Should I Stay or Should I Go? (not a song)

When I was in high school, there was a Popular Girl who was nice to me.  I may not have been a Loser with a capital L, but I may have been one with a small letter l.  Or, that’s how I felt. 

(again, not capital)

Nevertheless, whatever my title, I had no real group in which to ‘hang,’ as it were.  I “kept to myself,” a phrase often quoted in the news, by various neighbors of serial killers. (“No, nothing out of the ordinary,” the neighbor says, in disbelief and shock.  “He seemed polite… Always took his garbage cans out the night before…  Maybe quiet, a little.  He tended to keep to himself.”  Really?  Wanna know why?!  Because when he was cutting those bodies up to store in the freezer, he had to do it VERY QUIETLY and BY HIMSELF.) 

(keeps to himself)

Once, a Popular Kid asked me to go to King’s Island with her and I thought it was my Golden Opportunity to get Friends, but, for some Reason or Other, it didn’t Work Out.  Something about her older sister taking us made my parents Uncomfortable.  Plus, people who tend to Keep to Themselves, people who tend to Like Children in a Weird Way, roam amusement parks.  My chance had come and gone.

But, for whatever reason, on the softball team, Michelle Bokum wanted to toss the ball with me.  And not just once.  We tossed the ball all of the time.  She was crazy.  She definitely should have chosen a more Popular Kid to toss with—she was taking a Big Risk.  And not only did she toss with me, she sat by me on the bus to away games.  It was weird.  Why she chose me, I still have no idea.  Nevertheless, she did, and it served as a welcomed respite from feeling like a Freak.

I felt very strange when, as a senior in high school, I learned that it was Michelle Bokum who had been hit by a car and killed.  I wasn’t her “friend,” but she meant something to me.   I knew that her funeral would be filled with loads of people, all of whom would feel that they deserved to be there.   Her Friends and Family would be there.   It didn’t even cross my mind to go, not until years later, when I was still thinking about her death and remembering how nice she was. 

Recently, a colleague’s adult son suddenly and tragically died.  This colleague retired two years ago and I haven’t seen or talked with her in over a year.  Nevertheless, the thought of her loss dominated my mind.  What is funeral etiquette?  When do you go to a funeral and when do you not go?  Like most Important Questions, there’s no handbook with any index.  If you ask someone close to you if you “should” go, they’ll answer in a whisper and you can tell they’re not sure either. 

When you find out that someone’s son died, and you’re a parent, you automatically go to what it would be like if your kid died and it’s easily the worst place Ever.  But you go there.  When I went there, I thought I’d need the entire world to show up at my son’s funeral.  I’d need citizens from Uzbekistan (wherever that is) to show.  I’d need Anyone and Everyone to throw an ounce of Strength my Way, in an attempt to pick myself up off the floor to try to continue Life’s Path.

But what if you get there and the family Scowls at you and Shines a Spotlight on you and points with one hand and grabs a megaphone with the other, only to shout: “Why are YOU here?  This is a PRIVATE MATTER to share with LOVED ONES.  Why the HELL are YOU here?  Who the Hell are You, Anyway?” 

In thinking about all these things, I realized that I was, yet again, too focused on my own self.  My colleague had lost her f-ing son.  So what if the worst-case-scenario did happen and my presence wasn’t welcome?  So what if my intentions were misinterpreted or disregarded? Who cares about that goddamn risk? 

The bottom line is this:

I still get to go home to my son. 

This poor woman just poured dirt on hers. 

Here’s my funeral etiquette: if you want to go even slightly, go.  Just Bring Strength, in an attempt to Pass it On.  Whether it’s wanted or welcomed, who the hell knows.  

Dear Hilary Clinton,

As a child, I looked for Alan Funt.  I looked for him around corners, under furniture, inside of closets.  He had to be somewhere and I wanted to know where and how it was that he had hidden his cameras so well.  You see, it just couldn’t be true that I was a vulgar monster (gay) growing up in a household filled with perfectly normal people.  Instead, I had to have been cast in some bizarre episode of Candid Camera.  This episode was sure to be so outrageous that it would, perhaps, be broadcast during sweeps.    “You’re not gay—HAHAHAHAHA! Smile!  You’re just on Candid Camera! Wasn’t that funny?!”

Even as a child, though, I must have realized that I was merely perpetuating my own charade because I also remember lifting couch cushions to see if Alan Funt was there.  Obviously, even I knew that this was not possible.  Or did I?  When you’re gay, you stop trusting things.  All things.  Every thing.  Because from the moment you’re born and it is assumed that you are straight, something very strange happens when you realize you’re not. You suddenly believe that the world is filled with lies.  There’s nothing to trust.  You question everything.  Perhaps, then, it is possible for Alan Funt to Cirque-du-Soleil his body into a pancake.  Maybe he really is under one of our plaid orange, 1970’s couch cushions.  Stranger things have happened.   And so I did, in fact, lift those cushions.  But, alas, to no avail.  (Although I did find some coins, some cookie crumbs, and some old crayon pieces…)

Close friends have wondered how I knew at such a young age that I was gay.  Some have suggested that they were “unaware” of their own sexuality until much later.  Despite their not intending as such, the question itself takes me right back to the monster-like quality I felt as a child.  “So, not only are you gay, but you were also aware of it when you were young?!” 

