Memory

ODE TO BEA

By Sandy Fischer-Scanlin

To find comfort during this extremely difficult and painful time, I just keep thinking about what an amazing reception my mom had on Wednesday morning when she entered the Pearly Gates. Aunt Mush and Aunt Mary brought her “all you can eat” hamantaschen. My grandmother welcomed her with a pot of mouth-watering chicken soup. And my dad greeted her with Carvel flying saucers and his own rendition of “If I Were A Rich Man,” which I remember well.

Bea was special. We all knew it. We all felt it. We all had experiences with her that will live on forever in our memories. But what astounds Steph, Craig and I the most is her remarkable strength over the past few years. A warrior spirit we never even knew she had.

As reluctant as she was about going into a nursing home, Bea embraced her “new” life with dignity, fortitude, humor and wit. One of the first times we visited Queen Bea (Steph coined the name) at the nursing home, we walked into her room, and she turned to Bob, Craig and I and said, “Welcome to my castle.” Makes sense since she was Queen Bea.

Bea may not have been the most popular in high school, but boy was she popular at Roosevelt Care Center. She was revered and respected by everyone there – staff and residents alike. Why? Because she was respectful to all, always showed gratitude and didn’t take anything for granted. That’s basically the way Bea lived her whole life.

Bea’s traits – she never complained, she was private, somewhat stubborn and very determined. In other words, she knew exactly what she wanted and what she didn’t want. “You don’t tell me what to do, I’ll tell you what to do,” was something we always bantered back and forth to each other in jest – but we both kind of meant it.

Another one of her traits that really came out in full force over the last few years was her incredible wit, charm and humor. So I decided to make a list of the many things that made her smile, giggle and kept her happy:

• My ridiculous British accent
• Being around her grandchildren
• Steph & Craig’s silly jokes
• Getting weekly calls from Lynne
• Watching Bob do jumping jacks near the window in her room
• Reminiscing about Schenck Street
• Eating the marble cake that Steph brought her
• Seeing her nieces and nephews
• Shopping at Macy’s and Lord & Taylor
• Experiencing Barbra Streisand in concert in 2006 (quote from Bea that night: “This is the best night ever.”)
  
  

And a list of things I want to thank Bea for:

• For giving birth to my two awesome siblings
• For letting me be the baby of the family
• For helping me move into my first solo apartment in the city
• For always trying to help me in any way she could
• For being accepting of all my friends
• For keeping our family close
• For our strong mother/daughter connection
• For loving me with her heart and soul
• For showing me what strength really means
  
  

I think I can speak on the part of Steph, Craig, Larry, Bob, Jason, Jared and Heather and say how proud we were to have played such important roles in Bea’s long life. In fact, her kids were the driving forces in her life. So were her grandchildren. And so were her nieces and nephews. She loved us all unconditionally. And she fought until the end to have the most time she could with all of us. And now we’re here to carry on her legacy.

Every time I visited Bea, as Bob and I were getting ready to leave, we had a little ritual. I’d ask Bea, “Who’s the cutest?” And Bea would proudly say with a smile, “Me. (meaning herself).” Then we’d get into a little competitive match about who loves who more. Well, now I want to tell you, Bea, that I love you “more, more more” than you can ever imagine. And I will still fill you in on every single event that happens in my life as I always have. Rest in peace my little angel.

TAMMY

by Ben Latimer

My sister, Tammy, works on the front line of the juvenile justice system. She has seen a mix of kids come through its doors. All are at risk. Some will grow out of the reasons that brought them there, some will not. The constant, for all of them, is Tammy.

Tammy has worked detention all her career. At her intern orientation in her early twenties, there was a moment when representatives of the population were allowed to address the incoming interns directly. One of these kids was provocative and hostile. He raged and ranted. At the end, he pointed a finger at the group of interns, crew and supervisors and said, “You don’t even know who we are!”

“I know who you are,” my sister said. Then pointed to each kid at that table and named them. One by one. Not a tactic or any part her her training. She was genuinely interested in each of them and had taken the time to remember their names. The ranting kid sat down in his chair and stared at Tammy. They all did.

On occasion, she may have to do a physical restraint of a kid that is obstinate or violent. There is a lot of training and certifications to qualify her for this duty. She’s good at it, exceeding her training when situation demands action. Even in heightened states of agitation and in the face of physical threat, Tammy explains what will happen if they don’t cooperate. This is usually the end of it. When it isn’t, she continues talking to them — even when it gets physically rough — walking them through what is happening and what will happen next as she takes them to the ground, pinning them while she places the restraints. It is a terrible thing, but even if the kid is completely out of control, Tammy never is. It isn’t about power, it is about talking them through a better way to get to what they need or want. It is about demonstrating respect even when the situation may not seem to call for it. Making the protesting kid important, even when Tammy has complete control over them.

I once asked her what it meant to “take down” someone. It was an academic question, but her best answer was to just reach for my arm — the rest I am unclear about. I do know that she very gently set me on the floor of our parent’s house through no cooperation of my own. She slowed my fall and held my arm behind my back in the same motion. I wound up face down on the floor, unable to move.

“It’s kind of like that,” she said.

Tammy doesn’t raise her voice. If someone is talking in a theater, she can silence them with a look. Hers is a quiet authority.

