KONY 2012

Watch it.
Share it.
Take action.
Change the world.

I Usually Bite My Tongue: A Flood of Words

Typically I don't think my blog is the place for venting such as this. Who wants to read the rantings of an overly-verbose, overly-consumed-by-her-job teacher? Yes, usually I bite my tongue about these situations. Because I try to be understanding, to give the benefit of the doubt to those with whom I come in contact.

I usually bite my tongue when I see the cover of Newsweek declare that firing teachers will solve this country's educational issues. I bite my tongue when I hear that unions are to blame for the state of American education. I keep quiet when everyone from Oprah to Mark Zuckerberg to Bill Gates chimes in on what they believe will solve education (to be fair, I agree with some of their thoughts). I bite my tongue when people say we teachers have it so easy: our summers off, leaving work at 3 or 4, reading the paper while the kids do whatever it is that they want to do. I keep my mouth clenched tight when I read in Time magazine that the Education field is filled with some of the worst academic performers in college. I usually don't go into any of it because I feel so intensely frustrated I'm afraid I'll foolishly cry or lose my cool. I fear if I say what I think about education, people will mistake my frustration for your average work-related whining. When, in truth, I genuinely love what I do. I bite my tongue because I fear if I open my mouth I will splatter my opposition in such a chaotic rush of thought that my words will need to be scraped off the walls when I finish.

But I have to say what I think. It has been a hell of a week. I'm in my fifth year of teaching and every single day of it has been challenging. And I need to write all of this. I need to say what I feel and think because I'm a dam with too much pressure behind it.

Let me share a few facts (and some opinions) with you:

1. I end my school year long after and begin the school year long before the students do. In between I spend several days (17 this past summer, to be exact) involved in professional development, trainings, conferences,summer writing camps, etc. I also spend my summer refining and designing curriculum, reading books that I can recommend to my reluctant readers, and, frankly, catching up on sleep and my life and those few things I like to do for me.

2. I work 10 hour days on a regular basis. Teaching means I'm preparing 3 different 90 minute presentations (with visuals and handouts and group activities and assessments and more) to several rowdy crowds every single day. I'm contacting parents and troubleshooting and copying and correcting and cleaning and teaching and supporting and encouraging and standing and working all 10 of those hours. I only hit up the faculty lounge to check my box. Technically, I get a 25 minute lunch, but those few minutes are spent helping students and preparing for the next class in between bites of food and sometimes, every once in a while, actually visiting the restroom just once. (Do you have to tell your bladder to wait for an hour because you can't leave your work unattended?) I then bring work home. I'm an English teacher and frequently spend my evenings and weekends grading and giving pertinent feedback on student writing assignments. (Just multiply your one essay by 35 or 40 for your class, and then multiply that by 6 for all the classes I teach. This will give you a more thorough understanding of my exciting dating/social life.)

3. I graduated with honors from what I felt was a great higher education institution. In English (my major), I had a 4.0. I haven't checked my transcripts, but I'm pretty sure I earned all A's in my education classes as well. Because, you see, I was a student who loved learning and her content area and worked her tail end off. Because I've always valued education--which is a trend I've noticed amongst my fellow teachers.

4. My feet and back hurt every single day. This condition magically disappears in the summer months.

5. I work through all kinds of illnesses during the year--typically because hiring a sub means I still have to not only prepare for and grade all the work of the classes, but it is usually mediocre work my students produce if I'm gone. And my classroom is a chaotic disaster upon my return.

6. I want you to think about that big birthday party you let your kid have that one time with all of his/her friends, or that time you had all the boy scouts come to your place for pancakes, or whatever. I want you to think about how insane it was to have 12 children in your home at once. I have between 33 and 40 students in all of my classes (except the two remedial classes of 20--in which behavior issues and 3rd grade reading levels abound.) My students and I joke and say things like, "Stack 'em deep, teach 'em cheap" because what else can we do but make the best of it?

7. I don't think I could conduct a gallbladder surgery simply because I had one a few years back. I don't think you should think you know how to teach because you were a student once.

8. I get paid beans to work the hours I work and to do what I do. But I still do it because I love it. It is my life's work, my mission; call it what you may. My work is essential to society and I don't believe my students can afford for me to do it poorly.

9. I am pretty sure that in several of the nations that are surpassing American students in Math and Science, the country's educational system is designed in such a way that if students are not performing up to par at certain check points along the way, they're gone, blotted out, eliminated from the educational system altogether (or, in some countries, moved exclusively into the arena in which they do show promise). Which sort of means all the failing students aren't being included in these country's testing statistics, right? These scores are only reflective of the best of the best, technically. No?

10. Last I checked, don't we in the U.S. educate everyone, no matter their ability, nationality, race, or culture for 13 (sometimes more) years unless they opt to leave early? Even if students try and leave early then change their minds or incessantly play hooky or get pregnant or go to juvenile detention or fail and fail and fail some more, don't we provide every possible second, third, fourth, fifth chance available? And, for argument's sake, don't we do all of this essentially at no charge to them or their families?

11. Oversimplification indicates an inability to think in complex ways. Education in this country is not broken simply because of bad teachers. Are there bad teachers? Absolutely. And, frankly, I think this issue needs to be resolved. But not at the expense of the good teachers or the unions that serve as a voice for these teachers. Not at the expense of breaking something else in the system.

12. Last I checked, everyone is diverse. Our schools, especially, are uber-diverse: in culture, language, etc. At my school, for instance, 51% of our student population falls in that "minority" category. 42 different languages are spoken in the homes of our students. Because we're all diverse, everyone learns in different ways and is good at some things and not so good at others. A standardized test which is culturally and linguistically biased seems a silly measurement of what a diverse student population does or does not know, is or is not capable of, or how far a student may have come over the course of a school year. If the standard is set at this spot and this spot only, it doesn't account for the student that started way down there and made it clear up to here but is still below that spot.

13. Learning happens both in and out of schools (at least, ideally it should). Children are nurtured and taught in the home AND in the classroom.

