Living with my dad was very different from the very beginning. We lived near the small Northern Michigan town of Tustin, a town built around one street. Not a lot of business there, to say the least. A hardware store, a general store, a couple of churches, and not much else. On the first Sunday after moving in, we went to church. My dad’s wife, Peggy, had four children from a previous marriage, all older than I was. Debbie was 17, Barb was 16, Johnny was 14, and David was 13. Debbie and Barb lived with Peggy, while Johnny and David lived with their father. We picked Johnny and David up every Sunday for church. We all sat quietly for the service, which was really no different than any other service I’d been to with my mother and stepfather, who attended a Baptist church in the upper peninsula.
After the service was over, we walked over to the general store. I was kind of excited. I never got to go into stores with my mom and stepfather. We three kids always remained in the car, and it was my job to watch out for my younger siblings. Peggy started handing out quarters to everyone; two quarters each. “What’s this for?” I asked, dumbfounded. “Behaving in church,” she said. I almost laughed out loud. I had just gotten paid fifty cents to do what I normally would have done to avoid getting beaten. I thanked her profusely and went in search of something to buy with my new ill-gotten wealth. The girls were buying cigarettes, which made me wonder a bit. The boys were buying bottles of pop. I spotted a comic book rack in the middle of the store. Taking my dad aside, I timidly asked him if I could buy a comic book. He just looked dumbfounded at me, tousled my hair, and said I could buy whatever I wanted. This had never happened to me in my entire life. I almost ran to the spinner rack and calculated the best value for my money.
I bought Justice League of America #140, with a cover price of fifty cents. It was a double-sized issue, and featured my favorite superheroes: Batman, Superman, Green Lantern, the Flash, all of them! In the issue, Green Lantern was accused of destroying a populated moon with his power ring, and he admitted his guilt and allowed himself to be taken prisoner by a group called the Manhunters! I had to know more. I bought the comic and after everyone had made their purchases, we all headed home.
Justice League of America #140
I, of course, had to read the comic immediately, and I didn’t wait until we got back to the house. We dropped Johnny and David off at their dad’s trailer, where they lived, and I may have mumbled goodbye, I’m not certain. I was engrossed in the story.
There was a particular piece of dialogue that stood out, as Green Lantern stood accused of a terrible crime, destroying an entire planet: “Blast it, Arrow! You’re always so quick to see conspiracies! I’m not brainwashed! I’m admitting my guilt, on my honor as a Green Lantern! I would have admitted it last night if I’d had the chance! Can’t you see it’s eating me alive?” This taught me a very different lesson, indeed, than being told to lie to my teacher about being punched in the face, for example. The DC superheroes of this time helped me develop a moral code, even when the adult role models in my life had done just the opposite.
When we did arrive back at home, the girls lit up their cigarettes. I was stunned. My stepfather didn’t allow smoking in his home. And I mean, ever. He had even forbidden my mother to smoke. She did it behind his back when he was away, but she did her best to cover her tracks. But right here, two kids were smoking! And that’s not all. They cursed like sailors. I was still not allowed to swear, but then again, I didn’t really want to. I was not only in a safe home, but I was allowed to read (and keep) comic books in it! After the girls found themselves something to do, my dad had another surprise in store. He and Peggy and I got into the panel van and headed up to Mesick to see my Grandma and Grandpa McClain. It turned out that Dad went to visit them every week! I was so excited, I almost forgot to take my comic book with me so I could read it again.
The trip from Tustin to Mesick was only 35 minutes, but I swear it seemed like an eternity. I passed the time by reading, but I couldn’t wait to see Grandma and Grandpa again. I had just seen them the week before during Christmas break, when Jeff and I stayed overnight with them, but this was different. This time, I was here to stay. We took off our coats and snow boots (Northern Michigan, remember?) in the familiar mudroom and Grandma met me at the doorway, almost crushing me with a bear hug. Grandpa was there at his spot at the dining room table, and he did crush me with a hug of his own. With hindsight and empathy that I didn’t possess then, I now realize that my grandparents suffered perhaps the worst of my parents getting divorced, as they only got to see their only grandchildren twice a year.
As the grownups sat around the dining room table, Grandma brought out cups of coffee for everyone; everyone but me, that is. I got a tall glass of milk, and I knew what was coming next: An entire Tupperware cake container filled to the top with chocolate chip cookies! It didn’t take long for us to put a big dent in the cookie pile. Grandma made the best cookies. On the other hand, whose grandma didn’t, right? And before too long, the adults were heavy into adult talk, and I asked Grandma if she would pull out my stash. She smiled and nodded, and went to her room, quickly bringing back my box of comic books. This was where I kept the comic books that Jeff and I received every summer and Christmas so that Steve wouldn’t get his hands on them. I was reunited with old friends.
