I am not someone who enjoys shopping. I expect my favored stores to carry the products I need without forcing me to venture out into the alien turf of strange stores. When I moved to Michigan five years ago, after living in Southen California for 26 years, I found that what I missed most was neither the Pacific (it was amazing to live near but
Lake Michigan has always been my first love) nor the weather (I never got used to that much sun). What I missed most -- and still miss -- are the stores. For a wide supply of organic and other interesting foods, for example, I had Trader Joe's and Lassens. For fresh produce, I could find Farmers Markets (mostly organic) 7 days a week within a 20 miles radius (my favorite was in Ventura where sometimes a guy brought in fresh organic dates from the California deserts). For clothing, there was Santa Barbara's Tienda Ho -- just to walk in was to find oneself in a magical place, part Morocco, part India (that's where I bought silk patchwork tunics and scarves in all kinds of colors -- including the purple "swag" ones I mention in my entry for 11/9/07). For plants and fabulous Christmas tree trimmings, there was Ventura's Green Thumb. For great sales on unusual picture frames and matts, there was Aaron Brothers. For New Age books, oracle decks, rocks, votives, statues, and jewelry, there was Journey Home. For all my other needs, I had a short list of favored stores and rarely deviated from them.
In fairness, Michigan does have a few of my favored stores -- Pier One, Joann's, Michael's, and World Market. I have also found some new favorites, including two nurseries in Kalamazoo (Wedels and Romence Gardens) and my friend Mo's lovely Wren's Nest in Dowagiac. But for food, this place is very backward. Most large grocery stores carry little in the way of organic produce except the inevitable bags of carrots, celery, and greens (hopefully, without e. coli or other pathogens) from a region of California too close to runoff from huge industrial livestock farms. A few stores also have bags of kiwis, avacados, and potatoes; during the winter months this year, one major grocery chain, Meijer's, actually started carrying organic pears, which was a real treat. I often ask stores to provide more organic choices and always get strange looks. If one is too vocal about organics, many locals assume one is a tree-hugging, non-church-going, hippie-democrat weirdo. It's like being stuck in the 1950's.
I mention all this because in the week following Thanksgiving I knew heavy snows would soon be coming, which means I might be snowbound for weeks on end (it costs too much to have my long driveway plowed out every day or two after all the "lake effect" snow we get). I needed to get in two months worth of canned organic soups, diced tomatoes, bags of dried figs and apricots, organic soy (non-GMO) veggie burgers, a few dozen eggs from free-range chickens, and other staples. There is a large, upscale, pricey health food store in Kalamazoo about an hour away. There is also a smaller health food store in another direction only 35 minutes away. When I saw a subbing assignment in a Middle School near the 35 minute one, I grabbed it. I could earn some money AND get my supplies. Win-win.
It was my first half-day assignment, from 11:31am-2:42pm, and it was in Special Education, an area I had avoided since I have no expertise in it. But other subs had told me no special training was needed -- just patience with the kids. So I thought I would try it and see how it went.
The assignment was for November 27th, the Tuesday after Thanksgiving. The regular teacher was still there when I arrived -- she was warm and friendly as she explained her lesson plans and showed me colorful little plastic computer-calculators programmed with math assignments. I couldn't figure out how to make the gizmos work. "Don't worry," she smiled. "They all know how and help each other if anyone has a problem. They're really great kids." Then she left.
I took a deep breath and awaited my very first "special ed" class. The students arrived a moment later. My first surprise was that there were only two (both male). My second was that they were so gentle and curious.
This was a 7th grade English class and the boys' assignment was to write about the differences between our Thanksgiving celebration and the Pilgrims'. The boys mentioned some major differences in food, clothing, and housing. No Pilgrim watched football on TV nor did they spend the following day going Christmas shopping at the mall.
I added that the Pilgrims provided almost none of the food -- instead, they were the desperate recipients of food brought by kindly Native Americans. There were no frozen turkeys, fish, or hams -- any game had been freshly hunted, killed, dressed, and prepared only hours before. Nuts and cranberries had been gathered by hand. Nor was it an individual family gathering, as ours often are -- it involved the whole colony. Without the help of those hospitable Indians, many, if not all, in that small colony probably would not have survived. (Writing this, I am struck by the shift in focus: today, we think of Thanksgiving as a time to give thanks to a generous Creator -- but at that original feast, the most immediate focus must have been an overwhelming sense of gratitude to the native peoples who brought food to those frightened, weary strangers. Those native peoples, not the white man's God, were the ones deserving all the thanks. They were "have's," sharing their knowledge and bounty with "have-nots." How did we lose sight of the fact that it wasn't the white man's God who was responsible for the first Thanksgiving -- it was the red man's kindness. If only we had kept that focus, we would be a wiser, humbler, more humane nation today.)
The two boys started writing then. I helped with spelling and kept encouraging them. They were enjoying what they were doing and it showed. Twenty students was the average size of classes I had been with up until then. I honestly wasn't seeing that these two boys were any "slower" than most of the students in those larger classes! These two were certainly much more responsive. So just who were the ones in need of "special education"?
I have since subbed in quite a few "special ed" classes in a variety of schools and I'm seeing the same range of abilities there as in regular, mainstream classes. Maybe I'm missing some telltale diagnostic symtom but in general, and with a few notable exceptions, the "special ed" students are not only better motivated but also kinder to one another.
The class ended after 53 minutes and I said goodby to the boys. I could have happily spent the rest of the afternoon with them -- they were just the dearest little guys.
I then had a 25 minute lunch period followed by a 40 minute "prep" hour. I ate a tempeh sandwich I had made that morning and then spent the rest of the time wandering around the large classroom -- it had a homey, intimate feeling about it. There were small round tables scattered about, each with three or four chairs. There was a huge framed color photograph of a medieval Mediterreanean coastal town that took my breath away. I kept staring at it. I could almost have stepped into it, it seemed so real. I had asked the boys about it -- from its prominent position next to the blackboard, I assumed their teacher had often spoken about it, but the boys didn't know where it was. The room even had its own private bathroom and water dispenser -- what luxury!
I should mention that this was not an especially affluent area but it was a racially mixed and well educated one. There is a small, private Christian university there, which probably employs many of its people. I would need more information before I could argue that the presence of that university is a stronger factor in the education of the town's children than wealth. But it does make me wonder why major universities could not open branch campuses in those African-American communities where I had been subbing earlier in the month. Could part of the solution possibly be that simple? Probably not, but it might be worth a look.
Like many teachers, this one had posted her favorite "Sayings" around the room. One listed "Twenty Ways to Maintain a Healthy Level of Insanity." I loved it and regret that I didn't write them down. They were both humorous and sensible.
Another one, a quote from Albert Camus, I did write down:
In the midst of winter,
I finally learned
that there was in me
an invincible summer.
I resonate with that because I have been learning something similar from my subbing experiences.
At 1:48pm the last class of the day arrived for 6th grade math -- 5 students, one girl, 4 boys. Again, they were remarkable children. They helped one another -- the girl especially mothered the boys, who seemed younger than she. They quickly finished their math assignments and then turned to the room's computers, playing video games designed to increase hand-eye coordination. I watched them playing a game in which they had to thread a car through traffic jams -- any one of those children could have beaten me hands down.
The class ended at 2:36 pm and I said goodby to the five. Then I wrote their teacher a note telling her how much I had enjoyed her "gentle and curious" children. "If you ever need a sub again," I added, "please keep me in mind." Of course, I'll bet all her subs seek return engagements because her students are such a joy.
I turned off the lights, locked the door, signed out in the front office, and left the school. A mile away, as planned, I stocked up on all my organics at the local grocery, giving thanks in my own way for all the bounty, and then headed for home, feeling unusually relaxed and peaceful.
What would I do if I were in charge of this country? I would put *all* children into "special ed" classes of no more than 5-8 students (do-able as birth rates come down). I would establish small, specialized college-level schools within small towns across the country. To pay for nurturing such a sane educational system, I would close down all major military-industrial operations and shift the massive amounts of freed-up money not only to education but also to restoring our crumbling infrastructure and creating huge wind/solar/geothermal energy resources. Finally, I would give everyone a guaranteed, livable, annual income. Martin Luther King's various writings show brilliantly how and why this should be done (see, for example, A Testament of Hope: The Essential Writings of Martin Luther King, Jr., pages 247-248; 409-410; 615-617). I know the devil's in the details but it's time we start taking such ideas seriously -- for far too long, our nation's bounty has been misdirected to the grasping hands of the super rich, the super "have's." Unfortunately, most of them have shown themselves psychologically and ethically incapable of being responsible stewards of such bounty.
