Stand, sit, kneel, repeat

I've starting attending mass again after a decade+ absence (much to the delight of my father).  What he doesn't know is that I'm attending for all the wrong reasons.  My presence in mass has nothing to do with my own spirituality or faithfulness.  Nope.  I'm there so I can get my boys into school.

There's no way I'm sending my boys to the public school a half mile from our house.  I don't care that it is now a "Montessori" school.  Slapping a coat of fresh paint on a condemned building doesn't mean it will suddenly pass code.  I'll do whatever it takes to have the money for tuition.  I'd even go so far as to work at Wal-Mart.  Sadly, charter schools do not exist in this area.

If we still lived in Phoenix, none of this would be an issue.  They would already be baptized, and I know which school they would attend.  We made the choice to move here; they did not.  I needed to man-up (woman-up?) and take the steps necessary to pave the way for their education.  They still haven't sat with me during mass.  No one in the congregation is ready for that.  But, they really enjoy the post-mass donuts.  And, who doesn't?

My review of "Waiting for Superman"

Can filmmakers please stop labeling films as "documentaries" when the films clearly are not?  A documentary implies an impartial "documenting" of events.  The modern day "documentary" is just nonfiction storytelling.  The director clearly has an agenda (a la Michael Moore) and emotional manipulation is part of the storytelling process.  I'm saying the type of film needs to be abolished; it needs to be rebranded.  "Editorial" maybe.  "Opinion piece" possibly.  But not documentary.

I expected to become enraged by Waiting for 'Superman'.  From everything I had read and seen (from reviews to Oprah to the union newsletter*), I expected to be personally attacked for all the failings in the classroom.  I was pleasantly surprised that this wasn't a witch hunt against teachers.  I did enjoy the film, except for the blatant emotional manipulation.  (I'm insulted that the director thinks intelligent people need a heart-wrench story to buy into the notion that something needs to be done.)

To sum up the film (without any major spoilers), the educational system is broken.  It's the fault of the teachers' union.  Your child will fail if he or she attends a public or parochial school.  Charter schools are the magic bullet.

Clearly this film is biased towards charter schools.  It does mention one statistic that is quickly dropped like a hot turd: only 1 in 5 charter schools are successful.  BTW, that's the same number a public schools.  No successful public schools are presented; no failing charter schools are presented. 

Another aspect missing from the film is that of parental responsibility.  Sure, we see the concerned parents of the students highlighted in the film.  But, what about the thousands who aren't?  Parental involvement is a huge factor, as is student accountability.  I have an acquaintance who teaches high school English, yet his oldest child is a grade behind in reading.  Why?  Because he has been very self-centered regarding the divorce and hasn't focused on his children.  An English teacher's child should not be behind in reading, especially if the child goes to an excellent school (like this one does).

If nothing else, I hope an open and honest dialogue will take place because of this film.  Let's find out what is working and do it.  Let's stop following the latest fad in pedagogy.  Let's get back to basics.  We are all to blame for the failing educational system in this country; for we say we value education, yet our actions indicate otherwise.

*I am not a member of the union.  I'm not a fan of unions, but that is a rant for another time. If I ever plan on teaching full-time in this state, I will be forced to join the union. The union, not surprisingly, HATED this film.

Being who you are

My heart was breaking last night for Mondo on Project Runway.  Hearing his story was like a punch in the gut.  (When he finally came out to his mother, she told him not to tell the rest of the family.  He's been HIV positive for ten years and never told a soul, until last night via a reality television program.)  It's heart-wrenching to think someone can't be themselves to his or her family.  How do I instill in my children to be true to themselves and be who they are?  How do I teach them to be confident in themselves to be who they are no matter the situation?  I know I wasn't this way, and I still have issues with it.  How do we break that cycle in our children?  Can I ask any more questions in this posting?

Let's get writing!

On this, my 100th post, I call into question my writer-ness.  I have claimed to be a "writer" of sorts, but I have yet to really do anything about it.  I have friends who are actively writing novels, and yet, they do not refer to themselves as "writers."  Stephen King says in his tome On Writing, that to be a writer, one needs to write.  (OK, I'm paraphrasing.  He words the sentiment more cleverly than I.  He is, after all, a professional.)  Writing this blog has brought me back in touch with my writer-self who was buried in an avalanche of corporate negativity and was forced to survive on a diet of grubs and self-actualization.  As they say, it's time to shit or get off the pot.  And shit I shall!

November is National Novel Writing Month, started by a bunch of friends in the Bay Area.  It started as a LAN party of sorts, only instead of playing Half Life, they were feverishly writing narratives.  The rules surrounding NaNoWriMo are quite simple: start November 1st, end November 30, and write 50,000 words.  This is my call to arms (or keyboards, to be precise).  Anyone else want to join me on this nutty crusade?  If you are, click here to read all about it.

(For you fellow English teachers out there, there is a version of this month for K-12 classrooms.  Click here for that info.)