Yes, I was.  And despite growing up in Conservativeville, USA, I had it easy.  My parents weren’t going to beat me to death or kick me out of the house.  I wasn’t going to be stoned or thrown into jail.  Nevertheless, the pain I felt was intense and palpable.  One of the differences in belonging to this sort of a minority is that, unlike a person who practices a certain religion, or a person whose skin is a certain color, a gay child is even alone in his or her family.  The outcaste status is not shared with parents or siblings and so there is no real sense of security even in your own home, away from the outside world.

No, it is not poor me, however, it is true.  My childhood was very painful.  If I am thankful for it, it is because I believe that I enjoy life today largely because I have such memories of what life can feel like and what life must feel like to others who live in isolation and fear, for whatever reason.   The openness and freedom I’m allowed has made me content and appreciative on a continual basis. 

My life-experience and my understanding of how being gay affects my life actually changed a couple of days ago, when the U.S. Secretary of State delivered an unbelievable speech, for all of the world to hear.  Somehow, when listening to Hilary Clinton so eloquently address what it means to have human rights and dignity, I transformed into that seven-year-old girl I once was, and imagined myself watching her speak on our black and white console.  I stood alone, near our dial-up green phone, on the brown, shag carpet, with the plaid seat cushion in my hand.  I stopped my search for evidence that my life itself must be a joke because I turned toward some strong lady who miraculously normalized me.  Something about that speech in Geneva healed a very old wound.  I’m oddly grateful that the scar will always be there, but I’m glad it hurts much less today. I'm shocked and appreciative to have found a sense of solace in hearing what Clinton had to say.  And I have gratitude and admiration for her having the courage to say it.    

The Ghosts of Thanksgivings Past

Perhaps because I’m a natural pessimist, not only am I thankful for all of the good things in my life on Thanksgiving, but I also miss people more.  I don’t just miss the family who feast hundreds of miles away.  I miss other kinds of people.  Some are Dead People.  Luckily, there’re only a couple of people in my life who matter, who’re dead.  Sometimes, however, I do miss my childhood dog, Peppy.

But for about twenty minutes each night, after I give up on the daily crossword puzzle and Bryan finishes watching some cartoon he (and I) have already memorized, I visit people in my head.  I think about people I’m close to, who I haven’t seen in a while who I’m too tired to call, and I think about the two dead people I miss.  Sometimes, Peppy.

What concerns me, however, is I miss other people also.  I miss people who are alive.  I miss childhood friends I am no longer in contact with and cousins I rarely see.  I miss former teachers and neighbors.  I miss summer camp. 

Many conversations about Facebook go something like this: “People you haven’t heard from in 20 years will contact you and you’ll have nothing to say to them.  You’ll realize there was a reason you lost touch.  You’ll correspond two or three times, only to learn if they’re married or divorced, if they’re in good or poor health,  and how many kids they have.  Then you’ll be done.  You won’t need to talk to them again.  It’s weird.”

It’s weird, but knowing that I’m even cyberly connected to people who once played such a dominant role in my life happily misleads me into thinking that the world and life make more sense than it usually seems.  I like knowing my former Chicago friends, for example, are on my facebook page, even if I don’t know what to say to them.  I like knowing that my college roommate is also there, despite the fact that life got in our way a long time ago.   I like having some sort of idea of what my cousins are up to and the kinds of things they post. 

About seven or eight years ago, I ran into an old friend from my hometown.  We were close in elementary school and later at summercamp.  I think she was a little tipsy when I ran into her.  Societal protocol dictates that a mere hello suffices.  Perhaps an “It’s good to see you,” but this would be the absolute most sentiment to express.  I think it was because of my friend’s tipsiness, however, that she actually said one of my favorite things that anyone has ever said to me, considering the circumstance.  It had been more than 20 years since I’d seen her.  Breaking all rules of engagement, this friend actually uttered, “I was just thinking of you!” 

Really?     Because I think of people all the time.  Well, for about 20 minutes each night I do.  I’m not sure why.  For the rest of the day, in between the frustrations inherent in being a bad puzzle solver who tries to solve puzzles, and a crazy teacher who tries to solve children, I like to think I spend the rest of the day grateful for the current people in my life, and the perfect little family I found. 

But I wanted to tell this friend that I think of her too, often.  That I have so many memories of her and others and that these memories play in my head like a carousel each night.  I wanted to admit my fear in trying to “befriend” her on facebook, should she ignore my request.  Should she label it as merely another friend [she] hasn’t seen in 20 years, and that once we briefly correspond, she’ll wonder why she accepted the request.  She’ll soon realize the reason we parted ways.  For this, and other reasons, she will, in fact, ignore my request.

I can’t risk that, though I have a strong hope that one day I will see a friend request from her (and the tens of others I miss). 

This Thanksgiving, I’ve determined to be less melancholy and more Zen.  Instead of longing for tangled and broken connections, I will try to be Thankful for the times when the ropes weren’t knotted or tattered.  I suppose some friendships die and many people don’t want their ghosts around, like I do. 

