The Inside Press

Magazines serving the communities of Northern Westchester

Marlene Kern Fischer

Back to School: Then and Now

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Full disclosure – Deadlines being what they are, I am writing this back to school piece at the end of June. School just ended today and my youngest son graduated high school a week ago. As the weather is finally starting to get steamy, it’s a bit hard to imagine school resuming again, though of course I know it will.

Things have changed a lot since my oldest son started kindergarten in 1996. Back then, there was no online shopping and no prepackaged school supplies vendors. We would take the supply list we received by snail mail to Staples and, in scavenger hunt style, search for each item. There were always one or two items we had difficulty finding and we would go to another store on our way home to complete our task.

By the time my youngest son began school in 2006, to quote B.B. King, “The Thrill Was Gone” and I was only too happy to take an easier route and get the prepackaged box of supplies from Supplies to Please, rather than dragging all three kids to the store. I admit that although it was easier, there was a small part of me that missed the annual ritual.

Another thing that was different “way back when” was that there was no portal. Our district didn’t launch it until my middle son was in high school and, initially, it was only for report cards at the mid-point and end of each quarter. Now, in addition to report cards, there are grades for each test, homework assignment and more. The portal was accessible all the time until the district shut it down during school hours because some kids were checking their grades between each class, which was extremely anxiety provoking.

Although I found there were certain advantages to having a portal, I also felt that with its implementation something was lost. I missed the days when a teacher would have to pick up the phone to tell me my kid was screwing up. The portal made things impersonal and wasn’t always even all that accurate–some teachers seemed to update it all the time, while others (despite district guidelines) were slow to post on it. Having come late to the portal technology, I never got the hang how often I was supposed to be checking and how much responsibility I should leave to my child, although maybe there isn’t one right formula for that.

Another less-than-positive change is the pressure of getting into college, which has escalated to an alarming degree over the ten-year spread between my oldest and youngest. Living in a high achieving town where educators and parent put undue emphasis on college ratings, there were always demands on the students.

Recently, it’s gotten completely out of control, as was highlighted by the college admissions scandal.

Whereas some of my oldest son’s classmates were tutored for college entrance exams or an occasional subject in which they were struggling, now there are tutors for everything–SATs, ACTs, Regents, SAT 2s, even the ELAs. I thought my youngest was joking when he told me that but, apparently, it’s a thing. While it may be good news for tutoring businesses, it’s incredibly expensive, as well as time-consuming.

While schools are offering mindfulness classes and workshops for parents billed as “How to help your student manage stress,” they seem to be swimming against the tide. Parents are stressed. Kids are stressed. I am not sure where it’s all heading but I can say for sure that where someone goes to college is way less important than what they do when they get there.

There are a lot of mental health issues and angst in college and strengthening the skills that can alleviate some of those issues before a kid starts college is crucial. Working on independence, self-advocacy, balance between work and play, etc. needs to take precedence over getting admitted to a school a few slots higher on the US News and World Reports college lists.

Even though much has changed over the decades, I can say for sure that one thing that has not changed is the desire well-meaning parents have to do the best they can for their children, whatever form that might take. I am curious to see what transformations in edu-cation occur in the upcoming years.

Although I will be a spectator and not an active participant in the 2019-2020 school year, I wish all the parents and their students a successful year, one that’s filled with growth, learning, and joy in the process.

Remembering My Dad

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This Father’s Day, my family will be celebrating my husband, who is an amazing father. But I will also be thinking about my father, who passed away four years ago.

A little about my dad …

My father was born in Budapest, Hungary in 1932. When the Nazis invaded Hungary in 1944, both his parents were taken to Auschwitz. He was interned in a ghetto and lived with an aunt and a cousin, surviving under the protection of Swedish diplomat Raoul Wallenberg. His mother escaped during a death march, running away into the woods and eventually returned to Hungary. His father died at Auschwitz in the gas chambers.

My dad emigrated to Canada after the war ended with a group of Hungarian teens who had lost parents in the war–his mother eventually emigrated there, as well. He attended McGill University, met my mom who was visiting relatives in Montreal, and moved to New York when they married. He worked as an engineer and was able to get his Master’s degree from Columbia University at night.

