hold the embassy lasted for hours, and many lives were lost, and many of the soldiers and Marines were injured in combat.  News footage exists of my brother and another MP carrying a wounded soldier to safety.  Many of my brother's friends were killed that day, and maybe they were the lucky ones; they would never have to endure the painful memories of battle and gore and loss.  It was over for them.  MP's escort a captured prisoner after the  Saigon Embassy battle during the Tet Offensive 1968.

Attack Plan  We worked in a pretty stressful, demanding job. There was always something new to learn, something changing, always that customer on the other end of the phone.  Our daily routines were so rigorous, so well monitored by so many people that we had to stay on our toes every day.  There was always a management person going behind you checking your work, looking over your shoulder, or sitting next to you.  And people were incessantly listening to your conversations.  Looking back on that, it was a good thing.  We were putting out quality work.  We were accountable for everything we did, and screwing up was not an option.  The quality product that we delivered then does not exist in current service-oriented jobs.  It just doesn't. So I worked in this big office with 98% of the people being within the same age group, give or take a year or two.  Overall, we all got along very well, and even though there were many of us, we were pretty close-knit. Someone c