I sat in the living room, in Grandpa’s recliner, reading under his favorite reading lamp. This itself was a treasured luxury. My brother Jeff and I were not allowed to sit on the living room furniture in Mom and Steve’s house. “Animals don’t sit on furniture,” you see. My dad had bought Jeff a padded Mickey Mouse stool a few years before, and I had been jealous as all get out of him for that. I had to sit on the floor. But there I was, in Grandpa’s chair, with the omnipresent bowl of Brach’s candies next to my spot. Starlite mints, butterscotch discs, and those terrible blue things. Ice Blue Mint Coolers, or somesuch. And there were a few anise square candies there, in their red wrappers. I love black licorice to this day, but I knew Grandpa liked those best, so I only ate one.
The adults talked until dark, which came fairly early, around 4:30. Then it was time to go. It was a school night, and I was starting at my new school the next day. Grandma asked me if I wanted to take my comic books with me. On previous visits, I had always insisted on leaving them, but now, I was suddenly free to have them with me all the time. I laughed at the thought and agreed. I was suddenly laughing a lot, it seemed. I wasn’t used to that. But I would get used to it.
My mother saved my life on December 5, 1976. It was my 12th birthday, and she asked me one simple question: “Who do you want to live with? Me or your dad?”
Things had gotten bad. The entire left side of my face was bruised from where my stepfather Steve had hit me a few days before. He had ordered me to tell my teacher that I had fallen into a door handle, but when Mr. Wise asked me what had happened, I matter-of-factly told Mr. Wise the truth: My stepfather had punched me in the face. Steve had also taught me never to lie.
I knew what would happen as a result: nothing. As far back as when I was seven, my younger brother and I had been beaten so badly that neighbors had called the police, reporting the screams. When the police came, they inspected our bare behinds, saw the welts there, and did nothing. Steve used a 14-inch wooden ruler with a metal backing to beat us. It was called “The Stick.” We always took our beatings with our pants and underpants down. Steve hadn’t drawn blood–that time. So, I knew that telling my teacher the truth would change exactly nothing. We lived in a small town, attended a Baptist church, and oh, boy, did I hear “Spare the rod, spoil the child” on multiple occasions. The bible, the church, and God had done nothing to spare me or my brother. I had become so inured from the beatings with The Stick by the time I was 11, I could take his beatings all day long and not even shed a tear. I couldn’t even pretend to cry. It would have been better if I could have, because it would have prevented the hard physical abuse that followed for the next year, including punching and kicking, having my head held underwater until I was forced to fight to breathe, and more. The Stick was still effective on my brother, who was six years younger than I. He “only” got beaten with that at this point.
Did I mention that my mother worked for the Department of Social Services? Any report of abuse would have crossed her desk before going anywhere where it would have helped us.
There was also no shortage of emotional abuse. Being called a moron was just a part of my day, despite my straight A grades. Lazy, stupid, weak, selfish, pig, all were words that I was more than familiar with. I heard them every day. We weren’t allowed to read comic books. My stepfather had burned mine in front of me in the first weeks that we lived with him. We were made fun of for playing with action figures. We weren’t even allowed to watch cartoons on Saturday morning.
The only reprieves that my brother and I ever had were visiting our father and his parents on vacations. We lived too far away for monthly visitations. We saw them twice a year. For one week at Christmas, and two weeks in the summer, we were safe in their arms. We could read anything, play with anything, and watch anything. I used to mark a calendar and literally count the days to safety. If I could only make it through until the next break, I’ll live.
My mother thought the same thing, because as she would relate to me years later, she was literally afraid for my life, and she would rather give me up then see me dead.
All of this flashed through my mind as my mother finished asking the question. Without a nanosecond’s hesitation, I said, “I want to live with Dad.”
The next few weeks lasted an eternity. I said goodbye to my 6th grade classmates, and my teacher, Mr. Wise. We left for Christmas break, as we called it back in those days, and went to visit my mother’s family for Christmas Eve, and my stepfather’s family for Christmas Day, as usual. The plan was to drop my brother and me off on their way home at my dad’s house, which we had never seen, and then my mom and Steve would return with all my things on New Year’s Day and pick my brother up.
It was dark when we arrived in Tustin, Michigan. My dad had told us that he and his new (third) wife Peggy, whom we had met at their wedding the previous summer, lived in a two-story home along a wooded area with a spacious yard that had a fish pond. We had directions and drove up and down the road they supposedly lived on but found no sign of this dream house. After stopping to ask for help, we found the address. It appeared that everything my dad had said was true, except for the house part. He and Peggy and her two oldest children apparently lived in an unfinished basement built into a dirt bank. Near the road was the burned-out husk of a house that had been destroyed a few years before. We went up the driveway, still unsure. There was a sliding glass door facing out over the spacious lawn and pond, sure enough, and I could see my dad inside.
My mom was LIVID. L-I-V-I-D, man. A litany of curses familiar to me only because they were usually reserved for my father spewed from her mouth. We went up to the door, and sure enough, this was the right place. I hugged my dad, and then got out of the way because I knew I would be trailed closely by my mother. I spotted the lit Christmas tree with presents still under it, undoubtedly saved for my brother and me, even though Christmas was a week previous.