Which brings me to what is/are sort of, kind of, in a round-about way my major point(s). I think? (Like I said: scraping my words off the walls, floods, and other metaphor mixing.) Just as a person can't perform all that well if they have no physical fuel in their system (sleep, food), I don't think anybody can perform all that well if they don't have the emotional and mental fuel they need.

Kids need adults to provide a lot of things for them: a stable home environment, mental stimulation and challenges from the earliest of ages on, love, acceptance, safety, and all those basics of physical survival. Kids need home. Kids need school. Kids need an intricate system of visible (and some invisible, behind-the-scenes) adults and peers that support them into adulthood.

As a teacher, I can't fix an unstable home life. I can't ensure that someone living in poverty has the time, money, and/or resources to take their kid to a museum or has the ability to tell them what kind of tree they're looking at or that Shakespeare was the guy who first coined that phrase. As much as I'd like to, I can't tell the media they are sending the wrong messages to our society's children about what is most valuable in this life. I can't put books on the shelves of homes where there are not books. There is a lot I cannot do in the years before a student enters my classroom. There is a lot I cannot do once a student walks out my classroom door. But I can control those 90 minutes that kid is in my classroom. And I do my very best to take a student where they are at (3rd grade reading levels and all), and teach them that good, thorough reading takes more effort than they've been giving (this happens at every level). I can help them find their voice in writing. I can teach them skills they didn't possess before. I can work my tail end off for those 90 minutes (and all the prep time before and grading time after). But, for some, those 90 minutes won't make enough of a difference. Because there is more to their success or failure than little old me.

Things that Must Go: Scapegoating Public Schools

The Issue: Childhood obesity has reached such a crisis that it is a threat to national security.

The Reason: Potential recruits don't meet the strict physical requirements for military service.

The Solution: Fix the school lunch system?

I heard about this on the news, then read this article about it. Honestly, I am incensed. Is it unacceptable that 27% of young Americans are obese? Absolutely. Are school lunches (and breakfasts for that matter) sub-par? Why else do you think I brown bag it each day? What frightens me here is that, once again, society's ills are solely depicted as the schools' responsibility.

I call foul.

We educators are in the business of educating. That is why I became an educator--to teach. However, schools as a whole have been assigned the task of playing band-aid to societal issues better suited for surgery. If there is one thing I've learned about the public's attitude toward education it is this: it is ALWAYS our fault. Whatever it is, we did it. Blame us. Sorry 'bout that.

But I can't help but wonder: why not tackle the entirely corrupt and completely disgusting system of mass-produced "food" companies? What about city governments that allow for a fast food joint on every corner in the lowest socio-economic neighborhoods? And whatcha gonna do about those who believe good parenting is as simple as sitting their child in front of the nearest video game console?

I'm sure part of school scapegoating originates because government agencies can ask favors of other government agencies. And there is some truth here--school lunch isn't anything to write home about. Furthermore, when you see what is being served it becomes a bit saddening that those students on free and reduced lunch in my neck of the woods eat two of their daily meals in the cafeteria--Monday through Friday. I completely support that school lunches should be addressed as a part of the solution to this epidemic obesity. But something tells me that school lunch is where this big government solution for obesity ends.

The recipe is simple: Fix something about the school system, pat yourselves on the back, call it solved. Works like a charm every dang time. Except when it doesn't.

To "The Man's" credit--it has to be difficult to point fingers when some of these "food" companies tip their hats--and wallets--to certain politicians. But what happens when a school lunch revolution is the only attempt at fixing this issue?

School lunch: definitely a place to start. Frankly, if lunches improve I might be able to buy my lunch every now and again without fearing the Frankenstein Food down in the cafeteria. It isn't so much the notion that we need to improve the quality of what we put in our mouths--including school lunch--but that the first (and potentially only) culprit for blame is placed public schools. If I could change one attitude in this society it would be this: The public school system is not the culprit of every societal ill, rather, it serves as a microcosm of the society it in which it exists.

Sometimes I Ride My Broom to School

To the Student Who Manipulated the System and Dropped My AP Class Without the Proper Protocol:

Do you really think asking me for a letter of recommendation after sneaking into your counselor and stealthily dropping my AP class without my required permission was a wise idea? Seriously? Who does that? I'm not sure you'd want me to say things about you such as "quits when a challenge presents itself" or "finds every possible loophole" or "unethical" and don't forget my personal favorite "avoids confrontation when a problem arises" in said hypothetical letter. If I were being 100% honest with the colleges and scholarships for which you are applying, however, I could say little else.

Signed,
That Batch Who Won't Let You Drop AP English

P.S. Maybe you should ask someone else for a more glowing review. Perhaps your sorry excuse for a salaried counselor who is too busy reading the sports section of
the newspaper in his special corner of the school library to realize that it is against policy to let you out of my class without permission.

Sometimes Shakespearean Captures My Emotion Best

Tonight I'm going to a viewing (wake) for a friend's mother. One month and three days from her shocking stage IV gastric cancer diagnosis, she passed away.

Today I found out a dear friend at work has ovarian cancer. Luckily chemotherapy is still an option. Devastation abounds, it would seem. Both are too young for this. Forgive me while I write a letter that needs writing.

To Cancer:

I loathe you. You ravenous beast. You thief. You villain. You putrid spawn on the human condition. Not only do you take over the human body, sucking it of all want for living, but you reach your corruption into the body of families, of friends, of coworkers. You ruiner of lives. I hate you more and more as each day passes. You are the loathed enemy, the furies collected, all wicked personified.

Signed,
Not a Fan

In my mind, cancer

is equivalent to (=, if you will)

The worst of Shakespeare's villains combined. The correlation of grief and devastation left in their wake is just too uncanny to not notice a connection.

Today's the BIG Day

And I'm on the verge of melting down altogether. Melting, really, should be a theme today. You see, the forecast is for a million and five degrees (anything over 100 is automatically placed in that particular category).