Thornton Wilder's Dolly Levi has it right. In his play, The Matchmaker (from which the film, Hello, Dolly was taken), she says to the rich, meanspirited merchant, Horace Vandergelder, "Horace, money's like manure -- it's not worth shit unless it's s-p-r-e-a-d around, helping young things grow."
It's time to start spreading it around, nurturing the precious, creative, life-giving "young thing" growth within each of us.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
#7: Journal Notes on Subbing Assignment for 19 November 2007
This 8th grade English Language Arts assignment was for a different school but in the same city as my very first assignment on October 30, 2007. The regular teacher and some of her colleagues were visiting grocery stores that day to solicit turkeys and hams for Thanksgiving baskets for local families. This was an annual event and the teachers enjoyed being part of it (the school was primarily African-American; she was white -- and like many teachers of both races there, deeply committed to her work with these children and their families). From time to time, they would be bringing the food back to a central collection point in the school. This meant that the regular teacher would be dropping in and out of her classroom, so we had a chance to talk beforehand as well as to connect throughout the day. I liked her -- she was young, brisk, down to earth, no-nonsense.
Her large classroom was pleasant and airy. Well chosen "Sayings" were posted on the walls and there were lots of books arranged in tall shelves, especially at the back of the room. She showed me around the room and explained where the textbooks were. I was to put them out on each desk before class and return them at the end of the day. I wondered how students did their homework if they couldn't take their books home. I have since learned that many schools now keep textbooks as their own property. Assignments, if any, are worksheets xeroxed from the books. I thought of the boxes of books I have from my own school days -- books I still treasure for the memories they evoke. That's been lost to these kids.
An unfortunate side effect is that the kids take no pride in such "communal property" -- they doodle in the books, scribble four-letter words in them, break their spines, drop them on the floor, and kick them under their desks. The books are actually handsomely produced -- huge, quite heavy (my arms ache from holding them), well-illustrated, and printed on expensive, heavyweight, glossy paper. Each one represents a considerable investment. Yet in school after school, I see them being trashed -- it doesn't matter which course -- science, English, geography -- you name it. Frankly, I think that if publishers made books smaller, lighter (and thus easier to carry in a backpack), and costing a mere fraction of what they do now, kids, schools, and books would all be better off. Students deserve to have their own personal, affordable textbooks. Great production values are praiseworthy, but not if no one's appreciating them. Publishers of expensive, overly elaborate, too-heavy books are out of touch with today's realities.
Besides major items like books, I'm also attentive to the "little things" in a classroom. Most classrooms have a box or two of kleenex around (it's always flu season in Michigan) and usually an antibacterial liquid or gel dispenser. Here, there was no anti-biotic and only a roll of rough toilet paper on the teacher's desk. Her chair was a plain orange plastic one -- no wheels, no swivel, no padded seat, nothing. I didn't mind (I usually don't sit much when I sub) but I knew I was in a school that was poorly funded -- and in a blighted area that deserves so much better.
Usually, I have found that teachers either teach several subjects or else different age groups, which means there is variety in assignments throughout the day. Here, each class was identical (except for the last class, where students were to read silently with no input from me). The day's theme was friendship. Students were to begin by reading a Robert Frost poem aloud. Then they were to continue reading aloud from an excerpt from Maya Angelou's *Caged Bird* about the friendship between a child and an older woman who understood how gifted the child was. Finally, they were to write down answers to five questions based on the readings.
The Robert Frost poem was the first hurdle. It involves a farmer hoeing his field when he hears a neighbor ride by on a horse. The neighbor slows down to talk and the farmer, although he has tons of work to do, willingly sets down his hoe and crosses the field to chat with his friend. Neither man has any regrets about his choice.
Well, "hoe" means one thing to me but quite another thing to today's black youngsters. It's not as if I hadn't seen this coming. A few breaths before the boy who was reading came to the fated word, my inner alarm bells went off. I hoped the mood Frost had created would carry us through but knew there might be trouble. And there was. The room erupted in bedlam, everyone giggling and getting rowdy. It took time to get them settled again.
Eventually, once they calmed down, I was able to tell them a little about Maya Angelou, a woman I greatly admire. Then I turned to the next student and asked him to begin reading. He sat at his desk, hunched over, and read in a barely audible voice. I stopped him -- "No, you need to stand up, honey, and speak loudly. We need to hear you."
He lurched uncomfortably to his feet but his voice was as soft as before. There was no expression, nothing. I stopped him again and briefly demonstrated what I was looking for. It did no good. So I let him finish and turned to the next student.
It was excruciating, both for them and for me. I found the lack of expression most disturbing because it indicated they were only reading words, not thoughts. A few knew how to read with at least a hint of feeling but most read like automatons. Their only desire was to get it over with so they could sit down again. Some refused to stand at all. They sat where they were, mumbling the words while their classmates acted up around them, making so much noise that the reader couldn't have been heard anyway.
And these were 8th graders. I have heard poor readers before but nothing like this. What's going to happen to these kids, I kept wondering to myself.
[Note: for more data on this issue, see below for a May 12, 2008 report from ScienceDaily as well as Hope Clark's February 2008 essay on the crucial importance of reading to children.]
The next class was even worse. I had to shout so much during that hour that the pressure in my head caused a nosebleed! That's never happened before! I went off to one side, fumbled for my kleenex, and desperately fought to stem the flow. Somehow I managed and no one noticed, but I was quite worried because my body had never before reacted to the stress of subbing like that.
By the 4th hour, I was reading them the Frost poem myself and there wasn't a single titter. On my lips, apparently, the word triggered nothing unusual. The youngsters were quieter that hour too, which was a great relief, but by the time they returned for 6th hour (for silent reading), they had turned into demons. One of the boys even regaled the others with a brief rap about me -- it's a good thing I didn't understand the lingo because, from the boys' nervous laughter (and complaints addressed to them from some of the girls, who objected to the rap's content), I don't think the words referring to me were very "nice." By then, honestly, I no longer cared.
I kept walking around the room during that 6th hour, trying to keep everyone focused on their silent reading. One boy called to me, "Miss, can you help me with a foreign word?" I went to him and asked what the word was. "I don't know how to say it," he said. "Something like la-ki-shorah." I asked him to write it down and he did, forming the letters carefully.
"Lakeshore," I said. "You've written 'Lakeshore.'" The boy and the males around him broke into loud, guilty laughter. "It's just lakeshore," I said, bewildered. Had they never heard the term before? How could I best define something so obvious? "It's a beach along a lake, a lakeshore -- you know, where people build cottages, have picnics, or go for a walk along Lake Michigan. What on earth is so darn funny about that? Drive fifteen minutes from here and you'll see *miles* of lakeshore!"
The boys were laughing even louder. Several girls turned around and glared at them. Then one of the girls looked at me and I think she was as irritated with me as with the boys. "Miss," she said tersely, "it's a gang name." She turned back and faced the front of the room. That took me aback. I briefly chewed out those hopelessly childish males. "Grow up," I concluded scornfully, and walked away. (I later mentioned the "Lakeshore Incident" to their teacher, along with Frost's "hoe." She was startled and said she'd make sure such things never happened again.)
When their teacher came in from time to time, the room would grow quiet. She would scold them for all the noise they had been making before they saw her, but within moments of her departure, the room would be as unruly as before. I chalked it up to my own introverted personality and inexperience with this age group, but I've since been told by many regular teachers that it has nothing to do with that -- it's just how they treat subs.
Many of these schools have so many other serious problems that they simply don't have the energy to teach students how to behave around subs. Of course, subs could always send students to detention, but I have only done that two or three times over the past seven months and only when I was really at my wits' end. I don't see that detention helps kids. OK, so they eventually get expelled for a day or two, maybe even a week -- but how does that help? They need to be IN school, learning, not pissing away their educational opportunities. How does detention solve anything? It makes no sense to me.
There have to be better answers and many of them need to start with parents who, unfortunately, often have little or no parenting skills. Why then did they have children if they were unwilling or unable to commit themselves to a very difficult, often tedious, exasperating, maddening task? I find that hard to understand.