Although the Holocaust certainly shaped my father, he tried hard not to let it define him and he rarely spoke of the atrocities he witnessed. He made sure to live life fully, enjoying good food, wine and music. He was quick to laugh, especially at his own brand of dad humor. My father embraced his adopted country and was deeply grateful for the freedoms and opportunities afforded him here.

Having been born in different countries and in different eras, my father and I saw things from different perspectives. He was a staunch Republican, whereas I am a liberal Democrat. When I was a little girl, he would take me into the voting booth with him and teach me the importance of voting, telling me how lucky we were to live in a democracy. I always vote and when I choose my candidates, I think of him.

Although I thought of my father as more of a math/science guy, he was also more than proficient in writing–in fact he was able to edit my essays in high school and correct my grammar–pretty impressive for someone whose first language was not English. He was my first Scrabble opponent–he never went easy on me. Although it took me two years to beat him, when I finally did, he was as excited as I was.

Despite losing his own father at a young age, my dad knew how to be a good father. He taught my brother and me how to ride a bike, fish, ice skate, swim and play chess, which was a passion of his. He got up in the middle of the night with me when I was sick and dried my tears when I cried—he couldn’t bear to see me sad. He taught me a lot about nurturing and made me feel safe. When he held me in the ocean when I was a little girl, I knew I would be protected against the crashing waves.

My father was thrilled to become a grandfather and was delighted to be able to attend all five of his grandsons’ bar mitzvahs. Although he was mostly confined to a wheelchair for my youngest son’s bar mitzvah, he did manage get up so that he could have one dance with me.

When he got sick with Parkinson’s disease, he rarely complained, accepting his fate with quiet grace and even humor. In fact, a few days before he died, a nurse asked him if he was comfortable, to which he replied, “I make a living.” And even in such a compromised state, he managed to chuckle.

I would be remiss if I didn’t mention my father’s thriftiness, which was legendary. If saving money were an Olympic sport, he would’ve been a gold medalist. He would turn off the air conditioner on summer nights and turn down the heat in the winter. To this day, when I leave a light on, I can hear his admonishment in my head. And every time I spend three dollars on my iced coffee, I am pretty sure he does a little roll in his grave.

I suppose that’s how it is with all the people we love. We never forget them or the things they taught us. We are reminded of them in the special moments and in the ordinary moments. They live on through the people they loved and who loved them back.

Happy Father’s Day to all the dads who are with us and to those who live on in our hearts.

The Changing Nature of Motherhood

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This Mother’s Day will mark the last one that I am a full-time mom. My youngest will be leaving for college at the end of August, which means that after nearly three decades, I will be an empty nester.

I am no stranger to the changing nature of motherhood. When my three boys were little, it was all about physical caretaking; making sure they were fed and clean. I read to them and cuddled them and covered their faces with kisses millions of times as I lifted them out of their cribs, high chairs, car seats, strollers, etc. We had outings to the park and playground and we were together almost all of the time. It was me and them and we made a great team.

As they began to walk and then run, I became their protector. This was no easy feat because my sons often seemed hell bent on self-destruction and I often felt as if I spent my days saving them from themselves. There was the time my middle son, who was almost two, ate goose poop on a soccer field. Although he was fine, more than two decades later I am still scarred.

Between my older boys there were a slew of gashes that needed stitches and broken bones that needed setting. I was in charge of triage, trying to figure out how serious each injury was, a job for which my degree in English literature did not prepare me. At one point, the nurses in the orthopedist’s office knew my name and I was concerned they might call social services on me. Luckily, most of my sons’ injuries happened when they were not with me; most were sports related. I told the doctors that I should get a punch card where the cast for the tenth break was free.

My favorite role probably has been that of teacher. I am proud that I taught my sons how to read and was even more excited than they were when they sounded out their first words. I taught them their first notes on the piano (always starting with middle C), how to tie their sneakers, poetry, and a million other things I’m not sure they remember. But I do.