My mom barely held her contempt and had some very direct, but hushed words for my father. I felt a chill, because I was afraid that this meant she wouldn’t let me stay with him, and that I’d be in for five more years of beatings…or more. After she was done with him, she took me aside, and asked me if I was sure I wanted to live here in this basement. I knew by now that my decision to live with my dad had hurt her feelings, so I tried to contain myself a little better than I had when she asked me who I wanted to live with. “Yes,” I said. “I’m sure.” There were tears in her eyes and she hugged me, something she NEVER did. I’m not sure if it was because I would rather live in a concrete box than with her, or just because she knew she would hardly see me again beyond visitations in the summer and the holidays as had been the case with my dad. It could have been both.
After my mother, stepfather, and sister left, we sat down to open our Christmas presents. Now, my dad was known for his terrible gift-giving skills. He had bought me a Tonka truck the previous year, which I was a little old for. I had my share of Skin Bracer after shave, too, from previous years. But in 1976, he hit it out of the park. He had bought my brother and me matching Star Trek phaser pistols.
Remco Star Trek Phaser Gun
These battery-operated wonders lit up, and allegedly made phaser sounds, although it came out sounding more like a communicator chirp than anything. They projected a beam of light on the wall with a set of three discs that made a light silhouette of three spaceships; the Enterprise, a Klingon ship, and a flying saucer. My newest stepmother immediately regretted these gifts as we chirped all night long. They discovered quickly, however, that the chirping sound could be disabled by removing the 9-volt battery in the pistol grip, while still allowing the flashlight part to work. My dad also gave me a 1977 Marvel Memory Album, which I put aside. It would be a few days before the New Year. When we were shown to what would become my room, a separate cinder block partition, my brother and I shared the bed, me on one end, and him on the other. We played with the silenced phasers until the AA batteries in the back of each one died. We went to sleep happy.
When New Year’s Day came, my mother and stepfather rolled up the long, snowy driveway, and the car was loaded down. I could see my bike tied to the roof. That was the first time it really hit me. This was permanent. My brother Jeff and I were going to be separated for the first time since he’d been born. We’d been sharing a room for years, while my younger sister had her own. We had bunk beds with matching sheets and identical NFL bedspreads. I wasn’t even sure I could sleep without him in the room. Suddenly, I had second thoughts about leaving him behind. But no, surely with me living with my dad, Steve wouldn’t dare beat on Jeff the way he had me. I knew from stories that my dad had fought Steve years before and came out on top.
When my mom hugged me, I didn’t think she was going to let me go. She whispered to me that if I wanted to come back, to just call her and she would be there that same day. I tried to fight back tears but lost the battle. I told her I loved her and watched her go. I watched them all go.
I went back to my new room and hung the 1977 Marvel Memory Album. At that time of my life, I wasn’t a big Marvel fan, but that hardly mattered. It was a comic book item, something I had not been allowed to have in my room at my mother’s house. And I hung that calendar proudly over my dresser in my cinder block room with some Scotch tape. The first page was January and featured the Fantastic Four, fighting Skrulls.
I still have a copy of this calendar!
I had never read a Fantastic Four comic in my life, but I had watched the cartoon with my dad when I was little. I knew who they were, and that was enough. When my dad came in to tuck me in (he had no idea what to do with a 12-year-old who doesn’t need to be tucked in, but give him some credit for trying), he kissed me good night and told me how glad he was that I was there with him. He closed the curtain over the empty space that would someday have a door and turned off the “living room” lights outside my very own room. Moonlight leaked in ever so slightly from the basement window, illuminating the calendar on the wall, and just before I fell asleep, I felt silently grateful for my new situation. I was finally out of danger. I felt warm and protected, from both Skrulls and my stepfather.
I just finally finished watching all 98 episodes of Star Trek: Enterprise from beginning to end. It’s taken me a couple of months, but I wanted to have all the background information I would need for my Star Trek Adventures roleplaying campaign, which takes place between the end of the Original Series and the beginning of Star Trek: The Motion Picture. I started by watching the Original Series, then the animated series, and then Enterprise. My mission is finally over.
Now, don’t come at me with Discovery and Strange New Worlds. Those shows are fine, but let’s be honest. They’re reboots. Re-imaginations. Whatever you want to call them. They cannot possibly be canonical for the continuity in which Star Trek The Original Series exists. As far as I’m concerned, they’re another timeline like the Kelvin timeline from the movies and I’m okay with that. I wouldn’t even mind if they redid the Original Series episodes in their own style. Anyway, back to Enterprise.
The first two seasons, I thought, started out pretty strong. They went out there and explored. The humans had a sense of wonder that even their Vulcan science officer found attractive. T’Pol would be on the bridge explaining that a phenomenon had already been catalogued by Vulcan scientists who found it unremarkable, and the Enterprise crew would discover something new and amazing about it because they weren’t jaded. Occasionally, these closer examinations would reveal a mystery that had to be solved. Really good Star Trek, if you ask me. Technology developed, strategies and tactics evolved, and it felt pretty natural.