I, for example, knew by the time I was twenty that I would have very poor parenting skills to offer a child. I'm not patient enough. I'm an introvert. I need a lot of space and time for myself. I need quiet and a relatively germ-free environment since I catch colds easily and just as easily sink into melodramatic misery. I become a Greta Garbo: "I vant to be alone!" Children tend not to understand parameters like that until they're at least fifty. Since I could never wait that long, my offspring would be constantly pushing my buttons and we would all become nervous wrecks. Or worse.
From what I have observed, a great many human beings are exactly like me. We simply do not make good parents. We are on this planet for other reasons. We should therefore NOT take the kind of chances that might wind up making us parents. Period. I knew that early on. This is proven by the fact that despite all my extraordinary precautions, the few times in my 20's when I thought I was pregnant felt like a genuine death sentence. Fortunately, either I wasn't pregnant or else extreme stress caused an early miscarriage. Otherwise, I probably wouldn't still be here today.
After all this, it might surprise readers to know that I'm actually quite good with kids because it's easy for me to morph into one of them (subs, of course, aren't paid to do that, so I have to shoe-horn myself into various expected adult roles). They and I both do "magical thinking." I love dragons, for example. So do they. Yet I still need my space. I'd probably be a wonderful aunt, but my three younger siblings, for their own reasons, never had children. Our line dies with us, which is fine with me -- and, presumably, with them. By now, I think most humans know deep down that there are too many of us on this planet. We are exhausting Mother Earth. We have been far too reckless with our seed. We need to be wiser, for the sake of all.
Thus, what I find difficult to grasp is why others exactly like me wind up having so many kids. I cannot fathom why they would let themselves -- to say nothing of their poor kids -- in for such a lengthy, painful karmic mess. The most disheartening thing I have heard from a regular teacher in the past seven months came from a woman on one of my return visits this spring to the school near the nuclear reactor (see #4: Notes for November 9, 2007). She said that several of her senior girls had recently told her that they intended to be pregnant before Graduation Day. "Why?" I asked her, deeply shocked. She replied tiredly that getting Welfare was how they planned to support themselves after they left school.
I could only groan. Twelve years of public school education and nothing -- nothing! -- has inspired them to dream anything bigger than that?! Their parents and our wretched test-driven educational system have tragically failed these young women and the men who'll father their babies. Our leaders have squandered our wealth on a "war of choice" and left too many of our young with empty futures. This isn't education. It's madness.
To judge by what I experienced during that November 19, 2007 assignment, most parents today can't be bothered to read to their kids. If any pregnant teenagers are reading this, at the barest minimum, people, READ to your kids. Discuss meanings and implications with them. Try to nourish bigger dreams for them than were nourished for you -- and perhaps discover more of your own along the way. Stint on other things if you simply can't cope, but at least READ to them. Otherwise, they're doomed and, trust me, they'll haunt you down through the ages and you'll have major regrets. It's not worth it.
Anyway, back to that day's 8th graders: for my own sanity, I tried simply to enjoy them. One on one, they're very engaging, creative, funny kids (I did have trouble understanding the black dialect but black teachers have told me they have the same problem). Enjoying them was no help, however -- they just got worse. So I resorted to being very stern, which did help, but only a little, and at too high a price. Truly, it's exhausting to act so stern. I'm not Sister Euphemia, a 6' tall, stern Dominican nun who taught highschool Latin when I was a student in the mid-late 50's. For each hour I have to act stern, I think my face winds up with another five years worth of wrinkles and my heart just wants to give up. Subs aren't paid much above minimum wage -- less when you factor in gas prices to get to a school and back. It's not worth it.
Over all, it was a terrible day. Dragging myself through the same dull assignment, hour after hour, made me think the day would never end. I felt trapped in a time-loop. The closecall with the nosebleed also continued to nag at me -- my body could hardly have given me a clearer signal. She did not like being in that place at all.
I finally wrote in my notes:
Do NOT come here for 8th grade again. Very out of control.
Months later, in the spring of 2008, I relented, curious to know if it would be easier now that I have had more experience with a wider number of schools. To change the dynamic, I even envisioned rearranging the classroom from standard-desks-in-rows to desks in a large circle. I thought that might work really well and I was eager to see if I was right. So at the beginning of May, I signed up for a 2-day assignment for the same teacher but, oddly, had to cancel it due to unexpected out-of-town company. A few weeks later, I accepted a one-day assignment for her, but wound up feverish with an exhausting flu, so again had to cancel. I think my body really did not wish to re-visit those 8th grade students.
For them, the school year is over now and they'll be 9th graders by autumn. That means they'll be bussed to one of an assortment of area highschools. My idea of desks in a circle and everyone clearly projecting their words as they read will have to wait for another group.
Her large classroom was pleasant and airy. Well chosen "Sayings" were posted on the walls and there were lots of books arranged in tall shelves, especially at the back of the room. She showed me around the room and explained where the textbooks were. I was to put them out on each desk before class and return them at the end of the day. I wondered how students did their homework if they couldn't take their books home. I have since learned that many schools now keep textbooks as their own property. Assignments, if any, are worksheets xeroxed from the books. I thought of the boxes of books I have from my own school days -- books I still treasure for the memories they evoke. That's been lost to these kids.
An unfortunate side effect is that the kids take no pride in such "communal property" -- they doodle in the books, scribble four-letter words in them, break their spines, drop them on the floor, and kick them under their desks. The books are actually handsomely produced -- huge, quite heavy (my arms ache from holding them), well-illustrated, and printed on expensive, heavyweight, glossy paper. Each one represents a considerable investment. Yet in school after school, I see them being trashed -- it doesn't matter which course -- science, English, geography -- you name it. Frankly, I think that if publishers made books smaller, lighter (and thus easier to carry in a backpack), and costing a mere fraction of what they do now, kids, schools, and books would all be better off. Students deserve to have their own personal, affordable textbooks. Great production values are praiseworthy, but not if no one's appreciating them. Publishers of expensive, overly elaborate, too-heavy books are out of touch with today's realities.
Besides major items like books, I'm also attentive to the "little things" in a classroom. Most classrooms have a box or two of kleenex around (it's always flu season in Michigan) and usually an antibacterial liquid or gel dispenser. Here, there was no anti-biotic and only a roll of rough toilet paper on the teacher's desk. Her chair was a plain orange plastic one -- no wheels, no swivel, no padded seat, nothing. I didn't mind (I usually don't sit much when I sub) but I knew I was in a school that was poorly funded -- and in a blighted area that deserves so much better.
Usually, I have found that teachers either teach several subjects or else different age groups, which means there is variety in assignments throughout the day. Here, each class was identical (except for the last class, where students were to read silently with no input from me). The day's theme was friendship. Students were to begin by reading a Robert Frost poem aloud. Then they were to continue reading aloud from an excerpt from Maya Angelou's *Caged Bird* about the friendship between a child and an older woman who understood how gifted the child was. Finally, they were to write down answers to five questions based on the readings.
The Robert Frost poem was the first hurdle. It involves a farmer hoeing his field when he hears a neighbor ride by on a horse. The neighbor slows down to talk and the farmer, although he has tons of work to do, willingly sets down his hoe and crosses the field to chat with his friend. Neither man has any regrets about his choice.
Well, "hoe" means one thing to me but quite another thing to today's black youngsters. It's not as if I hadn't seen this coming. A few breaths before the boy who was reading came to the fated word, my inner alarm bells went off. I hoped the mood Frost had created would carry us through but knew there might be trouble. And there was. The room erupted in bedlam, everyone giggling and getting rowdy. It took time to get them settled again.
Eventually, once they calmed down, I was able to tell them a little about Maya Angelou, a woman I greatly admire. Then I turned to the next student and asked him to begin reading. He sat at his desk, hunched over, and read in a barely audible voice. I stopped him -- "No, you need to stand up, honey, and speak loudly. We need to hear you."
He lurched uncomfortably to his feet but his voice was as soft as before. There was no expression, nothing. I stopped him again and briefly demonstrated what I was looking for. It did no good. So I let him finish and turned to the next student.
It was excruciating, both for them and for me. I found the lack of expression most disturbing because it indicated they were only reading words, not thoughts. A few knew how to read with at least a hint of feeling but most read like automatons. Their only desire was to get it over with so they could sit down again. Some refused to stand at all. They sat where they were, mumbling the words while their classmates acted up around them, making so much noise that the reader couldn't have been heard anyway.
