The Rise and Fall of Me – Part 9 of _?

December 26, 2012

At the end of part 8, Ann (not her real name, mostly) was going to leave her husband for me as her husband agreed to quietly divorce her – provided she still wanted to do so after staying away from me from early December until after New Year’s Eve.  Then, after New Year’s, she told him she still wanted out, and he said he would stick to the agreement, but he asked if she’d wait until after her birthday in early February.  What I learned was that it had nothing to do with her birthday.  It was a way to buy time for his plan, and it was a good one.

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Ann and I hadn’t talked much from January to early February, and I assumed it was because of their plan to quietly split.  I was wrong.  I found this out one day in class with a room full of students when the teachers’ union president entered my room and said one of the scariest sentences you might ever want to hear:  “Don’t get nervous, but two police detectives are here to talk to you.”  Can you imagine hearing such a thing?  I hope not.  “No matter what they say, you don’t answer anything.  All you say is that you can’t talk to anyone without an attorney.  I don’t care what they ask – you don’t answer anything.”

detective_web_iStock_000001438143XSmallI was still stuck on the word “detectives.”  When I asked why they wanted to talk to me, the union president said, “You don’t know?”  No, I didn’t.  “Well, you better get down there.  Principal’s office.”  I walked in, had a seat, and saw my principal – whom I liked and liked me too – and two unfamiliar, grim faces.  I can’t remember their exact questions, but I’ll paint you a picture:

“Sir, are you familiar with (a 5th grade student we will call) Mary?”

“Yes.  I mean, I can’t answer any questions without an attorney.”

“Are you having a relationship with Mary?”

“Are you fu-  I mean, I can’t answer anything without an attorney.”

“You’ve been accused of having an inappropriate and criminal relationship with Mary.  Is there anything you’d like to say about that?”

“Officer, I really, really wish I could answer that, but I can’t without an attorney.”

“So you don’t deny that you’re having a relationship with an 11-year old girl?”

“That’s not what I said.  Yes, I deny that, but I can’t answer your questions without an attorney.”

“You just answered that one.”

“That wasn’t a question.  I was correcting something you said that was wrong.”

The principal interrupted.  “Officers, this is a very unfair situation, and I would like you to leave.  He’s obviously not going to answer anything without an attorney, so do what you have to do but do it somewhere else.”  And they left, and the principal apologized.  He then told me that he had no choice but to send me home for the rest of the day and that I was not to come back to school until an investigation was complete.  I was suspended with pay.  I was being accused of having a sexual relationship with a child.

“Do you have any idea what’s going on?” I asked the principal.

He hesitated.  “Over the weekend, Ann and her husband went to the police and told them you’re having a relationship with Mary.”

I fell into a chair.  “That’s insane,” I said.

“I know it is, and I’m sorry.”

“Has anyone talked to Mary and asked what she has to say?”

“Actually, I did about an hour ago.  She said, ‘That’s the most disgusting thing she ever heard.’  So that’s good,” said the principal.  “I know you didn’t do anything, and it greatly disturbs me that Ann and her husband would do this to you.  But go home.  Try to relax.  You know you didn’t do anything, so just enjoy some time off.”

I went back to my classroom, got my stuff, and left.  The kids had already been sent to lunch, so I didn’t have to face them.  That would have been difficult.  I left the building and was home for only about two hours when the phone rang.  It was one of the detectives.

“Sorry to bother you, Sir.  I thought you’d want to know that we finished interviewing the student and her mother, and we’re convinced that you did not have an inappropriate relationship with her.  Sorry to bother you.”

It was probably the most frightening two hours of my life.  My mind had no choice but to calculate all of the dominoes that would fall from just being publicly accused of doing something with a female student.  I had no choice but to imagine how my kids would react, my family and friends, and my co-workers.  And also my own students with whom I had worked all year.  Then I got a call from the union president.

“I heard it’s all over.  They know you didn’t do anything.”

“Yeah,” I said.  “But I still don’t get it.”

“Ann and her husband told Mary that they wanted her to accuse you of doing something with her.  Touching her, anything.  She wouldn’t do it, and they told her that if she didn’t, then they were going to tell the police that Mary had told them that story but that now she was afraid to admit it.  They told her to just admit it to the police and she’d be okay and her mother wouldn’t even have to know.”

“That is insane,” I said.  “I can’t believe she would do that to me.”

“I know all about you and Ann.  You know her husband hates you.  It’s his plan to get you fired,” she said.  “I’m sorry to say this, but it worked.  You’ll be fired.  You can come back to the building and get all your stuff when the kids are not around, and you’ll get paid through the end of the year.”

That hurt.  Hurt a lot.  I had not done anything wrong, but an accusation against me was enough to dismiss me, and there was nothing I could do about it.  The next board of education meeting was filled with parents demanding to know what happened to me.  The kids were pissed that I was gone.  The parents were pissed that nobody was talking to them.  Understandably, the parents heard rumors about me and the student.  Because I was gone for good, the parent assumed the worst, which makes sense, but the board of education needed to explain to people that, although I was gone about 6 months early, I had not done anything wrong.  Parents asked why I was gone the rest of the year if I hadn’t done anything wrong.  Logical question, to which the board could only say, “He didn’t do anything, but we had to let him go.”  Also at that meeting, they took a vote, and Ann was fired too.  I was told that I could likely sue her for sexual harassment because she had made the accusation following the ending of a relationship, but I decided I didn’t want to get involved in things like that.  Looking back, maybe I should have.

