Graduation

I am a teacher in an inner-city housing project. Most teachers love the end of the year but I hate it. Of course I love my vacation like anyone else but the three months leading up to it are agony. I teach 5th grade and that means that my babies will be moving on to middle school. I usually become very close to my students. I push them and have very high expectations for them. Eventually almost all of them rise to my expectations. But then, just like a 17 year old preparing to go off to college, they begin to push away. It seems like the closer you are, the harder they push. Today was graduation day. I was sooo proud of them. They were all dressed up in their Sunday best and looked so grown up. At graduation I always cry because my babies" futures are so unknown. Will they all graduate from high school? Will they all live to be adults or will they get caught in gang crossfire? Will they join a gang or become a police officer and fight gang violence? Will my girls go to college or become teenage mothers? I have done all that I can for them. I come to school early and stay late. I call their parents for both the good and the bad. I walk them home to talk to a parent if they don't have a phone. I keep granola bars in the class for those that miss breakfast. a I have even driven a child to school every day just to make sure he gets there. I have done all that is humanly possible, I have taught them several years of reading, math science and social studies heavily laced with good morals, life lessons and a little ettiquette. But now they push me away and act as if I am abandoning them. All I can offer is an email address in case they need to reach me. I feel like a mother bird whose chicks just flew off without her.

Shakira

Her reputation had preceded her. She came in three weeks after school started. As each returning teacher looked at my class list, they said, “Oh my, you have her!” or “Be glad she hasn’t shown up yet,” When she entered my classroom, I was struck by her beauty. She had long, dark hair, large, chocolate brown eyes rimmed with black eye liner, and a body that any grown women, including myself, would have died for. This was a sixth grader? I looked at the roster. Had she been held back three times? No, she was actually younger than most of the students because of her summer birthday. She immediately intrigued me.

I was a veteran teacher having taught in the projects of Chicago and the barrio of Miami for over 10 years. When I moved to Virginia, I first took a job at a cush, white suburban school. I figured that I had paid my dues and should now be able to relax. But, I was bored. After a year of this white Anglo-Saxon malaise, I contemplated quitting teaching. Maybe I would sell real estate or go back to school AGAIN. But then my daughter with her 18 years of wisdom spoke up. “Mom, you’re not burned out. You’re bored. These kids don’t need you. You need to find some who do.” She was right. I needed to be needed. I had given up the students who needed me just as my daughter was leaving the nest and my marriage was breaking up. Was I nuts? So, I found the most impoverished neighborhood in the area and got myself a new job. This was a different population for me. A mix of students from the Middle East and Central America. I had worked with African Americans, Haitians, Jamaicans, and White children. But never this population. I knew that this would be a challenge. I would have to learn a lot about two or more new cultures in a short time. I was excited but was I prepared for Shakira?

The first couple of weeks were great. I found out that Shakira had spent the summer in Jordan. Her family was from Iraq but was in Jordan due to the war. She said that she had learned a lot about her religion that summer. She wanted to be a good student because she felt that it was her duty. She liked that I treated her at face value. I scolded the others when they spoke of her passed escapades and sneered at teachers that made snide comments in her direction. I was confused. For several weeks, she was the best student in the class. I have an innate curiosity about other cultures and faiths. So, I inquired about her religion many times. She was not shy about answering my questions. She wanted to have lunch with me whenever possible. She was sharp as a whip. We ate and discussed politics, religion, fashion etc. She even brought me a beloved, little, beaded case with her traditional eyeliner because I had remarked that I liked it. She patiently taught me how to apply it. It was very different than the Cover Girl technique. 

            It was a Monday about three months into the school year when the old Shakira came to school. She walked in looking down at the floor. When I spoke to her she snapped back at me and rolled her eyes. Either she had a black eye or she had not slept all weekend. I tired to talk to her but she was shut down tight. No one was breaking that exterior. I tried to call home but no one answered. I was told by the other teachers that she was the oldest of seven kids. Her mother and father went away for long periods and left her in charge. Teachers had called DCFS many times before but somehow, the parents were able to keep the kids and more problems occurred because of the report. They warned me not to call the authorities because Shakira would be the recipient of retaliation.

           Weeks went by. She was involved in numerous fights with both girls and boys. Her clothes became very provocative, her grades dropped from A’s to D’s and F’s. I assumed that it was the result of taking care of her siblings while her parents were out of town. But I was dead wrong.