When my sons became teenagers, my role felt as it had morphed into being a warden and disciplinarian-in-chief. All of a sudden, instead of it being me and them it sometimes felt like me against them. This may have been the hardest stage of all because I didn’t enjoy enforcing rules—I suppose most people don’t. After all, who wants to be checking on homework and grades and meting out punishment for broken curfews and other infringements? Parents of teens will most certainly understand the grueling and often unrewarding nature of that stage.

Resident Uber driver, playmate, nurse, tutor, cheerleader; these are only a few of the other hats I wore over the many years I parented.

As my two older sons have gone off to college and graduated, gotten jobs and left the nest, I have found my role shifting once again. This phase is less hands on and more advisory; I am mostly called upon to listen to woes, lend moral support and occasionally offer an opinion. I’ve also entered a phase where, in addition to being my sons’ mom, I get to be their friend and can enjoy them in a way that I was not able to when they were younger. When we are together, we talk about their jobs, politics, life, whatever. And it’s really nice. When they were younger, and we were at odds, I honestly couldn’t envision the relationships we have now. For those of you still in the trenches, hang in there.

I won’t sugarcoat how hard it is to imagine all three of their bedrooms clean and empty and the house eerily quiet. After all, wasn’t it just a moment ago when they were little, making messes and noise? I am comforted by the thought that although my role has changed, two things remain constant; that I will always be needed in some capacity and how much I will always love my children.

This Mother’s Day, whether you’re peering at your baby’s first sonogram, opening homemade cards in bed with your little kids, joining your big kids for brunch, or even if you can’t physically be with your children, I hope you have a wonderful day. Because all of us who have nurtured, protected, disciplined and loved, have earned it.

My Ever-Evolving Thoughts on Beauty

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After Penny Marshall died a few months ago, I saw an interview she had done where she talked about what she believed was her legacy. She summed things up in her matter-of-fact way, stating “I had a successful TV show, I had a couple of successful movies and I’m not beautiful.” I was somewhat dismayed to hear that she included her perception of her looks in her summation of her life. A perception that wasn’t even true in my opinion.

I understood what she was saying–Penny Marshall came of age when women like Elizabeth Taylor and Doris Day defined the standard of beauty. She worked in an industry where beauty was largely skin deep.

I too grew up in an era when beauty was defined by a cookie cutter mold. So many of my peers went to the same plastic surgeon in high school for the same nose job, afraid to look different or too ethnic. We wore the same Benneton sweaters and clogs. (Well, everyone except me, whose “practical” mother declared “clogs aren’t good for your feet.”)  But I have seen a shift in a perception of beauty since I was a teen, a shift that’s positive. Actresses and models don’t all look the same anymore; they are short, tall, of different races, plus-sized (or at least “curvy”), etc.

As I have gotten older, I have learned that true beauty at any age is about confidence and individuality.

I look past the women who strive to look the same and see magnificence in those who allow their essence and honesty to shine through. I’ve discovered it’s not the size of the pants that makes one beautiful, it’s the size of the heart. How many times have you met someone you initially thought was attractive only to find that their character flaws diminished their attractiveness? And for that matter, hasn’t someone become lovelier in your eyes after you see the loveliness of their soul?

I just saw a picture on Facebook of someone I knew when I was in middle school who is battling ovarian cancer (and kicking its ass). She has lost her hair but not her spirit. That’s beauty.

I’ve also discovered that self-acceptance goes a long way in creating an appearance of beauty. We have earned the bodies we have—why not celebrate them? Those stretch marks on my stomach? Evidence of a belly which once housed some of my children. My laugh lines? Proof that I have indeed laughed a lot (as well as cried). The extra pounds I carry? Confirmation that I enjoy food. Those grey hairs? OK, as someone who started going grey prematurely, I admit I have for years colored my hair (quite often these days) but have thought about stopping at some point in the future. I have a few friends who no longer dye their hair and they look fantastic. I strive to do the best with what I’ve got and, aside from the hair coloring, I’m not willing to go through other great lengths to try to convince myself (or anyone else) that I’m decades younger than I am. There’s much I’ve yet to accomplish; I can’t spend too much of my time and energy worrying about my appearance.