Secondary to the accusation against me was finding out why Ann would go from wanting to leave her husband for me to wanting to accuse me of such a horrible thing.  What I later learned was that he told her that if she didn’t go along with his plan, she would never see her son again.  She said, “Are you threatening to take my son away from me?”  He said, “No.  Worse.”  She took that as a death threat, which makes sense.  What doesn’t make sense is that she believed it and wanted to stay with someone who would make such a threat.  However, a death threat is nothing to take lightly.

rangeAbout two months later I was hitting golf balls at a practice range, but not the same practice range at which Ann’s husband was part owner.  It was a range less than a mile from my home.  As I’m hitting golf balls, I see a guy strolling up in cowboy boots and a hat.  It was Ann’s husband.

“Why are you stalking me?” he asked.

“I’m not stalking you.  You’re stalking me,” I said.  “I’m allowed to be here, and I’m not bothering you.”

He walked away.  A few days later there’s a knock at my door.  It’s a cop.  I give an eye roll, muttering, “Oh no.  What now?  What else could go wrong?” I thought.

I was served with a subpoena that said I had threatened Ann’s husband with a golf club.  He claimed that he attempted to talk to me peacefully and that I picked up a golf club, held it in a menacing and threatening way, and that he had to flee in fear.  I suppose when one hits golf balls with a golf club, one might hold the club in a menacing way, but you would only feel threatened if you were the ball.  Ann and her husband wanted to serve me with a restraining order, forcing me to stay away from them or risk being fined and/or suffering jail time.  I find it hilarious that they were asking for an order of protection from me, like the one that my wife had deceptively obtained against me.  I had to either show up in court and explain my side of the story, or the order against me would be granted.  I did not want to pay for an attorney to defend myself against such garbage.

On paper, I’m one bad-ass dude.  I spent the rest of the summer collecting unemployment compensation, playing golf, and interviewing for a new job.  On one of those summer days I wanted to see the Mississippi River.  I bought a new car, drove two days there, met a woman in a bar who allowed me to sleep at her place, then I drove back.

100_7241About a month ago I went to Mexico for a week.  On the way back I had to go through customs.  After stamping my passport, the officer said, “Sir, please come with me.”  I was brought to a small room with a few benches at which sat people of various races, all looking equally confused.  I watched an officer searching through several suitcases.  After about ten minutes, someone called my name and waved me over to a desk.

“Where are you coming from?” a man with a badge asked.

“Mexico.”

“Travelling alone?”

“I was with a friend.”

“Do you know where your ex-wife is right now?”

“No idea.  Why do you ask?”

“Just have to make sure you’re not travelling with her.  That’s all.  “Is it true that you have an order of protection against you?”

“Actually, I have two.”  I smiled.  Couldn’t help it.

“You can go.  Sorry to bother you.”

- 30 -


Why I Don’t Like Christmas

December 23, 2012

 reblogged from ’09 – because you’ve never seen it

Click “Like” if you want, but I prefer you don’t leave a comment.

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meh.ro10394

There’s only one day of the whole year that I truly hate, and it’s not one that I should hate.  It’s Christmas.  For about a dozen years I’ve spent Christmas Eve doing pretty much the same thing.  I wrap gifts for my kids and put them under the tree, stare at them a little while, and then go to bed hoping not to wake up until the 26th.  No matter how many gifts I might be able to give them, it never feels like enough, but that’s not the hard part.  The really hard, hateful part is that I then go to bed knowing that I won’t see them at all on Christmas Day.

Regardless, when I go to bed on Christmas Eve, I try as hard as I can to not cry, but I always lose.  And it’s not just crying.  It’s choking, sobbing, heaving, shoulder-shaking cries.  There have been some Christmas Eve’s that I’ve had someone next to me in bed.  They tried to console me and ask what was wrong, but it wasn’t easy to explain.

Christmas Day isn’t much better.  I spend it trying to focus on who is there instead of who isn’t.  I don’t like to open gifts because the gifts to my kids will just sit there until the 26th.  I don’t like a big deal to be made about Christmas.  I know that’s selfish, but we’re all allowed to be selfish sometimes.  I know that my attitude on Christmas doesn’t allow those around me to enjoy the day as fully as they might, but that’s because I don’t enjoy the day as fully as I might either.

I’m going to guess that IF my kids had been reading, they’ve gotten bored or annoyed and have moved on, so I can tell the rest now.  I don’t see my kids on Christmas because of two people:  their mother and the rotten divorce attorney that I had.  In the divorce agreement that was written more than ten years ago, my ex wanted the kids all day on Christmas while I wanted to either share the day or alternate each year.  My attorney wasn’t really a divorce attorney but was doing it to pay the bills until she became a prosecutor, which she did shortly after mishandling my case.  She convinced me to let the ex have Christmas because a few years down the road ex-wives are usually more friendly and willing to split or alternate Christmas Day.

Turns out the attorney was wrong, and the ex has become more stubborn about the holiday.  One of my kids recently asked her mother about spending half of the day with me.  The ex went on a hell of a tirade and used the word “I” roughly 25 times in explaining how hurtful it was for my kid to suggest that she would like to spend any part of Christmas Day with me.  Now the ex has a child with the new husband and is using that child to convince my kids even more strongly how wrong it would be if they were to spend Christmas with me because it would mean that their little sister would miss them soooo much.

I could explain more, but the point has been made.

I don’t like Christmas.