And then we get down to the nitty gritty (the nit and grit in which I self-absorbedly vent about my life, abandoning decorum entirely): I have multiple meetings to attend this morning at an inconveniently located school other than my own. I'm currently late to one of said meetings so what the heck, right? Why not blog while the internet is actually available. Because, you see, I wasted an hour on the phone with the devil (COMCAST) last night, trying to arrange an installation appointment at the new place. Appointment is yet to be set because the devil (COMCAST) couldn't understand that I need a modem that can hook to a wireless internet adaptor so that we're free to roam with the laptop. We CANNOT seriously be the only people in America with this situation! My classroom is in no way prepared for the students' happy arrival on Tuesday. Beyond my classroom, mentally and materially I am entirely unprepared for their swift approach. People are arriving here at six PM to haul our boxes of stuff to the UHAUL I'm picking up at five PM--and let me just say the living room does not look ready for that particular event. But I'll enjoy my pointless and frustratingly inane meetings in the meantime. I'm exhausted after a week of waking early and staying up late so I'm kind of at that sleepless, angry zombie state in which crying at the slightest provocation occurs quite frequently. The roommate and I fight, bicker, snap, or argue EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. WE. TALK.

My life feels like an ever-lovin' disaster. What about you?

I want my bed safely tucked away in an upper bedroom at my new house along with everything else of mine...and for someone else to come clean the old place...and for it to be some relaxed Saturday in the not-to-distant future when all of this is over. And I'm sleeping the sleep of someone situated.

Taking Yourself Too Seriously: When Bitterness Expresses Itself Freely

This week and next I am trapped in a writing institute "for the students." I got wrangled into it under false pretenses. I thought I was going to learn some great strategies for teaching writing and simultaneously provide some hand-picked students with a fun and stellar summer writing program. All I've really learned thus far:

1. There is a vast difference between theory and practice.

2. Don't ever work with the local big fat university's education department because it is like offering your students as guinea pigs to the research gods.

3. And, this is the most important lesson here, I've learned that it is sickly satisfying to watch college of education academians learning the critical truth about working with (gasp!) actual high school students.

Because the truth is that professors don't know about much beyond the false land of academia. I could go on about how most of the students I teach never make it into their second (or first) semester of college. How, subsequently, these poor professors don't know the truth about that other piece of the pie chart. You know, the group that doesn't make it to college (which somehow translates into my failure as an educator). I could go on about how most actual college professors only teach equally cocky graduate students about their personal, passionate specialty and research within the same narrow specialty and, as a result, can't function beyond their particular specialty. I could give them the benefit of the doubt here. But I'm feeling quite sassy. So I'll say this: never have I enjoyed anything more than watching smug, insulting, arrogant professors flounder painfully and awkwardly as they demonstrate what they believe I should be doing in my classroom.

Yes, if you didn't know this, the beauty in education professors is that (and I'm quite certain this is true in most of academia) they actually believe they know how to do my job better than I do. Why? Well, because they've researched in controlled environments and read articles on the topic, of course. Apparently teaching in the chaos of an actual school and prepping and assessing and discussing students for ten hours a day doesn't qualify me as an expert on the topic. But, never fear, the decision and policy makers churned out of college of education departments nationally are experts.

This post is entirely unprofessional of me, I know. But seriously--you cute little professors (bless your hearts!) need to realize that your quest for tenure means not a thing in my classroom. We're not a team in this. Teams fester in the trenches together. Real teaching (not that pretend research kind or the incessant talking that happens in a lecture hall--but REAL teaching) is damn hard.

It's like this: the emperor of education has clothes on, yes. But, my lands, if that get-up isn't ridiculous!

*What would Stacy and Clinton have to say?

On Wealth, Taboos, Sociology and other Snore-able Topics

Money is a funny thing. Enough of it is always necessary in life, but over time its value shifts. In high school, when my friends and I would make the rounds sharing and complaining about our mediocre after-school jobs, a question was often raised: "How much do they pay there?" Anything over minimum wage and you were lucky. Make over eight dollars an hour and you were an icon. Similar conversations could be had with the right crowd and the correct context in college. But the minute you shook the Dean's sweaty palm and grasped your own around that paper saying your degree would be arriving in the mail shortly, all of that conversation goes out the window.

You see, when it comes to money, it seems there is only one unspoken rule to follow: don't talk about it. Especially not what you make in a single year.

The paradox, you might have noticed, is that money, and the demonstration thereof, exists everywhere (much like our traditional Puritan ideals and sex: avoid the topic altogether while it is salaciously demonstrated at every bend in the free market). In the United States, and other countries to be sure, the demonstration of one's income is a national tradition. We don't use the cliche "keeping up with the Joneses" without provocation. Even more disturbing: we place so much emphasis on the demonstration of that income.

One of my favorite AP prompts I have my students study with includes a quote from Lewis Lapham's Money and Class in America. It reads:

I think it is fair to say that the current ardor of the American faith in money so easily surpasses the degrees of intensity achieved by other societies in other times and places. Money means so many things to us—spiritual as well as temporal—that we are at a loss to know how to hold its majesty at bay.

Lapham's words bring me back to Sociology 1010 my first year in college. It was here that I was introduced to Social Comparison Theory (essentially, it is the measuring up we do in order to place ourselves as--hopefully--elite amongst our peers). Like most sociological theories, it is relatively common sensical. In Leon Festinger's theory (thanks, Wikipedia), launched in the 50's, the comparing was usually done between one's skills, abilities, and opinions and another individual's skills, abilities and opinions. Today, however, I believe Lapham is more spot-on. Especially in the middle and upper classes. Money is a currency far more valuable than previously suspected. Rather than waiting to find out if one is intelligent, or trustworthy, or good based on their actions, we assume by their mere appearance whether or not this is the case. And when I say their appearance I mean *What (or whom) are they wearing? *Is their hair styled professionally? *Are their teeth whitened/straight? *What do they drive? *With what technology do they accessorize?

And all of us are just climbing and scrambling to the top of the best dressed, latest, greatest heap. We gauge an individual's value by how wealthy we perceive them to be--in comparison to ourselves. Other factors enter in, obviously. Festinger's theory wasn't all wrong: we feel better when we feel better than somebody else. But my-oh-my, how our national psyche (and subsequent economy) have been screwed over time and again by our own little egos.

