It's The Teachers, Stupid

There's a lot of bluster in our daily news about the economy (it is that, too) and politics (it shouldn't be that) and money (it's definitely not that). That's all good and well - we need to talk about those things and get them sorted out. But, in my view, we may be missing a key part of the conversation. Never one to be left out of a conversation, I've got some thoughts. It's not about any of that - the solution to our problems, that is. It's about the teachers. So here's my ode, along with a special thanks to a certain someone who got the wrong end of my big mouth.

Thanks for teaching my children how to read. I don't have the vocabulary to express what importance I place on that skill, and that you gifted it to my children, along with hundreds of others over the course of your careers, is a blessing I'm sure can only be repaid to you in the next life, where the Gifter is a much greater one than I. That you did so while nurturing, humoring, inspiring is beyond the pale.

Thanks for carrying my children, with all their talents and challenges, through the process of learning with those talents and challenges, not despite them. That you took the time to actually know each one of my children, that you learned them so you could teach them to learn, is a talent so few professionals have and it gave them each so much self-confidence and pride in their work.

You did something I was desperately trying to do but couldn't; you made my children love learning. My children were eager to go to your classes, excited about the next thing - whatever it was. You made them not only read with comprehension, you made them readers! There's nothing better, in my book. (heh heh, readers - book - I'm a riot!)

And let's just cede that the kids certainly weren't going to get math appreciation from me at home. You took a subject that doesn't always have a lot of appeal for many students and you made it interesting, a puzzle, a challenge, a process of pathways to solutions. Those skills are translatable across every possible subject, and my children have drawn from your energy and excitement to dig in with enthusiasm and confidence. It's no small thing.

But it's not always enough to teach. Sometimes you have to let that go and just be a person. You have been hard, when needed, soft, when it mattered, and every shade in between. So the kids know you and adore you and they are more connected to their learning because of you. I'm so grateful.

Your ambition and interest is infectious.

My children learned so much from your classes because you talk to the children like they're real people. I always think children are more convinced when the teacher him or herself believes what they're saying and say it like they mean it - and you do.  Thank you.

While it's not always cool when mom likes it, it sure is cool when you do. What a pleasure it has been to hear stories of your in-class discussions. What a joy it has been to watch my children bloom in your literary gardens. What a treat, for me, to know you are the stewards of the words I love so much, so my children can love them too.

You take my beloved social sciences and make them real, plausible, current - even when the material is ancient! You bring your humanity into the classroom. You are thinkers and citizens of the world and it shows - there's no greater example for young children.

And I'm sure there's some piece of music which would more eloquently express my deep thanks to my children's fine arts teachers - some piece of art that calls out with joy and tears-in-your-eyes thrill at the thought of you and what you've given my children. I'm sure there is and I just don't know it, so my words will have to suffice, but they're woefully inadequate, because you are the color and music in the hearts of my babies - thank you thank you!

And here's one last note, since this has gone on alarmingly too long. I'm the only child of a single-parent mom. For reasons too ridiculous to enumerate here, if you're a man in the life of my children, I watch you like a hawk, and if you misstep I'm on you before immediately. The other day, I callously teased one of my children's teachers in front of others. I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that. Instead, you should know that you more than exceed the standard I have for a teacher - and that you do so wearing the vestige of a man makes you that much more phenomenal in my eyes. (That you are a conservative ideologue and a hunter only serves to prove that no one is perfect, but you're damn close.) My babies adore you because on top of your compassion, kindness, patience and attention you're just a load of fun. Learning should be fun. School should be a blast - exciting and interesting and sometimes silly. You make it that for them under some pretty challenging restraints and you impress me with the ease you bring to the task. Thank you, James. You're going to be a magician in a classroom, I just know it.

So I know these thanks are not much - not enough for sure - but please know that whatever your unions tell you, whatever the politicians and newsmakers tell you - none of that matters.  You are what it is about. You do matter. And I do, with a full heart, appreciate you.

I'm Not Married to the Idea

We're getting a couch from a friend this week. We've been needing a replacement for the old couches we got from friends, so this is a nice treat. The couch we're getting is a sectional, but the configuration of our living room is such that I think we'll have to split it up. I'm not, however, married to the idea.