The Rise and Fall of Me – Part 8 of _?

December 18, 2012

In part 7 of this mess I started, I had left my perfect job for stupid reasons (to make my ex-wife happy and instead of driving 150 miles with a baby every weekend, I was driving 150 miles myself Monday through Friday) to move closer to her family.  The result was two years in an ass-backwards school that was as primitive as where Tom and Huck went for their learnin’.  It was a town that valued guns over grades and force over friendliness.  And during all that, my marriage was splintering due to personal stress and an ex-wife who I allowed to dictate all terms of my life.  Friends were peeled away and cut adrift.

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Warning:  my behavior in this chapter might cause you

to lose some of the respect that you never had for me anyway.

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I had a full-time job – teaching.  I had a part-time job – tutoring kids who needed extra help.  When my wife “failed” at her one attempt to get her own part-time job to help pay for the big-ass house she wanted, I had to seek a second part-time job for weekends.  Some things are just coincidental.

1. I like golf.

2. A co-worker’s husband was a golf pro and part owner of a nearby golf practice range.

3. I like golf.

4. He needed part-time help.

5. I like golf.

6. I had to get a second part-time job to support all that my wife wanted.

7. I needed balls.

My ex-wife and I had several very nasty fights, including one in which she physically attacked me.  I’m not proud to say that there was a night during which she carved my scalp with her fingernails.  On more than one occasion, I was forced to physically sit on her torso and hold down her arms simply for self-preservation, but one time she got an arm free, reached up, and carved four gouges in my scalp with her fingernails.  It was painful, and as I got hold of her arm again to hold her down, I felt and watched blood from my scalp drip on her face.  She had some amazingly intense eyes, as if the blood enraged her even more, but it was my blood.  When I saw more and more blood leaving my head, I knew it needed attention.  I leaped off her, grabbed a phone, and locked myself in a bathroom.  I called my brother-in-law, a guy married to my ex-wife’s sister, and told him that I was going to arrive at their house soon and would need some help.  He was shocked at the sight of my bleeding head, and so was I when I finally saw it.  He said, “As your lawyer, I advise you to take pictures of that.”  I said, “I’m not going to play that way.”  I should have.  It would have greatly helped when we were in court about a year or so later.

full18712203At some point, I grew friendlier with the teacher – I’ll call her Ann - who was married to the golf pro who was going to give me a part-time job.  We taught the same grade, same subject, and we spent a great deal of time collaborating.  We also spent a great deal of time complaining about our spouses.  While mine was sleeping all day Saturday and I was with my child, she was alone all day with her child because her husband was away at golf tournaments.  I found a book in my mailbox at school.  It was The Bridges of Madison County, a story about a woman who contemplates leaving her boring but stable husband for an artistic stranger who spends time with her while photographing the area for a magazine.  It was from Ann.  We spent too much time, too many times, just talking and complaining about our situations, and it was strangely interesting how our likes and dislikes were so coordinated but were so very different from our spouses.

The day after my ex attacked me and carved my scalp, Ann saw me before school started and could easily see through the poor job I did to cover it up with my sister-in-law’s makeup.  Ann knew what happened because she had heard previous stories about my ex’s violent tendencies.  It was still early, long before the kids would arrive, and she said, “You cannot teach while looking like that.  Everyone can see it, and they’ll ask questions.  What are you going to say?”  I shrugged.  She said, “Leave now.  Call out sick.”  I said, “Where am I going to go?  I can’t go home?”  She said, “You have to.  You have to show her what she did, how wrong it was, and how it forced you to stay home to avoid humiliation.  Go.  Now.”  I did, and my ex told me it was my own fault.  For the life of me, I cannot recall what we were fighting about.

There was a day when Ann asked what I was doing for the weekend, and I answered that I’d be at a certain park Saturday morning with my kid at about 11 am.  I wasn’t very surprised when she showed up with her kid.  Luckily, the kids were too young to go home and tell their respective other parents that they spent the day playing with a new kid they met while the parents of both kids sat and talked the whole time.  You don’t have to tell me it was wrong.  I know it was wrong, but it was also necessary.

There was a day at lunch when Ann was complaining that her house was a mess, she hadn’t eaten a decent dinner in a month, and her husband was never home to watch their kid so she could clean.  Although I don’t see why she couldn’t do both, it wasn’t my business.  When she said that he was away at a tournament again and wouldn’t be back for several days, I very stupidly said, “If you want, I’ll come over and make dinner while you clean up your house.”  Without blinking she said, “Okay.”  You don’t have to tell me it was wrong.  You don’t have to tell me it was wrong for her to bring out her honeymoon photo album so she could casually show me what she looked like in a bikini.  I know it was wrong.

There was a day I saw a nasty bruise on her leg.  When I asked what happened, she told me that her husband had violent tendencies and would occasionally throw things at her, very often a cowboy boot.  He had a lot of cowboy accessories including hats, giant belt buckles, and boots.  Probably a gun or two, but I was never sure.