Protect and Defend

I keep forgetting, but am unfortunately, often reminded (as I was recently), that it’s more important to defend and protect one’s integrity than to wonder if criticism has any validity.  To think, for just a moment, that a person has made a mistake or two along the way, is just unacceptable in our society.  It’s more important, for example, for an adult to feel better, to save face, to “win [the argument], [the point], [the game]” then to acknowledge, for example, any potential wrong to, just as an example, a kid.

(a soccer mom who I know, really wants her kid to win!)

I remain sickened, as previously posted, by the length to which people go to win, primarily because I think that’s what we’re living in right now.  A world of the haves and have nots. Big companies on Wall Street find legal, secret places to have money make its own money until all that money multiplies so much that the companies become so big that there’s where all the money goes and now all anyone can hope for is a small job sweeping part of a floor at IBM.  But, according to Herman Cain, if you don’t have a job right now, it’s your own fault. 

Because of what winning means, because no one’s allowed to make mistakes, the only people who run for political office are most often idiots or liars.  (See the previous sentence, above).

People mistake winning by falsely equating it to the idea of survival of the fittest.  Like, if I’m not right, it means I’m less fit.  It means I’m weaker.  It means—if it’s just me and you left in the world—you win.  You live.  I die because, goddamn it, I was wrong. 

Thing is, most likely, you were already wrong.   Or, I was.   What you or I just didn’t want to do, was to admit it.  And so we live in this murky sea of bullshit because it’s rare (but so goddamn refreshing) to meet someone who calls a spade a spade.  It’s a trite idiom, but I feel like using it.

Maybe we need to have a National Day of Wrong.  Like Yom Kippur, only we openly admit our wrongs.  Maybe we could learn to admire people who admit mistakes and try to do better.  When the guy from Gray’s Anatomy had the gay slur and then went on to become a gay advocate, everyone questioned his motives.  I don’t care about his motives.  We will never know his motives.  Can’t we only know someone’s behavior, anyway?  It was a good move.  He should be forgiven.

It’s not just these big headlines, though.  It permeates the air: it’s everywhere.  Winning at all costs happens every second—sometimes it’s also called ‘spin.’  It happens every time a question is evaded or avoided, information is withheld, people engage in conversations with minds permanently sealed shut, when injustices are ignored or unacknowledged and no action is taken. 

My child and my students are growing up in a win-at-all costs world.  Maybe, as human beings, this has always been the way things were.  I have no idea.  All I know is it’s reached a toxic level.  Maybe, the world became so populated and winning has become so much more difficult, that it’s transformed who people are and now everyone’s just bloodied and bruised and still shooting for the win. 

Why is it so hard to be wrong?  Are we supposed to always be right? 

What is it we’re being right about?  What is it we’re winning?   What’s behind door number three? 

I don’t need a new refrigerator, do you? 

Charlie Sheen and Winning

This post unintentionally hurt someone.  I am therefore taking it down.

Ode to Emma and Bryan with a Y

Never understood the baby blanket.  Why not a baby sock as a transitional object.  A baby shoe.  A pillow.   A shirt.   It just seems so Random.

One of my brilliant younger cousins kept such tight hold of a cloth diaper for so many years (AKA her ‘blanket’), it disintegrated into a single strand of brown cotton. 

I believe she still has it?  (In her pocket?) 

I don’t remember having anything to shlep around.  I don’t remember my brother having anything either.   Perhaps this explains a Lot.

I’m encouraged, however, that Bryan has something—his own version of Linus’s bff.  I’m encouraged because I think about how smart and wonderful my cousin turned out. 

Please don’t pop my bubble only to inform me that Jeffrey Dahmer, too, dragged around a child’s blanket.  But you’re probably right.

Amidst the vast array of wisdom I have garnered from my son, Bryan has certainly taught me why the child’s blanket is so magical.  Put succinctly: it is simply the most versatile item ever created. 

In the course of 6 years, Bryan’s blanket has served the following purposes:

·      It’s a turban when he watches someone rub a magic lantern

·      a regular hat when his head’s cold

·      His blanket makes a great, small tent

·      It’s a towel in a pinch. 

·      it transforms into a cape when he’s a Superhero

·       a tablecloth on a picnic

·      (sometimes a napkin)

·      a flying carpet to get the h out of dodge when he’s in trouble

·      It’s a coat when there’s nothing else around

·      a wig when he imagines having long hair

·      An umbrella

·      A skirt

·      A rope to play tug-of-war

·      (sometimes a kleenex) (ew: sorry, but true)

·      it makes a great dog bed

·      often used as a pillow

·      he’s been known to jump rope with it

·      a ribbon that the winning runner breaks through

·      a matador’s cape for the dogs

·      a sleeping bag

·      a shield from something scary on TV

·      leg warmers

·      a sling for a broken arm

·      a makeshift eye patch for an impromptu pirate

·      and more

·      much MUCH more

Most of all, of course, this raggedy, old, (now) very thin piece of cloth, that can no longer even be washed for fear it will completely evaporate, is Bryan’s Salvation.   It’s His Religion.  The Answer to all that is Bad and Scary. 

I don’t remember if we brought this once-new relic to Guatemala when we picked him up.  I’d like to think we did. 