Where it got completely cringey, however, was in their exploitation of the actors’ bodies. The lame decontamination gel scenes simply weren’t necessary, with them rubbing decon gel over each other’s hard-to-reach spots while in their underwear. T’Pol’s skin tight outfits and revealing satin night garments, which we saw often, were, if you’ll excuse the expression, illogical. Was there precedent for this, with Deanna Troi and Seven of Nine on their respective shows? Of course. But it didn’t make it right.
At the end of season two, however, the Enterprise went completely off the rails. Clearly inspired by the events of 9/11, a new race called the Xindi attacked Earth with a weapon of mass destruction that killed seven million people in Florida, including Trip Tucker’s sister. They spent the entire next season seeking revenge and looking for a new weapon that the Xindi were going to use to annihilate Earth. Gone was the entire premise of Starfleet as explorers, and we watched Captain Archer become a ruthless commander, crossing many moral lines that he never would have in the first two seasons. I still remember when I stopped watching the show when it first aired, after the 19th episode of the season (“Damage”), when Archer ordered his crew to steal the warp coil from the Illyrians, stranding them three years from their home. I remember just thinking, who are these awful people? So, this time around, I finished the season, and was gratified to see them dealing with the aftermath of these decisions in season four, after a bizarre time-traveling World War II two-parter. I half expected Archer to wake up in the German camp, saying, “Oh boy.”
The fourth and final season, though, I have to say, was a slog. Even if the third season was filled with horrible behavior, at least they had a clear mission to accomplish. The fourth season felt like they were using leftover scripts from Star Trek The Next Generation. Enterprise was no longer exploring. They were ferrying people around, policing augments, the result of genetic engineering, running supposed transporter experiments, and just hanging around known space. It really wasn’t much Star Trek at all. It was totally TNG, which I suppose made that awful finale appropriate, with guest stars from that show.
I would have liked to have seen what they had in mind for a season five, but given the decline in quality of stories in season four, it seems like they were just running out of antimatter there at the end.
My official retirement from full-time teaching was January 1, 2020, so I’ve been collecting my pension for three years now. Today, I received my 36th pension payment. What does that mean? Well, I’m not living high off the hog or anything like that, but it means I make a free mortgage payment and pay the cable bill every month with a couple hundred bucks left over, which I generally use to buy comic books, or to pay for a roleplaying game environment or ship design. But since I regained the ability to do so after COVID subsided enough to let kids to school again, I’ve been more or less working full-time. I started out substitute teaching every day, then I went back to the classroom full-time for a year. Now I’m back to substitute teaching every day. I know; I apparently don’t know how retirement works, which leads us to Pension Day.
I decided yesterday that I was going to take off the first of each month, starting today. While I waited for my pension check to be directly deposited, I got up and did my usual routine: coffee, meds, Wordle, Quordle, and Octordle. Then I took a shower and got dressed. By that time, my check was in, so I paid my two bills out of it, and planned my day. My birthday is coming up on Monday, and my drivers license is about to expire. So, I dug out the documents I needed to get a Real ID. I thought getting a professional haircut might be nice for the first time since 2019 because I was going to have my photo taken, so I headed down the road. I stopped at the bank, withdrew my bonus money, and there was a line of four people waiting at Great Clips. I know, it’s a cheap haircut, but I have been cutting my own with a #2 guard and clippers for several years. It’s not that hard to do. I decided not to wait, and went to get lunch first.
I drove into Mishawaka and stopped at Doc Pierce’s for lunch. Doc Pierce’s is a throwback restaurant that was built in 1976 and I don’t think it’s ever been updated. It is definitely for old people, which make up the primary clientele, so it’s perfect for Pension Day.
Doc Pierce’sNo, this was not taken in the 1970s. It was taken three weeks ago!
The tables and chairs are made of real wood, not particle or composites. The stained glass light fixtures give it a homey feeling. And the music they play is MY music. My wife Magi and I ate there a couple of times last summer, and had a great time just figuring out what year each song came out. We had our Shazam app to back us up, but we were right 90% of the time.
Everything there is pretty good. It’s a nice local place with decent food. Another tip-off that the clientele ages a little high is that you have to request that your food be seasoned. I found out the hard way this past summer when I got an unseasoned steak! It was cooked beautifully, but was very bland. I didn’t make that mistake today, and had a nice 12-oz. ribeye with a baked potato and sauteed mushrooms. It was delicious.
As I sat there in the one-person booth, I thought to myself, if I’m going to treat myself to a nice lunch, why not get a good haircut? So, after lunch, I headed over to SportsClips.
I hadn’t been to Sportsclips in forever, especially since I had been cutting my own hair and it was well out of the way. But I remembered their VIP service, which includes a shampoo and head and neck massage, as well as a hot towel. I do not regret that decision one bit. I had a wonderfully relaxing time, and my hair hasn’t been this even in years. I even got the full beard trim, eyebrow trim, and everything. This just might have to become a regular Pension Day experience as well.