The end of that school year was approaching, and there was an end of the year party at a local pub.  She didn’t want to drink and drive, so she asked if I would pick her up and drive her home.  I was happy to, and I was only able to because my ex-wife and I had separated.  She was staying with her parents for a while, and I had the house to myself.  As Ann and I drove away from her house, her husband was smiling and waving.  I was smiling too.  We went to the “end of the year party” but left early because she was angry and arguing with people.  When I asked what was wrong, she said she was upset because school was ending and we likely wouldn’t see each other all summer until September.  I hadn’t thought of that.  We went to my house, found a bottle of wine, “exhausted” ourselves, fell asleep, and woke up at about 2:30 in the morning.  As I drove her home, we created a story that she felt sick and went to another teacher’s home to sleep until she felt better.  To help with a story to tell her husband and cover the situation, Ann called a close friend and worked out the details.  We had an affair that lasted somewhere between six and nine months.  It’s hard to say because I don’t really know when it started.  However – when I get to it – there will be no mistaking when it ended.

I had already emotionally separated with my ex-wife, but we were still living together because I already couldn’t afford the house on one salary, so there was no way I could also afford to move into an apartment.  If you’d like to read the details of how that went, you can check out this post from October.  Ann had not yet separated from her husband but was planning to.  We visited a therapist who advised us on how to proceed, protect ourselves financially, and what to have in place before breaking the news to our respective spouses.  We had conversations about how compatible we were and how easily our families would get along.  Where we would live, what kind of dog we would get, and how well our kids would grow up together.  We would coordinate our parenting schedules so our ex’s would have the kids on the same weekend, and that would leave us with time to ourselves to take weekend ski trips, beach trips, things like that.  Sometimes with kids and sometimes, just us.  It sounded amazingly romantic, but we knew there would be a rough period at first until all the divorces and sad feelings subsided.  One thing we did not count on was the anger and determination of her husband.

As stated, I had already separated and was working towards my divorce.  When her husband was away at golf tournaments, I would visit her house.  Her child was only about 2, so he just thought I was an uncle or a friend and paid little attention to me.  We didn’t do anything “physical,” just talked.  What we didn’t know was exactly how suspicious her husband was.  He had their house bugged.  I don’t remember exactly where we were, but she was upset when she approached and told me that her husband knew I was at their house and knew everything we had talked about.  He knew that she was planning on leaving him, and he told her that if she did, she would never see their child again.  He didn’t explain what that threat meant, but it scared her enough that she told me we’d have to stay away from each other until she could sort things out.  That hurt, but I understood.

It was early December.  Her husband saw how unhappy she was, occasionally in tears and depressed, and he made a deal.  He asked her to stay away from me through December to after January 1, no contact with me except at work, so he could try to keep them together.  However, if she still had feelings for me after that month, then he would quietly allow a separation and divorce.  She was thrilled.  When she told me, she handed me a leather-bound, empty journal.  “For the next month, I want you to write to me every day.  Then afterward, I can read what you were doing and things like that.”  It was an amazingly romantic idea, something from a Nicholas Sparks novel, but I loved it.

In what seemed like an attempt to hurt her emotionally, her husband told her that on Christmas Day he was taking their child to his parents’ house, but she wasn’t welcome.  He had told his whole family what was happening in an attempt to shame her, and it worked.  She was depressed, a crying mess, home alone on Christmas without her child.  I was too, as my ex took the kids to her sister’s house.  I took a chance and called Ann.  She pretended to be talking to someone else because she knew the house was still bugged.  We agreed to see a movie where we could talk in the dark, away from the world.  When her husband returned later that night, he knew everything we did.  He had stepped it up from bugging the house to hiring someone to follow her.  The real reason he made her stay home on Christmas was to give her the chance, give her enough rope, the opportunity to see me, and he would catch her.  It worked, but she had also broken their agreement that he would quietly let her leave him if she stayed away from me until December was over.

They agreed to try again, wait another full month away from me, and again he agreed he would let her walk away.  We tried, but it didn’t work.  One morning we met for breakfast before school.  We sat in the back of a diner, held hands in the booth.  She got up to use restroom.  I went into the men’s room to make sure it was empty.  When she stepped out of the ladies’ room, I pulled her into the men’s room and locked the door.  I don’t have to tell you what we did, but I can tell you it was fabulous.  What was not fabulous was when she returned home that day after school.  He was waiting for her, and he knew all about the diner.

He told Ann that he knew they were over, and he would not stand in the way of their separation and divorce.  He asked if she would at least wait until after her birthday, early February, and then they would begin the divorce process.  We were both thrilled at the plan her husband had presented.  Unfortunately, the plan he presented was far, far different from the plan he actually carried out.

- 30 -

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Thanks to Ron for sensing there might be a story that needed to be told.


The Rise and Fall of Me – Part 7 of 12?

December 10, 2012

If you are my kid, i prefer you do not read this.

When last we visited “The Rise and Fall of Me,” I was six years into the best job of my teaching career, and it was about to explode.  Well, not explode.  Fizzle and sizzle, like a fuse burning on the way to part 8, where the first of several bangs will occur.  Here, Part 7, is the fuse.

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not me or anyone i know

not me or anyone i know

Family is big to me because I was a very introverted kid who did not take the time to enjoy the daily moments with my brothers, sisters, and parents as much as I should have.  I went through typical teenage angst, and I separated myself from the others at my address, and it was stupid.  When I was about 16, they went on a great vacation to New York to visit the Baseball Hall of Fame.  My family is big with baseball, but I didn’t go on the trip because I wanted to be a cool 16-year old with the house to myself, have some friends hang out, sleepover, fun stuff.  What actually happened was that I ate a lot of frozen pizza and probably masturbated a lot.  Occasionally I see pictures of that week, and it reminds me to stress the whole “family” thing with my kids.  They’ve heard quite often how I messed up and don’t want them to make the same mistake.  When it’s vacation time, we’re all going.  Nobody stays home, nobody makes other plans unless it’s something unavoidable.  And if that’s the case, we reschedule our vacation.

