As President of the Lucia Mar Unified Teachers Association, I spend a lot of time thinking about education policy and the state of public schools in America. This is a challenging time.
Arne Duncan, Secretary of Education, has been the architect of terrible policies, heaping injury on top of the insult of No Child Left Behind. Corporate special interests have been driving educational policy--just follow the money. Duncan's "Race to the Top" and current federal policies and incentives have been cash cows for corporate entities selling curricular materials, standardized tests, brand-name proprietary "instructional techniques", corporate conferences and trainings disguised as "professional development", and high-cost consultants. These educational "entrepreneurs" are shamelessly cashing in on limited tax-payer dollars intended for our students and classrooms.
Companies which are organized under non-profit status often fool the public--and some educators--into thinking that their "products" are being provided solely as a social good and in the public interest; but, in fact, their corporate executives are making millions in salaries from these non-profit ventures. These folks aren't stupid; many of the ideas, techniques, and resources they are selling are valuable (even snake-oil isn't all bad--no one would buy it if it were poison)--and part of the marketing strategy of these companies is to enlist teachers to defend and embrace the corporate brand-name in their eagerness to maintain the benefits of training, funding, and resources.
Why is the public paying millions in educational dollars to enrich these executives, whose business model is nothing more than repackaging good teaching techniques, with an added component of union-busting and weakening of teacher due-process rights? These corporations market their products to superintendents, who often have little classroom teaching experience. Inexperienced educators are often drawn to these professionally marketed, off-the-shelf teaching strategies because they are more easily quantifiable. As a result, teachers are evaluated not on their experience and knowledge, the effectiveness of their teaching, or their ability to adapt and differentiate instruction for the actual students in their classrooms, but rather on their adherence to a model with a checklist of quantifiable metrics (and, of course, standardized test results). This isn't necessarily good teaching. This is the mechanization of what is really a highly complex intellectual and social process, often more art than science. And these models often prefer inexperience over experience, because a seasoned teacher will rely on complex time-tested strategies and will not comply as easily with "inside-the-box" thinking and cookbook teaching techniques.
I believe that if the public really knew what was going on, they would be outraged. The "reformers" will claim that our educational system is failing. This is not true, by reliable metrics, but it will be a self-fulfilling prophesy if we continue to let these profiteers drive educational policy. It's time for all of us to organize and take back public education from those who would seek to enrich themselves with public dollars.
Thursday, July 24, 2014
Monday, November 28, 2011
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Quote of the day
Walking past a high school student, I heard: "I don't like him. He cursed right in front of my f**king mom!!
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Losing my dad
My dad died just before Christmas December 23, 2000, at the age of 74. He had suffered from a stroke 10 months earlier, and seemed to be recovering well, but he was having some minor cognitive difficulties. It wasn't clear if this was a side effect of the medication he was taking, or a result of the stroke, or some combination of the two. At any rate, my brilliant father, my intellectual mentor, had lost his edge. I remember asking him once what he was reading, and he said, "Oh darlin', I don't really read so much anymore." He also became more emotionally expressive after the stroke. He took delight in little things, was more likely to engage in small talk. He spent a great deal of time with his youngest grandchildren, who were frequently left in my parents' care. He was a bit of a practical joker, and loved bringing humorous gifts home to his grandchildren. He liked the silly stuffed animals with the electronic widgets inside which played a song when one squeezed a paw. He told jokes and acted silly; he told his grandson's friends that his nickname was "Handsome Dude".
In mid-December that year, my mom had become ill and was hospitalized for a week. The situation was grave, and there was concern that my parents, who were in the process of updating their will and establishing a living trust, should get their affairs in order in case my mom (who suffered from diabetes and congestive heart failure) should pass away before the documents were completed and signed. I was unaware that my mom had been hospitalized, as my sisters--in a truly cruel and vindictive act--had chosen not to call me or return my phone calls; they were angry with me, having assumed that I had reported my dad as an unsafe senior driver to the DMV through their Request for Driver Reexamination Program (I had not, and it's likely that it was his physician who had done so). On Tuesday, December 19th, one of my sisters left a message on my answering machine saying, "Hi Donna. I thought I'd tell you that Mom's in the hospital. She's been there for about a week, and they don't know if she's going to make it. Just thought you might want to know." I called the hospital in a panic and was able to talk to my mom, who had, by that time, recovered somewhat. I cried and told her how sorry I was that I hadn't come to see her, that I had left messages both at home and with my sisters, with no response. She was surprised that I didn't know that she was in the hospital. I then called my dad at home and he answered the phone. I was crying, sobbing, and I told him I was so sorry, that I hadn't known about Mom's condition. He seemed surprised as well, and said, "I thought they [my sisters] called you." I explained that my youngest sister hadn't been speaking to me because she was angry, assuming, wrongly, that I had reported him to the DMV. He had obviously been told that I had, because he seemed surprised, but he said, "Don't worry about that, Darlin'. I know you love us, and we love you. Just don't pay any attention to what they say." I told him I would come to see him and Mom the next day, and he said, "Why don't you just wait until Saturday? They'll be doing tests on her all day tomorrow in the hospital, and her doctor will be coming to see her before she's released on Thursday, so it's going to be busy for the next couple of days anyway. If you come on Saturday, she'll be home and settled in." So I said okay, I'll see you on Saturday. "I love you Dad." "I love you too."