            It was a cold February morning when Shakira walked in with red, puffy eyes. She had been crying for hours, maybe even days. I should have been upset but I was relieved. In recent weeks the only emotion that I had seen from her was anger. Maybe she was ready to talk. Maybe her walls had come tumbling down. Just before lunch, she came to me and very quietly asked if we could eat lunch together. I tried to hide my enthusiasm and simply said, “Of course.”  I walked the others to the cafeteria and instructed her to get her lunch and meet me in the classroom.

            She walked in sheepishly and sat down with her tray of plastic-coated pizza and over cooked broccoli. She didn’t speak for a few minutes. I gave her time and preoccupied myself with my Boston cream pie yogurt. I looked up and tears were streaming down her face. I asked her for the thousandth time over the last few months what was wrong. She didn’t speak. She just pulled a head scarf out from under her pink Abercrombie hoody. It was not just a scarf but a “traditional head scarf.” There were hundreds of Muslim girls at our school but only one wore a head scarf. That child was obese, awkward and was the brunt of many cruel jokes. Shakira wrongly assumed that she would have to endure the same. That day we didn’t talk much. I hugged her and told her that everything would be ok. I assured her that we would work things out somehow. She wasn’t ready to talk. She just wanted me to understand and I did.

            Over the next few weeks, she explained that she had,”Come of age.” while in Jordan. They had celebrated her womanhood and she began wearing the scarf. Just as she returned to the U.S., her parents had left the country. She wanted to wear her headscarf to school but could not bring herself to do it. Everything was fine as long as she was in charge. Then, one day, her father showed up unannounced. He caught her leaving the school without her head scarf. She tried to explain. She told him that she was making straight A’s and that she was going to become a pediatrician when she grew up. He beat her and told her that she was going to be nothing more than a good wife who gave her husband healthy babies. He reminded her that her marriage had been arranged at birth and that in a few years, she would return home and marry. That’s when she gave up. She decided to defy him by not wearing the scarf and wearing clothes that he would not approve of. Daily she left the house in plain clothes and with her head covered. She stopped at the Shell gas station and changed her clothes. She stopped studying because she didn’t need to study to raise children. She already knew how to do that.

            My immediate assumption was that she wanted help negotiating with her father or to cover up her rebellion. But, once again, I was dead wrong. She wanted to be a good girl and obey her father. To my dismay, she wanted my help in discussing the scarf with the students. That afternoon, we had a long talk with the class. The Middle Eastern students understood. Most of their mothers wore a scarf and traditional dress. The Central American students asked a lot of questions but were understanding. One of the more fashionable girls told her that the scarf was beautiful. After that day, she always wore the scarf. The kids never made fun of her….mostly because they were afraid of her. As I look back at this I know that I did the right thing. I helped Shakira to accept the path that she would inevitably follow. It is not my place to interfere with her religion. But I can’t help but think that the world lost a great pediatrician.

4th of July

The 4th of July has always been special to me. It's not that I am particularly patriotic. You see my birthday is the 5th of July. I am the youngest of 4 children by a wide margin (almost 20 years). My brother was in college when I was born and came home for the summer. He always took me to the fireworks on the 4th of July. He would say, "Look Tammy, all of this is for you....Just for your birthday." I thought that I was the most special little girl in the world. Nobody else got fireworks! I did, however, ask my mother if they could change the colors to pink and purple because I much preferred that over red, white and blue. She told me that she would work on it.

As you can imagine, I was more than a little upset when I found out that it was actually a national holiday celebrating the birth of our nation instead of the birth of "me". I was in first grade and I got in quite an argument with my teacher, Ms. Scales, over the matter. My mom had to come up to the school and smooth things over (that was a bad year for my mom because a few months earlier I had actually bitten the dentist) When we got home, I made my mom call my brother at work and begged him to tell those people that they were wrong! He patiently explained that Ms. Scales was correct. I was devastated until he said that he would always consider the July 4th fireworks a celebration for me because I was so special to him. So, I quickly forgave him. He was, of course, the coolest guy in the world.

Now that I am all grown up, I still consider it a very special holiday. When I look into the sky as the fireworks explode, I always think of my brother even if we are thousands of miles apart. I know that despite the fact that he is a grandfather now, he still thinks of me. Unfortunatly, no birthday has ever lived up to those early celebrations where I thought that I was the center of the universe.

The next few years were rough....Santa Clause, the Easter bunny and (the biggest shock of all) finding out that my brother was actually a band geek! Man, people lie to little kids way too much!