So, I was in a lovely town with a great job, married with a beautiful daughter, and I could lean out my classroom window and see the ocean to the east and the bay to the west.  Problem was that my wife’s family lived about 90 minutes away over towards Philadelphia.  Almost every weekend we packed up the car with baby accessories and drove over to either her parents’ or her sister’s house.  They were great people.  Won’t say “are,” but I will say “were,” and I didn’t mind at all visiting them.  Every weekend.  Ahem.  Three out of four weekends a month, 90 minutes there, and 90 back again.  As a teacher, I had a ton of paperwork to do.  Every weekend.  Finally, I had a brilliantly stupid idea.

“Honey,” I said, “instead of driving back and forth every weekend (because your friggin’ family won’t make an effort to drive over and visit us, even though we have a baby to truck back and forth 90 minutes each way, 10 pm, dark road, deer everywhere, almost every weekend) how about we just move closer to your family?”  Why wasn’t someone around to kick me in the mouth?  “Honey, since I’m a teacher, I can probably find a job over there somewhere.  I’d rather do that than drive back and forth, 90 minutes, each way, every weekend.”  (STFU!)  “Honey, what do you think?”  For family, that’s why.  That, and I’m an idiot.

not my actual house, but very similar

not my actual house, but very similar

We found a nice Victorian house in a Norman Rockwell kind of town, Pitman, NJ, and I’ll write a post about that on another day.  The house was right across the street from the school that my kids would attend.  I was always jealous of kids who lived that close to school, so I hoped my kids would love being there, and I think they did.  For some kids it feels kind of special to walk out of your school and there’s your house, right across the street.  Or when you’re having a hard time in math, you can look out the window and see your house.  I think that’s comforting for most kids.  It was perfect.  Giant walk up attic, good yard for a swing set and tire swing in a strong oak tree.  It was truly a gift, but it came with a price.  That price was – instead of driving 90 minutes, back and forth, every weekend – driving 90 minutes every day, twice a day, there and back again, five days a week, for about a year until I finally found a teaching position much closer to the new home.  I survived the drive because I was doing it for family.  No problem.  Priorities.  Yes, I left the house at about 6am, which many people do, and I was getting home about 7:30pm, which many people do without complaint.  Unfortunately, it’s easy to look back and see that I should have kept doing that instead of taking a new job in a new town, Franklinville.

I went from the beach to the farm.  Franklinville, NJ.  Farmers, rednecks, hunters, klansmen, klanswomen, and klanskids.  It was a throwback, but not in a good way.  You remember the teachers who screamed, threw books, ridiculed kids for getting a math problem wrong, and broke yardsticks on desks?  Franklinville had some of them.  You remember back in the 70’s when some schools would pass out cups of fluoride for the kids to rinse their teeth for families that couldn’t afford toothpaste or dental visits?  Once a week we had fluoride delivered for rinsing and spitting.  Over ten years prior it had become illegal to make kids write 100 times “I must not talk during class” and other repentant statements – but it was a daily event in Franklinville.  I heard rumors of students being spanked, but I was never sure.  I instantly became the smartest person in the building – and as I’ve said before – if I’m the smartest person in the building, then I’m in the wrong building.

This was 1997.  Most schools had “departmentalized,” which means each teacher was responsible for one subject and kids circulated to various classrooms for other subjects every 45 minutes or so.  Instead, in Franklinville, teachers were still responsible for everything:  math, English, science, social studies, health, Spanish, etc.  So I was teaching fifth grade everything, which was dropped by almost every school district – except Franklinville.  There’s more to say about that, but in a later post about education in general.  This is about me.

Let me give you a brief summary of things that went wrong in Franklinville:

not the actual kid, or deer

not the actual kid, or deer

-          A kid came late to school one day, had blood all over his boots and pants.  I asked him what happened.  He said there was a deer in the yard that morning, and his father told him to go get it.  He did.  He was 11.

-          Many teachers had pickup trucks with gun racks in the back window.  Several would change into their camouflage outfits in their classroom and head right into the woods after school.

-          I picked up the classroom phone one day and had to tell a student that he needed to leave right away.  One of the pigs had gotten loose from the yard and was running around town.

-          The principal verbally abused an older, female teacher in the cafeteria in front of a room full of kids during lunch.  When I whispered to another teacher that what the principal was doing was just way wrong, the other teacher said, “No, it’s okay.  That’s his aunt he’s yelling at.”

-          Parents were removed from D.A.R.E. (Drug Abuse Resistance Education) graduation because they were drunk.

Combined with that were personal issues.  The wife refused to go back to work.  The agreement was that we would cut expenses and save $10,000 to help pay bills prior to having a child so she could stay home and raise the baby, and this would continue while financially possible.  However, when it was not financially possible – mainly because of the pay cut by working in farmland instead of a beach town and buying a huge Victorian house – she refused to return to work.  This forced me to get a second job.  So after teaching from 8am to 4pm, I then drove to a part-time job from 5pm to 8pm.  Then I’d get home at about 8:30, just in time to give the baby a bath and put her to bed.  Then I’d spend an hour or so marking papers, planning for the next day.  Then I’d get to sleep about midnight.  What a week.  Oh, but the weekend!  The wife slept all day, and I watched the baby all day.  I regret no time with the baby.  She was as perfect as I could hope.  Beautiful inside and out, a brilliant kid, but I needed some downtime.  I was burning out.  I was a family guy for sure, but I was burning out.  My school was primitive and my home was a sweatshop.  Yeah, unfair comparison, but it’s all I got right now.

