A friend of mine told me she really liked the title of my original post, "My Bitches." Instead of thinking of it as "My Complaints," "My Nasty Things I've Done," or "Other Bitches I Know and Hang Out With," she told me she had a funny image of three slightly shorter versions of myself that worked as sort of henchman--or women. I've been running with this image as far as I can go. The Bitches are definitely the three witches from MacBeth and they are going to become regular characters on this blog. "Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble," they chant over their special brew before doom visits the castle. I haven't yet mentioned that I am such a fan of Shakespeare that I become embarrassingly teary-eyed at the beauty of the language all too frequently when reading "Romeo and Juliet" each spring. If, right about now, you're think Shakespeare is too high-minded and cerebral or to put it in more potent language, just for nerds, I would argue that he's worth the work. Look, people, the greatest writer the language has ever seen should present a challenge. Don't be like a sixteen year old, all too unwilling to sweat a little. Get some notes to help you through and if your high school English teacher did you the disservice of not being passionate enough about ole Will to impart ye with some enthusiasm, follow this recipe:
Round about the couldron go:
In the poisones entrails throw.
Toad,that under cold stone
Days and nights has thirty-one
Sweated venom sleeping got,
Boil thou first in the charmed pot.
Double,double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the cauldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt and toe of frog,
Wool of bat and tongue of dog,
Adder's fork and blindworm's sting,
Lizard's leg and howlet's wing.
For charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
Double,double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and couldron bubble.
I am pretty sure that was a fenny snake in a hell-broth reduction I had as the Soup of the Day down in the cafeteria today.
Scale of dragon,tooth of wolf,
Witch's mummy, maw and gulf
Of the ravin'd salt-sea shark,
Root of hemlock digg'd in the dark,
Liver of blaspheming Jew;
Gall of goat; and slips of yew
silver'd in the moon's eclipse;
Nose of Turk, and Tartar's lips;
Finger of birth-strangled babe
Ditch-deliver'd by the drab,-
Make the gruel thick and slab:
Add thereto a tiger's chaudron,
For ingrediants of our cauldron.
Double,double toil and trouble,
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
Gall of goat is pretty sick. I've seen it. We once had a dwarf goat suffering from an unknown digestive ailment whom one over-zealous emergency veterinarian took too much to heart. After running the required series of (expensive) tests in the middle of the night, she thought little of tubing our little darling and sucking the yellow and green offending fluid out of the animal's gut with her mouth, spitting it into the lawn, sucking and spitting repeatedly until the goatlet's tummy was empty. The beast rallied, but passed later that night. That vet is one bitch I would recruit. I would have her collect goat gall in a cup for me to sneak into Mrs. Puff's coffee.
What is a tiger's chaudron, I wonder? Sounds dirty to me. Unfortunately duty calls, so I'll have to get back to you on that. You may have noticed that entries are coming less often. I've managed to pick up a side job, as teachers and many other people are finding necessary these days. I'm grateful for it and a little busier. Until next time, be a good knave and try Sonnet 29.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Friday, November 5, 2010
Think It Through
Covering detention today for Mrs. Puff, I found myself alone with Duke, an academically unmotivated and quite likeable freshman. "I don't have a thing to do," he grinned.
"You can get a jump start on the first draft of your persuasion paper," I grinned back. This week we had chosen topics, written thesis statements and collected notes on opposing arguments.
About twenty minutes later, Duke asked if he could change sides on his topic. "Sure," I said, thinking to myself how bright I am for putting flexibility ahead of structure. After all, changing one's mind based on evidence is so...sensible and educated. "What was your topic again?" I asked absent-mindedly.
"2012. I was going to argue that all these theories are bogus. But after I collected all this information, I'm convinced the world really is going to end in 2012." He went back to his work, absentmindedly bobbing his head to the tune on the imaginary ipod playing in his ears. At the end of detention, he packed up his papers and grinned, "Thanks, Mrs. Chatham."