Perfect Moments

I was just thinking about small moments of perfection. Someone asked me about the perfect moments in my life. My first reaction was that the perfect moments are usually small ones like watching my daughter sleep when she was a baby; seeing a full and complete rainbow while driving down Lakeshore Drive.; laying in the grass on a beautiful summer day. And for me, holding a puppy and smelling his sweet breath!

We want the perfect moments to be a first kiss; a wedding; the birth of a child but those moments come with so much pressure that although memorable and wonderful, it is difficult for those moments to be perfect. So, why cant every (or most) moments be perfect. Why can’t we forget our petty worries and just live in the moment. If you think about it, that’s what makes moments perfect. Perfection comes in those moments when you gasp at a beautiful site or you can’t help but say “aaaawww”. They are moments that took no preparation and have no expectations. I watch people run around like chickens with their heads cut off around holidays. I call those the “perfect” people. They make themselves miserable trying to create the perfect holiday. But, couldn’t the perfect holiday be all of your loved ones playing Monopoly and eating take-out? Why are we in search of perfection when we could find it anytime, anywhere if we just stopped and paid attention?

I am trying so hard to live in the moment. I really want to get off the worry treadmill. But, how do you live in the moment in our fast passed world? I am afraid that I will forget my hair appointment on Tuesday or to mail the electric bill. Of course the world would not fall apart if I forgot either of those things. So, I’ll keep working on it!

Why Can't People Be More LIke Dogs?

Sometimes I just don't like people (present company accepted). Today, I went to work and it seemed that I just couldn't take one step without being grumbled at. It's not like I was doing anything wrong. It was really more like I was doing too many things right, and everyone else wanted to just slack off. Why do so many people insist on taking their bad moods out on others? The building that I work in is not airconditioned. So, it was very hot today. Everyone was in a bad mood. I just tried to make the best of it.  I think that made me a prime target. Some days it just feels like I have a bullseye on my back. Sometimes, I prefer dogs to people. My pups are always happy to see me and never take their problems out on others. Maybe the world really should "go to the dogs!".

I Hate to Tell You This But It’s Broken and It Needs to be

I know that most of the women on this forum are moms and probably think that their local schools are great or at least adequate. However, as a veteran teacher who has taught in six states, I can tell you that the system is broken and it must be fixed before we lose an entire generation to “corporate education”!

            I have taught in Chicago, Illinois; Colorado Springs, Colorado; South Florida; many places in Virginia; Wilmington, Delaware and Baltimore, Maryland (no I am not running from the law. That’s a whole other story) I have taught in public schools and charter schools. I have taught many socioeconomic groups from upper middle class to the severely impoverished. I can tell you one thing, somewhere around 1996 school districts started treating schools like corporations and took a terrible turn. If schools are corporations, then students are products. And that is the fatal flaw in our schools today. People are not products and should not be treated as such!

            This corporate philosophy affects all types of school but is most detrimental to students in under-achieving schools which are usually located in low income areas. When test scores are low, districts get stricter in implementing their rules and regulations. When scores are high, teachers have more “wiggle room” to teach as they see fit. However, they are still under pressure to keep scores up, and therefore continue many of the “broken” district policies.

            So, you say not my child’s school! Right? Well let’s look at the affect this has had on various subjects. First of all, if it’s not tested it’s not really taught. What I mean by that is that if a subject is not actually tested in your child’s grade level, it is not really, thoroughly covered. Sometimes, it is not taught at all. In low performing schools, teachers are often told to plan for untested subjects but not to teach them until after the test. At higher achieving schools, teachers are allowed to teach the untested subjects but encouraged to infuse as much of the tested subjects into their plans as possible. So, certain subjects are barely covered. We are at risk of having a generation that knows nothing of its history or science because these are the areas that are not tested yearly. Of course, teachers try to play catch up in the tested years. Can you really teach 5 years of science in 1 year? I don’t think so! So, they just teach what is on the test.

            Writing! I predict that in 20 years there won’t be a novel worth reading. We are beating the creativity out of our children, and it shows most glaringly in writing. How many of your children’s papers have you read that are exactly 5 paragraphs and begin in a very similar, yet odd way. They probably started with something like, “The alarm clock rang with a shrill sound at exactly 6:30 am.” Or even worse, “My name is _____ and I am going to tell you about_________.”  Each subsequent paragraph often starts with an order word or phrase like “first of all.” They end with a paragraph that starts with, “In conclusion.” These are various formats taught to children to guarantee that they will pass their state writing test. Sometimes they look pretty good in isolation. But, when you see 25 papers starting the same way and exactly the same length, you know that the school districts are trying to turn our children into good little products. I hope that I never read a novel that starts with, “My name is _____ and I am going to tell you about_________.”  , “

            I could go through each subject and explain how the “cooperate model” affects children but that would be a dissertation not a blog. I beg of you to watch your child’s school district. Be aware of changes in curriculum. Don’t let them get rid of art, music, gym, recess in order to teach more. Your children will not be learning more valuable information. They will just be learning to pass the test.