I stopped by Barnes & Noble just for fun, and reminisced about doing book signings there. It was a happy memory, not at all tinged with grief, so I count that as a good thing. Then I went to the BMV. To my utter shock, my number was called before I could even sit down. I was in and out of there in 15 minutes. Incredible.
On the way home, I stopped at Wendy’s for one final indulgence. Wendy’s currently has peppermint Frostys, so I got one with half chocolate and half peppermint. Delicious!
I’ll be back at work tomorrow, but I think I definitely want to start reserving the first of the month for a fun day to remind myself that I am retired!
It seems unbelievable to me that it was 50 years ago that I received my first superhero action figure. But for Christmas 1972, my Grandma Blowers (rhymes with flowers) gave me the Mego Superman figure. I had wanted Batman, my favorite character, but I was thrilled, nonetheless, to open up the Man of Steel.
Someone else’s Mego Superman. I opened mine!
I don’t even remember what else I got that year for Christmas because it didn’t matter. This was by far my favorite toy. Superman flew all over the house, lifted many heavy things and saved people from disasters.
My stepfather didn’t appreciate the gift like I did. He was opposed to boys playing with dolls and he made sure to let me know it whenever he could. He was a professional emasculator in that way. He had already stopped me from playing with my GI Joe months before. Poor Joe languished in the bottom of the toybox, where my brother and sister had access to him. But when I was anywhere near my grandmother, he didn’t dare say anything to me because he wanted to stay on her good side. Superman prevailed!
Over the years, grandparents on both sides added to my brother’s and my Mego collections. My brother got Spider-Man, while I got Star Trek’s Captain Kirk in 1973. My brother got Spock the next year, so we had cooperative play in two different genres. I always wanted the rest of the Star Trek crew and the coveted USS Enterprise playset, but I knew that was unlikely so long as I lived in my stepfather’s house. We had to be satisfied playing at our father’s and grandparents’ houses, or even at school. Well, as an adult, I have rectified that.
The original Mego Star Trek figures and the USS Enterprise playset
When I was in third grade, Mrs. Burkholder was the best teacher of all time. On nice days we had recess outside, but when it rained, our indoor play consisted mostly of playing with action figures. Most of the boys had GI Joes, but by this time, my younger siblings had taken care of my Joe. His clothes were nowhere to be found. But, without my stepfather’s knowledge, I brought Superman to school. Sure, he was only eight inches tall compared to the GI Joe’s 12-inch height, but that just meant that he was Superboy instead of Superman, and I was just fine with that. I learned to read because of Superboy, after all.
The only other Mego figure I ever got was the Shazam! (Captain Marvel) figure, which I got in 1978. I was 13, which you might think was too old to be playing with such toys. But this was an important time in my recovery from the years of abuse I wrote about here. My dad and my grandparents gave me the time to catch up on the imaginative play that I had missed, and I will be forever grateful to them for that. I had enjoyed the Shazam! TV show and remembered seeing a house ad for a battle between Superman and Captain Marvel. Since none of Superman’s powered villains were made by Mego, I wanted someone about as powerful for him to fight. In my Solution Squad story “The Case of the Eight-Inch Action Figures,” I wrote a scene where young Radical remembered that battle.
Radical remembers!
A few years back, I even had a Mego Radical figure customized. Talk about a thrill!
Package art by me!
Over the years, Mego has had the licenses for so many properties, it was like the predecessor of Funko, which makes its Pops for just about everything there is in pop culture land. And now that they’re back in business, they’re even releasing a line of 50th anniversary figures, which I’ll be sure to get. They’ll probably never leave their boxes, but I have vintage ones for that!
My 50-year-old vintage Superman in a custom diorama by Mike Sutter
One of the many, many reasons I re-retired from teaching was the new policy that my administration was trying to put forward. They didn’t like zeroes. During my interview, they asked me if I would cooperate with their new policy to not give zeroes for incomplete assignments, but to assign half the points even if they turned in nothing. I said sure, because I really didn’t care how grading was done. I was more interested in student learning.
But when it came time for me to get my students prepared to have a quarterly grade check in nine weeks, I told them that they really didn’t have all that much to worry about for the assignment portion of the grade, and here’s why:
Let’s say that I counted each completed assignment as four points, which I actually did. Four or four hundred, there’s no difference because it all scales. And let’s say that I gave five assignments for a grand total of 20 points. Once again, we’re just keeping things simple here. If they completed just one of the four assignments and got the full four points, they would pass. They looked at me like my head was on backward. I said, no, really, let’s take a look. If you get half credit for doing absolutely nothing, and just did the last of the five assignments, let’s see how that looks:
2 + 2 + 2 + 2 + 4 = 12
Congratulations, 12 out of 20 points is a 60% score, and that, according to the standardized school grading scale was a D-; a passing grade! You can look like you’re doing the work, even when you’re not.
Now, many people are going to try to argue with me here, and let me warn you. You will lose. It doesn’t matter what the assignments were worth. Make it 100 points per assignment.