That's because in order to be 'married' once has to be convincingly, irrevocably (or nearly so) and before witnesses, joined with something or, more commonly, someone. I may change my mind about the couches. But I'm not going to change my mind about my husband. I'm married to him. I swore to my family and to God that I'd be married to him until death do us part and I intend to keep that promise. Now, if death parts us under suspicious circumstances... that's not in the vows.

I don't get why some folks don't want other folks to get married. If being married means 'together', why don't they want some folks to be together?

And if it doesn't mean together, united, joined -- holy cow --  I may have signed up for the wrong thing!

Also, how did the word get so holy in the case of gay and lesbian marriage, but no one protests when it's bandied about on the Food network when discussing plums and garlic ('Oooh, Eric, I just love the way he married the ingredients in this plum sauce - absolutely divine!')?

Which is it - sacred vow that only some genders get to use, and only then when using in the context of its application to another gender - and only then when applied to humans - and only then if sanctified according to a legislative document OR a way to bring together fresh and dry ingredients with a delicate cream sauce to the ecstatic delight of some nitwit on a food show?

I may be more evolved than the President on this, and I'm sure I part company with many of my brothers and sisters of dogmatic pursuit, but I just think if you want to get married, and you're an adult of sound mind, and so's the other person, and you're willing to take on in-laws, you should be RUN... er... you should be free to do so. I think this is especially true in the 'land of the free'. How sad that folks in our country, where freedom is so proudly sung, are voting against it.

Maybe those folks ought to have one of their freedoms taken from them in exchange for this vote, so they could see how it feels for a bit. I know it's absurd and would be the absolute ruin of democracy, but it might get the point across. I suppose there are other ways. We could try something else. It's not like I'm married to the idea.

My baby

It'll be Lucy's birthday tomorrow. Just one more before the big 15 we've been holding out in the ever-diminishing distance, a date which once seemed so far away it was easy to push off all of the adult privileges and responsibilities we told her would be hers to hold once she crossed that threshold. Just one short year. She's just a baby! She doesn't know it yet, but I'm going to cling to this next year like tomorrow clings to the end of today.

Not Exactly The Type To Take Herself Too Seriously

I'm glad to see her become a young woman, truth be told. I think she's ready - more than. And she's still a snuggler. She still trusts me and giggles with me and seeks me out. Still my baby. But it's coming, I know, the time when her friends come before me, the time when someone else gets her news before I do, the time when I'm excited to see her, but she's too preoccupied to notice.

Lucy is my first and so with every change that comes, she carries the brunt of my reaction (usually mind numbing sadness accompanied by bags of potato chips, or embarrassing joy accompanied by other potato chips). It's not easy and she carries it well. I think she knows that all of it, all my ups, downs and in-betweens are tethered ever so tightly to my complete, overwhelming, sometimes over-the-top (ok, more than sometimes) love for and adoration of her. She fills me with so much pride I'm certain others can see it on my skin, through my clothes and escaping from the ends of every curl on my head. She is my baby!

That'll never change, I'm sure, no matter how much she grows, spreads, reaches away. For me, the soft, flawless, amazing baby that was handed to me on the day she was born is the same one who now plays soccer (a little violently) and rocks a saxophone and makes the grade and handles herself like a real pro, focused, ready and ambitious.

A year from now we'll be marking passage from childhood into young adulthood. I think she's already passed. The days of high school and boys and jobs and worries await. It'll be a quick wink before she's an adult, carrying on with the chores of her own life, with children of her own, perhaps. She'll be a mommy!

Still. No matter. She is, and always will be, my baby.

I Love My Mom And Other Ironies

If you're like me, you have several lists running through your head at all times: Stuff I Have to Get Done Before The Kids Get Home, Stuff I Can't Ignore Anymore, Stuff My Clients Will Melt Down About If I Don't Send That Email, Stuff I'm Going to Deal With As Soon As I Do This Other Stuff. And stuff like that. Unlike me, you probably do not have a list labled "Stuff That's Completely Outside My Control But Drives Me Bananas Anyway." I do have that list and thought I'd share a few items with you:

Bathroom stalls where you have to straddle the toilet to close or open the door.