And these were 8th graders. I have heard poor readers before but nothing like this. What's going to happen to these kids, I kept wondering to myself.
[Note: for more data on this issue, see below for a May 12, 2008 report from ScienceDaily as well as Hope Clark's February 2008 essay on the crucial importance of reading to children.]
The next class was even worse. I had to shout so much during that hour that the pressure in my head caused a nosebleed! That's never happened before! I went off to one side, fumbled for my kleenex, and desperately fought to stem the flow. Somehow I managed and no one noticed, but I was quite worried because my body had never before reacted to the stress of subbing like that.
By the 4th hour, I was reading them the Frost poem myself and there wasn't a single titter. On my lips, apparently, the word triggered nothing unusual. The youngsters were quieter that hour too, which was a great relief, but by the time they returned for 6th hour (for silent reading), they had turned into demons. One of the boys even regaled the others with a brief rap about me -- it's a good thing I didn't understand the lingo because, from the boys' nervous laughter (and complaints addressed to them from some of the girls, who objected to the rap's content), I don't think the words referring to me were very "nice." By then, honestly, I no longer cared.
I kept walking around the room during that 6th hour, trying to keep everyone focused on their silent reading. One boy called to me, "Miss, can you help me with a foreign word?" I went to him and asked what the word was. "I don't know how to say it," he said. "Something like la-ki-shorah." I asked him to write it down and he did, forming the letters carefully.
"Lakeshore," I said. "You've written 'Lakeshore.'" The boy and the males around him broke into loud, guilty laughter. "It's just lakeshore," I said, bewildered. Had they never heard the term before? How could I best define something so obvious? "It's a beach along a lake, a lakeshore -- you know, where people build cottages, have picnics, or go for a walk along Lake Michigan. What on earth is so darn funny about that? Drive fifteen minutes from here and you'll see *miles* of lakeshore!"
The boys were laughing even louder. Several girls turned around and glared at them. Then one of the girls looked at me and I think she was as irritated with me as with the boys. "Miss," she said tersely, "it's a gang name." She turned back and faced the front of the room. That took me aback. I briefly chewed out those hopelessly childish males. "Grow up," I concluded scornfully, and walked away. (I later mentioned the "Lakeshore Incident" to their teacher, along with Frost's "hoe." She was startled and said she'd make sure such things never happened again.)
When their teacher came in from time to time, the room would grow quiet. She would scold them for all the noise they had been making before they saw her, but within moments of her departure, the room would be as unruly as before. I chalked it up to my own introverted personality and inexperience with this age group, but I've since been told by many regular teachers that it has nothing to do with that -- it's just how they treat subs.
Many of these schools have so many other serious problems that they simply don't have the energy to teach students how to behave around subs. Of course, subs could always send students to detention, but I have only done that two or three times over the past seven months and only when I was really at my wits' end. I don't see that detention helps kids. OK, so they eventually get expelled for a day or two, maybe even a week -- but how does that help? They need to be IN school, learning, not pissing away their educational opportunities. How does detention solve anything? It makes no sense to me.
There have to be better answers and many of them need to start with parents who, unfortunately, often have little or no parenting skills. Why then did they have children if they were unwilling or unable to commit themselves to a very difficult, often tedious, exasperating, maddening task? I find that hard to understand.
I, for example, knew by the time I was twenty that I would have very poor parenting skills to offer a child. I'm not patient enough. I'm an introvert. I need a lot of space and time for myself. I need quiet and a relatively germ-free environment since I catch colds easily and just as easily sink into melodramatic misery. I become a Greta Garbo: "I vant to be alone!" Children tend not to understand parameters like that until they're at least fifty. Since I could never wait that long, my offspring would be constantly pushing my buttons and we would all become nervous wrecks. Or worse.
From what I have observed, a great many human beings are exactly like me. We simply do not make good parents. We are on this planet for other reasons. We should therefore NOT take the kind of chances that might wind up making us parents. Period. I knew that early on. This is proven by the fact that despite all my extraordinary precautions, the few times in my 20's when I thought I was pregnant felt like a genuine death sentence. Fortunately, either I wasn't pregnant or else extreme stress caused an early miscarriage. Otherwise, I probably wouldn't still be here today.
After all this, it might surprise readers to know that I'm actually quite good with kids because it's easy for me to morph into one of them (subs, of course, aren't paid to do that, so I have to shoe-horn myself into various expected adult roles). They and I both do "magical thinking." I love dragons, for example. So do they. Yet I still need my space. I'd probably be a wonderful aunt, but my three younger siblings, for their own reasons, never had children. Our line dies with us, which is fine with me -- and, presumably, with them. By now, I think most humans know deep down that there are too many of us on this planet. We are exhausting Mother Earth. We have been far too reckless with our seed. We need to be wiser, for the sake of all.
Thus, what I find difficult to grasp is why others exactly like me wind up having so many kids. I cannot fathom why they would let themselves -- to say nothing of their poor kids -- in for such a lengthy, painful karmic mess. The most disheartening thing I have heard from a regular teacher in the past seven months came from a woman on one of my return visits this spring to the school near the nuclear reactor (see #4: Notes for November 9, 2007). She said that several of her senior girls had recently told her that they intended to be pregnant before Graduation Day. "Why?" I asked her, deeply shocked. She replied tiredly that getting Welfare was how they planned to support themselves after they left school.
I could only groan. Twelve years of public school education and nothing -- nothing! -- has inspired them to dream anything bigger than that?! Their parents and our wretched test-driven educational system have tragically failed these young women and the men who'll father their babies. Our leaders have squandered our wealth on a "war of choice" and left too many of our young with empty futures. This isn't education. It's madness.
To judge by what I experienced during that November 19, 2007 assignment, most parents today can't be bothered to read to their kids. If any pregnant teenagers are reading this, at the barest minimum, people, READ to your kids. Discuss meanings and implications with them. Try to nourish bigger dreams for them than were nourished for you -- and perhaps discover more of your own along the way. Stint on other things if you simply can't cope, but at least READ to them. Otherwise, they're doomed and, trust me, they'll haunt you down through the ages and you'll have major regrets. It's not worth it.
Anyway, back to that day's 8th graders: for my own sanity, I tried simply to enjoy them. One on one, they're very engaging, creative, funny kids (I did have trouble understanding the black dialect but black teachers have told me they have the same problem). Enjoying them was no help, however -- they just got worse. So I resorted to being very stern, which did help, but only a little, and at too high a price. Truly, it's exhausting to act so stern. I'm not Sister Euphemia, a 6' tall, stern Dominican nun who taught highschool Latin when I was a student in the mid-late 50's. For each hour I have to act stern, I think my face winds up with another five years worth of wrinkles and my heart just wants to give up. Subs aren't paid much above minimum wage -- less when you factor in gas prices to get to a school and back. It's not worth it.
Over all, it was a terrible day. Dragging myself through the same dull assignment, hour after hour, made me think the day would never end. I felt trapped in a time-loop. The closecall with the nosebleed also continued to nag at me -- my body could hardly have given me a clearer signal. She did not like being in that place at all.
I finally wrote in my notes:
Do NOT come here for 8th grade again. Very out of control.
Months later, in the spring of 2008, I relented, curious to know if it would be easier now that I have had more experience with a wider number of schools. To change the dynamic, I even envisioned rearranging the classroom from standard-desks-in-rows to desks in a large circle. I thought that might work really well and I was eager to see if I was right. So at the beginning of May, I signed up for a 2-day assignment for the same teacher but, oddly, had to cancel it due to unexpected out-of-town company. A few weeks later, I accepted a one-day assignment for her, but wound up feverish with an exhausting flu, so again had to cancel. I think my body really did not wish to re-visit those 8th grade students.
For them, the school year is over now and they'll be 9th graders by autumn. That means they'll be bussed to one of an assortment of area highschools. My idea of desks in a circle and everyone clearly projecting their words as they read will have to wait for another group.
Monday, May 26, 2008
#6: Children Better Prepared For School If Their Parents Read Aloud To Them
NOTE:
Today I am going to pause in posting my personal Subbing/Grubbing notes in order to address an issue of enormous importance: the value of reading to children.