Having to acknowledge Its Importance, I realize that the child’s blanket, to the child, may very well be an extension of the umbilical cord: perhaps the very first thing inherited after leaving the warmth of total security (or, in Bryan’s case, having to leave All That He Knew).

I tend to think a child must believe that if they pull on their blanket long enough, if they pull on it hard enough, if there’s just enough desperation, perhaps they’ll get sucked back up into the safety of the womb. 

Likewise, perhaps, if they pull Just Right, the other way, Pure Freedom lies on the other end.

Whatever the case, I’ve grown to admire the Integrity and Dependablility of the baby blanket. 

That’s all for now: I’m off to check out Ebay.  no reason.  

When I Grow Up

There’s a reason I’m in the slow lane.  I drive like someone’s great great, half-blind, mostly senile grandma.  Why are you riding my ass?  I’m paranoid, sorry!  Just like Lady Gaga says:  BORN THAT WAY.  Not doing it to annoy you.  But I’m wondering… instead of kissing my butt, why not pass me via the other (open!) lane?  Are you trying to make a point?  Think I’m going to speed up because you’re mad?  Instead, I’m going to slow down for a while.  Then, I’ll pull over to the curb and let you pass me.  I’ll flash a big thumbs-up and meet you at the red light that’s just ahead.

(not my white sedan, but you get the point)

As a child, when I closed my eyes, the only thing that I could see ahead of me was a mug filled with markers.  I thought this meant I was going to be an artist. 

One thing they never tell you when you’re a kid is how much interacting with other people leads to personal happiness (or not).  No one really informs us that it isn’t so much what we do during the day (to make money), it’s about who surrounds us.  The question shouldn’t have been, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”  Instead, it should have been, “Who do you want to spend your workday with?”

For me, I’d start by saying I’d like to be surrounded by really cute kids.  I’d like them to laugh at my jokes (which rarely happens).  I’d like to play games with them (which there’s no time for).  I’d like to teach and mentor them (which I like to think I do).

Next, I’d refer to a list.  On this list, there’d be a friend around who’s also a fan of Snoopy.  We’d occasionally exchange small Snoopy items and talk and laugh about things in our day. 

Perhaps I’d also like a Mickey Mouse friend who’s very good at asserting things to the higher ups that most of us are too scared to articulate.  We’ll sit in a meeting when something unjust is being said, and our Mickey Mouse friend will tell Whoever it Is a Thing or Two.  For this, I’ll forgive her for her choice in cartoon characters. 

I’d like one of the higher ups to remind me of my favorite all-time person, the housekeeper I had growing up.  Among the vast array of life lessons I learned from her, Viola Howard taught me that it doesn’t matter what you do, it’s how you do it.  She taught me this without ever saying it.  Instead, of course, she showed me.  A small part of Viola is channeled through the assistant principal at my school. 

I’d also like to work with someone who can take over when I can’t deal.  This person won’t make me feel bad for asking.  She will know what to Do.  If I’m overwhelmed, I’ll send my “problem” to something called a ‘Room 10,’ and my problem will come back “solved.”

I’d like there to be a very caring, nearby person to lend me a hand whenever I need one and never make me feel bad for asking.  I’d like to be able to talk to this person about Real Things in a Real Way.  I’d like for her to be a Friend.

I’d like to have a buddy who has a small, cute dog.  I will be the dog’s aunt.  My buddy and I will talk about Mainstream Crime and lament over disgusting verdicts, like Casey Anthony. 

Most of all, I’d like someone next door to share my entire day with.  I’d like this person to have my back and I’ll have hers.  I’d like her to help me solve my problems: both work and life.  I’d like for us to help each other through the day.  I’d like to walk around knowing that there’s somebody nearby who’d do just about anything for me and vice versa.  I’d like to have a person like this so there’d always be a Safe Place for me, even when I’m out in the cruel, cold world, “making a living.” I’d like to share incredible laughs with this person and write notes to this person during less-than Stimulating Meetings.  I’d like the notes to be silly and hilarious.  I’d like this person to be family.

There’s more wonderful people where I work: A Nicaraguan guy who gives me hugs, a brotherly guy who mistakenly left our school, a Special Education teacher who’s also a buddy, and Others. 

Despite the whirlwind, winding, f-ed up road that led me here, turns out, my list became realized. 

And strangely enough, I do have that mug of markers on my desk.  I just didn’t know they’d be dry-erase. 

To all my school friends, as corny as it sounds: thank you for making me so happy to go to work!

Back to School for Teachers Too

As a fourth grade teacher, the students who greet you at the beginning of the year seem especially small. As my buddy tells me, it’s because they’re really still 3^rd graders. 

They’re mostly scared and cute and you look at them and immediately love them, just like a parent, because in a certain way they are yours: at least for the year.  Sometimes, like a parent, there’s an urge to play with them and be silly, but you can’t because they will spend the year walking all over you.  They will rip you up into fine, little pieces and they will build a paper maché chandelier and make you hang from it and your weight will make the chandelier fall and you will plummet to your death. 

(instead of 'welcome to our class!,' you'll be tempted to post this on your door--)

It’s a very fine line.  Letting them know they are safe and loved, and letting them know you’re in charge and that you’re sorry, but there will be no paper maché in class. 