            There was recently some sort of list that named Maryland schools top in the nation. I laughed until I cried. I am sure that Maryland has many good schools. However, I teach in a Baltimore school where my heat has been broken since December. The lights burned out one by one until not one worked at the end of the year. My doorknob broke in April, so we randomly got locked in or out of the room. There are rats in my closet, mice run wild, and there is no air conditioning or screens. We are told not to teach anything that is not on the test including writing, science or social studies. So, with even one school like this in the state, how can Maryland have the best schools in the nation? But then, if you look at the corporate model it all makes sense. In a cooperation, you put the most time and recourses into the factory that is turning out the best products. Hmmm, that scary!

Father's Day

Father's Day is a holiday that I have little connection to. I remembered to tell my daughter to buy a present for her Dad (my ex) and call him today. However, I have no real connection to it myself. My own father has been dead for 25 years. Now my mom has passed too, and I still think fondly of her on Mother's Day. But, Daddy (I called him that because my whole family did. Yet, it always seemed way too familiar) I didn't really know him.

We lived in the same house until I went off to college but I did not know the man. I don't know his favorite color or even what he thought about religion. All that I knew about my father until he died is that he liked football, malted milk balls and sardines. That's pretty much it.  Well, except for the fact that he must have done something really awful before I was born because my entire family was always really pissed at him

You see, I am the youngest. I don't mean that I am just a few years younger than my siblings. I am the youngest by a lot. I never even lived in the same house as my oldest sister who was married and pregnant when I was born. My brother was at college and my youngest sister was in high school when they brought me home from the hospital. So it's safe to say that I probably missed a lot. However, it does seem a little weird that I am almost 49 years old and no one has ever told me what my father did that made everyone treat him so badly.

My earliest memories of my father were of my mother and my siblings talking about him as if he was some horrible, long, lost, black sheep of the family whom no one could stand. The funny thing is that I distinctly remember that he was sitting only a few feet away watching a football game. This type of thing happened often enough that I picked up on it. I learned to say Daddy with one side of my lip curled up like I smelled something bad. His name seemed to be synonymous with words like dumb, stupid, idiot, dirty or smelly. However, looking back on it, he wasn't any of those things.

I really only remember seeing him a few times when I was little. He was in the restaurant business and worked very long hours. I remember that he used to bring large, floral arrangements home after there had been a party or a wedding reception at the restaurant. I love flowers and probably would have really liked the arrangements. But, I watched as my mother pushed them away like they were dirty socks. So, of course, like all good 5 year olds, I did the same.

By the time I was in Elementary school, I don't think he even tried any more. I think years went by where we hardly spoke. We dutifully bought him presents at the obligatory holidays. But really, it was like he did not exist. When I reached high school, he became an embarrassment. Mostly because he had a habit of watching T.V. in his boxers and when he did speak to me he called me T.D. Those are my initials but when said quickly they sound a lot like "titty" which is not the best nickname for a young girl.

My best friend worked at his restaurant after graduation. I was off at college but later she told me how fondly he spoke of me. She said that he was really proud of me. She seemed to like and respect him. Of course that meant nothing to me at the time. The inherited resentment ran too deep.

He died of a massive heart attack when I was 21. At his funeral, I found out that he was actually quite intelligent. He was in med school on a full scholarship when my mom got pregnant with my oldest sister. He had to drop out. His undergraduate degree had been botany which I found really funny. I had never seen him even mow the lawn. But, then I remembered those flower arrangements that we so arrogantly dismissed. They might have been really special to him. I wished that I had thanked him.

For a long time, I wished that I had asked someone what he had done that was so bad. Now, I don't really want to know. I just wish that I had had the chance to get to know him myself. I wish that our relationship could have had a chance to grow. Maybe he did do something terrible before 1960. But, all I remember is a guy watching football in his underwear while eating malted milk balls and sardines. Maybe not the most pleasant picture, but certainly no reason to hate the guy.