FIRST, I am including a May 12, 2008 report from *Science Daily.* Here is the link to the online article (the page includes related links to other articles involving children reading, the value of talking to themselves, etc):
http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2008/05/080512191126.htm
And here is the brief article:
Children Better Prepared For School If Their Parents
Read Aloud To Them
ScienceDaily (May 12, 2008) — Young children whose parents read aloud to them have better language and literacy skills when they go to school, according to a review published online ahead of print in the Archives of Disease in Childhood.
Children who have been read aloud to are also more likely to develop a love of reading, which can be even more important than the head start in language and literacy. And the advantages they gain persist, with children who start out as poor readers in their first year of school likely to remain so.
In addition, describing pictures in the book, explaining the meaning of the story, and encouraging the child to talk about what has been read to them and to ask questions can improve their understanding of the world and their social skills.
The review brings together a wide range of published research on the benefits of reading aloud to children. It also includes evidence that middle class parents are more likely to read to their children than poorer families.
The authors explain that the style of reading has more impact on children's early language and literacy development than the frequency of reading aloud. Middle class parents tend to use a more interactive style, making connections to the child's own experience or real world, explaining new words and the motivations of the characters, while working class parents tend to focus more on labelling and describing pictures. These differences in reading styles can impact on children's development of language and literacy-related skills.
The Reach Out and Read programme in Boston has improved the language skills of children in low income families by increasing the proportion of parents reading to their children.
The programme provides books and advice to the parents about the importance of reading aloud. Parents who have been given books were four times more likely to say they had looked at books with their children or that looking at books was one of their child's favourite activities, and twice as likely to read aloud to their children at least three times a week.
Adapted from materials provided by BMJ-British Medical Journal, via EurekAlert!, a service of AAAS.
======================================================
======================================================
SECOND, following that thought-provoking report from ScienceDaily, I am posting (with her permission) Hope Clark's gentle, sensible essay on reading to children from February 3, 2008, "Passing It Forward":
======================================================
Volume 8, Issue 5
February 3, 2008
======================================================
Editor: C. Hope Clark
Mailto: Hope@FundsforWriters.com
Web Site: www.fundsforwriters.com
FFW Small Markets is an opt-in letter here at your leisure.
FEEL FREE TO FORWARD THIS NEWSLETTER TO YOUR FRIENDS !!!!!
http://www.hopeclark.blogspot.com
=======================================================
EDITOR'S PIECE OF MIND
=======================================================
PASSING IT FORWARD
We are what we read. Our children become what they read. The
world is so enrapt in online bulleted and graphic material
today, however, that reading text is becoming old-fashioned.
A world of instant gratification, as created by electronics,
makes it hard for young people to sit down over the course
of a few days and (gasp) sit still to read an entire book.
As adults, we are remiss and a major part of the problem.
For instance, have you read the books your child is reading?
Ever considered reading them and having discussions about
plot, character and societal impact of the story? Ever thought
about him reading aloud to you - you reading aloud to him?
When a child sees how excitedly an adult reads, he wants to
emulate. When adults recite passages, story twists and settings
of intriguing books, the child respects reading. Because the
adult loves the written word, the child wants to love it.
Read this piece from a UK online publication titled The
Telegraph, about children, books and the love of reading.
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/arts/main.jhtml?xml=/arts/2008/01/19/bokidsbooks119.xml
Teaching our children to love stories begins with surrounding
them with good stories. This article lists 100 books for each
of three age groups, and labels them as must-reads.
Do you remember being read to? If you do, bless your heart.
I bet you have warm memories of the stories, the voice, the
individual attention of someone telling you a story. You
probably remember those stories into your adulthood. The
Velveteen Rabbit, Where the Wild Things Are, Yertle the
Turtle and Winnie-the-Pooh. You know the tales.
But childhood reading shouldn't end with bedtime stories for
toddlers. Sharing stories should continue into the older years.
Even if you do not read to your teen, at least know what he
is reading and be able to discuss it with him. Quote passages,
even if it's gore from Stephen King's Pet Cemetery.
Not only does reading create memories, but it exercises the
mind. It empowers a child to write. It provides fodder for
his everyday life, his conversations into adulthood, his
credibility as an intelligent human being, his job and his
personal life.
I read to my husband when we drive, sit on the back porch,
or have a drink on the sofa late in the afternoon. Sometimes
it's the news, and at other times it's my fiction. When
we dated, I read poetry over the phone. It's amazing how
reading the Book of Solomon from the Old Testament can spark
a relationship with a beau.
Get back to reading. Show a child how glorious the worlds
are between cardboard covers.
Hope Clark
======================================================
======================================================
With these two articles as background, I will soon follow (in a post that will appear above this one) with my Journal Notes for the 19 November 2007 subbing assignment, for that is where I came to understand firsthand how desperately impaired many of our children are when it comes to reading.
Today I am going to pause in posting my personal Subbing/Grubbing notes in order to address an issue of enormous importance: the value of reading to children.
FIRST, I am including a May 12, 2008 report from *Science Daily.* Here is the link to the online article (the page includes related links to other articles involving children reading, the value of talking to themselves, etc):
http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2008/05/080512191126.htm
And here is the brief article:
Children Better Prepared For School If Their Parents
Read Aloud To Them
ScienceDaily (May 12, 2008) — Young children whose parents read aloud to them have better language and literacy skills when they go to school, according to a review published online ahead of print in the Archives of Disease in Childhood.
Children who have been read aloud to are also more likely to develop a love of reading, which can be even more important than the head start in language and literacy. And the advantages they gain persist, with children who start out as poor readers in their first year of school likely to remain so.
In addition, describing pictures in the book, explaining the meaning of the story, and encouraging the child to talk about what has been read to them and to ask questions can improve their understanding of the world and their social skills.
The review brings together a wide range of published research on the benefits of reading aloud to children. It also includes evidence that middle class parents are more likely to read to their children than poorer families.
The authors explain that the style of reading has more impact on children's early language and literacy development than the frequency of reading aloud. Middle class parents tend to use a more interactive style, making connections to the child's own experience or real world, explaining new words and the motivations of the characters, while working class parents tend to focus more on labelling and describing pictures. These differences in reading styles can impact on children's development of language and literacy-related skills.
The Reach Out and Read programme in Boston has improved the language skills of children in low income families by increasing the proportion of parents reading to their children.
The programme provides books and advice to the parents about the importance of reading aloud. Parents who have been given books were four times more likely to say they had looked at books with their children or that looking at books was one of their child's favourite activities, and twice as likely to read aloud to their children at least three times a week.
Adapted from materials provided by BMJ-British Medical Journal, via EurekAlert!, a service of AAAS.
======================================================
======================================================
SECOND, following that thought-provoking report from ScienceDaily, I am posting (with her permission) Hope Clark's gentle, sensible essay on reading to children from February 3, 2008, "Passing It Forward":
======================================================
Volume 8, Issue 5
February 3, 2008
======================================================
Editor: C. Hope Clark
Mailto: Hope@FundsforWriters.com
Web Site: www.fundsforwriters.com
FFW Small Markets is an opt-in letter here at your leisure.
FEEL FREE TO FORWARD THIS NEWSLETTER TO YOUR FRIENDS !!!!!
http://www.hopeclark.blogspot.com
=======================================================
EDITOR'S PIECE OF MIND
=======================================================
PASSING IT FORWARD
We are what we read. Our children become what they read. The
world is so enrapt in online bulleted and graphic material
today, however, that reading text is becoming old-fashioned.
A world of instant gratification, as created by electronics,
makes it hard for young people to sit down over the course
of a few days and (gasp) sit still to read an entire book.
As adults, we are remiss and a major part of the problem.
For instance, have you read the books your child is reading?
Ever considered reading them and having discussions about
plot, character and societal impact of the story? Ever thought
about him reading aloud to you - you reading aloud to him?
When a child sees how excitedly an adult reads, he wants to
emulate. When adults recite passages, story twists and settings
of intriguing books, the child respects reading. Because the
adult loves the written word, the child wants to love it.
Read this piece from a UK online publication titled The
Telegraph, about children, books and the love of reading.
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/arts/main.jhtml?xml=/arts/2008/01/19/bokidsbooks119.xml
Teaching our children to love stories begins with surrounding
them with good stories. This article lists 100 books for each
of three age groups, and labels them as must-reads.