Are you kidding me? What life-sized penguin invented this crap? Should we talk about how it's made all the more acrobatic and ridiculous when one is wearing boots and a heavy coat and carrying a purse and briefcase? I look like a new born colt with bad hair trying to turn, hold my stuff and put my tush down. And I'll not get more graphic than that, but you and I both know I'm from the generation where my mom told me to put paper down, so I do, and it ain't pretty. If I were being video taped during one of these exercises I would expect an applause lamp to go off because I'm pretty darn sure several of those teeny Cirque babes are getting paid an awful lot of cash to do that in a quarter my size and a shiny leotard. Try it with an accordian file folder under your chin, then I'll pay $125 a ticket. Also, did an army of ant-sized toilet-paper installers corner the market on installing the paper rolls? Why, why, why are they six inches off the ground instead of at hip height which you could reach without having to crack a vertebrae or two? As a public service, I think this stuff should be addressed, and soon. Adding those extra five minutes of stress to my pottie experience only makes the rest of the world more suceptible to some outrageous act of frustration on my part. (I bet if you polled all the crazy women on the Broadway bus, a large percentage of them had some recent encounter with a bad bathroom stall. )The most mind-splintering effect of going to the bathroom like this is that by the time I'm done I've either tinkled myself or spent so much time arranging myself in and out of the stall that I have to go again. Look for me on the bus.

Children and Laundry.

Yesterday I went upstairs and told the kids to finish putting away all the folded clothes they'd left languishing in the three baskets scattered throughout their rooms and the hallway. I'm sure that sounds rational, but the way I did it had a little more flair to it, bordering on the diagnosable. Suffice to say that certain medical conditions were threatened and I'll thank you not to discuss this with any child protective authorities. Some time later, my oldest came downstairs to dig through the one basket of unfolded laundry at the bottom of the steps. I started laughing and asked what she was doing. "I'm looking for pants," she looked at me with the 'duh' expression one can only wear so perfectly at that age. "You just put away all your clothes. Go get pants upstairs," I looked at her puzzled - a look we wear so well. "I'm saving those," she said to me plainly. "For what?" I didn't get it. "For the week," exasperated. "So you have twenty pairs of pants upstairs folded and put away but you need to come dig in this one basket to get pants?" "Yes." For the record, I did not leap over the couch, shake my exceptional child and scream unintelligibly at her. But I wanted to. Real bad. The real comedy here? This morning when I went to smell the clothes to make sure they were clean so I could fold them I ended up with the business end of a pair of jeans perfuming the rest of my day. So she was digging in a basket of dirty clothes. Nice.

Phone calls with my mother.

I'm a visitor to a blog labled "Texts From Bennett." It's filthy, foul stuff, but it's really quite hysterical if you can get past the vernacular. It's given me the idea that I ought to, in some way, record conversations with my mother so that others can derive joy from my pain. I love my mom. Honestly. But the conversations are a little muddling. Today for instance, we had this: Mom: "Well I just fed you a bowl of toxic soup from your family and now all you're going to do is go be social with Tony's family. It's just sweet cereal with them." Me: "What?" Mom: "I know they're all so cheerful and all you get from me is toxic waste. Our relationship consists of you taking me to Jewel." Me: "That's not right, mom." Mom: "Well that's what it feels like." Me: "Mom, have I done something to upset you?" Mom: "Did I tell you your uncle and I are not speaking to one another? He won't let me talk to my sister without getting on the phone. Isn't that goofy? Who's goofy like that? By the way, honey, before I forget, do you want me to save the Smithsonian magazines for you?" Me: "What?" Mom: "I don't want to take up your time at work. Although when I used to work you would spend so much time with me on the phone, even if I was busy." Me: "Mom...." Mom: "What, Carmen?" (exasperated) Me: "Mom, I have to go." Mom: "Yes, I know. You're always too busy. I can never talk to you."

Great. Now I have to go to the bathroom.

