The Great Pillow Wars of the 90s

Luke, Matt, me, Katie & our Grandma (Barbara Hoag)

In a family where rosary beads dangled from rearview mirrors and tempers flared like Irish whiskey, every gathering felt like a reunion and a riot rolled into one. Growing up in a staunch Irish Catholic family, gatherings were always lively—if not downright chaotic. On my mom’s side, I was smack in the middle of twelve grandkids: three siblings, eight cousins, and me.

Katie, Luke, Matt and me

Whether my aunts and uncles were engaged in their signature sibling squabbles—equal parts passive-aggressive and theatrical—or the women in the family were sipping on martinis while the in-laws, who married into the family, either threw their hands in the air or quietly sipped on gossip from afar, things were never dull. 

But what I’d always revel in most were the secret pillow fights my older sister Katie, older cousins Matt and Luke, and I would have in the dark each time. And it’d always happen the same way—one of us would pass another in the hallway, exchanging a time and location as if incognito. It was a secret mission the grownups could not know about. Every time: “Three o’clock. Luke’s room,” or “Five o’clock. guest room.” Don’t make eye contact. Don’t stop. Keep moving so as not to draw attention and blow our cover. This was classified information. And we’d always pass on the message to the others in the same way. Just some regular 007 Bond agents.

Missing Matt in this picture

Because truth be told, we couldn’t let the younger cousins in on it—they’d get hurt and cry to the grownups. And the older cousins? We always thought they were far too sophisticated and cool for silly childish games. So it was just us four—the ones in the middle of the line of twelve grandkids.

As the time drew near, I’d make my way down the hallway—be it my grandparents' long hallway, thick with the scent of old books and pipe tobacco, or my aunt and uncle’s house, riddled with family pictures on the wall as I passed. My favorite place for these top-secret pillow fights was always my cousin Luke’s room. Luke’s room was a classic '90s kid bedroom—complete with Legos, a pile of stuffed animals (or what kids today call plushies), countless Star Wars figurines, and a Luke Skywalker comforter. The shelves were the quintessential floating shelves, always piled with too much weight and testing the laws of physics.

Matt and me

As soon as the four of us were in—the two brothers against the two sisters—we’d each stake out a corner in the room, armed with our weapon—oh, I mean pillow—of choice. Lights out. The glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling flickered faintly as we crouched in position, grinning through the shadows with the giddy anticipation of chaos.

And then: mayhem.

From there, it was no man’s land—an all-out brawl. A swing and a miss, and you’d hear a karate trophy clatter to the floor. “Ouch!” A pillow whizzed past my face with the velocity of a Nerf missile gone rogue. Darth Vader toppled over in the chaos. “Ahhh!” Slam! Bash! Crash! The bed bounced beneath us like an inflatable jump house, and we leapt with the reckless confidence of kids convinced we were invincible—timing our jumps to collide with whoever had the misfortune of being on the downbeat. Someone flew from the bed to the floor to launch a surprise attack on an unsuspecting opponent. Others got pinned, caught in a giggly chokehold that wouldn’t pass legal clearance in the WWE, until surrender was declared—but somehow still ended in laughter. We scrambled, flailed, dove, and swung, lost in a sea of shrieks and stuffed polyester.

Missing Katie here

Interestingly—and ironically—I was often the reigning champ. Me: the youngest of the four, the quiet one with thick forehead bangs, and even thicker glasses, and all the unsuspecting rage of a kid who got the crust piece at lunch. At home, sandwiched between two louder, needier siblings, I often faded into the background—a bit of a wallflower by default. But in those moonlit missions, something shifted. Maybe it was pent-up frustration. Maybe it was rebellion. Either way, the “quiet good girl” came swinging, and suddenly I had the power. Call me a silent assassin if you will. Pillows became equalizers, and I was a pint-sized force to be reckoned with. I wasn’t just included—I felt seen. And I swung hard.

Matt & me

But like all good things, even our covert chaos had an expiration date. As the younger siblings and cousins started catching on to our secret missions, the whispers in the hallway got riskier. Suddenly, the "classified" nature of our pillow fights was under siege. We'd try to throw them a bone—“Okay, okay… you can play. But you have to stay in this corner and just keep swinging. Don’t. Move.” They always moved. And inevitably, someone would get clobbered. A pillow to the face, a little too hard. A collision mid-jump. A dramatic thud followed by shrieks and tears. Then came the tattling. “Moooom! They hit me!” Cue the lights flicking on, the interrogation, the scolding, and worst of all—the shutting down of the operation. That definitely marked the beginning of the end of our legendary pillow fight era, as the four of us shifted from childhood, to the adolescents of junior high. 

Time, like those pillow fights, moved fast and without warning. Decades proceed, eras of lifetimes gone and in the rearview mirror, and flashes of fleeting memories later, we find ourselves well into the independence of adulthood and deep into our careers. Some of us with a mortgage and family. One elbow deep with half a litter of kids and homeschooling, One enjoying the freedom of travel, higher education and single life. One navigating a separation, divorce and custody of children. And one who lives an alternative lifestyle out of state, and disowned themselves from the family completely.