Yes, money is funny. And taboo. But I think, sadly, the joke is on us.

Letters Addressed to Undeterminable Destinations

One of my favorite bloggers, Jen at Rowena's Rants, often writes letters. Letters of ranting. Letters of complaint. Letters of praise. Always succinct and sassy, Jen writes exactly what needs to be said. So I'm following suit in today's post because there are a few letters I need written, though I don't know what address to send them to.

Dear Spring,

I love you. You make me happy whether your skies are grey or blue. Stick around a while longer. You are a welcome guest in my life.

Signed,
Not Ready for Summer's Scorching


Dear Aunt Flo,

Either arrive and continue to "flo" or don't. Don't slow your "flo" to near-nothing early in the weekend, making me think all is well in lady-land, only to surprise me in the middle of the school day Monday with an adolescent embarrassment.

Signed,
Unafraid of Publicly Sharing the Facts of Her Life


Dear Alarm Clock,

I hate you. Were you not also my phone I would kill you daily.

Signed,
Peeved and Drowsy


Dear Construction on My Way to Work,

Stop making me late. Or else.

Signed,
A Despiser of Orange Cones


Dear End of School Year,

Any time now. We're all waiting.

Signed,
Anxious for the 2 1/2 Month Death of Her Alarm Clock


And now, in the comments section, it is time for your letters to undeterminable destinations.

Hell Hath No Fury: Stare-Hard Part Deux

The first text messages I sent this morning read as follows (to Alice, of course):

"I am SO done with men. Done. Finito! They are mean and they stink. And (insert stare-hard's name here) thinks he is too good for ME?! Hello, (insert stare-hard's name here)! You are a poorly dressed, pinky class ring wearing, bad haired, Star Wars obsessed VET TECH (as if that is a real career)! What, too lazy? Not ambitious enough or smart enough to achieve the REAL thing by the time you're 38 years old? I am just saying that I was willing to lower my standards. Give you a chance. Maybe even help you and give you some pointers in the disaster area that is your appearance. But off you went to be a balls-less, 38-year-old virgin. So be my guest: stay that way! Moon after your white trash (insert stare-hard's unrequited love interest's name here) forever for all I care. Because the truth is that few girls are as decent, intelligent, and kind (I know, I know readers--I actually said this in the midst of this message) as I am. The truth is that I am better off. P.S. Dry clean your suit. It stinks of stale food and cat litter."

This is how I get over crushes. Clearly, CLEARLY, I need help.

Manners: A Lost Art?

It has been said that people show their true colors in a crisis. I decided today that this old assumption is not entirely accurate. I believe that people actually reveal themselves in a very common, ordinary situation. I believe that people show their truest colors in the parking lot.



I came to this conclusion during the four hours I spent directing traffic in a church parking lot today. I'm not quite certain as to how I wrangled myself into the events of my day, but we'll boil it down to this: I am driven and motivated by guilt. I once read something to the tune of: the challenges of life aren't really good versus evil--life is hardly so epic--most days the battle we fight is doing good versus doing nothing. And because this struck a chord with me (and is apparently still striking), I seem to volunteer for things I really do not want to do. Alice, who seriously cannot and will not ever say NO, tends to make this happen on an even more frequent basis. For me, it is especially likely that I jump in when I'm quite positive that no one else is all that willing to do it. That cliche little angel on my shoulder always pipes in with her annoying voice, pleading, "It needs to be done and if you don't do it, then who will?"

And so, when the relief society president of my ward informed us that her dad needed help with "ushering" at the Draper Temple open house because the members of his stake (the stake called to this responsibility) were so over volunteering after a few months (understandable), Alice and I raised our hands and told her we would help out.

Alice is a social worker and I am a teacher, self-described do-gooders, over-educated (with the student loan debt to prove it) and underpaid. Apparently self-punishment and penance run deeply in our DNA--we were wired incorrectly from the get go, I believe. (Becoming best friends and roommates has only resulted in a multiplication of self-punishment and penance episodes.) Basically, we're very stupid gluttons for punishment.

Anyway, back to the story, so "ushering" in my best Sunday clothes quickly morphed into me still wearing my best Sunday clothes covered by an almost incandescent orange vest with reflector strips. And that whole "ushering at the temple" gig transitioned into the reality: locating empty parking places in an overcrowded church parking lot for the arriving tourists. Oh, and making sure people didn't park in the partitioned off sections of the lot where the shuttle bus carrying these same tourists needed to turn wide on its journey up to the temple.

But the day was sunny and I kept telling myself this was important work, WWJD, I'm from Pioneer Stock and can handle this even if these new shoes will probably give me blisters, etc. So we helped the crowds as they arrived (as best we could). And did I mention it was sunny?

Lucky for us, the vast majority in the steady stream of tourists were patient with the limited parking availability. They were polite. They entered on the "entry" side of the parking lot. They waited for more spaces to become available. They teasingly commented on my orange vest and treated me with human decency, knowing that I had no control over the parked cars. Knowing that I was just a girl trying to do the right thing, sacrificing the middle of her Saturday to help out. Recognizing that, in spite of the orange vest, I was quite powerless. Because as reasonable, rational people, the vast majority of temple tourists understood that there is no such thing as a supreme being of the parking lot with a talent for swiping cars out of their way. So patience and politeness are probably their best option. And, really, circling around the lot a time or two wouldn't hurt until that time when more busses arrived filled with leaving tourists in leaving vehicles.

And then there were the Others. Wait, before I explain these Others, let me first put this as nicely as possible: we all are in a hurry sometimes and in that hurry everything seems to go wrong. We all let our behavior slip into the impatient. We all get a little frustrated. These are natural and understandable reactions. But, you would think that while going to tour a temple on a sunny, unhurried Saturday (here, in Utah, where the majority of the population touring the LDS temple are, well, probably LDS and the majority of these LDS individuals probably believe in the sacred nature of temples, etc.), well, you would think that you might put some of those negative feelings aside for a few hours and just submit to going with the flow and enjoying the spirit of the event. You would think that this would be the case, but my friends, it was not.