Education and The Road Not Taken

Robert Frost's The Road Not Taken is one of my all-time favorite pieces of written work. Whether I've consciously done so or not, I've often stood at that fork in the road and chosen the path less traveled and it has, indeed, made all the difference.

That's what I'm hoping will be the case with my children. I hope they'll travel far and wide and, whenever possible, mark the unworn paths. I hope their choices will be informed by a broad variety of experiences, conversations, books, adventures, curiosity, interest, excitement. I'm not sure that's what CPS is trying to accomplish.

So I'm a little at odds with my partner. And I say partner because that's what it is, a partnership. I've hired CPS, with annual property taxes near $10,000 every year for more than 10 years --that's roughly $100,000-- to partner with me in educating my children. I'm a little disappointed that what CPS has to offer me by way of innovative solutions to the declining scores on CPS students' tests is 90 minutes. 90 minutes?

Ask a child what makes it hard for them to learn in school, and you might hear:

- it's hard to focus when I'm sitting in the hallway to read and people keep walking by
- I can't talk to my teacher in class because she's too busy with other students (32 of them)
- we don't have a computer in our class anymore because it was taken to a testing room

Ask a teacher what makes it hard for them to teach and you might get:

- I know it doesn't make sense, but I have to get this in before the test
- the problem is, he's not eating at home, so I can't get him to focus
- she's working independently because she can; I have to pay attention to those who can't

So if you had these and other problems in education, would you suggest that 90 minutes would cure these difficulties? 90 more minutes of the same stuff that's failing? Why? What about taking what's great from other educational systems that are succeeding (and no one seems to agree that more time is one of those elements of success) and applying our own best practices to create a dynamic, rigorous new path for our children to travel?

The folks at CPS, even if well-intentioned, are displaying a real lack of interest in or understanding of what needs to happen. I think they need to show us why those 90 minutes matter more than other ideas to improve our educational system. At the end of the day, we don't want scores, we want educated citizens, right? We want explorers, entrepreneurs, scientists, mathemeticians, dancers, drivers, and things we haven't thought of yet! We want folks who will walk those roads not taken, to see where they'll take us all. Are the 90 minutes going to get us there? I don't think so.

Frankly, I believe the powers that be at CPS need to brush up on their poetry. I'd have them start with Frost.

Planning Your Own Surprise Party

The results of our efforts are upon us, and somehow, we're managing to be shocked. This makes us about as clever as folks who plan and execute their own surprise parties.

I should probably clarify that in some circles, we're not even shocked. We're accepting of our absurdity as if we're all guests at the Mad Hatter's Tea Party (I love the parity between this and the political movement) and it's all just fine. But it isn't fine and some of us need to keep a handle on that before the whole thing falls into the sea.

Here's what brings me to the precipice:

I was flipping through channels last night and fleetingly landed on NBC. Jay Leno should not have a show. Folks should not be going on his show. Advertisers should not be advertising on his show. Jay Leno, whatever his talents, screwed Conan O'Brien out of his lifelong dream. He did so publicly, with little regard for the consequences. It wasn't the first time. He did it to Dave Letterman a few years back. The network aided and abetted this screwing of Mr. O'Brien, just as they did with Dave. Jay is a hypocrite and an ass and a backstabber. He doesn't deserve our attention, our money, our loyalty. He made his bed and then he decided he'd go lie in someone else's, leaving behind a mess of crumpled sheets and worn bedding. But there he goes glibly onward, making millions, smearing our faces in our own disregard for decency. Makes me sick.

As does Newt Gingrich's campaign, and the more than a quarter of a million Americans who have given him their precious votes. Are you kidding me? Newt Gingrich gets to claim redemption because he went to God for forgiveness and now he gets a completely clean political slate? Uh, no. God forgives and relieves you for your true repentence, loves you unconditionally, but that doesn't mean you don't pay for your sins here on earth. It doesn't mean that the hypocrisy of being a multi-million dollar consultant for paid lobbyists is forgiven because you aren't technically a lobbyist yourself. It doesn't mean that the outright disgusting-ness (is that a word?) of persecuting a public figure for their private trysts is forgiven because you finally landed on wife number three and were too old to muster up a bail to number four. Or is it just that she hasn't developed a debilitating disease yet?