Luke, his first born, and me

We’ve said goodbye and buried those very grandparents who made us cousins, and the West Anaheim house on Lindacita Lane that once echoed with our laughter now belongs to another family—though I swear the ghosts of our childhood games still whisper through the halls and walls of that house. 

Even though Matt and Luke are my older cousins, I’ve always looked at them as a set of second siblings. And aren’t cousins just that anyway? In this case, they were like a pair of older second brothers. Those memories of our secret pillow fight missions are some of my favorite childhood memories, and despite the fact we can’t roughhouse like we did when we were single-digit ages, what endures is the playfulness we somehow still manage to keep—threaded through teasing conversations and inside jokes at family gatherings. Despite our wildly different views on just about everything, we all seem to agree on one thing: our family is chaotic. But I’m glad for them—even with the ever-present matriarchal forces that be—my mom and theirs—calling the shots with sprinkles of Catholic guilt, strong side-eyes and sharp smiles.

Matt, Luke, & Matt's kids

Katie & I

Water's Waltz

A soft afternoon breeze gently kisses the wave.

Whispers echo and dance from her hidden sea cave. 

Subtle ripples reveal the water’s nervous tremble.  

Patterns shifting in ways only dreams could resemble.

Lovely luminous rays caresses the sea’s surface, 

reaching down with a touch that’s wrought with purpose. 

Cascading beams of sun penetrate through the blue currents. 

Eyes of the sea are locked in a gaze with the celestial blue above in assurance. 

Curling wind carves a swelling and arching swell, 

leaving treasures behind in the curve of the shell.

Surging sapphire tide splashes, crashes, and dashes the sand,

with a force too wild for the shore to withstand. 

Somewhere where the tide rests in calm repose, 

its translucent surface sparkles like stained glass, a beauty it shows. 

The water kisses the sand with a tender touch.

Waves whisper secrets, longing to say much. 

Sweet ripple tango in slow motion,

each wave a dazzling dance, fueled by deep devotion. 

Tracing patterns of provocative and moving affection, 

innuendos of desire stir the sea’s reflection 

Playful leaps and graceful arcs shows a party of dolphins near,

Their sonnets of whistles and clicks is like Shakespeare, 

to the boundless blue.

Smooth, sleek, silver-blue, the acrobats play in the distance. 

Merry echoes sing their graceful coexistence.

Bright and brilliant eyes dazzle with curiosity, 

their joy sharing true generosity. 

As they frolic seamlessly through air and sea, 

Binding hearts the waves in their whimsical jubilee. 

The horizon stretches endlessly, cloaked in pastel cloaks. 

Losing itself in reverie skipping through feathery strokes. 

Ever reaching the sea’s spirit embraces hearts,

its pulse, rhythm and waters’ cadence is a thing of the arts. 

Amid children's laughter and seagulls’ cries, 

Scattered souls bask where the golden sun lies. 

Beneath the fading blush of the sun’s embrace, 

The ocean hums with love’s eternal grace. 

A timeless dance where sea and sky unite, 

Their whispers fading softly into the night. 

Anchient Ruins, Curious Children, and a Calling

People often ask me, “What made you want to be a teacher?” I always chuckle because my origin story feels serendipitous - almost accidental. Truth be told, I wasn’t someone who always knew what they wanted to be. In high school, I couldn’t have imagined myself writing a college essay about my sense of direction. Even as I entered community college, I was unsure. But then, by some grace, I stumbled upon a crystal-clear realization.

I remember the day so vividly. It was a perfect spring day in 2006. I had recently turned 20 and was spending the semester studying abroad in Rome, Italy. On a Saturday, our cohort, along with our professors, went on an excursion to Hadrian’s Villa. The sun was warm, the sky impossibly blue, and the ruins hummed with ancient history. My friends and I, carefree college students, roamed the grounds. We snapped photos - what you might call selfies today - and laughed at the nude statues with the unfiltered humor and maturity of our age.

I can tell you exactly what I wore that day: medium-wash flare jeans, a baby blue tank top, and a leather messenger bag studded with turquoise stones. Most of my outfit had been curated during my time in Italy, and I wore it with pride, loving the European influence on my style. My hair fell in relaxed waves, and I accessorized with large hoop earrings, and a carefree heart. 

As the tour wound down, we strolled toward the charter bus parked a few hundred feet away. I lagged slightly behind my group, enjoying the moment, when a swarm of children suddenly surrounded me. Seven Italian grade-schoolers appeared out of nowhere, their energy infectious. They peppered me with questions in broken English, and I answered them in my equally broken Italian. Their faces radiated pure joy - genuine, sincere, and full of curiosity. As they hung on my every word, something clicked. In that random, fleeting moment, I felt at ease. Comfortable. Content. They had chosen me out of the crowd to approach, and as I answered their questions, I realized how natural it felt to share knowledge, and to connect. And just like that, they scurried off, disappearing as quickly as they had appeared. I stood there, smiling, taking a deep breath. I knew, as I said at that moment, “I’m going to be a teacher.”