That was the last conversation I had with my dad. He collapsed early Friday morning from a massive heart attack. Mom was home, and he was up early, making coffee in the kitchen and talking to her, telling her how happy he was that she was home in time for Christmas. She said later that he remarked that he felt so cold, really really cold, and then he collapsed onto the floor. He didn't cry out or clutch his chest or show any sign of pain; one moment he was speaking, and the next he was unconscious. She called my brother first, then 911. Paramedics arrived about 10 minutes later. They began CPR and transported him to the hospital. They managed to get his heart going again and put him on a respirator, but he never gained consciousness. Fortunately, my sister called me this time, and I headed south to see him. It pained me to see him like that, kept alive artificially, which was contrary to his stated wishes. But my mom, in her grief and confusion, couldn't give consent for him to be removed from life support, so we waited. The following morning around 5 a.m. we received a call from the hospital that he had suffered another heart attack. We went to the hospital, and were informed that he had passed. We asked to see him, so the nurses let my sisters and me into the room. My younger sister and I went together to see him, and we cried and even laughed at some joke he had told her recently. My older sister went in alone afterwards, and came out with a swatch of his hair she had cut. Dad still had a full head of hair, and she cut it from the front in the middle of his forehead.
That same day my sisters, my mother, and I went to the funeral home to see about making arrangements right away, as Christmas was just two days away. The funeral director asked my mom what she wanted: cremation, burial, open or closed casket, etc. She wanted a burial, and she asserted that she definitely didn't want an open casket. We purchased a burial plot for the two of them, and shopped around for a location for the service. We settled on a chapel in a neighboring town because the cost was more reasonable than the upscale funeral home at the cemetery. Somehow, in the process of arranging the service, the funeral director talked my mom into having an open casket. He explained that, since many of my dad's old friends and work associates had not seen him in a long time, it would be nice to have him displayed for viewing. This surprised me, since my mom been so clear about the closed casket. She was shocked, confused, and vulnerably suggestible. My sisters wanted to pick out clothes for Dad, which they delivered to the funeral home. They also suggested that the grandchildren place into the casket mementos which were personally meaningful to them and their grandfather. One grandson contributed a baseball bat and a ball. My own daughters wrote notes to him. And my 15 year old niece contributed a stuffed animal--a moose in a Christmas elf outfit, which played a recording of the song "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer" when one squeezed it's leg. I didn't have input into any of these decisions. I had decided that my mom should be able to choose what she wanted, or delegate decisions as she wished.
My brother-in-law arranged for a limo to take the family to the funeral home on the day of his memorial. We arrived at the somber chapel, and soon people began to arrive: former coworkers, old friends, a few relatives. Many of the guests were people we hadn't seen in many years. And there was my father in the open casket, dressed in a cheap white t-shirt from the mall with a photo of the grandchildren (minus my own two daughters) and a casual blue shirt with the collar left open so the top of the t-shirt photo would show. In the shirt pocket, my sister had placed a bendy plastic pen in the shape of a skeleton, it's little posable arms carefully bent over the top of the pocket to hold it in place. She explained that my dad had purchased the pen in the sale bin at the pharmacy after Halloween, and it was his favorite pen. My father's face had been carefully made up, and he looked okay, except for the missing lock of hair in the middle of his forehead.
I cannot describe the sense of foreboding and embarrassment I felt as I looked over the situation. My father had been an executive for a national manufacturing company. Guests who knew him as a successful, articulate, well-dressed, intelligent man were now viewing a man dressed in casual Grandpa-wear, with a weird haircut, a bendy skeleton peeking out of his shirt pocket, and a baseball bat and stuffed moose peeking out from under the half-lid of the casket. The dignified man I had known all my life had been reduced to a caricature, the funny, slightly muddled post-stroke man he had become in the last 10 months of his life. It's not that this manifestation of his character wasn't lovable or sweet, but it was a short phase of a long life, which had been richer and fuller than that portrayed by the silly old man they had dressed and accessorized in his open casket. I had the sense that my sisters liked him better that way. He was less intimidating, less intellectual.