This is what it means to be fifteen, I realize: in the frame of one hour to go from planning a long and rich life, to believing the world will end in two years and being okay with just planning the weekend.
"You can get a jump start on the first draft of your persuasion paper," I grinned back. This week we had chosen topics, written thesis statements and collected notes on opposing arguments.
About twenty minutes later, Duke asked if he could change sides on his topic. "Sure," I said, thinking to myself how bright I am for putting flexibility ahead of structure. After all, changing one's mind based on evidence is so...sensible and educated. "What was your topic again?" I asked absent-mindedly.
"2012. I was going to argue that all these theories are bogus. But after I collected all this information, I'm convinced the world really is going to end in 2012." He went back to his work, absentmindedly bobbing his head to the tune on the imaginary ipod playing in his ears. At the end of detention, he packed up his papers and grinned, "Thanks, Mrs. Chatham."
This is what it means to be fifteen, I realize: in the frame of one hour to go from planning a long and rich life, to believing the world will end in two years and being okay with just planning the weekend.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Pause
Let me put "My Bitches, continued" on hold. Trying to find really good examples, I have very few I am able to share. They are either too petty, too typical or not really bitchy, some even too funny. Trying to conjure up memories of really nasty, mean actions has brought more pranks to mind than anything. I've thought of a lot of bad behavior, but none really so much worse than what "normal" people do. I do think teachers have their own hang ups and are solitary, competitive, lonely and disfunctional, but otherwise essentially good creatures and I guess, lovely and merry little pranksters. I can't wait to share a series of fun memories with you, but first a word from the Insight Center for Community Economomic Development which this year released a report called "Lifting as We Climb: Women of Color, Wealth, and America's Future." According to the Utne Reader, the information in this report was picked up in one NPR story, two opinion columns and one newspaper article. Yawn. I did as I read this, sleepily dozing in my bed one night this week. Shortly before my eyes popped out of my head.
Wealth--as defined in this survey--is not income, but assets minus debts. Says the article ("Wealth Gaps Yawn--And So Do the Media"; Utne Reader, September-October, 1010; unattributed):
In the United States, single black women have a median wealth of just $100, while Hispanic women come in at $120. The median wealth of black men is $7,900; white women and men are better off ($41,500 and $43,800 respectively). Looking at people in their chief working years, ages 36-49, the gap grows even more cavernous: White women own about 60 percent of white men's median wealth, which surges to about $70,000. Women of color, meanwhile, have a median wealth of $5...(which is) .05 percent of the wealth owned by men of color in the same age group ($11,000.)
Discussing these facts with upperclassmen today, my mostly white class was astounded. One student raised his hand to state that black women have $5 median wealth because they list all their assets in their husbands' names, "like my mom does."
"That could be," I tried to smile but I knew it was stiff. I was struggling. "What about the possibility of the single mother with multiple children whose boyfriends have left her to raise the kids?"
"Bingo," responded the only black student in the room.
"Oh," said one.
"I never thought of that," said another. They are saying this, even as many of them have experienced it themselves.
"She might graduate from high school if she is lucky but she most likely won't make it to college. If she can get a job, how will she work with 2 or 3 or more children?"
"She'll get child support," answer two different students at the same time.
"Will she? Will the boyfriends pay child support?"
We continued to discuss the Five Dollar Woman for quite a long time. We acknowledged that we were making grand generalizations and that stereotypes are dangerous. We talked about what a median is and what we might find on both sides of it and how individuals vary. But we were also forced to acknowledge the Five Dollar Woman. Significantly, the students didn't seem to need to assign blame. We know she might be on welfare; in fact, the "w" word came up. No one seemed to be jealous of her welfare check. We didn't discuss whether she smokes cigarettes, drinks too much or shoots heroin. No one said she shouldn't have babies or have so many, and no one said she shouldn't have sex if she can't afford babies, and no one said she should use birth control. No one said it is $11,000 Man's Fault or $70,000 Peoples' Faults or President Obama's Fault or those damn Republicans' faults. They didn't say it was the fault of public education or Five Dollar Grandma.