When you crippled the government during your tenure as House Speaker you were not doing it for the good of the people. You were screwing the opposing party leader in the White House. Your strategy failed, and that means you exercised poor judgement. Often. Now you want to take credit for the things that did work? It doesn't go like that, friend. Or it shouldn't. You think it's petty to open up a debate with questions about your ex-wife's take on your swinging lifestyle? It is. It's petty and base and disgusting. So get off stage and stop making a spectacle of yourself and your tawdry personal life. If you wish to serve the public you may do so under quieter lights and with less media attention. I have a further unkind observation to add here about selling yourself to an audience, but I'll show restraint. You should try it some time.

As for 'values voters'? If I hear one more of you say "We all have our baggage," I'm going to mail you my barf. Are you kidding me? We all have our baggage? We all abandoned our cancer-stricken wife to marry our mistress, until our mistress contracted MS and then we abandoned her to carry on with our new mistress - not before suggesting we all just do the 'sharing is caring' version of marriage? Actually, we don't all carry those bags. But a single man cannot devote himself to a single man through marriage and raise a family together, on account of that defiles traditional marriage. Right? Fly a kite.

Seated next to Newt at the table are the legions of moronic sportswriters and fans who continue to glorify and/or demonize Joe Paterno. Joe Paterno shall be judged by He who judges. The rest of us can only make observations. Here's what I observe: the day a guy's record winning games as a coach matters more to some folks than an innocent child is the day those same folks come face to face with their own immorality. Paterno allowed a man to get away with raping a child. If you or I saw someone raping a child, or heard from a co-worker that they'd seen it, would we report it to the manager in our office and then go back to our desks? Of course not. That's insane! Would we continue to hang out with the alleged rapist and never ask him a question? Or shun him? Never ask the manager what happened? It wasn't just one little mistake. It was a lot of mistakes over a long period of time and winning football games does not relieve him of those failures.

So are they serving cake at this thing? Not likely. We're hurtling at greater and greater speeds toward an end that can't be much good and we're mangling so many of the messages it's hard to keep track of the truth. If you can, every once in a while, center yourself and get hold of it. These folks, Jay, Newt and Joe - they're all human - all worthy of forgiveness. I dig that. But let's not act like everything they did either didn't happen or didn't matter - that's just wacky.

Our futures are in the hands of those who come behind us. Our examples teach in more powerful voice than our words. So exactly what are we saying? I don't know about you, but I won't be surprised if it all comes back to bite us. We planned this party.

Bittersweet

My best friend's mom has passed away. I'm usually pretty good with words, but sometimes the clouds in a stormy moment get in my way. This is just such a time. I'm grateful to have been loved. I'm glad to have loved. I'm sorry to have lost but relieved to have had so precious a time. I am renewed in faith and rejoice in its comfort. I am strong because I am needed and I am brought to peace by those who seek to bring me there. I don't want to be alone, nor do I want to leave others alone, and so I link my arms generously with those who open their arms to me - - something I learned most pointedly from this gracious and loving woman. I learn and move in her example and so I don't say good-bye. She glides away into another place just outside my reach, so that when I arrive there is a smile to greet me and a warm embrace to bring me in. She rejoins those who have gone before her and now in that moment they are, indeed, joyful.

With all that, it's not easy not to feel like there ought to be a pause in the day that recognizes the sadness at having lost this magnificent person. Why are the buses still running? Why is everyone just going about their business? Why is it snowing instead of still? I don't have the words to express this any better than W.H. Auden did... look up the Funeral Blues if you get a sec. All I can say is that as the natural progression moves me forward in waves away from my childish self to a time when I am the mature adult in the room (yes, it's happening) I can't help but wish I could cling again to the legs of my best friend's mom and beg her for a few more minutes of play before she goes. Now, instead, it is her grandchild, who clings to me with his melting eyes and asks to stay just a few moments longer so he can play with my own children. I acquiesce, as she always did, and smile. It is indeed, so bittersweet.