Things at work were – for me – not bad because the principal loved me.  I was always on the edge of technology, and he knew that computers were slowly but greatly boosting education.  I could build them from scratch, fix them, maintain the network, install software, and run workshops to educate teachers on using them in the classroom.  The guy made sure I had anything I needed.  He wanted me out of the classroom just to take care of all things computer related, and that might have been a good thing, but I would have missed the kids too much.  The kids, the interaction, the learning was everything.  Getting notes from parents telling me how much their kids loved my class was a gift, and it was sorely needed because things at home were getting more and more difficult.

Resentment grew with my wife because of her refusal to work and her insistence that she needed more and more “beauty” sleep.  To this day, she still takes unfair amounts of sleep.  Her parents have a shore-area home that was messed up by Hurricane Sandy that hit the shore area a few months ago.  While most of her family have made several trips to the house to clean up and prepare for rebuilding.  The only problem is that she sleeps the entire time while the other three do all the work.  She’s a lazy slob, cut and dry, and unfortunately I unknowingly facilitated it.

During our last year together, I kept telling her how I needed a distraction, and outlet, something to do to reboot myself.  A block away was a tennis wall.  I said, “Give me an hour to go hit tennis balls against the wall.”  She said, “Great, but take the baby with you.”  I said, “Give me an hour to go to the driving range and hit a bucket of golf balls.”  She said, “Great, but take the baby with you.”  I grew up playing hockey, and I wanted to join an adult hockey league.  She actually gave it a shot, let me try.  When I got home after the first game, she said, “Sorry, not gonna work.  You were gone too long and the baby needed you.”

thWhat also didn’t help was our social life.  We didn’t have one.  We used to see movies every week, but not anymore.  We used to go to parties, and we used to host parties including some great ones at Halloween, but no more.  I totally accept that things change after you have a baby, but most people – sane people – occasionally get a babysitter.  Not us.  “It’s our baby,” she said.  “We raise her.  Nobody else.”  It got so bad that our teenage niece unexpectedly showed up on Valentine’s Day and chased us out of the house for dinner and a movie while she watched the baby.  She was and still is a great girl, and she was smart enough, even while just in high school, to see that we were headed down a bad road.  So we go to a Valentine’s Day dinner and a movie:  Saving Private Ryan.  Foreshadowing.

Those of you in relationships know how exterior stressors can affect the internal relationship.  There were discussions, disagreements, arguments, escalations, and even fights that got physical.  I recall at least two occasions in which we argued literally until the sun came up.  I then had to get ready for school while she rolled over and went to sleep.  The second time that was about to happen, I got smart.  Somewhere past midnight I came to the sudden realization that she was right.  I admitted it, then I went to sleep.  The next day, however, I made sure to let her know that she wasn’t right, I wasn’t wrong, but I was in need of sleep.

Things were already fragile enough, and then my wife had a miscarriage.  Though my reaction was sincerely an attempt to soothe the situation, it could be called that of a “typical” male:  the baby wasn’t developing properly.  It was going to have developmental issues.  It’s your body’s way of saying, “It’s not working out.  You should start over.”  As logical as that was, it didn’t work with her and likely not with most women.  Perhaps that’s a sexist statement, not sure, but it made me seem like an insensitive douche and drove the emotional wedge further between us.  I tried to focus on my family, specifically my amazing child who was reading at 2-years old, thanks to her talented mother/teacher.

You’re correct if it seems I’m avoiding talking about my children very much.  I want to keep my kids out of this and make it more about me.  I don’t want them to have any reason to think they were the cause of anything that went wrong.  My new school was a depressing comparison to the beach school in Lavallette.  My previously solid marriage was weakening from a combination of work stress and my wife’s insistence that she no longer work and that I get a part-time job.  It was an incendiary situation.  Then someone lit a match.

______________________

Next chapter:  Boom!


Revelation One

October 10, 2012

Let me preface all this by saying that at no time will I reveal my ex-wife’s name.  I must state that because I don’t want to hear her accuse me of publicly embarrassing her.  Not so.  She’s doing a fine job of that herself.  Names have been left out to protect the inno-.  Well, names have been left out.  I won’t go into the reasons for our divorce because that’s not relevant to the story, but I’ll gladly answer any questions about it if someone were curious enough to ask.  Also, if you’re my kid, I prefer you don’t read this, but you – unfortunately – already know this story.  There’s no need to relive it.  Let me add to the preface by stating that sometimes you can see the IP address (a unique code to each computer) of each blog visitor, and sometimes those IP addresses also show the location (city, state) in which the computer is located.

Before I launch into this – thing, I should also state that I asked at least one intelligent friend to pre-read the post in case there was a reason I shouldn’t post it.  She gave me great advice about how she evaluates posts before publishing them, advice that I’m too dumb to have known without her help, so now there’s two ways she’s ahead of me.  She’s smarter than me, and she looks far better than I do in a schoolgirl outfit.  One of those is a joke, but I’m not saying which.  Or maybe neither.  So why publish it?  Maybe there’s another guy out there who is facing a situation of separation or divorce.  And if that’s so, I hope he asks me about my divorce experience so I can make some worthy suggestions about what to do or not to do.