The somber mood--the echoey chapel, dim lights, murmuring condolences of the guests--was broken by the sound of the little electronic widget singing out from the casket, "Grandma got run over by a reindeer. . . "; my niece and nephews squeezed the stuffed toy over and over again. My 5-year old nephew approached the casket, rapped on my father's forehead with his knuckles, and said, "Hey, Grandpa! You in there?" I approached my sister: "I don't think it's appropriate for him to be knocking on Dad's forehead like that." Her response: "Leave him alone. He's grieving in his own way." I looked around at the guests, who seemed somewhat uncomfortable and out-of-place in their suits and ties and dresses; I imagined them wincing every time the moose toy sang out, but I was too embarrassed to look.
The grave-side service took place at the cemetery a day or two later. Mom had arranged for a priest from the Catholic church, which we had attended regularly when I was a teenager, to give a brief grave-side service. The closed casket sat beside the grave, and a few folding chairs were set up for the service. I felt my grief well up at the finality of this ritual. I sat beside my mom in the front row of chairs, and the priest gave his brief benediction. Thankfully, the toys were secure inside the closed casket, out of reach of my niece and nephews' mischief. As the priest concluded his prayer, and we bowed our heads in quiet reverence or reflection, my uncle, Dad's youngest brother, came forward, dropped to his knees, threw himself onto the casket, and began to weep, calling out my dad's name. This touching display of grief was overshadowed by the sight of my uncle's butt, exposed between his hiked-up polo shirt and his trousers. My brother, in response to this final clownish ending to the farcical debacle of my fathers funeral, stood up, stepped forward, stood directly behind my uncle, bowed his head, and blocked the view of my uncle's butt from the crowd.
Ah, but wait, this wasn't the final or most permanent act in the embarrassment of my father's funeral. My sisters decided to design and order the gravestone for my parent's grave. Carved into the marble is my father's name, followed by the words "Handsome Dude".
In mid-December that year, my mom had become ill and was hospitalized for a week. The situation was grave, and there was concern that my parents, who were in the process of updating their will and establishing a living trust, should get their affairs in order in case my mom (who suffered from diabetes and congestive heart failure) should pass away before the documents were completed and signed. I was unaware that my mom had been hospitalized, as my sisters--in a truly cruel and vindictive act--had chosen not to call me or return my phone calls; they were angry with me, having assumed that I had reported my dad as an unsafe senior driver to the DMV through their Request for Driver Reexamination Program (I had not, and it's likely that it was his physician who had done so). On Tuesday, December 19th, one of my sisters left a message on my answering machine saying, "Hi Donna. I thought I'd tell you that Mom's in the hospital. She's been there for about a week, and they don't know if she's going to make it. Just thought you might want to know." I called the hospital in a panic and was able to talk to my mom, who had, by that time, recovered somewhat. I cried and told her how sorry I was that I hadn't come to see her, that I had left messages both at home and with my sisters, with no response. She was surprised that I didn't know that she was in the hospital. I then called my dad at home and he answered the phone. I was crying, sobbing, and I told him I was so sorry, that I hadn't known about Mom's condition. He seemed surprised as well, and said, "I thought they [my sisters] called you." I explained that my youngest sister hadn't been speaking to me because she was angry, assuming, wrongly, that I had reported him to the DMV. He had obviously been told that I had, because he seemed surprised, but he said, "Don't worry about that, Darlin'. I know you love us, and we love you. Just don't pay any attention to what they say." I told him I would come to see him and Mom the next day, and he said, "Why don't you just wait until Saturday? They'll be doing tests on her all day tomorrow in the hospital, and her doctor will be coming to see her before she's released on Thursday, so it's going to be busy for the next couple of days anyway. If you come on Saturday, she'll be home and settled in." So I said okay, I'll see you on Saturday. "I love you Dad." "I love you too."
That was the last conversation I had with my dad. He collapsed early Friday morning from a massive heart attack. Mom was home, and he was up early, making coffee in the kitchen and talking to her, telling her how happy he was that she was home in time for Christmas. She said later that he remarked that he felt so cold, really really cold, and then he collapsed onto the floor. He didn't cry out or clutch his chest or show any sign of pain; one moment he was speaking, and the next he was unconscious. She called my brother first, then 911. Paramedics arrived about 10 minutes later. They began CPR and transported him to the hospital. They managed to get his heart going again and put him on a respirator, but he never gained consciousness. Fortunately, my sister called me this time, and I headed south to see him. It pained me to see him like that, kept alive artificially, which was contrary to his stated wishes. But my mom, in her grief and confusion, couldn't give consent for him to be removed from life support, so we waited. The following morning around 5 a.m. we received a call from the hospital that he had suffered another heart attack. We went to the hospital, and were informed that he had passed. We asked to see him, so the nurses let my sisters and me into the room. My younger sister and I went together to see him, and we cried and even laughed at some joke he had told her recently. My older sister went in alone afterwards, and came out with a swatch of his hair she had cut. Dad still had a full head of hair, and she cut it from the front in the middle of his forehead.