Do you remember being read to? If you do, bless your heart.
I bet you have warm memories of the stories, the voice, the
individual attention of someone telling you a story. You
probably remember those stories into your adulthood. The
Velveteen Rabbit, Where the Wild Things Are, Yertle the
Turtle and Winnie-the-Pooh. You know the tales.
But childhood reading shouldn't end with bedtime stories for
toddlers. Sharing stories should continue into the older years.
Even if you do not read to your teen, at least know what he
is reading and be able to discuss it with him. Quote passages,
even if it's gore from Stephen King's Pet Cemetery.
Not only does reading create memories, but it exercises the
mind. It empowers a child to write. It provides fodder for
his everyday life, his conversations into adulthood, his
credibility as an intelligent human being, his job and his
personal life.
I read to my husband when we drive, sit on the back porch,
or have a drink on the sofa late in the afternoon. Sometimes
it's the news, and at other times it's my fiction. When
we dated, I read poetry over the phone. It's amazing how
reading the Book of Solomon from the Old Testament can spark
a relationship with a beau.
Get back to reading. Show a child how glorious the worlds
are between cardboard covers.
Hope Clark
======================================================
======================================================
With these two articles as background, I will soon follow (in a post that will appear above this one) with my Journal Notes for the 19 November 2007 subbing assignment, for that is where I came to understand firsthand how desperately impaired many of our children are when it comes to reading.
#5: Journal Notes on Subbing Assignment for 16 November 2007
In my early days of subbing, I only accepted assignments for which I felt qualified -- English, language studies, social studies, world history, music, and so forth. I would soon learn that schools did not have the privilege of making such distinctions: they would gladly take anyone available. Because of this, within two weeks of this November 16th assignment, I, who know nothing of carpentry, would be subbing in woodshop classes at another school, where I would be asked to play a home improvement video the students had already seen a zillion times, and where I would unwittingly set the stage for being barred from that particular school district.
But I am getting ahead of myself. The November 16th assignment was for 8th and 9th grade Social Studies and World History in a mostly white school only about 10 minutes away from my home. The town is the usual small, rural town but there's a sense of life and vibrancy there that's missing in many other such towns, including my own (in which, despite the large American flags hanging in abandoned storefronts on Main Street, no one is fooled -- you can't turn a sow's ear into a silk purse by hanging up a few flags -- this is a decaying town, more obsessed with hiring a Blight Ordinance Officer to ensure that its citizens' lawns are kept tidy than with coping with serious local drug problems). The November 16th town is about the same size as mine yet it has far more interesting stores and restaurants. In the summers, it also has a much more thriving, colorful farmers market than the mostly ignored one I started several years ago in my own town. I have never understood why two towns so close to each other could be so different. C'est la vie ::sigh::
Anyway, on November 16th I arrived at this town's middle school. I was warned that one young lady had a history of seizures. I was told that her classmates, however, were remarkable and knew how to handle such incidents. She asked for Kleenix in my classroom, and I immediately phoned to ask for someone to deliver a box. Other than that, she was fine. Later, she had a seizure in the hall between classes but students and staff were thoroughly prepared and handled it well. I was touched by the concern everyone showed her. One teacher commented to me that her seizures tended to occur after lunch, which suggested that high carb and sugar levels might be involved. I mentioned that to someone in charge but have no idea what was done with such information -- they probably already knew that lunch could be a possible trigger.
Most of my classes there were working on England's first colonies in the Americas. I have only a basic knowledge of that period and did not swerve from their teacher's assignment. It was a Friday so students were more noisy than usual, especially if they partnered up to work as teams (their teacher didn't say if this was allowed or not but the students insisted that it was -- I found, however, that they got more work done if they worked alone so starting with the 2nd hour, I made that my policy).
In 3rd hour, one young lady with a chip on her shoulder was loud, uncooperative, and spent most of her time punching holes in her worksheet. She insisted she couldn't work alone. I reluctantly let the class partner-up, but this was a mistake as she only got worse. There weas no point in sending her to detention -- that would only increase her animosity. Aside from her, however, the rest were great.
The remaining two classes were on ancient Greek science and philosophy. I would have been fine with that except that the author of the text they were using elevated Greek views and denigrated those of Egypt and Mesopotamia as "superstitious." I could not let that go. So I gave them a mini-lecture on the fallicies of such a viewpoint. I brought in Greece's rainbow goddess, Iris, Plato's positive view of her, discussed Egyptian and Mesopotamian metaphors and symbols, etc. The ancients simply did not make the same rigid distinctions between "myth" and science that we do and I felt it was important for these students to understand that. They seemed to enjoy this journey through science, myth, and philosophy and some even said they wished I was their regular teacher. I brushed that off, recognizing it for being "over the top," but couldn't figure out why. I would later learn on 7 December 2007 from another sub, who had had a similar positive experience at that school, that the reason those students were so nice to subs was that they got double detention if they weren't!
Regardless, they were still great kids and I'd return in a minute -- unfortunately, that school's need for subs seems to be minimal. As of 26 May 2008, I have not found a single assignment listed for them. Hopefully, I'll have better luck when the fall term begins, if I'm still subbing (smile).
But I am getting ahead of myself. The November 16th assignment was for 8th and 9th grade Social Studies and World History in a mostly white school only about 10 minutes away from my home. The town is the usual small, rural town but there's a sense of life and vibrancy there that's missing in many other such towns, including my own (in which, despite the large American flags hanging in abandoned storefronts on Main Street, no one is fooled -- you can't turn a sow's ear into a silk purse by hanging up a few flags -- this is a decaying town, more obsessed with hiring a Blight Ordinance Officer to ensure that its citizens' lawns are kept tidy than with coping with serious local drug problems). The November 16th town is about the same size as mine yet it has far more interesting stores and restaurants. In the summers, it also has a much more thriving, colorful farmers market than the mostly ignored one I started several years ago in my own town. I have never understood why two towns so close to each other could be so different. C'est la vie ::sigh::
Anyway, on November 16th I arrived at this town's middle school. I was warned that one young lady had a history of seizures. I was told that her classmates, however, were remarkable and knew how to handle such incidents. She asked for Kleenix in my classroom, and I immediately phoned to ask for someone to deliver a box. Other than that, she was fine. Later, she had a seizure in the hall between classes but students and staff were thoroughly prepared and handled it well. I was touched by the concern everyone showed her. One teacher commented to me that her seizures tended to occur after lunch, which suggested that high carb and sugar levels might be involved. I mentioned that to someone in charge but have no idea what was done with such information -- they probably already knew that lunch could be a possible trigger.
Most of my classes there were working on England's first colonies in the Americas. I have only a basic knowledge of that period and did not swerve from their teacher's assignment. It was a Friday so students were more noisy than usual, especially if they partnered up to work as teams (their teacher didn't say if this was allowed or not but the students insisted that it was -- I found, however, that they got more work done if they worked alone so starting with the 2nd hour, I made that my policy).
In 3rd hour, one young lady with a chip on her shoulder was loud, uncooperative, and spent most of her time punching holes in her worksheet. She insisted she couldn't work alone. I reluctantly let the class partner-up, but this was a mistake as she only got worse. There weas no point in sending her to detention -- that would only increase her animosity. Aside from her, however, the rest were great.
The remaining two classes were on ancient Greek science and philosophy. I would have been fine with that except that the author of the text they were using elevated Greek views and denigrated those of Egypt and Mesopotamia as "superstitious." I could not let that go. So I gave them a mini-lecture on the fallicies of such a viewpoint. I brought in Greece's rainbow goddess, Iris, Plato's positive view of her, discussed Egyptian and Mesopotamian metaphors and symbols, etc. The ancients simply did not make the same rigid distinctions between "myth" and science that we do and I felt it was important for these students to understand that. They seemed to enjoy this journey through science, myth, and philosophy and some even said they wished I was their regular teacher. I brushed that off, recognizing it for being "over the top," but couldn't figure out why. I would later learn on 7 December 2007 from another sub, who had had a similar positive experience at that school, that the reason those students were so nice to subs was that they got double detention if they weren't!
Regardless, they were still great kids and I'd return in a minute -- unfortunately, that school's need for subs seems to be minimal. As of 26 May 2008, I have not found a single assignment listed for them. Hopefully, I'll have better luck when the fall term begins, if I'm still subbing (smile).