I recently learned a very strange thing:  my ex-wife stalks my blog.  I kind of suspected for years she was stalking me, like when she tried to stop me from seeing my kids after reading a post in which I said that I hated Christmas because it was so depressing to not seeing my kids that day.  Interesting.  She prevents me from seeing my kids on Christmas – it depresses me – so she tries to stop me from seeing my kids completely.

But that’s not what I’m writing about today.  Tonight.  At the moment.  I’m writing about the incredible irony contained in the fact that my ex-wife stalks my blog while having a court order aimed at stopping me from stalking her.  I – me – one of the friendliest, most helpful, typical Libra, very liberal, tree hugging, uber sweet (as women often refer to me) lovable, wonderful me – I have a court-issued restraining order against me.

Oh, it’s going to be a fun day over in the “House of Genius” when she stalks this post.  That’s been my name for her over all these years:  Genius.  I call her husband Boy Genius.  When she reads this, things will be thrown in that house.  No, wait, that’s a regular day.  Curses will be shouted.  Eh, still regular.  She’ll be so upset she won’t be able to make dinner.  Oh, never mind.

I hear stories about ex-husbands and wives who get along better than ever following their divorce, and I’m jealous of that.  I knew the woman for about half of my life, and her family was very nice to me most of the time.  After you read this story, you’ll understand why we can never get along in a friendly way.  I don’t believe that what she does in this story was of her own creation.  I believe someone gave her this plan of attack, and I do mean “attack.”  I could accept if she were to apologize, but she has not and will not.  I could accept if she were to say, “I didn’t realize the full effect of what I had done to you,” then I would say, “Okay, thanks.  Now let’s be normal again.”  But to this day she denies everything that I’m about to tell.

Okay, gather ‘round kiddies because Uncle Jack is going to tell you a story.  I referred to myself as “Jack” because when we were in court last year, my attorney asked her attorney why she has such vicious hatred for me, and her attorney said, “Are you kidding?  She thinks he’s worse than Jack the Ripper.”  I’ll swear on any deity you’ve got that this is exactly how it all happened about 12 years ago…

My ex and I had verbally agreed to splitting up around November of ’99.  Maybe it was 2000.  Not sure.  Regardless, she wanted me to move out of our 4-bedroom Victorian house that she really wanted and got.  But the house was so expensive that I was working two jobs, combined with her zero jobs.  When we agreed to split, she assumed that I would be moving out immediately.  Not so.  I told her many times that there was no way I could afford to keep paying for that house and also live on my own somewhere, and that meant she was stuck with me in the same house for a while.  It was a horrible time for me, seeing my kids every day but knowing that soon I would not see them every day, but that’s how it works in New Jersey.  The wives get whatever they want, and the men get to bend over and take it, but I haven’t really begun to tell you just how far I had to take it.

So, for months she’s asking me to leave, and for months I’m telling her that I really want to leave but can’t afford it.  I didn’t like it either, but there was nothing I could do about it.  Stress the “I could do about it.”  We worked it about as best we could for two people who hated each other but were living together.  I’d go to work and return home at about 6 or 7pm.  When I arrived, she’d leave the house immediately and head to her boyfriend’s house where she’d stay until morning.  I’d feed the kids, give them baths, and put them to bed.  In the morning, when I’d leave for work at about 7:30, she’d arrive home to take care of the kids until I got home again at about 6 or 7pm, and over and over.

One particular afternoon when I got home from work, she didn’t leave.  It was a surprise for both of us to spend time with the kids and even have dinner together.  I don’t think the kids knew anything about the pending divorce at this point, probably not, since they were about 5 and 1 at the time.  By about 9pm, the older child was in bed and I was in the process of bathing the 1-year-old and getting her ready for bed.  I specifically remember standing near her changing table, drying her and getting her diaper and pajamas ready when I felt something odd:  A punch.  I turned to see my ex-wife ready to punch me again.

“Are you nuts?” I asked.  “I’m putting pajamas on a baby, and you’re punching me?  Really?”

“Get out,” she said.  “I want you to move out.”

“And I very much want to move out,” I said, “but I can’t afford to pay for this big-ass house you wanted and also rent an apartment.  Maybe if you went back to work, that would have helped.”

I was then holding the baby, about to put her in her crib when I got punched again.  Yes, she punched me while I was holding the baby.  Amazing.  I put the child into the crib as quickly as possible to avoid her getting hurt by accident and left the room as the ex followed me down to the kitchen.

1 like to bake, and there was always a cake or cupcakes or something around the house.  I sat down at the kitchen table with a piece of chocolate cake and a glass of milk.  She angrily followed me despite my request she go to her boyfriend’s house as she usually did.  Again, she demanded that I leave, and again, I explained why I was not leaving.  I’ve mentioned her boyfriend a couple of times, but I’m not trying to suggest that the reason for our divorce was that she was cheating on me.  She wasn’t.  In fact, I recall the exact moment she got her “boyfriend.”  Right after I told her that we were done, we would have to split up, she called a friend from college and told her what was happening.  The friend then gave her a name and number of a guy she knew who lived in our area.  I watched as she wrote the guy’s name and number down.  Two years later they were married.  Regardless of how strongly her therapy group told her to NOT get in a relationship, she immediately launched one.  She’s always been the type who will do exactly what you tell her not to do – not because she wants to do that but because she wants to prove that she can do what other people believe should not be done.