That epiphany stayed with me. When I returned to the States after that semester, I proudly declared my major, turning my once-undefined path into a clear road forward. Since then, I’ve never doubted my decision to teach. Do I question the direction of education in the United States? Of course. Do I sometimes worry about the lack of focus, grit, and discipline of many of today’s students? Absolutely. But those are issues for another entry. 

Nevertheless, my confidence in this calling has remained steadfast, and over the years countless moments and people have confirmed and affirmed that teaching is where I belong. I first noticed it while working for the YMCA of San Francisco in after-school programming, or summer camp teens. From white-water rafting trips, to herding city kids through the BART and MUNI systems, those moments and experiences always lit me up.  At the time, I gained quite the reputation of “Storytime with Barbara” among my college friends, as they were always eager to hear whatever silly situation a kid found themselves in, or me recounting a “kids say the darndest things” moment. Friends loved listening, and I equally loved sharing.  The joy and confidence was evident.

When I packed up and moved to the East Coast to start teaching officially in West Philadelphia, my joy remained. And now, 15 years into this career, having transitioned from upper elementary to high school, that joy remains true. It’s the same comfortable confidence I felt on that sunny spring day in 2006 - I truly feel in my element. I feel it in breakthrough moments with my “arch-enemy” students, when a wall crumbles, and real connections are made. I feel it when I pour my heart into creating a classroom environment complete with decorations, couches and even an Alexa, where students feel safe enough to use my room as a kind of “student union,” unloading their frustrations, sharing exciting news, or even just filling me in on the playground gossip - even during my “break.” I see it in the playful banter I share with my students, like when my beloved “Student Tears” mug was one-upped by a cheeky “Ms. Quigley Tears” mug. I had to tip my hat to that kid and laugh. Oddly enough, that “Student Tears” mug mysteriously disappeared. It’s in the harmless pranks I pull that turn into a tradition, and in my students’ hilarious, though often pathetic, attempts to prank me back. It’s in the tough-love pep talks I give to kids on the brink, and holding the line while watching them mature because of it. It’s in the grit required to stay calm when a student curses me out, or when I have to de-escalate a physical tantrum, ushering them to the office with firmness. It’s even in my attempts to keep up with the ever-changing slang, rolling my eyes at its obscurity but sometimes secretly enjoying the challenge - mostly for educational purposes. 

Over the years, I’ve heard things like, “Barbara, I’ve never met anyone better suited to be a teacher than you,” or “Ms. Quigley, you’re our child’s favorite teacher.” It’s lines like this that continue to affirm me. Just last June, when I said goodbye to students and families at my previous school, the overwhelming outpouring of love left me speechless and touched - even to the point of tears. And when I’m fortunate enough to stay in touch with students and their families, and to be invited into their lives for big or small moments, it truly is a great honor. They say teaching is a work of heart, and well, given the evidence I’d have to agree. 

All this to say, I’m struck by how this moment back in 2006 came so unexpectedly. Until then, I hadn’t given myself the space to explore what I wanted to do with my life. Growing up as the peacemaker in a chaotic family, I often put others first. As a by-product of this role, shyness was my default, and I simply didn’t have the room to imagine a life beyond what was right in front of me. But that semester abroad changed everything - and honestly it was exactly what I needed. 

It was a time of discovery and witnessing the thrill of life unfolding in ways I’d never experienced before. Images flash through my memory: meeting classmates on the Spanish Steps on any given Tuesday after class, eating tuna salad outside the Colosseum on the weekend, taking a wrong metro route only to lose ourselves in the cobblestoned streets of Rome before finding our way to class. I think of planning my first weekend away to Germany, navigating hostels and train systems, laughing through ridiculous situations with classmates. Or that time I veered off from my group of friends during spring break in Ireland, armed with just a printed email with crumbs of information; and after a train ride, two cabs, half a Mass, and a payphone call to a total stranger later, I found my great-great grandparents’ grave in the quintessential Ireland pasture of Headford. And then there was the night I turned 20: staying up until dawn, bar-hopping, wandering deserted streets through Vatican City at 3 in the morning, climbing to a lookout over the city, and finally ending at an underground bakery. We sat on the curb with our pastries, gazing at the wall of Vatican City, the dome of St. Peter’s just visible over its edge as we watched the sun rise. 

That semester taught me to embrace life and its moments of spontaneity and unexpected joys, but more importantly it taught me to prioritize myself from time to time; outside the role I had growing up. And as it all came to a close on that warm spring day, surrounded by ancient ruins and curious children, I was finally breaking out of my shell and imagining what I wanted for myself - I finally had the time and space that my previous situation hadn't allowed. That semester, and that moment didn’t just shape my career, it shaped who I am.