Maybe it was because we'd just finished reading If the World Were a Village. Students had been shocked to learned that in a mock up of the global village scaled down to 100 people, 50 of them are hungry part or all of the time. They gasped audibly when I read the next line: "At least 20 more are significantly malnourished." I knew a few of them would go hungry tonight.
They do not judge or pity Five Dollar Woman. They feel compassion. They find it unacceptable that she exists and they wonder why they haven't heard more about her. I've been wondering about this myself.
Wealth--as defined in this survey--is not income, but assets minus debts. Says the article ("Wealth Gaps Yawn--And So Do the Media"; Utne Reader, September-October, 1010; unattributed):
In the United States, single black women have a median wealth of just $100, while Hispanic women come in at $120. The median wealth of black men is $7,900; white women and men are better off ($41,500 and $43,800 respectively). Looking at people in their chief working years, ages 36-49, the gap grows even more cavernous: White women own about 60 percent of white men's median wealth, which surges to about $70,000. Women of color, meanwhile, have a median wealth of $5...(which is) .05 percent of the wealth owned by men of color in the same age group ($11,000.)
Discussing these facts with upperclassmen today, my mostly white class was astounded. One student raised his hand to state that black women have $5 median wealth because they list all their assets in their husbands' names, "like my mom does."
"That could be," I tried to smile but I knew it was stiff. I was struggling. "What about the possibility of the single mother with multiple children whose boyfriends have left her to raise the kids?"
"Bingo," responded the only black student in the room.
"Oh," said one.
"I never thought of that," said another. They are saying this, even as many of them have experienced it themselves.
"She might graduate from high school if she is lucky but she most likely won't make it to college. If she can get a job, how will she work with 2 or 3 or more children?"
"She'll get child support," answer two different students at the same time.
"Will she? Will the boyfriends pay child support?"
We continued to discuss the Five Dollar Woman for quite a long time. We acknowledged that we were making grand generalizations and that stereotypes are dangerous. We talked about what a median is and what we might find on both sides of it and how individuals vary. But we were also forced to acknowledge the Five Dollar Woman. Significantly, the students didn't seem to need to assign blame. We know she might be on welfare; in fact, the "w" word came up. No one seemed to be jealous of her welfare check. We didn't discuss whether she smokes cigarettes, drinks too much or shoots heroin. No one said she shouldn't have babies or have so many, and no one said she shouldn't have sex if she can't afford babies, and no one said she should use birth control. No one said it is $11,000 Man's Fault or $70,000 Peoples' Faults or President Obama's Fault or those damn Republicans' faults. They didn't say it was the fault of public education or Five Dollar Grandma.
Maybe it was because we'd just finished reading If the World Were a Village. Students had been shocked to learned that in a mock up of the global village scaled down to 100 people, 50 of them are hungry part or all of the time. They gasped audibly when I read the next line: "At least 20 more are significantly malnourished." I knew a few of them would go hungry tonight.
They do not judge or pity Five Dollar Woman. They feel compassion. They find it unacceptable that she exists and they wonder why they haven't heard more about her. I've been wondering about this myself.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
My Bitches
I have a host of personal issues. I want to preface this entry by saying I am okay with that. I have compared notes with a lot of people on this topic and the general statements I am about to make are not unique to me. Sure, I need medication, I come from a messed-up family, I'm probably part of a messed-up family right now (although I'd like to think it's pretty cool actually,) and I've got a skeleton or two hanging next to my now way-too-small (but too-expensive-to-give-away) lucky sage green Talbot's interview suit with coordinating silk paisley vest, size 6. Sometimes I just look at the waist on that baby and think, "Damn."