Okay, back to the cake.  I’m at the kitchen table with cake and milk.  First, she pushed the table into my chest, pushing me against the wall.  Then she picked up the plate and threw the cake at me.  Then she finished that off by picking up the glass of milk and drenching me, all while insisting that I “Get out!”

I stood and wanted to leave the kitchen, but she was blocking the doorway.  I asked her nicely to move so I could change my clothes, but she wouldn’t.  I asked her a little more loudly to move, but still no.  Here’s where things changed.  I walked towards her, put my hands on her shoulders, and pushed her backwards so I could leave the kitchen.  She stumbled a few steps backwards, dramatically threw herself to the floor, stood up, and sprinted out of the house.  Curious, I followed to the window and saw her leap into her boyfriend’s car and drive away.  I thought it was odd that her boyfriend was waiting outside all of this time, but I shrugged it off and then changed my clothes from the cake and milk.

The next morning she did not appear as usual as I was ready to leave for work.  I think her sister showed up instead, which wasn’t unusual because the sister lived a short walk away.  When I came home from work that day at about 7, I was surprised that neither she nor the kids were in the house as was the usual.  I assumed perhaps she was with the kids at her sister’s house, wasn’t sure, but wasn’t concerned either.  I got changed and was about to get something to eat when I heard a knock at the door and saw two policemen.

They asked me to identify myself and informed me that my wife had filed an assault complaint.  It seems that in New Jersey, if a woman says a man has assaulted you, there needs to be some kind of evidence.  However, if that woman and man are married, and the woman claims to have been hit, there is no need for evidence.  That man is guilty until proven innocent.  It’s the result of years of judges and cops telling women that “unless you have proof that he hit you or threatened you, there’s nothing we can do.”  Unfortunately, there were many times when it was true but without evidence.  And, there were many times when eventually those men seriously hurt, even killed some of those women.  The result is the reversal of “innocent until proven guilty, when the two parties are married.”

“You have 30 minutes to get everything you need and get out,” one said.

“I’ve been in this house before,” said the other.  “Didn’t your wife go into labor here?  You called 911?”

“Yeah, that was us,” I said.

“I remember that,” said the pudgy officer.

“Why do I have to get out?”

“Because your wife says you hit her,” said the thinner one.

“No I didn’t.”

“I know, sir.  Maybe you didn’t, but that’s the law.”

“Guilty until proven innocent?”

“Yes, Sir.  Let’s go.  Thirty minutes.”

I was in turmoil.  It was my first time having the police escort me out of my own house, so I wasn’t sure what to get.  I first went for clothes for work, then a few other things like toothbrush and those things.  I wasn’t sure if I were ever going to be able to return and get other personal items, pictures, things like that, so I just rushed around in a flurry, also not even sure of where I was going.  I can’t remember, but I’m sure I ended up at a nearby motel that night.

Up to that point in our divorce/separation, I didn’t have an attorney, but I found one immediately.  Unfortunately, she was an idiot.  My ex had what is called a TRO, Temporary Restraining Order.  That can either go away after a hearing or it can become permanent.  My idiot attorney suggested that I allow it to become permanent.  When I asked why, she said, “You’re a good guy, normal guy.  You’re not going to stalk her or do anything stupid, right?  So if you do nothing wrong, it’s no big deal, and it will make her feel comfortable.  And if she feels comfortable, then she’ll be more nice when we negotiate later on in the divorce.”  One of several stipulations of a restraining order is you’re not allowed to own a gun.  I never have before, and I knew i never would anyway, so at that point I was still too ignorant to know better.

Once you agree to a restraining order, it will never go away unless the female approves.  I could show 30 years of perfect behavior and sweetness, doesn’t matter.  There were times when I was very poor and qualified for free legal advice and representation.  When I showed up and they saw my full situation, including the restraining order, they told me they couldn’t help because the state-funded group that provided the funding had one condition – they don’t help guys with restraining orders.

So I found an apartment in which I was sleeping on the floor and had no furniture.  I had an ironing board before I had a chair.  Part of the restraining order allowed me to spend time with the kids at the house instead of the sad, barren apartment.  One night when I was there, I noticed that she hadn’t put the lids on the garbage cans, and they were full of rain water and floating trash.  I left her a note that suggested keeping the lids on the trash cans.  Even something that simple was a grave mistake.

A few nights later I’m standing in my sorry apartment, ironing pants for work, and there’s a knock at the door.  Another police officer.  He asked me to identify myself and tells me that he has to take me to the police station.

“What did I do?” I asked.

“Your wife has a restraining order against you, right?”

“Yes.”

“And it says no written communication, right?”

“Officer, I left her a note about the garbage cans.”

“Written communication.”

“Well, yeah, but.”

“Hey, I know how you feel.  I’ve been there too,” he said.  “Relax.  I’ll drive you to the station, finger print you, take your picture, and you’ll be back in about a half hour.  Not a bid deal.”

Not a big deal?  Yeah, it is a big deal.  To twice have the police knock on your door?  It’s a big deal.  To be asked to leave your own home?  It’s a big deal.  Photographed and fingerprinted?  Big deal.  And when your ex tells your kids – and then you have to explain how their mother had you arrested twice?  I can’t think of a bigger deal.  And 12 years later, I’m still paying for it in more ways than one.  So far the only positive was the officer agreed to put on the flashing lights while a Van Halen song was playing.  I’m pretty sure the song was “Running with the Devil.”

Yeah, that’s me.  Devil.  Stand back everyone.  I’m on the loose.  Oh, the danger.


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