50 + 50+ 50 + 50 + 100 = 300. And since the assignments are worth 100 points each, that’s 300 out of 500, or…60%. it’s the same. You do one assignment out of every five as well as you can and your homework grade will look like you tried. Now, mind you, if you actually want to pass, you’ll need to score higher than 60% on the assessments, but don’t worry about that, because we were encouraged to give multiple chances to take those.
We were being asked to lower our standards to such a point that almost nothing mattered, and that’s just a bitter pill to swallow when you’ve just come back from a year and a half of retirement.
When I was a child, from age seven to twelve, I suffered physical and emotional abuse at the hands of the man who would become my stepfather. I’ve talked and written about it elsewhere ad nauseam, but I think it’s appropriate to mention it here in this new venue. Unfortunately, the trauma I experienced is the central experience in my life. Every day, I deal with the effects.
It’s only fair to issue a trigger warning:
Trigger warning: Descriptions of abuse follow.
The abuse I experienced was both physical and emotional. I was beaten nearly every day on my bare behind with a wooden ruler with a metal backing. It was called “the stick.” At least, that’s what happened at first. I was eventually punched, kicked, and had my head held underwater so long that I had to literally fight for breath. The physical abuse escalated to the point where my mother thought he was going to kill me. The worst of the physical abuse came when I was eight, and he tore my infected fingernail off with a pair of pliers. This was ostensibly to avoid a doctor visit, which would have cost money. I ended up in the emergency room.
If you can quantify such things, the emotional abuse was worse. I was called worthless, stupid, lazy, and weak on a daily basis. But perhaps the worst thing that ever happened to me was when he burned all of my comic books in front of me. You’ve probably already read here what they meant to me. He claimed that they would give me nightmares, but the only thing that gave me nightmares was the burning of the comics.
The abuse finally ended on my 12th birthday, when my mother let me choose who to live with, my dad or her. That decision took 0.005 nanoseconds to make, and just after Christmas, I moved in with my dad, where I was safe. No one ever laid a hand on me again.
I bring all this up because, as the title of this post would imply, my abuse is the elephant in the room. Which room? Every room I’m in. As I said above, I struggle with the effects every day. Yes, I’ve had counseling. But as anyone who has ever experienced this to a certain degree will tell you, it doesn’t go away. It will never go away. The best you can do is learn how to carry it. And I think I have.
I don’t intend to write about this a lot, but almost everything I do write about will likely have at least one reference to it, so I didn’t want my readers to be in the dark.
One of my favorite parts of the holiday season is thinking about time spent with my Grandma and Grandpa McClain. And one of the things they always had on hand that made it fun was a bowl of candy. So, we stopped today at Wakarusa Dime Store, which is simply loaded with nostalgic candy, and I filled a bag with three of the candies that were always on-hand at their house: Starlight mints, butterscotch disks, and red anise squares. Now, if you’ve never had a red anise square, it’s a candy that tastes like black licorice. Anise seeds are sweeter than fennel, one of the other sources of that licorice flavor. I know, no one else in my family will touch them, but if you’re a fan, you might want to check them out!
I didn’t have a candy dish to store them in, so we stopped at an antique mall and I found a cool basket that is much safer in my office, with the dog and cats always about.
One of my earliest memories is of watching the “Operation: Annihilate!” episode of Star Trek–what people now call Star Trek the Original Series.
“Operation Annihilate”
Since it was broadcast on April 13, 1967, I was only two and a half years old. The show was very appealing to a young child such as myself because there were lots of garish colors, both in the uniforms and the sets. I remember my mother babysitting for a pair of twins named Matt and Mark, and they had shirts with traffic lights on their left breasts. I used to call them their Star Trek shirts. I had one with a bear on the left breast, but the shirt was black so it didn’t qualify.
In the 1970s, Star Trek made a big comeback in syndication. Daily reruns allowed those of us in Mrs. Burkholder’s third grade class to discover Star Trek’s imaginative adventure and to recreate it in pretend play. We used to take the cardboard backs of our notebooks and draw phasers and communicators on them. Then we would cut them out with scissors and use them as props on the playground at recess. We were even more excited when the cartoon began that fall, as if it had given us license to create our own Star Trek adventures. We loved the fights, the ray guns, and the action of Star Trek. We didn’t get that the point of science fiction was to create allegory and parables from which to learn, but the show gave us plenty of excitement nonetheless. Using typical third grade logic, when it came time to select roles for the characters, I got to play Captain Kirk, by virtue of being named Jim.
The main cast of Star Trek (animated)
My brother and I, on one of our trips to our grandparents’ house, received matching Mego action figures of Kirk and Spock, and together we had many adventures on distant planets. I don’t know how many times we re-enacted “Amok Time,” but it counted in the hundreds.
Mego Capt. Kirk
We also got one of the first trade paperbacks when we found the Enterprise Logs in a bookstore. The trade reprinted the old Gold Key Star Trek series. We read that thing dog-eared.