Let me tell you, these others (oh, these others!) showed a side of humanity that is disappointing to see. Social Darwinism, that whole philosophy of every man for himself and dog eat dog and survival of the fittest, must infuse the lives of far too many in this world. Because these others followed with exact precision the selfish rules of Social Darwinism.

They cheated: sneaking in through the exit to steal spots from waiting cars. They broke the rules, parking in clearly partitioned off spots. They acted nasty when I said they couldn't park there (until I kindly, saccharinely informed them they could remain if they didn't mind the bus taking out their back seat). Some simply ignored (read: nearly plowed down) the person checking tickets at the entry. A few littered their unwanted items in the lot (because I guess that finding trash receptacles must be impossible, what with the enormous blue dumpster you've driven past multiple times staring at you in the face). Several simply rolled down their windows and demanded I direct them where to park "in this mess." Others, opting to park on the road, had to be told to clear their cars from blocking the driveways of the church house's neighbors. And, upon their return on the bus, the same individuals filled with complaint two hours earlier, lazed and laughed in the same overcrowded parking lot still encircled with patient, creeping vehicles waiting for their spot. Rather than scuttle off to clear the way for more tourists, they decided on dinner plans and waited while someone powdered their nose; they cleaned the car out, changed from suit and tie into street clothes. One group with multiple vehicles even held a picnic.

And I, representing a church with a doctrine and message I believe in fully, had to smilingly show patience and kindness and a tightly controlled lip with every last one of them, in spite of their selfish inconsideration.

And then, near the end of my shift, came the icing on my Disappointed in the Human Race Cake. Not only did her husband originally pull into the exit and flat out LIE to me about it (politely, at least), but she had the audacity to, in an uppity tone like I've never heard uppity before, inform me that "THIS has been organized VERY poorly" when said husband dropped her and their children at the door. And I, biting my bleeding tongue, smiled like I didn't quite hear her, and turned to stare into the sky as if admiring the day. She stomped into the building and I started formulating the following blog post in my mind. It read:

Dear Temperamental Temple Tourist,

Listen, lady, I know waiting really throws you for a loop. Clearly. But I'm just trying to do the right thing here even though, frankly, it really, really sucks. I'm not the god of the lot. I can't just pick up cars so that you and your yuppy spawn who happen to be honor roll students at Bryant Middle School (don't worry, those FIVE bumper stickers you posted on your status-mobile announcing this fact were not missed--by anyone) can get right in to watch the movie and tour the temple. Sometimes parking is scarce. Sometimes we have to wait. Get over it. Grow some manners. Your kids are watching you and learning to do everything you do.

P.S. If you'd like, I'll turn this orange vest over and you see about organizing the entire event that has been going on for over a month with thousands of visitors daily and thus far they haven't lost a single one.
P.P.S. I spoke too soon. Scratch that. Casualties: 1.

Eventually we were relieved of our posts, Alice and I, with battle stories to share: she nearly getting hit by cars, me hearing the wrath of the impatient. We drove away, leaving an empty spot in the lot that was, I'm sure, quickly filled. All in all, in spite of our wounds, it really wasn't a bad day. Like I said, most of the visitors were polite and decent. But those Others got me thinking--we've lost something in our culture. Is it manners? Goodness? Patience? Self-sacrifice? All those democratic ideals, all those altruistic characteristics and personality traits we say attract us to others? We've lost something, clearly--the intricate workings of our economy surely cannot be blamed singlehandedly on the government.

I think the events of my day pointed to my guilty truth, once again. It doesn't take a crisis to show our true selves. It just takes the ordinary. We show who we are day after day, one small action after another. What I read is true: our daily battle is doing good versus doing nothing. We are either being selfish, or we are not. And in order for society to run smoothly, someone needs to do good. Who will raise their hand?

Wanker!

Dear ukdvdltd (at ebay),

As a single latetwentysomething residing in a peculiar area of the world in which I am, in fact, considered to be an old maid, I only get so much pleasure out of my little life. Recently, I discovered one Mr. Thornton (played by a certain Mr. Richard Armitage) in the BBC film adaptation of Elizabeth Gaskell's North and South. In this discovery, I recognized that owning this particular film adaptation would be particularly pleasing in its escapist and byronic nature. And so, looking for a frugal steal of a deal, I turned to no other than the infamous ebay. At said website, I was able to locate and purchase the complete DVD set of said film from your company.

I am impressed that, in spite of holidays and weather-caused airport closures, the item was able to skip across the pond, as it were, and arrive here in a timely manner. I was not impressed, however, to discover that, without any heed or warning on your part, this item, when placed in my DVD player, was exposed for the fraud that it is. You see, ukdvdltd (at ebay), your DVD is incompatible with my DVD player due to its incorrect regional code. What is a regional code? you ask. I'll tell you what it is, it is a code that correlates directly with the DVD players of the UK and all of Europe, but not so much MY DVD player from the UNITED STATES.

Here is what I need from you, ukdvdltd: When selling items on ebay to an international customer base, do your research. If the regional codes won't match up: warn the customer. Or, if you knew this would be an issue for a customer such as myself, please clearly advertise this. Also, I really need a complete refund for the 11.70 lbs. I spent (plus shipping & handling charges). You see, I need to take this refund and apply it to the purchase of the DVD set which will actually cooperate with my DVD player.

Thank you for your time and what I assume will be your superb and reasonable customer service. If ever I am in the market for the DVDs under the UK regional code, and if my predictions about your service are correct, you will certainly be my first choice for DVDs and other media.

Sincerely,
The Rookie

P.S. Buggar off, you bloody wankers! Who do you think you are? Don't you know how this has ruined me!?




And, because it made me laugh hysterically:

Because It Really Bugs Me THAT Much

I know, I already posted tonight. I need to go to bed. But I can't stay quiet about this any longer. It is late and my "you know better" censor is in the off position. I might even offend a few of you reading this. But, as said, that censor is as good as gone.