They largely come from families who are very different from, perhaps, many of the people who may read this blog.  These students’ families are often poor and unstructured with little or no rules to follow and sometimes no good role model.   It’s not an easy transition for them to go back into the classroom where there are Expectations, and it’s exhausting for the teacher to orchestrate the way things need to Be.

This week, I asked my students to write in their journals about whatever it is they wanted me to know about them.  I went to great lengths to tell them it could be anything—it didn’t have to be too “personal.”  They could tell me about their favorite book or the people in their family or their favorite subject or whatever.   The only requirement was that they had to write at least seven sentences. 

What I got was both interesting and not interesting.  One child wants me to know that he likes coffee cake.  It took one sentence.  Another student listed all of her favorite colors (her favorite is salmon?).   Somehow she stretched it out to make enough boring and short sentences.  She included all kinds of information about colors she sort-of likes, the ones she doesn’t very much like, and the ones she doesn’t at All.  

(where the h is salmon?)

This poor child has no idea what a margin is, what necessitates a capital letter, or that there is a little mark that needs to come at the end of a sentence.  (Of course the worst part being that this information should really have come from a kinder student and not a fourth grader.)

Again this year, I have the students who like to share with me their love for Justin Bieber, the ones who need me to know that their favorite sport is soccer, the immense love they have for their family, their fear of flunking, and their wish to be a Famous (Whatever).   Most of their spelling, punctuation, and grammar are well below grade-level.  Worse than that, however, is that I also, predictably, have the student who immediately notifies me that I need to call the Department of Child and Family because what she writes in her journal is simply Outrageous. 

And so begins another school year.  There is much work to be done.  Whether we teachers can do it or not, most of us are grateful for the opportunity to try to Help.   It’s why we chose to do this.  We have a year to do the best we can with the kids they handed to us, pass them on, and cross our fingers that their lives are good ones.   

To my teacher friends: have a good year!  

Retail Shopping

Dear Retail/ Customer Service Person—

You’re bored.  The economy sucks and despite the “Everything on Sale!” sign outside your door, there’re not a lot of people around to relieve your anxiety about the impending loss of your job if Things don’t Pick Up.   To you, anyone who steps foot inside Gap is Fresh Meat, even if they’re just strolling in to inquire about a potential bathroom. 

(but we're not in a depression?)

Thing is, you get too excited.  Too Eagar to ask how people are.  This enthusiasm is scary and, even on a good day, I could never match your excitement.  I’ll try to mumble an audible “fine,” but do me a favor.  Please don’t follow me around.  I’m really not going to steal anything.  Most people have a story about when they were little and stole a stick of gum.  I don’t have that story.

I know I look suspect, averting your eyes and not smiling back at your big-toothed Hello!    It’s just that I don’t want to engage. It’s not you—it’s me.  You see, I’m walking straight (ha) for the things On Sale in the Men’s Department.  

I don’t need your help and I’m not in the mood for judgment.   I’m looking for something cheap and somewhat feminine in the Men’s Department.  Very cheap and not real feminine in the Men’s department.  I don’t think you can help.   I don’t think, for example, if I told you that this is what I’m looking for, that you’d have any real suggestions for me.  I bet you’d never be able to say, “Here!  Try this!  It just came in!”  First of all, if it just came in, it won’t be in the Sale Section.  You won’t be able to help me with sizes either, because whatever’s there is there.  It’s the leftovers.    

(not me)

Please don’t take it personally when I also refuse to look at you, on my way out, after having found nothing, as you fold clothes and hope that I Have a Good Day! Usually, on top of feeling like a felon because I’ve been watched so closely, I’m also upset for having not found anything that meets my, perhaps rigid, requirements. 

Maybe, however, had you been more helpful, I would have found Something Perfect.  Good luck with the job.  

Signed,

Not Easy to Please and Continuing to try to Shop Online But then you Usually Have to Pay for Shipping

While Sitting at the Computer at School

Dear Institutionalized, Systemic Homophobia:

I’m done with you.  And, to top it off, it seems like you need some kind of proof that you still permeate through every bit of air, some areas more toxic than others.  You seem to say things like no one cares about that anymore—you drop words like domestic partnerships as proof.  You correctly refer to the ways in which much of the world has changed.  

And it has. 

But not enough.  Not nearly enough. 

Here are just a few reasons:

·      When major political candidates promise a constitutional amendment to keep gays and lesbians (by law) as inferior human beings, and there isn’t a national outrage, and this candidate isn’t blackballed from his campaign, but, is instead, the ‘leader’ in his party, there’s too much TOLERANCE for homophobia.

·      When another political candidate thinks that being gay can be prayed away (I guess that’s what her husband did), there’s too much TOLERANCE for homophobia. 

·      When, out of the 5,000 or so books my school has in its library, not one of them mentions having two moms or two dads, there’s too much TOLERANCE for homophobia.

·      When, in referring to homosexuality, it is still implicitly or directly connected to bestiality and/or polygamy, there is too much TOLERANCE for homophobia. 

·      When it is automatically assumed that, yes, even children are straight—when we ask little girls if they have crushes on boys and vice-versa, there is still too much TOLERANCE for homophobia.

·      When, while sitting at a computer at school, a young Human Being gets shot in the head for having called a male classmate his Valentine, there is too much TOLERANCE for homophobia.  For calling him his Valentine.  He was killed. 