As far as fashion goes, I do have a subscription to a popular magazine and love to look at the new trends each season–especially the handbags. Both my husband and middle son work in the apparel industry and I think fashion is fun, an artistic expression by designers. But I’ve developed my own style and learned to wear what works for me. When I was younger, I often made the mistake of trying to copy someone else’s look, only to discover it didn’t look the same on me. Of course, it didn’t; an imitation is rarely as good as the original. And while I may read fashion magazines, if something seems ridiculous to me, no matter how popular, I won’t be swayed. I can unequivocally state that even if shoulder pads come back in style again someday, I will not be wearing them. Rocking your own style is beautiful. Penny Marshall’s character Laverne Defazio knew this better than anyone; she wore the letter L on all her clothes, even her brewery uniform and her pajamas. It was her signature and she was unapologetic about it. She wasn’t afraid to stand out.

What I saw in Penny Marshall was someone with the magical ability to make me laugh and cry, both with her acting, as well as her directing. The person who brought us unforgettable lines like “there’s no crying in baseball” (A League of Their Own) made this world a more beautiful place. And that’s as beautiful as it gets.

Finding Gratitude During a Mental Health Crisis

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I really don’t know how it happened. I had some physical, hormonal and emotional stressors early in the summer, which apparently became the perfect storm for an emotional breakdown. My anxiety, which has been a part of me for decades, erupted full force and consumed all of me. It so consumed me that I was unable to function. I stopped eating, sleeping, engaging with the world and felt panicked almost constantly.

On this journey, I have discovered that mental health issues are far more difficult to get a handle on than physical issues, and far more painful. Answers and cures are elusive. But even as I wage this war against my own mind, I realize that I have much to be grateful for.

1. I am grateful and stunned by the number of people who contacted me privately to tell me of their own struggles. Mental health issues are ubiquitous, so much so that it is challenging to get appointments for help because doctors are so busy.

2. I am grateful for an absolutely incredible support system that starts, but does not end, with my family. There are actually no words for how incredible my husband has been. Holding my hand, reassuring me, driving me to appointments, staying up with me countless nights, finding patience for me again and again. My kids, mom and mother-in-law have also been amazing, and their compassion and love has sustained me. I am grateful to be able to rely on my sons, especially my 17-year-old, who has pitched in without complaint and become a man almost overnight. I know this hasn’t been easy for any of them, but they have risen to the challenge.

3. I am grateful for and overwhelmed by the love and support of my extended support system of friends and acquaintances. During this time, through my distress, I have been able to feel, if not always acknowledge, the help from friends and family. I thank everyone who has called, texted or written to inquire about me. I thank those friends who have driven me places when I have not been able to drive myself and been there for me without judgment. I appreciate every gesture, even if I haven’t been able to answer. I’ve had limited ability and energy to reach out but despite that the calls and messages keep coming.

4. I am grateful to have the resources to explore many different kinds of therapies. Here are some of the things I’ve tried thus far; medication, Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT), Hypnosis (really), meditation, yoga, Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation (TMS), functional medicine, homeopathy and acupuncture. I will weigh in at some point on what helped me the most. Voodoo medicine is not out of the question. And I am mindful that I am extremely lucky to be able to pursue various remedies and to focus on getting well.

Trying to heal has been a full-time job. But just knowing people are out there and are willing to help is a comfort. If you have a friend who is going through something like this, please continue to reach out to them even if you get a tepid or no response. Even when I don’t acknowledge them, friends’ messages mean the world to me. Mental health issues really do take a village.

I hope that by discussing this openly, I can help someone else who is keeping their struggles to themselves. I hope to write at length about my experiences someday soon but I’m still in the middle of this journey I had no desire to take. I know that I can only reflect when I have some perspective and I’m not there yet. I am still battling to find my way back.

I have newfound compassion and respect for anyone who has ever struggled in a similar way. I hope to come out the other side stronger than I was before and be a voice and advocate for others. I hope someday people can openly say, “me too” about their mental health challenges.