There are many things out there in the blogosphere (blegh...that word) that cause me to shake my head in shame and embarrassment. But none quite as much as the following. Ladies (and the occasional gentleman): DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT, alternate between upper and lower case letters in your post titles (i.e. "fUn WiTh PiCtUrEs" or "oUr ThAnKsGiViNg"). Do not do this in the body of your posts. Do not do this anywhere.

You are no longer 14. It looks ridiculous. Not, as dubbed by Paris herself, "Hot." Please stop. Seriously. Stop.

Now.

Please.

I've HAD IT with the Singles Ward!

That is all.  I am done being single.  I am done with the ridiculous games and the linger longer activities.  I am done with Break the Fast.  I am done with FHE.  I am done with full-of-themselves EQP's and BFN's (sorry, Alice is probably the only one out there who will get this, but...oh, okay.  It stands for "Beer Flavored Nipples" and it is entirely inappropriate and in reference to The Ten Things I Hate About You and in every ward there is a BFN who dates everyone, EVERYONE, and people don't seem to get that they are a player and jump from one victim/conquest to another for the mere challenge of it...so we call them BFN's because there must be something there that we don't see).  I am done with pettiness.  I am done with the meat market.  I am done with the Singles Ward.

I have come to the conclusion that this is in my stars:

Yes, today I give up and resign myself to the future of a bitter, lifeless HAG.

Hukeb oN fonix, Communication, and Other Thursday Night Musings

Recently I tested my 9th & 10th grade students for grade level reading skills... Wait, perhaps, I should go back further...

Reading. All my life I have heard that reading matters. For me, always-the-reader, this message from educators and NBC service announcements was a white noise preaching to my lone little alto choir. I didn't need someone to sell me the benefits of reading. I enjoyed reading. I consumed books as a Fahrenheit 451 fire. But clearly, my story is not everybody's story. And certainly, reading doesn't even fit into the life stories of my students.


So how did Ms. Rookie's students perform on their reading placement tests, you ask? Low. Lower than they should have. Some are in the third grade still. Let me say that again: I have students who have made it into their sophomore year of high school reading at a third grade level. Their vocabulary is lost in a wasteland. Their comprehension isn't just failing to mention the elephant in the room, NOPE, my students, when reading, don't notice the part about the elephant even being in the room.

Now, this isn't everybody, a token few are even at a post high school level, but the majority of my students are reading below grade level. And I'm disheartened and angry and hysterical and disappointed and overwhelmed and frustrated and ill about this fact. You see, I teach Language Arts, the skills of reading and writing and recognizing the art and nuance of language, to people who are essentially illiterate.

Why are they illiterate? For some, English is not their native language. Some do not have a single book, excluding religious texts, in their homes. Some have learning disabilities. Some have never been to the public library. Some were never read to when they were little. And some just do not like to read. And Mom or Dad don't like/value reading. Or Mom and Dad or Great Aunt Ruth buy them books, encourage them to read, but their kid just won't do it. Their eyes scan the text, but their minds drift to other worlds like HALO or the skate park or Jessica Alba.

And it all makes me sick. You want my honest opinion? I believe we are becoming illiterate as a nation. Oh, we may be literate, even sophisticated in technology. Our minds may consume information at a rate so rapid we're left feeling drained by nightfall. But we are becoming a nation who cannot communicate effectively. And when communication fizzles, how do we express ourselves?

Listening to the candidates debate, drifting over blogs in the blogosphere, perusing the words my students write, I am weary. Our ability for communication seems to be waning into an abysmal future. Call me a language snob. Call me full of crap. Call me Ishmael. Call me Jonah. I don't care. I am worried about the diminishing face of literacy in our culture and society.

I write and I read because I want to connect with the essence of humanity. What does it mean to be human? What is the secret landscape of the mind? Effective communication turns the deepest fruit of who we are inside out, leaving the shining membrane of us as evidence: I feel, I think, I am. Language is what separates us from the animals, and somewhere over the past few decades, we've thrown that ability aside piece by piece.

And our next generation is worse off. Text messaging lingo consists of a rudimentary abbreviated vocabulary. What are we? Cave people?

I meet u
k
Time?
IDK
Ugh


I know, I know, I'm ranting and I'm raving and my soap box is groaning under the weight of my intensity. My linguistic-guru brother might even tell me "Dear Rookie, language is always in flux, this is natural." But I am uncertain how to make up for years of illiteracy. I worry that without the language available to express the thought fully, the thoughts themselves might die away too. I worry that, when it comes to language, this generation gap is too wide. I worry that one day I will start talking, expressing the inside of myself, and no one will understand what I am saying.

I Whine, Therefore I Am

What do you get when you mix a 27 year old teacher with a big ol' bucket-o-adolescents? What is, a woman who doesn't feel 27!

I'm tired, kids. Tired. And my inner most self wants to check blogs and possibly post her own blog post--in fact my brain has been cooking this perfect blog post for a couple of weeks. I miss my blogging friends. I glanced at a few of you here and there, but I don't have the brain power to post a comment...not a comment, you'd want, anyway (oh, now I know somebody out there is saying "any comment is a good comment" but I don't know if this would hold true of my current commenting capacity). But, alas, by this time of night my brain is zapped like a bug in a blue light and my bed is singing her gentle siren song.

Today was The First Day. There are so many names to learn. I can't pronounce all of them correctly. The grading...it is back...already, there is grading. My classroom is 3,987 degrees. My feet hurt, oh how they hurt. I sort of miss my old students. I really miss The Summer.

I promise in a couple of weeks my life will mellow out (I have to make and keep this promise or it will never happen). I will return to the blogging world a new woman. Just give me some breathing room.

And one other word of advice.

Don't let movies like this:

or this:

or this:

convince you that surely teaching is a perfectly rewarding career. Because most days, people won't call you "O Captain, My Captain." Or stand on desks for you. Or hoist you above their heads and carry you in celebration of their educational victories. Or sing "For She's the Jolly Good Fellow" in your honor.

Nope. Not even close. Most days you feel more like this:


And then, to make matters worse, one of them will inevitably raise their hand (Finally!, you'll think, Someone wants to participate in our class discussion! you'll think)
and, without skipping a single beat, this individual will ask you if they can go to the bathroom.

