That Western New York sun, pink and cool, setting quickly below the dark tops of evergreens and sumac, disappeared with greatening speed as we strode along the bike path, picking up the pace while chatting and hoping we would find our way safely back to the car in time. The twinkling lights of the boat docks, the lift bridge and the restaurants lit up one by one, guiding us along the darkened path just in time before it might have become dangerous to continue stumbling along at the canal’s edge. Summer had arrived.
Early days in July brought a delightful breeze and with it the deepest longing to lie abed listening to quiet. The white blinds, speckled with sun and dappled with shade, clicked and clacked in the coolness, lifting just enough to gain singular glimpses of what was going on outside, only to fall back quickly into the role of protecting the open window from neighbors who might be curious. From time to time, even the blinds seemed tired; resting quietly in the morning air. The weather turned on its side as it often did so quickly in Western New York. The week before school let out was thick with humidity and high temperatures and then came a downpour from over the lake and it cooled, and sought the sun again, subsequently reheating everything into a thick soup of hot fog, then cooling down once again. A week of relief ensued and everyone felt better, more sure of themselves in the cooler atmosphere. July promised to be spectacular.
I was on holiday, at long last along with co-workers, friends and close to 30,000 students, most of whom now languished in the hot city. The school year had ended with a whimper on the twenty-sixth of June, wilting up against a halcyon day with billowing galleon clouds against a backdrop of clear, brilliant blue. The excellence of such a day brought with it a sense of hope, a sweeping and clearing of the mind, yearned for even as the pressures inside the school building collected, mounted and spilled over cutting a path of demoralizing lethargy. For by year’s end our school had landed badly, donning the dubious rags of ‘receivership’ status. Morale, already at a low ebb, crashed immediately for good. The game of emotional survival began in earnest as most staff members listened no longer to the threats and general noise coming from the state and the administrators. The year was done.
We grew reluctant to leave our home as summer commenced, spending time instead moving slowly around the furniture, looking out the windows, cleaning out drawers, folding laundry, or curled up in bed with stacks of books and documentaries about historical events long past; we hid in the sanctuary of smaller spaces. The world outside loomed large and full of foolishness and discontent. We had long tired of it all. As I put it one evening, upon reflection about the school year, “Well, we tried this year. We all tried but we ran head on into the system”.
690 Saint Paul 