There were a group of kids in detention who were all related to each other — and members of the same gang. They were accused of shooting into the house of a rival gang member and killing an innocent person asleep on a sofa inside. All big, strapping kids with some serious city- miles already on them. Tammy was called in to escort one of the females from the dormitory to the medical facility. The girl was tall and strong, but too ill to walk on her own. Tammy took an arm and a female intern took the other arm and they helped the girl out of her room. They would need to help her across a common area a little larger than a gymnasium — a place where males and females mix — then get buzzed through a series of secure doors. As they assisted her through the large room, the girl suddenly came to life, bringing her arms together in front of her, knocking Tammy into the intern. The intern broke away and fell to the ground. Tammy didn’t let go. She turned the girl’s arm and flipped her to the floor, holding her there. The girl was screaming and swearing. This got the attention of her fellow gang members (brothers and cousins), who approached in this common area of the general population, yelling at Tammy to get off of her. The control room looks out over this area, but it will take support longer to arrive than these angry teens.

Without releasing the girl, Tammy turned to this lineup coming toward her and spoke to them in her always quiet way. A voice that demands you meet it on Tammy’s level. Calm. Firm. “Not one of you,” she said, “takes another step closer.”

And they all stopped.

Outnumbered by people with nothing to lose, Tammy controlled the situation by strength of character, unflappability and confidence. Support came a moment later and the girl was removed without injury. The incident was over. (Sidebar: Tammy never told me this story. I heard it from one of her crew who witnessed it from the control room. When I asked Tammy about it, she laughed and just said, “Yeah.”)

There are bad days. A troubled kid in detention opened up to Tammy and Tammy listened. She gave a recipe for improving his life. He responded in a positive way and she dared to have hope for him. Six months later, that same kid would kill a mother and daughter in their own home, then return to Tammy’s care as he was tried and convicted as an adult. Unimaginable carnage to the family and the community, this also devastated Tammy. Incidents like these are the darkest and the only time I hear her cry. A lost soul violently taking innocent souls. In her career, she has seen it too many times. She’s looked into the eyes of these kids. Witnessed too many
tragic endings.

Over the years, as the city has grown, the facility has gone from a single building to a campus. Gangs and crime fueled by drug trade have created a tougher population. The crimes committed can be of great cruelty. While the job has gotten more difficult, Tammy has never lost her lightness. She still can laugh so easily. She rarely talks about work, except in praise of her crew. Many of her law enforcement friends tell morbid stories of their work, both to be entertaining and, I suspect, to help cope with what they are subjected to day-to-day. Tammy has never told a morbid story to entertain — and she has never told a story at the expense of one of her kids.

She loves to travel the world, sometimes with family and friends, sometimes completely on her own. When she visits us, her company is always easy. My kids adore her. Even now, with the kids older, I’ll find them all cuddled in on either side of Tammy as they sit on the sofa sharing YouTube finds.

One of the perils of her profession is that a few years can completely change the look of some of these teens as they become adults. The detention crew look the same year after year, but the kids develop and can become impossible to recognize. Off duty, staff must always be on alert. You never know what grudge some kid might still hold. A grudge that can come back on you with no warning.

Tammy was in a hardware store on a personal errand. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a young man repeatedly looked over at her. Tammy kept track of him as she went about her business and was not surprised when he approached. “Are you Tammy?” He asked. She didn’t recognize him. “Yes,” she said. “I’m Tammy.” Internal flares fired, but she remained outwardly calm, like this was completely normal. He was nervous when he started talking: “I was in detention six years ago. You were the first person who ever saw me for more than the trouble I brought. I just want you to know I listened to what you said and I turned it around. I stopped using. I got help. I got a job. I got married. We have a healthy, beautiful boy. And then I see you in here today and I don’t know if it is okay to talk to you, but I couldn’t let it go by. I had to say thank you.”

Tammy, every day, pays it forward. She turns the darkness of her work into virtue and possibility. She sets and expects a higher standard and it resonates with these kids that haven’t ever encountered someone like Tammy. Someone who lives by principle. The lightness of her company is more than just her ease and comfort of self. It is her grace, her light, always present. Even in the face of what may seem to the rest of us as another hopeless cause, she remains, steadfast, extending a hand.

Anonymous

i met my best friend at the weirdest time of my life, before i knew everything i know now, before i knew what so many things meant and i also didn’t know what having a best friend meant before her. We are both so similar yet different. Some things that we have in common are we’re both silent, both been hurt, both almost numb to the world, both equally sad and weird. However, she is a bookworm, she is a gamer, she hates people and I am an artist, I’m quite dumb and i love peoples stories. We don’t talk everyday, we meet up like 3 times a year but without her there i would not be the person i am now. she helps me and i like to think i help her too. I am so grateful for her even when she ignores my messages for weeks at a time. because i understand and she understands that we don’t need to talk to know what’s going on. she can read me like a book and i can paint her story like a painting. she is stuck with me and i’m so happy she hasn’t left. Because people fail to stay when things get tough because people are selfish, as they should be sometimes, but connecting and trying is what people fail to do most of the time. I don’t give up easily on people i see the good and the bad and i love to connect even if the only thing we have in common is our eye colour.