I'm done. Amen.

Lessons in the Arbitrary

My sister, who shall remain nameless as I have many sisters, recently took her adolescent daughter and her daughter's friend to the theater to enjoy a chick flick. The advertisements for this particular film did not indicate the sexually explicit innuendo that was a near constant in the dialogue nor did it mention the questionable "props" that were featured in the film. And so, two hours later, she exited the theater with these two 13-year-olds asking questions she was not prepared to answer, most of which she shouldn't have to answer.

Was this trailer false advertising? Possibly so--but aren't they all. Could she have walked out? Yes. But how many of us have actually walked out on of a theater that we felt a little bit uncomfortable in? I can count two times that I've done this in my life and half of these early-exits were with this particular sister. And both times I didn't have the guts to ask for a refund because I figured it was up to me as the consumer to research the films/plays I watch and make a decision based on that research. Knowing that I paid good money for a movie, my cheap side insists I stay while my angelic side (yes, I have one)says "sunk cost, sister, get the heck outta here!" My cheap side, as you can tell by my two early-exits record, typically wins out. But I digress.

My question is, as a consumer, shouldn't I have some sort of quick-guide which tells me the appropriateness of a film? Oh wait, there is one: enter the MPAA Film Ratings System. This ratings system, as many of you know, places a film in four categories: G (General Audience), PG (Parental Guidance), PG-13 (Parental Guidance for children 13 and older), and R (Restricted Audience). Now, there is an NC--17 rating, but this particular rating doesn't register on my radar and I'm assuming the same of my readership, so I'm not going include it in my discussion here. We'll just say that I rely on these four little categories to determine which films I will see and which films I will most likely skip. But, I think there is a fault or two in this system. No offense to the board who is, in all actuality, trying to provide a needed service. But the truth is that your little system ain't working so well.

Did you know that the ratings of films are selected by vote. Yes, the board of Los Angeles-based parents votes on the rating after viewing and holding a discussion. So if the majority says PG-13, and a few say R, PG-13 wins out. Bada-bing: you take your 13 year old to the movie they've been harrassing you about for the past month "because it's only PG-13, Ma!" and regret caving in within the first half hour. All the while knowing, that if you, as a parent, would have cast your vote that baby would have been a solid R. No discussion needed.

Now, if you research a little more you will discover why a film received the rating that it did with little warnings like: Rated PG-13 for "drug usage" or "partial nudity" or "strong language" or "adult content." Now, I know what drug usage is, but how much drug usage is going to take place in this particular film? And does it convey that drug usage in a positive or negative light because that makes a difference for me. And that strong language, are we talking I stubbed my toe in the dark and maybe slipped a curse out or are we talking about the kind of language I hear in the halls at the public high school I teach at? And adult content, what the heck is adult content? And we all know the nudity in Schindler's List isn't the same as the nudity in some films. You see, for me, their additional guidelines don't guide me all that much, rather, these guidelines serve to confuse me even more.

So, here I am, little old consumer, left dumbfounded, uncertain, and pretty sure I don't even want to go to the movie for fear of what my eyes or ears might be accosted with when I thought I was going to watch a kid's film with "mild violence". But I am not here to merely complain. I also want to offer a solution.

Film-makers, here's the thing: You have got to start making more appropriate movies for general audiences. While I'm not one to say "censor, censor, censor," especially when it comes to one's art, I'm one who thinks "selling sex" isn't an art form. And please do tell me how most major blockbusters should be considered "art" because last I checked it was more about plots, special effects, and big name-actors than being artistic. (As an unnecessary side note: strangely, many of the "artsy" indy-films I've been to aren't as prone to accost my senses.)

I repeat myself: You have GOT to start making more appropriate movies for general audiences. Movies that aren't pushing envelopes. Movies that entertain. Movies that don't just drop the f-bomb because they can do it and still receive a PG-13 rating. You, Hollywood, are forgetting your audience is a human audience with a variety of values and standards. We go to these blockbuster kinds of movies for two glorious hours of suspended reality and sheer entertainment. We don't go for the sexually graphic material. Some of us actually cringe when it comes to violence. And I can stop my students from dropping the f-bomb, sure, but you just shout it out willy-nilly and there ain't much I can do about it but shake my head in disappointment.

Film makers, did you know that I get a little worry knot in my stomach when I say, "Let's catch a movie"? Some weekends I have my choice of either the one sole G-rated film with talking pandas (every 27-year-old single female's dream) or 12-16 R-rated violence-filled, sexually-laden, language-defiling films at my local mega-plex. Surely you can do better than that. Because, at this rate, I, the movie-lover among movie-lovers, am just not going to show up anymore.

It Just Ticks Me Off

You see this:



I think this blasphemy is bogus. A conspiracy, I tell you. A conspiracy.

I am unconsolable and distraught. It was tragic enough all those months ago when I discovered I'd ranked at the High School level. I attempted to up my blog writing prowess only to discover: I'm prefered by tweens.

Harvard-Schmarvard

I have a student. Okay, let me rephrase that, I have several students. But I have a particular student that will be my example for this particular post. Said student is brilliant and talented: 3.9 GPA, multiple AP classes under his belt, outstanding SAT and ACT test scores, and he's only a junior. And what adds to his brilliance is that he came to the United States a short five years ago with no knowledge of the English language. One other thing: said student is dead set on heading to Stanford after graduation for an eventual MD. He wants to be a surgeon.

I think it is admirable that he is so accomplished and has set such a high standard for himself. You hear "Stanford" and, without fail, whispered oooh's and ahhh's will follow. And Stanford is, of course, impressive. And Stanford is, of course, expensive. And because of this Stanford is, of course, tough to get into. The competition is fierce, so I hear.

So Alice heard about this kid (because she hears all about my student concerns...no names mentioned, of course) when I was helping this particular student with his application process to a summer institute held at Stanford. And when she heard about this kid, and my concerns that his heart was so set on this school and what if he just didn't get in?, we got to talking about disappointment and and decisions and college and student loan debt and brand names and learning. We like conversations like this, Alice and me.