It was the shooter’s fault.  But, had the air been cleared, had we gotten INTOLERANT to homophobia, I bet this wouldn’t have happened. 

·      When our goal for relating to each other is TOLERANCE and not ACCEPTANCE, there is too much TOLERANCE for homophobia. 

Signed,

Can’t Believe this Kid was Killed.  The world can no longer accept breathing in bigoted air of any kind.  

A Series of Personal Questions from a Stranger

Dear Lady in Line at Target with the Imodium and Gossip Magazines in your cart:

Here are the answers to your questions:

·      Yes, he’s our son.

·      Yes, he’s adopted.  Perceptive.   

·      He’s 6 1/2.

·      I know: he’s small.  By the way, he knows it too.  Thanks for reminding him.

·      We got him at 7 months. 

·      No, he doesn’t speak Spanish.  Let’s remember… we got him at seven months.  As humans, we do not automatically speak the language of our heritage.  Language is learned.  For example, I do not speak German or Russian. 

·      Well, if he chooses to learn it.  I, for example, have no desire to learn German or Russian. 

(a Target in the eastern hemisphere?)

You see, Lady in Line at Target with the Imodium and Gossip Magazines in your cart, you caught me on good day.  A pleasant mood.  The brisk air-conditioning in the store served as a welcome respite to the fourteen thousand degree valley heat. 

As such, I stood waiting to pay with no ax to grind, no thorn in my side, and not even angry that I chose the slower line (due to the air-conditioning, I suppose).  Why I even answered your questions, I have little idea.  Maybe I could tell by your choice of such scholarly news magazines as Star and Us that you have a genuine interest in the human condition. 

I fear, though, that, for example, had the air conditioning not been working in the store, had I been in a hurry for my paper towel and dog biscuit purchase, had I been cursing myself for my ill-fated expertise of always choosing the wrong line, or had I just simply had a Daniel Powder Bad Day, my answers may have been more like this:

·      Yes, he’s our son. 

·      No, he’s not adopted.  Ever hear of a little show called Oprah?  Ever hear of a little episode called First two Women to Conceive?

·      I don’t know how he came out Hispanic. 

·      He’s 37. 

·      Yes, he still likes to ride in the cart. 

·      He does speak Spanish and 83 other languages including, but not limited to, Taiwanese.

(after our interview, she concluded she had, in fact, heard everything.)

The truth is, though, that I probably answered your questions because you didn’t seem like a mean person.  A little invasive, yes.  A little boundaryless, yes.  Nevertheless, in looking in your eyes, I didn’t sense any judgment.  Maybe it’s because you had the juxtzpah (no spelling suggestions from ms word) to ask, instead of merely choosing to stare too long at us.  

Living in Los Angeles, we don’t get a lot of weird stares, but we still do get them.  I hope I educated you in some way, however small, or merely reminded you that there are different kinds of families.  I know that you reminded me that not everyone’s interest is mean spirited. 

But, I think I do deserve a question or two to your ten: namely, is there some kind of connection between the Imodium and the magazines?  Also, why the runs?

Signed,

I Also Wonder Things

Please let the Teacher Relax

Dear Young, Giggly Women in Palm Springs near the Hotel Pool,

It scares me a bit that you’re teachers.  I only know your profession because of your seeming lack of volume control.  No offense: you may be wonderfully gifted with kids—it's obvious that all three of you are loud enough for any child to hear from clear across any playground.  Yet something about, perhaps, your carefree laughter and grand interest in the Kardashian wedding does concern me some.  It makes me, in these last glorious days before the stressful schoolyear begins, nervous.  I was hoping to enter a sort of Zen State prior to having to enter the Realization Zone that I will soon be responsible for the education of 30ish kids.  Hence, the hotel stay.  But, alas, even here, you prevent me from experiencing any sort of blissful denial. 

You planted yourself right near me.  It’s crowded, so I don’t take it personally.  But, I long for you to, at minimum, and for the love of GOD, change the subject.  Being the professional that I am, I will refrain from screaming what others might: namely, shut the F up. 

I’m frustrated because in the last ten minutes, you have succeeded in dropping a plethora of LAUSD acronyms.  There’s nothing I can do to avoid you—there's no other available beach chair.  I suppose plugging my ears is rude.  But, really, I’d rather you name drop instead of acronym drop.  So far, one or the other of you has uttered letters including, but not limited to, ELD, CELDT, ELL, IWT, IEP, ELA, TPS, and ABCDEFG.  Here’s some letters for you: UGH!

(not me)

I’m not sure why I fear we share the same occupation.  Maybe it’s because you’re so bubbly and loud? And young?  Maybe it’s because you watch the Kardashians.

In my very serious professional environment (did I mention my school scored 826, and potentially higher, on our API?), my colleagues and I don’t’ go home and read up on the goings-on of Untalented Rich People, like Khloe Kardashian.  Instead, we go home and review such things as Marilyn Burns books, the California Dance Standards, and our ELSIG treasury.   Funny how you left out that acronym—maybe the most important one of all. 