Today's topic is Bitches in the Profession. And there are a lot of them. Educators are people who start out wanting to help others, most rarely waivering from that goal, I believe. We come from families where we were needed an inordinate amount and thus, we feel most comfortable being needed. We are also people who thrive on attention. We need to find it somewhere: on the field or track or court, through positive feedback from our bosses, or in Hollywood. Since all of our bosses are authentically too busy to baby us through the day, that leaves only the coaches feeling fulfilled. The rest of us are left to compete for the boss' tiny bit of attention and then to make ourselves feel better by tearing each other down.
Well, this is one of my philosophies. I am not entirely sure if it's our profession or human beings in general, but outside of the time we spend with children (and I am 100% sincere about of our devotion to kids) we seem like an unusually competitive and snarky bunch.
The meanest thing I've ever done is yell at Mrs. Puff in front of her class and make her cry. (See previous post called "1984") Not cool. I don't know another teacher who has done that. I did get a hearty pat on the back from the tech guy, but I'm really not proud of it. I've walked out of a couple of meetings and I don't feel sorry about that. I walked out on principle, and only after exhausting every other possible avenue of communication, reasonable and unreasonable. I got in much more trouble for walking out of those two meetings than for yelling at Mrs. Puff. Other things I've been in trouble for were total missteps or even what I consider not bad form at all. For example, once I had a student who was so high as to literally be delusional in my classroom. The A.D. and I had her in the office with the exact amount and identity of what she had ingested within ten minutes. My principal gave us both a potent tongue-lashing since we had locked the door of the small office we were in while we talked to her and kept saying, "Just a minute," while various people knocked and interrupted. She was talking and we weren't about to stop long enough for the principal to come in and spook the shit out of her, at which point she would freeze up and probably pass out. "This was a chemical situation," he spoke slowly and clearly as if I were leotarded. "What if she had a medical reaction? What if she had needed an ambulance?" I looked back at him, dazed and exhausted from the passing rush of adrenaline and wondered if he was leotarded. Yes, I thought, in shock. I had genuinely expected to be praised. She was 500 yards closer to the door and you would have been able to tell the EMT's exactly what she had taken and when. Apparently basic CPR training and a college diploma still left me unable to recognize a heart attack behind a closed door.
Alas, it's dinner time. Children can't wait until bedtime snack for nutrition. My own Vengeance Bitchiness will have to wait several days, but let's talk about someone else's nasties tomorrow. One of you could be a priest, after all, and I might accidently be saying confession. I don't want to break my twenty-seven year guilty streak.
Today's topic is Bitches in the Profession. And there are a lot of them. Educators are people who start out wanting to help others, most rarely waivering from that goal, I believe. We come from families where we were needed an inordinate amount and thus, we feel most comfortable being needed. We are also people who thrive on attention. We need to find it somewhere: on the field or track or court, through positive feedback from our bosses, or in Hollywood. Since all of our bosses are authentically too busy to baby us through the day, that leaves only the coaches feeling fulfilled. The rest of us are left to compete for the boss' tiny bit of attention and then to make ourselves feel better by tearing each other down.
Well, this is one of my philosophies. I am not entirely sure if it's our profession or human beings in general, but outside of the time we spend with children (and I am 100% sincere about of our devotion to kids) we seem like an unusually competitive and snarky bunch.
The meanest thing I've ever done is yell at Mrs. Puff in front of her class and make her cry. (See previous post called "1984") Not cool. I don't know another teacher who has done that. I did get a hearty pat on the back from the tech guy, but I'm really not proud of it. I've walked out of a couple of meetings and I don't feel sorry about that. I walked out on principle, and only after exhausting every other possible avenue of communication, reasonable and unreasonable. I got in much more trouble for walking out of those two meetings than for yelling at Mrs. Puff. Other things I've been in trouble for were total missteps or even what I consider not bad form at all. For example, once I had a student who was so high as to literally be delusional in my classroom. The A.D. and I had her in the office with the exact amount and identity of what she had ingested within ten minutes. My principal gave us both a potent tongue-lashing since we had locked the door of the small office we were in while we talked to her and kept saying, "Just a minute," while various people knocked and interrupted. She was talking and we weren't about to stop long enough for the principal to come in and spook the shit out of her, at which point she would freeze up and probably pass out. "This was a chemical situation," he spoke slowly and clearly as if I were leotarded. "What if she had a medical reaction? What if she had needed an ambulance?" I looked back at him, dazed and exhausted from the passing rush of adrenaline and wondered if he was leotarded. Yes, I thought, in shock. I had genuinely expected to be praised. She was 500 yards closer to the door and you would have been able to tell the EMT's exactly what she had taken and when. Apparently basic CPR training and a college diploma still left me unable to recognize a heart attack behind a closed door.