Sunday, May 25, 2008
#4: Journal Notes on Subbing Assignment for 9 November 2007
[Begun 1/17/08, completed 5/25/08, 1:50am]
November 9, 2007
A hundred or more years ago, a small town in Michigan was a bright beacon attracting black professionals, intellectuals and artists. They lived in grand houses (many still standing, but much faded), had white servants, and nurtured a lively, creative excitement in this corner of Michigan.
Times changed, populations shifted, and poverty arrived. The town remained predominately black but was no longer a cultural mecca. The upper class blacks had mostly moved on. It was now just one more small, struggling, rural Michigan town, regardless of race.
Eventually, a nuclear power plant was built on the town's vulnerable shores of Lake Michigan. This became a major employer. There are rumors about mismanagement and corruption at this now-aging plant, but such rumors, probably well-founded, doubtless abound at all nuclear installations. Our nuclear scientists may be brilliant, but human error and greed too often trump science.
Today, the town's schools keep their buses at the ready, just in case. The drivers' instructions are to head due south with their students. Why? Well, it seems that prevailing winds will blow any fallout towards the north/northeast -- towards an expensive resort town, in other words. I doubt the wealthy of that town were aware of such wind patterns when decisions were being made by local politicians. Residents probably assumed the small, impoverished black town would be "ground zero." Their own lifestyle, safely up the coast, would not be impacted. But such reasoning left out the winds.
Nevertheless, the idea of children in caravans of yellow school buses threading their way south in the chaotic wake of a nuclear emergency does not sound like a convincingly safe plan. It is disgusting that powerful tycoons, backed by the wealthy politicians of this state, placed a nuclear plant only a few miles from a town too poor to fight the decision.
Yet because of its once-glorious history, I was looking forward to getting an assignment in this town. I am a romantic -- I felt that some of the long-ago magic of this place might still remain. I kept checking online postings for a week until I finally saw an opening for November 9th in that town's middle school. I clicked on it instantly.
Daylight Savings Time had ended by then so arriving in darkness was a thing of the past. I parked in the back where I saw others parking. The back doors were locked but a teacher with a key kindly let me in. As I walked through the halls to the office, other teachers, mostly black, greeted me warmly. There was an immediate sense of camaraderie. The children seemed more rested and livelier too. The sullen, mean-spirited heaviness I had felt up the coast in the more affluent school the preceding week was absent here. My spirits rose.
I checked in with a black woman who had a pair of sparkling red shoes on a shelf over her computer. "Dorothy's red shoes," I laughed, pointing. I'm an Oz fan from way back and own all of L. Frank Baum's series.
"No," the woman replied, "Snipp, Snapp, and Snurr and the Red Shoes." That really tickled me -- the three blonde Swedish brothers, Snipp, Snapp, and Snurr, from Maj Lindman's late 1930's books, were a familiar feature of my own childhood, although I didn't remember any tales about red shoes. Yet, that this woman would be familiar with my own childhood favorites was a delight. Most people have never heard of them and yet she had. (At Christmas time, five and a half weeks later, when I would sub here again in band, I would discover that she and I had both played first chair violin in our respective junior high schools, and she had gone on to play first chair viola in highschool, which created yet another bond between us.)
I really like this place, I thought to myself -- some of the magic is still shimmering here. (Update, 25 May 2008: despite problems since my first assignment there, this remains one of my favorite schools.)
I was subbing that day for a teacher in 8th grade Social Studies. The instructions were clear, both for the first period of U.S. History, and the 2nd, 3rd, and 5th periods of World History/Geography. What I remember, looking back, are not the assignments but the kids. It was a Friday and many of the youngsters wore Junior ROTC uniforms for a major assembly scheduled for noontime. They looked so smart and proud in their uniforms, the girls in their black patent leather shoes peaking out below their trousers, the boys all looking gallant, somber, and old beyond their years.
All of them broke my heart though. They were 8th graders -- why were they being recruited so early? Well, of course, because enlistments are down and the government will take whatever is available. But 8th graders from this impoverished little town with its lethal nuclear reactor? Did Washington have no shame?
Many students, of course, had no involvement with ROTC. Those kids were noisy and unfocused as they worked on their assignments that morning. One sweet, somewhat overweight, and very bright young woman in her ROTC uniform helped the others, for which I was grateful. She too seemed old beyond her years and I was glad she was overweight -- that might protect her from active duty later on. At least I hoped so.
The ROTC assembly took place in the gym around noon and all those in uniforms were excused early so that they could get organized. Then the other students were released to attend the assembly. I planned to attend as a sign of support to the youngsters. I got to the gym after nearly everyone else was inside. The youngsters in their uniforms were lining up inside and marching in formations. Crisply uniformed old guys (well, my age, actually) in their 50's or 60's were calling the shots. I kept watching and started feeling sick. I wasn't in college in the 60's and so was never part of the ROTC college scene during the Vietnam years, but I certainly heard enough about it on the evening news in New York City's Lower East Side, where I lived then. These kids, proud and *too* mature in their fine uniforms, parading about the gym with such hope, unnerved me. I couldn't bear it, couldn't bear the patriotic BS they were being fed nor the danger in which their young lives were being placed by this country's current administration.
I left. I walked the halls and finally came across the library -- a large room, functional, but lacking in charm. I puttered about, looking at books. A single librarian was there -- no students -- only her and me. She looked about five-ten years younger than me but she'd certainly remember the Vietnam years. "I'm subbing today," I explained, approaching her desk. "I meant to attend the ROTC assembly, but I just couldn't. It brought back too many bad memories. I can't stand what's happening to these kids."
She was sympathetic and said that she too had problems with it. But she also said that the ROTC program had helped a lot of these kids to grow up, to get grounded and focused, to take responsibility for their own lives. She said that very few would ever actually enlist when they came of age, which made me feel much better about it all. She saw the program as a way to help kids mature who would otherwise flounder and waste their opportunity to get a good education. I was impressed -- it gave me an entirely new slant on ROTC. I hope what she said is true.
The afternoon sessions soon arrived and some of the youngsters I had had in the first hour for U.S. History were now back for World History/Geography. Since I had already interacted with them in the morning, I felt free to kid around with them more. They were really charmers. The topic was the Middle East, something I happen to know a lot about, so I tried to share what I knew, with mixed results. Subs aren't expected to "teach." They're just subs.
One young lady, after I reached across her book to point to a map, said sharply, "You're in mah purrh-sonel space!" I was startled -- was this a new "no-no" in today's world? Were teachers no longer allowed to reach across a student to demonstrate a point?
"No," I replied quietly, "I'm just trying to show you where the answer to the question is." And I walked away, hiding my confusion.
Another young lady was sitting on a desk in front of a young man, flirting with him, entwining their limbs. There was an easy familiarity between them, a fondness, but without any overt sexual overtones. They were more like dancers, not sexual partners. I weighed my reactions. The young "me" watching from Sister Euphemia's Latin class back in the late 50's was horrified. Obviously, Sister Euphemia would *never* have permitted such physical expression. But this is a new age, I told the young "me," these kids have grown up much faster than we did, they face drugs and wars we never heard of.
"I like your swag," a boy said unexpectedly. He sat up the row beyond the dancers and off to my right. I had to check to be sure he was addressing me. He was.
My swag? I was puzzled. It sounded like a compliment but I didn't understand it. "My swag?" I said. "In my day," I continued, "'swag' meant something you stole -- it was your booty -- and then you stashed it away in a safe place so no one else could take it from you. What does it mean to you?"
The shy child looked completely confused and mortified.
The young lady sitting on the desk, still entwining herself with the fellow on the other side of that desk, spoke up. "He means your SWAG -- you know, the way your hair is, the purple scarf, the purple top, your boots -- you know, your SWAG."
Then I understood. It was an idiom probably taken from "swagger." In other words, in my well-coordinated purple tones and done up hair, a certain "swagger" -- or confidence -- was expresed that he liked. I thanked him. I later realized the term could also come from a "swag" -- i.e, the flow of draperies as a window-treatment.
Regardless, I've often thought of that moment, especially when I feel demoralized and drained by what is too frequently a thankless task. To most of these kids, a sub is a subhuman species. I'm not good with faces and wouldn't recognize that shy youngster again, but I owe him nevertheless. He liked "my swag" (smile). There's solace in that on days when I feel like no more than a faceless cog. Because of him, I continue to walk with confidence.