Star Trek The Enterprise Logs Volume 2
or Christmas in 1976, Jeff and I got matching phaser pistols from our father. They were the coolest toys for the time. When you pressed the trigger, it made a chirping sound, which was more like a communicator than a phaser, but we didn’t care. The phasers were also projectors that, using a cutout that you slid over the lens, projected a picture of a ship on the wall. I remember they took a nine-volt battery in the handles for the sound, and two double A’s in the back for the light. My dad probably regretted getting us noise-making toys for Christmas, but the phaser remains one of my favorite toys of childhood. When I moved in with him a month later, Star Trek was still in reruns and I was lucky enough to find a book from the library, called The Making of Star Trek, by Stephen Whitfield. My dog ate the cover of the paperback so we had to buy the book, but I sure didn’t regret it. I was able to check off all the episodes of Star Trek that I had yet to see. We only had a black and white TV, but it didn’t matter. I knew what color everybody wore! In my spare time, I created my own starship based on some of the production drawings in the book. I crewed the ship with superheroes, so that made for some interesting daydreams, to be sure. It wasn’t until later that I started to get the deeper meaning behind the show, but that time would come. And that understanding only reinforced my love for this show.
The Remco chirping phaser
Even though from ninth grade through the end of high school, I became an insufferable jock, I still found ways to incorporate my nerdity into my everyday life. When I had to give a demonstrative speech with visual support, I chose to use my The Making of Star Trek book to demonstrate for the class, where everything was on the starship Enterprise. But perhaps more informatively for the masses, I was able to define what people in the credits of movies and TV show actually do, from the director, down to the best boy (senior electrician, second to the gaffer). The book had provided insights that I had never known, and neither had my classmates. Scored an A for that.
The Making of Star Trek
When 1979’s Star Trek The Motion Picture was released just after my 15th birthday, everyone in my whole family went to the movies, a rare event. Even my grandmother went to see it. What a thrill it was! People have often called it “the motionless picture” but I found it, if you’ll forgive the term, fascinating. I absolutely loved the slow, lumbering exterior shots of the Enterprise model. I saw it three times in the theater, and yes. I bought the Happy Meals.
Star Trek Happy Meals
In 1982, Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan silenced all the critics of the first movie. This one was special to me, as I was 17, and had saved enough money to treat my dad and my brother to a showing on Father’s Day and felt like a grown up driving them there.
During my freshman year of college, in the early spring of 1984, we showed Star Trek II as part of the Student Entertainment Committee’s series of films. I wasn’t actually part of the committee; I was doing my college work-study as a projectionist, so I got to see it multiple times that weekend and enter the trivia contest, which I won. The question was, who said, “Take it easy lad; everyone’s entitled to their own opinion.” But the kicker was, “In which episode?” I got both questions right, and won a model of the refit Enterprise.
By the time Star Trek III rolled out, it was the summer after my freshman year in college. I took my college girlfriend to see it one weekend when I was in Kalamazoo visiting her.
Star Trek IV came out at the beginning of my senior year in college, in November 1986. Are you starting to see the pattern here? I literally grew up with Star Trek. The model used for the Enterprise was still being built on the day I was born, and by the time I graduated from college, it was still going strong, with the original characters perhaps reaching the height of their popularity. It was at this time that I discovered the FASA Star Trek Roleplaying Game. I started my gaming life during freshman year, and didn’t really have time to devote to a long campaign, but during some long summer nights in my junior year, we managed to find the time to make some trouble in the Original Series era.
I was a math teacher for 32 years. I taught every math subject under the sun, first in high school for 10 years, then eighth grade for 11 years, and then finally spending the final 11 years of my career teaching an elective course called 7th Grade Math Problem Solving. Now, what Math Problem Solving consisted of was a question for the ages. No one seemed to know. The teacher who was teaching it while I was teaching eighth grade hated the idea of a nebulous, free-form course that had no formal textbook or ordered set of standards. She was as uncreative a teacher as I’ve ever met. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that she left teaching to become an administrator shortly afterward. I, on the other hand, despised being tied to specific texts and schedules.
A little background is required, here. At the beginning of my career, teachers had the power to select their own textbooks, by school system. Every seven years, just as Vulcans return to their home planet to mate, textbook companies would come courting, to try to bribe us teachers to vote to adopt their textbook. I guess you could call it Textbook Pon Farr. In a large school system with thousands of students, this adoption would be extremely lucrative for the book company. And when they courted us, they meant business, literally. Teachers would be treated to meals at the best restaurants in the area, and companies would try to sway us with promotional items, sample textbooks, and other gifts. One time, we teachers and a guest were treated to a private showing of Star Wars The Force Awakens, complete with free popcorn and snacks! Clearly, this system is ridiculous and corrupt, and just before I took on the problem solving course, the power to vote for a preferred textbook was taken from teachers completely. An administrator and his hand-picked committee made the decision for us, and in this particular instance, a very poor and unpopular decision was made. A problem-based curriculum was chosen, which would have been great, except for one thing; it was scripted.