Alas, it's dinner time. Children can't wait until bedtime snack for nutrition. My own Vengeance Bitchiness will have to wait several days, but let's talk about someone else's nasties tomorrow. One of you could be a priest, after all, and I might accidently be saying confession. I don't want to break my twenty-seven year guilty streak.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
A Kohn that Hits Home
I'm looking at a blog called Yellow Songbird and feeling very underwhelmed by my small attempt here in the blogosphere. I wonder why everything I write or try to enter has to be in the center section and I can't put anything along the sides? I wonder if my entries are too long and/or sentimental. I wonder if one has to know the people in them to really appreciate the stories.
I find truth truly stranger than fiction and the real difficulty with writing about it is that it is so strange as to be barely believable. All those crying mothers at conferences, carrying on about their seventeen year old sons who won't talk to them anymore, they are so cliche...until one sits across from them and have to construct a response. At least they are cliche enough that one can polish an answer until it gets to be respectable and a little comforting.
I read a wonderful article by Alfie Kohn today that summarizes my feelings about the "Education Crisis." I heard Alfie Kohn speak 15 or so years ago, and I was a little disenchanted when I followed up with his book No Contest. Sure, a less competitive atmosphere would be healthier, but he didn't seem very grounded in my reality. The world sure is competitive. He seemed very Ivory Tower, this fellow. It didn't matter how well-reasoned his arguments; they couldn't argue with rural Minnesota. In any case, as I read his article today, and the embedded article by Maja Wilson, all my frustration with easy answers and labels and formulas and benchmarks and general lack of faith in education are explained. I really don't think my union is that great but I do think it's necessary and I know it's not the problem. If you have doubts, please take a moment to read one of these articles with an open mind.
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/alfie-kohn/operation-discourage-brig_b_777148.html
Finally, I'm putting out a call for topics. What did you always want to know about your teacher, behind-the-scenes in a school or the profession in general? If you could be a fly on the wall, what would you ask? Since I am writing anonymously, the sky is really the limit.
I find truth truly stranger than fiction and the real difficulty with writing about it is that it is so strange as to be barely believable. All those crying mothers at conferences, carrying on about their seventeen year old sons who won't talk to them anymore, they are so cliche...until one sits across from them and have to construct a response. At least they are cliche enough that one can polish an answer until it gets to be respectable and a little comforting.
I read a wonderful article by Alfie Kohn today that summarizes my feelings about the "Education Crisis." I heard Alfie Kohn speak 15 or so years ago, and I was a little disenchanted when I followed up with his book No Contest. Sure, a less competitive atmosphere would be healthier, but he didn't seem very grounded in my reality. The world sure is competitive. He seemed very Ivory Tower, this fellow. It didn't matter how well-reasoned his arguments; they couldn't argue with rural Minnesota. In any case, as I read his article today, and the embedded article by Maja Wilson, all my frustration with easy answers and labels and formulas and benchmarks and general lack of faith in education are explained. I really don't think my union is that great but I do think it's necessary and I know it's not the problem. If you have doubts, please take a moment to read one of these articles with an open mind.
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/alfie-kohn/operation-discourage-brig_b_777148.html
Finally, I'm putting out a call for topics. What did you always want to know about your teacher, behind-the-scenes in a school or the profession in general? If you could be a fly on the wall, what would you ask? Since I am writing anonymously, the sky is really the limit.
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