My non-sleeping boys

It's late, and I'm not sleeping.  I'm up late reading (again).  The first essays of the quarter aren't due until next week, so I thought I'd get in something I wasn't forced to assign a grade.  As my eyes register the words on the page (uh, screen...technically), the house is filled with sounds of restlessness, of sighs, of whimpers.  The males of this house are not sleeping well.  Flynn is teething.  I can't tell how many are coming in right now because he won't let me anywhere near is mouth (unless it's to shovel in food).  I believe the number is three.  Tim is going through a very stressful patch at work, coupled with a six-day-long headache.  Drake-- I'm not sure what's eating at Drake.  Since Sunday, he's been openly defiant about anything remotely related to bed time.  Last night as we were doing our bed time ritual, he began taking to me about being lost.  He was on the verge of tears, telling me that he really loved me, but he was sad that he and Flynn were going to be lost because they were boys.  It was tough piecing it all together.  Sunday, I took the boys with me to church for the first time and dropped them off at the child care room.  (Could you imagine my boys sitting through mass? Ha!)  I think, while there, Peter Pan on.  Something about that cartoon scared him.  He was afraid of becoming a "Lost Boy."  Something else must have scared him.  I tried getting information out of him tonight, but to no avail.  Captain Hook?  The crocodile?  Tinkerbell?  I need to figure this out quick so at least one male in this house can rest peacefully.   I guess I should call it a night.  I need to be rested to combat cranky boys in the morning.

The Lost Art of Conversation

Why I can't make mom friends

This gem of a video was circulating on Facebook yesterday.  I watched it and found myself laughing hysterically.  But, at two points, I winced.  It hit a little too close to home.  Two items I will discuss (early movement/cloth diapers*), but not because I'm bragging or because I'm a "mompetitor".  It's because, well, um...and now, we return to the "socially retarded" postulate.

My parents taught me manners (not Emily Post level, but nicer than your average Joe), but didn't really teach me how to converse.  My father is an incredible social butterfly, able to engage in conversation with anyone about anything.  (As a child overhearing one of these conversations, I remember thinking that for a person who never watches football, he was surprisingly knowledgeable.)  My mother is more reserved.  I tend to be more like her.  When I'm comfortable, I'll morph into my father, jabbering about any subject.  When I'm new to a situation, I'm reserved and awkward.  I'm absolutely awful at small talk.

I know school are over-burdened, trying to get students to pass a high-stakes graduation tests, but there are some real world topics I think students would be better off learning.  Speech: to gain confidence in public situations and to practice not saying "um" and "like" every third word.  Budgeting and finance:  hey, it's math.  Manners and conversation: respect and social skills.  At Seton (long ago, far away), we had a week of fun classes between semesters called Mini-Course Week.  During this week, I learned how to make balloon animals (which actually proved to be useful-- who knew?), calligraphy, square-dancing, basic judo, and had some acting sessions.  One of the more popular courses was "You and Your Car" lead by Mr. Ralph.  What if schools around the nation adopted this?  Here's a golden opportunity to teach topics students would like (or really, really should) learn.  What if we produced well-rounded students instead of automatons?


*For the record, researchers in England have determined that it's a wash (no pun intended) between cloth and disposable diapers.  Six of one, half dozen of another.  Right now, I'm being super lazy and using disposables.  Why?  Three and a half years of washing diapers wears a girl out.  That, and I'm still regulating Flynn's Miralax input.  I'll spare you the details, but your imagination is spot on.

*shudder*

I set a spider free today, instead of smashing it into oblivion screaming "Die!".  I did this because the boys were watching.  I fear spiders, even the tiny ones.  Why?  A side-effect of growing up in the Southwest.  Many of those critters are poisonous; if they aren't, they are big, hairy, and really, really ugly.  Buahahahaha.  I trace the fear to an incident in elementary school.  I was swimming in Rebecca Mork's pool (her house was directly behind mine).  A wolf spider was scurrying along the cool decking and her brother hit it with a rock.  For those unfamiliar with the wolf spider, the female carries her young on her back.  When the rock squashed the mommy spider, the babies scattered.  Hundreds of baby spiders.  (OK, maybe not HUNDREDS, but there were lots and lots and lots of the little critters.)  Creeped...me...out.  Feared spiders ever since that day.  Having the boys around has forced me to not flip out whenever I see a spider.  I don't want them to react the way I do.  They should have their own experiences with spiders before fearing them.

Sometimes fears are irrational, and sometimes they stem from an incident, like how most hoarders begin hoarding after some trauma.  My fear of sharks is somewhat irrational.  I blame John Williams and Steven Spielberg.  Jaws scared the bejezzus out of me.  To not see under the water-- no way.  Do you remember Marine Land in L.A.?  It had a tank you could swim in with rays, fish, and sharks (very, very benign sharks, but sharks nonetheless).  I went there on a class field trip and we HAD to swim in that tank.  My swim coach would have been so proud.  I never swam faster in my life, especially when one of those little buggers brushed my leg.  Everyone could hear the muffled scream emanating from my snorkel.