And so here I am, thinking about seventeen year olds and major decisions like choosing a college, career and future. Big, life-altering decisions. And it all has me thinking about the lies we tell kids. Lies like "Harvard is one of the best colleges in the United States" or "if you don't take at least X amount of AP classes or participate in X number of extracurricular activities, you can kiss college goodbye." Lies that, if you think about it, just aren't true.

Now, is Harvard a good school. I'm sure it is. It is well-reputed, has impressive law and business schools and a beautiful campus. But the question at hand remains: is it the best school for this particular student? Is it affordable? Are the class sizes too small, too big? What is the student population like and will this kid find a niche there? And will this kid be paying back tuition plus interest on student loans until their 80th birthday? And, while colleges expect a certain level of academic ability, is it realistic to believe that if one bombs one's AP US History exam then one is automatically doomed for life? And is there anything all that wrong with going local?

I guess I'm asking all of this because I think that at 17 or 18, with no real exposure to the college experience, we're using some pretty nasty scare tactics on some very vulnerable victims. I'm sayin' it like it is and the emperor is nekked, people. I say that maybe, just maybe, parents and guidance counselors and schools are pushing kids in this direction because it, dare I say it...it makes THEM look good. Not because it is best for that student. Not because it is the best fit for that individual, but because we all believe that Harvard is impressive and the State school is, well, average to mediocre. And if I taught/guided/raised a Harvard student than that says something about me. Yes, yes, I'm so happy for them, but look what I did!

Lies like these kind of tick me off. On the other side of these lies we tell, there are kids. Impressionable, overworked, and overtired children. Yes, they're adolescents who lean toward the obnoxious at times. But they are children, nonetheless. And on the other side of these lies are high school kids who walk through life like zombies. They lack social lives (unless it involves an activity that looks good on a resume). They lack sleep. They lack family time. They lack balance. Life is a thing lived to get oneself into a "good" college in order to live the "good" life. And I don't think many of them are all that happy. And I'm not sure if this kind of pressure is healthy for anyone.

I'm not saying some pressure is a bad thing, but I worry that we have invented a generation of Super Students rather than Super Human Beings. And that, friends and brethren, bodes well for none of us. (Plus, I think it is bad paying back my student loans...there are worse things, folks, far worse!).

Them are me thoughts.

Signing out,
The Rookie (who happened to attend and graduate from a local state college and had a college experience she wouldn't trade for any ivy-infested leagues)

So a Screenwriter Walks Into a Bar...

Dear Screen Writers Guild of America,

Let me begin by saying that your cause was initially supported by individuals such as myself. At one time I thought--yes, yes, you SHOULD stand up for your rights. This strike of yours is justified and you deserve to be paid when someone exploits television shows that are your brainchild.

But let me just shoot it to you straight: I'm not so much on your side anymore. Which isn't to say I'm on the producers' side either. Thing is, I am sort of starting to wish you both the worst. It is true--I'm starting to sing out curses:

May we, a Joe Public now less addicted to unrealistically beautiful, uncomplicated characters and predictable plots, smarten up and forget your shows that sucked us in Thursday after Thursday. May your temper tantrum trigger a dominoing fall of Hollywood. May you resort to clipping coupons and cleaning your own houses like the rest of us. May your children attend public high schools and state universities. May actors be humbled down to two options: unemployment or VH1's "Celebreality". May people throughout America rediscover what it is like to contribute to their communities, bond with their families, read books, or discuss/worry about people they actually know.

Thing is, I saw how much you get paid for a single episode. Now, by Hollywood standards, you writers don't get your due, I suppose. I get it, you "created" this storyline, these characters. Their witty words and one-liners. You geniuses, you. Nevermind the fact that your plots have existed since Ancient Greece. (I won't say anything about how you don't see Euripides throwing a big stink). I get that YOU are the ideas and creativity that fuels Hollywood and it isn't fair that you don't get paid as much as what's-his-salary, yadda, yadda, yadda...

But let me tell you a little something about the rest of us, and by the rest of us I mean me, really. I happen to be a teacher. A teacher who Monday through Friday shows up to work with individuals that the rest of society avoids and considers a nuisance. These individuals also happen to be the people who will one day take your job, and my job, and all of our jobs. But right now, because they're teenagers, nobody can really stand them. Except people like me who are either gluttons for punishment or like to think that they are doing something noble and necessary for...oh, I don't know...the community, society, future. The rest of us (meaning me), is ecstatic because, as she filed taxes, she realized that she'd actually made it out from under that whole "poverty line" thing by the skin of her teeth this past year. The rest of us can't afford to throw a "life's not fair" temper tantrum and make faces at our bosses who make more money than we do. Because the rest of us, while quite possibly protected by a union, wouldn't be able to pay our rent if we went on strike. Oh, and without the rest of us (specifically teachers), about 15-20 years from now we wouldn't have much of a work force--but, on the bright side, "the future" would probably play a mean Guitar Hero with those extra hours of practice.

So, I hope you are still feeling really good and justified in your little fight. You have, after all, made your point: TV sucks without you. You severely impact Hollywood's revenue. It is really such a travesty. I'm not saying there haven't been perks to your little hissy fit. There was joy knowing that for once the Golden Globe winners wore pajamas like normal people do during the blessed event. It's been kind of entertaining (in a slow down and stare at car wrecks sort of way) to see just how lame the Ellen show can get. And my niece really enjoyed all the primetime holiday kids' specials that aired this last December.

I am just saying that when this "huffy-bike-parade" of all-ya'lls is over, don't be surprised if the rest of us have moved on. Don't be surprised when we've stopped caring about the dynamic between McDreamy and Meredith (c'mon--get therapy already! You are a well-educated, intelligent DOCTOR for crying out loud and you haven't recognized that you might just need professional help to get through your issues?!?).

Yes, Writer's Guild, you were good, but I am hoping the rest of us have figured out that you weren't that good.

The Rookie

P.S. Way to stick it to the man. Seriously. You've been so exploited. It's about time they got their due.