Additionally, the teachers at my school don’t partake in such trash on television of which you refer.  Please.  We’re much too evolved.  Instead, we bask in the glory of such highly acclaimed and esteemed shows as, oh, The Bachelor, The Bachelorette, Biggest Loser, Dancing with the Stars, and (my favorite) various shows on addiction (the best is watching meth addicts. Not sure why). 

So, you see, Young, Giggly Women in Palm Springs near the Hotel Pool, maybe it would behoove you to ZIP it.  Maybe you should just suck it up and take in some rays.  Throw on some earplugs and listen to ELD chants.  Think-Pair-Share with each other about where to go for dinner.  Whatever you do, leave me out of it.  You’re irritating. 

In thinking about it, though, there is, I suppose, the slightest possibility, that maybe, just maybe, you drive me crazy because each of you sound vastly more ready for the school year than I am.

What channel is that dumb show on anyway?  Where was the wedding?

Signed,

Anxiously-Soon-to-be-back-to-the-Grind

A Realistic Teacher Preparation Program

The new school year is on my mind. As my anxiety surfaces, I remember that you can’t be taught to teach.  There’s no program to prepare you.

The two things I took away from my education program: incorporate technology in your lessons, and if someone bleeds, stay away from the blood.  Also, don’t let other kids touch it. 

After a few years in the classroom, here’re just three of the many pieces of information I’d include in any educational program in order to better prepare the future teachers of America. . . 

1.     When walking around your classroom, you will constantly step on things—pencils, erasers, pins (previously called thumb tacks), dry-erase marker caps, and a note that a student intended to pass, but either never made it to the recipient or the recipient didn’t bother to throw it out.   You will find the note especially disappointing because of all of the misspellings. 

Usually you will step on something particularly annoying when there’s some sort of major classroom ruckus of simultaneous goings-on.   A girl will be crying over girl-drama, the principal is on the P.A. and you can’t hear what he’s saying (but it sounds important), and there’s only thirty minutes left to prepare the students for a test, pass it out, and have them take it.  It’s then that you will step on gum that shouldn’t have been in the school to begin with.  As you step on it, a kid with a horrible cold and snot drippings will ask for a tissue and the school is out of them: budget cuts.  You’ll tell him to get a paper towel, but we’re out of those too.  You’re so mad about the gum that it will be really, really hard not to respond like this: “Ever hear of a little thing called a sleeve!?”

2.     Whenever an elementary school child does something wrong, it’s an accident.  In response to these accidents, you will hear yourself saying things like, “Well, Martin, I’m 42-years-old, and in my entire life, I have never ACCIDENTALLY elbowed another person in the gut.”  Or, “Well, Angela, in all my hundred years on planet earth (some of them will believe you are 100), I have never ACCIDENTALLY called another person fat.  Another favorite: “Which part was the accident?  Constructing the perfectly geometric paper airplane when you should have been working on your paragraph or throwing it clear across the room when we were lining up for recess?” (Some things never change.)

3.     Being a teacher (especially at my school) is like triaging emergencies.  As teachers, we have to figure out who’s bleeding the most, try best to address that need, and then move down the list to the student who is next in line for some sort of (usually major) intervention. 

So, not only did my teaching program not prepare me with the real goings-on of a classroom, they also delivered misinformation.  Many of these kids are, in fact, bleeding.  And I do need to get close to the blood.  As teachers, we just try to be careful. 

Would love to hear more important information for future teachers from my educator friends… What tidbits would you include in a teaching program?

Your Pet Costs A Lot?

Dear Lady At The Vet’s Office with the (probably real) Designer Bag (how would I know?) Who Didn’t Want to Buy her Sick Cat Some Medicine Because of the two-figure “Cost,”

Um, maybe I can offer a little perspective.

Our twelve-year-old yorkie wasn’t cheap when we got him—well, not to us.  We’re people who should adopt from a shelter, but we can’t resist purebred puppydom.   Please don’t judge: we try not to.  The 600 bucks took a bite out of our paychecks, but having the tiny black ball pounce all over me as I lay on the floor made it worth every penny.

His running stopped soon.  So did his eating.  Long story short, we got a lemon.  Born with a congenital condition, at five months old, Superhero VetMen with large hands had to use tiny instruments to shut down one of his teeny arteries so that proteins wouldn’t bypass his liver.  While under the effects of amnesia these Superheroes also took the opportunity to remove a row of his double teeth.  (what a reject dog we got). Cost?  $3,000.

We were told that he’d still lead a good life, but he’d have to be on prescription dog food.  Plus, because of his compromised position, every time he has needed teeth cleaning, it has literally cost $700.  This is an annual fee. 

All of these aforementioned costs, of course, were being tallied before what will heretofore be referred to as the Big Incident (BI).

Also before the BI Jack got into some grapes.  Turns out, good for people: not so good for dogs.  He had to be monitored and given fluids.  Cost?  About $1000. 

Other Small Things Before the BI:

·      When at the groomers, apparently the anal-glad secretion created some discomfort for the little guy’s ass.   He moped around in such a peevish state that we dragged him to the emergency vet.  Nothing wrong, but the emergency vet fee is like $75. 

·      When we put some kind of flea treatment on him, he acted like he did with the anal gland.  Another useless trip to the emergency vet, just in case!

