Melinda Ehrlich.com

I just heard that a 16 year-old driver killed a male jogger while she was texting. That is just outrageous!  I know there is enough suffering and injustice all over the world – insurgencies, terrorism, military misbehavior  and abject poverty, and my heart goes out to all of those who are victimized. But this incident tugged at my heartstrings as well. I AM A RUNNER and it is because of the increase in distracted driving that I have mostly avoided my beloved routes along the roads as of late. Fearful of just this type of tragedy, I’ve been forced to run on park bike paths and on high school tracks. My message to ALL drivers: If you insist on being a slave to your electronic devices, be my guest. It’s fun to message back and forth all day, as long as you DON’T DRIVE A MOTOR VEHICLE while so engaged. It will surely take some self-discipline, but we ALL must fight this temptation.

This is probably irreverent in terms of the film I just saw, but honestly, what teacher hasn’t wanted to hang herself at one time or another? All kidding aside, “Monsieur Lazhar” is a delicate film that is smartly directed by Phillippe Felardeau. We are introduced to a class of typical twelve year olds, whose beloved teacher has departed in an indelicate manner, leaving her children traumatized. Two student standouts, Claire and Simon, played by Sophie Nelisse and  Emilien Neron, respectiveily, certainly helped this film win an Oscar for Best Foreign Language Film and Best Feature Film at Toronto,  but it is Simon’s acting out, both literally and figuratively, that tore at my heartstrings.  Mohamed Fellag (Monsieur Lazhar) as the new hire from Algiers, foiled by the principal (Daniele Proulx), deftly deals with the pent up emotions of his charges by using the fable structure as a vehicle.  The multi-layered plot contains obvious tragic parallels, but this film takes no cheap shots to lure the audience. After about an hour and half, the screen goes dark: “Fin.” I  wanted more, but fully understand that somehow the film editor knew when to “cut.”

Okay, let’s not get carried away. Annika Sorenstam or Michelle Wie I am not and never will be, but today’s round of 9 holes has me hoping that I won’t be laughed off the fairways this year. I’m relaaaaaxed. Eureka! It’s been a long time coming, but Ellen, my golf guru, offered me some encouragement about a month ago when we went to hit about a million balls at the driving range. (Just kidding. Only a half a million.) Most of my shots were good that day – much to our surprise. We figured out that I went there with little or no expectations; my competitiveness went out the window that day and as a result, I was fluid and natural. But that was a month ago.

 Today I showed up to meet Paula, one of my golf buds, and I think I finally earned my nickname: Mel-o. In the 57 shots it took me to play 9 holes, more were decent than not – with even a few good ones thrown in. Since when do I know how to chip? Today I do. Not bad for Day 1 of Season 3. Next round: can Ellen come out and play?

It was September 1981 and after teaching for 8 1/2 years at Maxwell in Brooklyn (and loving it), I had just transferred to a high school in Queens. Being the new kid on the block, I was assigned five English classes, a homeroom and a period of cafeteria patrol. In the cafeteria was a dead ringer for an ex-con who was shooting dice one day and dealing Three-card Monte the next. He was a nasty lowlife and naturally refused to stop the gambling ring, so I was forced to refer him to the dean.  I’m  sure he was suspended (he probably had a dean’s record a mile-long), but the very next day, I walked into my homeroom along with my 35 students just as the late bell was ringing to find the teacher’s desk on its side and every drawer upside down on the floor with papers strewn everywhere.  This s.o.b had arranged for his posse to destroy my room! It couldn’t have been anyone else given that this sort of thing was not a common occurrence at Richmond Hill. What was even more humiliating was that this room wasn’t even mine for most of the day. It was my homeroom, but I shared the room with at least two other teachers throughout the day. It was mostly their stuff all over the floor and I felt horrible about it. You will NOT find this dark episode in my book. I never even thought about it until now, but as the book jacket of Take Off Your Hat and Spit Out Your Gum includes: “It was not all sunshine and daisies. She had her share of intense encounters with troubled students that tested the very boundaries not only of education but of human perseverance and understanding.” This incident never made it into the book because it was just an incident. I had no further dealings with this kid, but the real reason is that you’re not laughing now, are you?

Once again Michael Pollak, the editor of the weekly “Metropolitan Diary” in Monday’s New York Times has rejected my submission. Again I ask: What DOES he want? I found last week’s collection of published entries to be especially abysmal (you be the judge), and I had hoped that this time, my friend Abbie’s story was enough of a  slice of NYC life to be a shoo-in. I was wrong. Since there is no New York Times copyright on it, I am sharing it with you:

Dear Diary,

 ”Oh God, I lost my ticket!”

My friend was just returning to Penn Station one recent Sunday to catch her Amtrak train home when she discovered she was ticket-less. She frantically made her way to the ticket line, which was long and getting longer by the minute – and her train was scheduled to leave in five.

Waiting in line to buy a ticket for her scheduled train would be fruitless. Suddenly there appeared a railroad official in a cap and figuring she had nothing to lose, she gasped, “Sir – I lost my Amtrak ticket and my train is leaving in five minutes!” If I stand on this line, I’ll never…”

  ”What’s your name?” he interrupted.

  ”Abbie Schiff.”

He reached into his pocket and fished out her signed ticket to Rhinecliff. “I found this up on Seventh Avenue a few hours ago.” This knight in shining armor handed Abbie her ticket in what just became a NYC fairytale ending.