When I say the textbook was scripted, that is precisely what I mean. It was in the format, say this, do that example, ask this question, assign these problems. And we were required to attend inservices where the teachers who piloted the program insisted that every page must be followed to the letter, or it would have no validity. We had some really creative, experienced teachers at that time, and I would stack their homemade lessons against the scripted curriculum any day of the week. They were told they could not vary from the book, even when their activities were similar. There was a mass exodus soon after, as they fled the system. If I’d had the experience and the years in, I would have followed them. As it was, I had the opportunity to jump ship and teach the soon-to-be-abandoned problem solving course. And jump I did.
One of the first things we established about the problem solving course was that it was to supplement the regular curriculum, remediating kids who had done poorly and enriching the kids who’d done well. It was a semester course, and at my suggestion, we put struggling students in the first semester so that I would have them for a full semester preceding the big test, ISTEP+, which was given in the spring. Higher-performing students would be scheduled in the second semester, so they could also benefit from the course, but their need wasn’t as critical as the struggling students. This process seemed to work well, as we saw a rise in scores soon after. It may have been a coincidence, and there is absolutely no way to make a case for the effect of this course. I just like to think it was.
I was free to use whatever materials I chose, and I was careful to support my choices with the state standards we were required to teach. I still laugh about those state standards, because they are so poorly written. In 2014, Indiana moved away from Common Core State Standards because of a misinterpretation of their origin. Tea Party Republicans viewed them as a federal takeover. And in 2014, then-Governor Mike Pence signed legislation making Indiana the first state to walk away from the national rollout of CCSS. We reverted back to the 2000 academic standards that we had been using before the advent of CCSS. When we finally adopted new standards written by Hoosiers for Hoosiers, they were about 80% Common Core, but paraphrased. So, by the time I was writing lessons to match the standards, we were using the Cliff’s Notes version of Common Core. But I wasn’t complaining, because one standard stood out over all others. I present to you, Indiana Math Standard 7.C.6:
Use proportional relationships to solve ratio and percent problems with multiple operations (e.g. simple interest, tax, markups, markdowns, gratuities, conversions within and across measurement systems, and percent increase and decrease).
At that time, we were required to write the standard we were teaching on our whiteboards, and I printed a copy off, posted it, and never took it down. It kind of covers a lot, doesn’t it? Other standards say stuff like “Add integers.” This one, though, could keep you busy for five months!
And busy we were. At the time of this writing, it’s the week of Thanksgiving, and I always had a lesson prepared that covered 7.C.6. Regular textbooks often had sections on unit pricing. You know what excited kids about those units? Absolutely nothing. Here’s how I handled it. I stopped at the local grocery chain, Martin’s Supermarkets, on Monday morning when the new flyers came out, and asked a manager if I could take 150 of them to use in the classroom. Now, what manager is going to say no to that? Free advertising directly into the hands of 150 students’ families, right? Win-win. I broke the students up into groups of four with an odd group of three if necessary and gave them a budget to buy communal food for a week. NO ALCOHOL! What, did you think I was a n00b? It was always the first thing they asked.
Martin’s sales always have a variety of unit pricing: 5/$5, 2/$4, etc. We’d start off easy on those. But then something like this would come up and the kids would choke.
This is an actual price from this week’s ad.
Suddenly, kids were in a panic. They couldn’t make it come out even. Ah, to heck with it, I’ll just buy three! And I’d point out, what if you just needed two? Are you going to waste that money? They usually thought better of it and played along. The unit price rounded to $1.67. The second one you bought would also cost $1.67, and the third one you bought would be $1.66, and the kids accepted that, as they should. I warned them, however, that it didn’t always work like that.
I’m a storyteller, you see. And there are very few things for which I don’t have a story readily available, and unit pricing is right in my wheelhouse. I worked at Meijer as a cashier when I was in college, back in the distant past of 1985. That’s right, the year Back to the Future came out. And we had just gotten those newfangled scanners. Before that, we had to ring everything up manually. Now, the problem with the computers was that they didn’t care about your rounding rules. I still remember a customer complaint when cans of Starkist tuna were 3/$1. Those were the days, right? And one day, a particular customer bought one can of tuna. It scanned $0.34. The customer complained. I agreed, one can of tuna at 3/$1 should have come out at $0.33. So, just for the sake of curiosity, I scanned it again. The second time, it scanned at $0.33, as it did on the third time. After I canceled the second two scans, I called the customer service manager, who actually got mad at me for questioning it. I said that the customer questioned it first, but that was unpersuasive. He yelled at me some more. Honestly, I don’t think he wasn’t cut out for customer service. He explained that the computers were programmed to do it that way because the company was losing that valuable penny on single can purchases, and if you sell 50,000 cans of tuna chainwide, that starts to add up to real money. How much money? By now, you see, the kids were hooked. They started whipping their calculators out and figuring it out for themselves. And this is what we call teaching.
I miss teaching this lesson, and I would have been doing it this week had I not retired.