Five years ago came the BI.  It was morning.  Diane took Jack to the front yard to pee.  That’s when I heard the scream.  Diane doesn’t scream.  So, the fact that it was a curdling scream wasn’t comforting.  

As the story goes, two hungry pit bulls had been out for a few days without any food.  They took one look at Diane and Jack and licked their lips.  They hunched before the attack.  This is when we learned who the real superhero was.  Jack.  Later, the emergency vet would tell us that he protected Diane. 

Anyway, one of the pit bulls got Jack in his mouth and shook him like a rag doll.  By the time I made it outside, Jack lay on the grass and his fur was not attached.  He was like a peeled orange.  I instinctively took off my shirt, scooped him up, and (with one shoe) ran to a neighbor’s. 

He survived.

It was 3 ½ weeks of touch-and-go.  At one point, they had us transfer him (he was so pathetic and half-dead looking) to the most esteemed animal hospital in Los Angeles.  Amidst the effects of numerous medications and zillions of complications (including pneumonia), during the trip to the west side hospital, somehow Jack lifted his head to offer me a kiss.

That was the $10,000 lick.  At that point I realized that even if he didn’t make it, it was okay for us to have paid so much money and incur such debt.  I needed that last kiss from him.

He did make it. 

Since then, Jack has had congenital heart failure and a collapsed trachea.  Every six months he gets a thousand dollar echocardiogram.  He is currently on seven medications, totaling about $125/ month.

Our grand total?

So, Lady At The Vet’s Office with the (probably real) Designer Bag (how would I know?) Who Didn’t Want to Buy her Sick Cat Some Medicine Because of the two-figure “Cost,” you made a commitment to this creature—sorry.  The moment he/she became yours, you signed up for all of the costs that came with him/ her.  And, frankly?, $39 sort of seems like a bargain.

Signed,

In Debt

State Tests: Math & Language Arts

826.  The number of marbles in a jar?  The amount of calories in a McDonalds McFlurry (with oreos)?  The real time that a show starting at 8:00 ends?  Or… how my school did on the state test?  Bingo.

This number probably doesn’t mean a lot to you unless you’re a teacher or if your child goes to a school that uses federal money.  In short, however, this number means that the teachers and students at my school worked their a%@$es off during the last school year.

We largely teach students who live in poverty and are second-language learners.   The poverty part is the stickler.  It manifests itself in small and large ways on an everyday, every-hour, every-moment basis. 

  

There are so many issues surrounding the state test, that to address them all would be 1) impossible, and 2) not something I’m interested in doing.  Here’s the one issue, however, that I can’t get over.  First, know this: I don’t think the state test is the “enemy.”  I believe that there does need to be some sort of thermometer at the end of the school year.  The problem of course is: what are we measuring? 

Someone decided that today’s elementary schools need to focus on language arts and math.  I don’t know who came up with this, but ok.  And it’s not like I don’t agree, I just don’t know…  Nor do I know how the people who decided this, well, decided this.  Ah, but I digress…

Check this out:  for the last many years (I’ve been teaching for 8), every May, California students have been tested on, well, California standards.  And?  So?  Well, these California standards are markedly more difficult than the national standards.  In fourth grade, we’ve been teaching things that I didn’t learn until middle school.  Frankly, we’ve been teaching things that I don’t even think fourth grade brains are ready to learn.  I wonder why California scores have paled to scores in other states…hmmm….

My belief is that instead of learning how to write a five paragraph essay or add fractions with unlike denominators, our fourth graders become survivalists and mimic steps to solving problems when, in reality, they have little idea what they are doing.  In short, they Manage.

Where is this blog going?  Well, in a year, California will no longer test children on the more difficult California standards.  We will, instead, be testing kids on the (easier) national standards. These standards are more realistic.  The fourth grade brain might, in fact, be able to grasp the concepts of the national standards.

So, what have we been doing for the last many years?  Are the kids that were tested on the California standards going to develop into smarter people?  Why are we switching to the national standards?  Why are we focusing on language arts and math?  

Here’s California’s educational goal:

California will provide a world-class education for all students, from early childhood to adulthood. The Department of Education serves our state by innovating and collaborating with educators, schools, parents, and community partners. Together, as a team, we prepare students to live, work, and thrive in a highly connected world.

While I’m incredibly proud of what my school is able to accomplish in the midst of substantial obstacles, I still wonder.  826—it’s fantastic.  But, it’s 826 in math and language arts.  In a world riddled with paralyzing problems, in a country where the middle class is becoming a memory and the United States no longer manufactures anything, shouldn’t our educational system correspond more with what’s really out there?

In looking through any day’s news headlines we must conclude that children also should, perhaps be tested on SOCIAL SKILLS to “thrive in a [blah, blah blah]”  Also, considering the fact that the apparent goal of technology seems to be embedding computers into our skin, shouldn’t science fit in somewhere?

And a whole separate issue has to do with this: many of our kids constantly experience failure and frustration in school.  They might thrive in a place where they could learn woodworking and circuitry.  But, no: language arts and math, language arts and math, language arts and math. 

The switch of the standards from the California standards to the national standards gets me because it just underlines that what we are being asked to teach the kids seems so random.  My colleagues are awesome.  We rise to the occasion.  I just am questioning what occasion it is that we are being asked to rise to.