Homes for Heroes

Sergeant medic Alex Barris in Czechoslovakia 1945.

Late in 1945, after the Second World War, my father Alex Barris received his honourable discharge from the U.S. Army. He had survived training as a medic in Kansas in 1943, the bloodbath that had been the Battle of the Bulge in western Germany in the winter of 1945, postwar occupation service in Czechoslovakia and transatlantic passage back home to New York City in time to rejoin his family for Christmas.

Eager to return to civilian life, Dad visited his alma mater, Haaren High School, to claim his education transcripts. As the school registrar retrieved the papers, Dad strolled through the school hallways, pausing at the school’s honour roll.

Haaren High School in New York City.

“Alumni Who Gave Their Lives in World War II,” the banner announced atop the wall. There were dozens and dozens of names – 56 in all. Then, the most incredible thing happened. He saw his own name etched there in the bronze. Dead. Honoured. But it was a mistake. When he tried to explain the error to the registrar, however, she blushed and blurted out:

“Oh my! Someone will be in trouble over this.” And she dashed away. (more…)

Difference, but not death

Theodore Kontozoglus, my grandfather, doing what he would have considered man’s work on our the family farm in 1967.

It happened after dinner one night, many years ago. At the time, I think I was in my teens. My grandfather, who only spent part of the year visiting us, got up from the dining room table and invited my father and me into another room for a chat. He felt it was time for one of those man-to-man moments exclusive of the women – his wife (my grandmother), my mother and my sister. I promised I would be along shortly, but then added something that caught him off guard.

“I’m going to help clean up the dirty dishes first,” I said.

He gave the dishes and the table a condescending gesture with the back of his hand. Then he scolded me. “No. No,” he said. “That’s women’s work.”

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Psychology of time

WATCHFACEA few weeks ago, at Centennial College where I teach, we realized things were reaching a breaking point. Students faced a never-ending stream of deadlines. Faculty appeared completely stressed out. And everybody seemed at wit’s end. So, we invited in a campus counsellor to conduct a stress workshop. Eventually, she just asked straight out, “What seems to be the problem?”

“I can’t seem to get things done,” one student said. “There’s never enough time.”

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