That same day my sisters, my mother, and I went to the funeral home to see about making arrangements right away, as Christmas was just two days away. The funeral director asked my mom what she wanted: cremation, burial, open or closed casket, etc. She wanted a burial, and she asserted that she definitely didn't want an open casket. We purchased a burial plot for the two of them, and shopped around for a location for the service. We settled on a chapel in a neighboring town because the cost was more reasonable than the upscale funeral home at the cemetery. Somehow, in the process of arranging the service, the funeral director talked my mom into having an open casket. He explained that, since many of my dad's old friends and work associates had not seen him in a long time, it would be nice to have him displayed for viewing. This surprised me, since my mom been so clear about the closed casket. She was shocked, confused, and vulnerably suggestible. My sisters wanted to pick out clothes for Dad, which they delivered to the funeral home. They also suggested that the grandchildren place into the casket mementos which were personally meaningful to them and their grandfather. One grandson contributed a baseball bat and a ball. My own daughters wrote notes to him. And my 15 year old niece contributed a stuffed animal--a moose in a Christmas elf outfit, which played a recording of the song "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer" when one squeezed it's leg. I didn't have input into any of these decisions. I had decided that my mom should be able to choose what she wanted, or delegate decisions as she wished.
My brother-in-law arranged for a limo to take the family to the funeral home on the day of his memorial. We arrived at the somber chapel, and soon people began to arrive: former coworkers, old friends, a few relatives. Many of the guests were people we hadn't seen in many years. And there was my father in the open casket, dressed in a cheap white t-shirt from the mall with a photo of the grandchildren (minus my own two daughters) and a casual blue shirt with the collar left open so the top of the t-shirt photo would show. In the shirt pocket, my sister had placed a bendy plastic pen in the shape of a skeleton, it's little posable arms carefully bent over the top of the pocket to hold it in place. She explained that my dad had purchased the pen in the sale bin at the pharmacy after Halloween, and it was his favorite pen. My father's face had been carefully made up, and he looked okay, except for the missing lock of hair in the middle of his forehead.
I cannot describe the sense of foreboding and embarrassment I felt as I looked over the situation. My father had been an executive for a national manufacturing company. Guests who knew him as a successful, articulate, well-dressed, intelligent man were now viewing a man dressed in casual Grandpa-wear, with a weird haircut, a bendy skeleton peeking out of his shirt pocket, and a baseball bat and stuffed moose peeking out from under the half-lid of the casket. The dignified man I had known all my life had been reduced to a caricature, the funny, slightly muddled post-stroke man he had become in the last 10 months of his life. It's not that this manifestation of his character wasn't lovable or sweet, but it was a short phase of a long life, which had been richer and fuller than that portrayed by the silly old man they had dressed and accessorized in his open casket. I had the sense that my sisters liked him better that way. He was less intimidating, less intellectual.
The somber mood--the echoey chapel, dim lights, murmuring condolences of the guests--was broken by the sound of the little electronic widget singing out from the casket, "Grandma got run over by a reindeer. . . "; my niece and nephews squeezed the stuffed toy over and over again. My 5-year old nephew approached the casket, rapped on my father's forehead with his knuckles, and said, "Hey, Grandpa! You in there?" I approached my sister: "I don't think it's appropriate for him to be knocking on Dad's forehead like that." Her response: "Leave him alone. He's grieving in his own way." I looked around at the guests, who seemed somewhat uncomfortable and out-of-place in their suits and ties and dresses; I imagined them wincing every time the moose toy sang out, but I was too embarrassed to look.
The grave-side service took place at the cemetery a day or two later. Mom had arranged for a priest from the Catholic church, which we had attended regularly when I was a teenager, to give a brief grave-side service. The closed casket sat beside the grave, and a few folding chairs were set up for the service. I felt my grief well up at the finality of this ritual. I sat beside my mom in the front row of chairs, and the priest gave his brief benediction. Thankfully, the toys were secure inside the closed casket, out of reach of my niece and nephews' mischief. As the priest concluded his prayer, and we bowed our heads in quiet reverence or reflection, my uncle, Dad's youngest brother, came forward, dropped to his knees, threw himself onto the casket, and began to weep, calling out my dad's name. This touching display of grief was overshadowed by the sight of my uncle's butt, exposed between his hiked-up polo shirt and his trousers. My brother, in response to this final clownish ending to the farcical debacle of my fathers funeral, stood up, stepped forward, stood directly behind my uncle, bowed his head, and blocked the view of my uncle's butt from the crowd.
Ah, but wait, this wasn't the final or most permanent act in the embarrassment of my father's funeral. My sisters decided to design and order the gravestone for my parent's grave. Carved into the marble is my father's name, followed by the words "Handsome Dude".
Saturday, April 2, 2011
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