November 9, 2007
A hundred or more years ago, a small town in Michigan was a bright beacon attracting black professionals, intellectuals and artists. They lived in grand houses (many still standing, but much faded), had white servants, and nurtured a lively, creative excitement in this corner of Michigan.
Times changed, populations shifted, and poverty arrived. The town remained predominately black but was no longer a cultural mecca. The upper class blacks had mostly moved on. It was now just one more small, struggling, rural Michigan town, regardless of race.
Eventually, a nuclear power plant was built on the town's vulnerable shores of Lake Michigan. This became a major employer. There are rumors about mismanagement and corruption at this now-aging plant, but such rumors, probably well-founded, doubtless abound at all nuclear installations. Our nuclear scientists may be brilliant, but human error and greed too often trump science.
Today, the town's schools keep their buses at the ready, just in case. The drivers' instructions are to head due south with their students. Why? Well, it seems that prevailing winds will blow any fallout towards the north/northeast -- towards an expensive resort town, in other words. I doubt the wealthy of that town were aware of such wind patterns when decisions were being made by local politicians. Residents probably assumed the small, impoverished black town would be "ground zero." Their own lifestyle, safely up the coast, would not be impacted. But such reasoning left out the winds.
Nevertheless, the idea of children in caravans of yellow school buses threading their way south in the chaotic wake of a nuclear emergency does not sound like a convincingly safe plan. It is disgusting that powerful tycoons, backed by the wealthy politicians of this state, placed a nuclear plant only a few miles from a town too poor to fight the decision.
Yet because of its once-glorious history, I was looking forward to getting an assignment in this town. I am a romantic -- I felt that some of the long-ago magic of this place might still remain. I kept checking online postings for a week until I finally saw an opening for November 9th in that town's middle school. I clicked on it instantly.
Daylight Savings Time had ended by then so arriving in darkness was a thing of the past. I parked in the back where I saw others parking. The back doors were locked but a teacher with a key kindly let me in. As I walked through the halls to the office, other teachers, mostly black, greeted me warmly. There was an immediate sense of camaraderie. The children seemed more rested and livelier too. The sullen, mean-spirited heaviness I had felt up the coast in the more affluent school the preceding week was absent here. My spirits rose.
I checked in with a black woman who had a pair of sparkling red shoes on a shelf over her computer. "Dorothy's red shoes," I laughed, pointing. I'm an Oz fan from way back and own all of L. Frank Baum's series.
"No," the woman replied, "Snipp, Snapp, and Snurr and the Red Shoes." That really tickled me -- the three blonde Swedish brothers, Snipp, Snapp, and Snurr, from Maj Lindman's late 1930's books, were a familiar feature of my own childhood, although I didn't remember any tales about red shoes. Yet, that this woman would be familiar with my own childhood favorites was a delight. Most people have never heard of them and yet she had. (At Christmas time, five and a half weeks later, when I would sub here again in band, I would discover that she and I had both played first chair violin in our respective junior high schools, and she had gone on to play first chair viola in highschool, which created yet another bond between us.)
I really like this place, I thought to myself -- some of the magic is still shimmering here. (Update, 25 May 2008: despite problems since my first assignment there, this remains one of my favorite schools.)
I was subbing that day for a teacher in 8th grade Social Studies. The instructions were clear, both for the first period of U.S. History, and the 2nd, 3rd, and 5th periods of World History/Geography. What I remember, looking back, are not the assignments but the kids. It was a Friday and many of the youngsters wore Junior ROTC uniforms for a major assembly scheduled for noontime. They looked so smart and proud in their uniforms, the girls in their black patent leather shoes peaking out below their trousers, the boys all looking gallant, somber, and old beyond their years.
All of them broke my heart though. They were 8th graders -- why were they being recruited so early? Well, of course, because enlistments are down and the government will take whatever is available. But 8th graders from this impoverished little town with its lethal nuclear reactor? Did Washington have no shame?
Many students, of course, had no involvement with ROTC. Those kids were noisy and unfocused as they worked on their assignments that morning. One sweet, somewhat overweight, and very bright young woman in her ROTC uniform helped the others, for which I was grateful. She too seemed old beyond her years and I was glad she was overweight -- that might protect her from active duty later on. At least I hoped so.
The ROTC assembly took place in the gym around noon and all those in uniforms were excused early so that they could get organized. Then the other students were released to attend the assembly. I planned to attend as a sign of support to the youngsters. I got to the gym after nearly everyone else was inside. The youngsters in their uniforms were lining up inside and marching in formations. Crisply uniformed old guys (well, my age, actually) in their 50's or 60's were calling the shots. I kept watching and started feeling sick. I wasn't in college in the 60's and so was never part of the ROTC college scene during the Vietnam years, but I certainly heard enough about it on the evening news in New York City's Lower East Side, where I lived then. These kids, proud and *too* mature in their fine uniforms, parading about the gym with such hope, unnerved me. I couldn't bear it, couldn't bear the patriotic BS they were being fed nor the danger in which their young lives were being placed by this country's current administration.
I left. I walked the halls and finally came across the library -- a large room, functional, but lacking in charm. I puttered about, looking at books. A single librarian was there -- no students -- only her and me. She looked about five-ten years younger than me but she'd certainly remember the Vietnam years. "I'm subbing today," I explained, approaching her desk. "I meant to attend the ROTC assembly, but I just couldn't. It brought back too many bad memories. I can't stand what's happening to these kids."
She was sympathetic and said that she too had problems with it. But she also said that the ROTC program had helped a lot of these kids to grow up, to get grounded and focused, to take responsibility for their own lives. She said that very few would ever actually enlist when they came of age, which made me feel much better about it all. She saw the program as a way to help kids mature who would otherwise flounder and waste their opportunity to get a good education. I was impressed -- it gave me an entirely new slant on ROTC. I hope what she said is true.
The afternoon sessions soon arrived and some of the youngsters I had had in the first hour for U.S. History were now back for World History/Geography. Since I had already interacted with them in the morning, I felt free to kid around with them more. They were really charmers. The topic was the Middle East, something I happen to know a lot about, so I tried to share what I knew, with mixed results. Subs aren't expected to "teach." They're just subs.
One young lady, after I reached across her book to point to a map, said sharply, "You're in mah purrh-sonel space!" I was startled -- was this a new "no-no" in today's world? Were teachers no longer allowed to reach across a student to demonstrate a point?
"No," I replied quietly, "I'm just trying to show you where the answer to the question is." And I walked away, hiding my confusion.
Another young lady was sitting on a desk in front of a young man, flirting with him, entwining their limbs. There was an easy familiarity between them, a fondness, but without any overt sexual overtones. They were more like dancers, not sexual partners. I weighed my reactions. The young "me" watching from Sister Euphemia's Latin class back in the late 50's was horrified. Obviously, Sister Euphemia would *never* have permitted such physical expression. But this is a new age, I told the young "me," these kids have grown up much faster than we did, they face drugs and wars we never heard of.
"I like your swag," a boy said unexpectedly. He sat up the row beyond the dancers and off to my right. I had to check to be sure he was addressing me. He was.
My swag? I was puzzled. It sounded like a compliment but I didn't understand it. "My swag?" I said. "In my day," I continued, "'swag' meant something you stole -- it was your booty -- and then you stashed it away in a safe place so no one else could take it from you. What does it mean to you?"
The shy child looked completely confused and mortified.
The young lady sitting on the desk, still entwining herself with the fellow on the other side of that desk, spoke up. "He means your SWAG -- you know, the way your hair is, the purple scarf, the purple top, your boots -- you know, your SWAG."
Then I understood. It was an idiom probably taken from "swagger." In other words, in my well-coordinated purple tones and done up hair, a certain "swagger" -- or confidence -- was expresed that he liked. I thanked him. I later realized the term could also come from a "swag" -- i.e, the flow of draperies as a window-treatment.
Regardless, I've often thought of that moment, especially when I feel demoralized and drained by what is too frequently a thankless task. To most of these kids, a sub is a subhuman species. I'm not good with faces and wouldn't recognize that shy youngster again, but I owe him nevertheless. He liked "my swag" (smile). There's solace in that on days when I feel like no more than a faceless cog. Because of him, I continue to walk with confidence.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)