Amy’s Thoughts

Well, this rant became exceptionally long on Facebook, taking several spiraling comments to complete my thoughts, so I decided this might be a better forum for it

Am I the only one who gets annoys at Borders yearly book drive that is supposedly charitable in content, but is deceptively self-serving? They encourage customers to buy kids books that they then donate to a literacy organization Borders has chosen.… As a teacher, I am ALL FOR THIS. However, as far as I can tell, Borders donates no proceeds to these organizations, nor offers a matching gift either.

In fact, one year I tried to bring in brand new books that I am able to purchase through my school for AWESOME prices and they refused to take them (not purchased at Border’s you know). I’m sorry, but Borders is making a significant profit on these sales and sure, it’s great that they’re willing to help these charities (and I applaud the … Read Moregenerosity of EVERYONE willing to purchase a book and donate it), but is it too much to ask for Borders to match the donations? Their employees have told me that “sometimes” they match donations, but EVERY time they have a drive, I call a local Borders and ask the same questions — do you do a matching donation, do you donate a percentage of proceeds… and every time, the answer is NO. The only thing Borders does is organize the drive and ship the books off to whatever charity they are currently sponsoring. Big of them. But I say, when you’re a corporation of the magnitidue of Borders, it’s NOT ENOUGH.

Don’t get me wrong. I think these book drives are a GREAT thing and they certainly help many wonderful charities and brighten children’s lives, BUT…why does Border’s expect its customers to donate more than it is willing to? Think about it! With this one purchase, you are giving your hard-earned money to Borders and a children’s book to a worthy… Read More organization. Wouldn’t it be better to just write a check directly to that organization? Why are we so gullible? Because, quite frankly, the American public has a capacity for generosity that is unparalleled the world over. Thank GOD our greedy corporations are not representative of our own individual natures. As for me, I think I’ll just continue to hand deliver my donations and to donate my time to worthy causes. And, of course, when I do choose to spend my $ within Border’s hallowed walls, rest assured that I will not be deluding myself. I will be quite content in the knowledge that I am participating in mainstream corporate America.

I’m afraid I’m an obsessive workaholic. I’m addicted to my job. It comes from doing a job I love and having no kids or a husband (thank god) at home to berate me for working late. Instead, the animals only stare silently as I wander through the door at half past eight on a school night. And where have you been, they ask me with their silent stares. I simply shake my head and dangle parsley before their twitching noses and all is forgiven. Or in the cats’ case, I simply scratch behind their ears and allow them to perch upon my head at night, purring into my ear. How simple and profound is the love of our pets…

And what on earth could you possibly find at the school to keep you busy until 8:30 at night, you might wonder. Well… you must first keep in mind that I, unlike legions of my fellow colleagues, refuse to carry work back and forth between the school and my home. I discovered early on that bringing work home would only ensure that most of it would not be completed by the following school day, which would result in many frantic, stress-filled hours that might have been avoided had I only stayed to complete my work the day before. Better instead to get it all done at school and then enjoy what free time I have left. I am quite simply much more productive in the school environment where I do not have access to my laptop writings, my fully stocked fridge, my favorite detective books through the ages (from Trixie Belden to Stephanie Plum to Eve Dallas), my Harry Potter collections in French, Spanish, Portuguese and Latin (in case I want to learn another language) or my extensive Buffy the Vampire Slayer seasons 1-7 DVD collection. You can see how distracting my house might be under these circumstances. Who wouldn’t want to watch the musical episode of Buffy for the 765th time rather than plan a lesson about polar bears for 2nd graders? Obviously, staying at the school is the best option for all concerned. Certainly, I’ve missed out on many wonderful opportunities to enrich my mind by singing along to Walk Through the Fire (”I touch the fire and it freezes me…”) but these are the sacrifices we make as teachers…

We turn our backs on the fire and we gather our courage and we continue to plan or grade or organize or whatever it is we do to make our days run smoothly in the classroom. And in our hearts, in those tiny moments when we realize this was a job well-done, we whisper our apologies to Joss Whedon and we promise to catch up on our Buffy watching during our summer hiatus when we will be experiencing the full onset of Buffy withdrawal… and of course, we will start and end with the greatest episode of all time… Once More With Feeling.

“Bunnies aren’t just cute like everybody supposes
They got them hoppy legs and twitchy little noses
And what’s with all the carrots?
What do they need such good eyesight for anyway?
Bunnies, bunnies
It must be bunnies”

(reprinted completely without permission, which is really shocking because teachers never break copyright laws, these quoted words are attributed here to Joss Whedon’s genius, may he bring us another amazing show to worship… soon!)

Here’s the thing about teaching. If you don’t succumb to the madness, you might actually discover that teaching is one of those jobs that never gets old, never becomes the same day in and day out, never fails to challenge you and never fails to exhaust you to the very depths of your being.

Of course, if you do succumb to the madness, you will probably also discover that teaching is one of those jobs that never gets old blah-blah-blah.

But there’s no difference between the two, you exclaim. Oh, but there is, I say, it’s a miniscule, tiny, nuance that is easy to overlook, but it’s there all the same. Ultimately, if you do not succumb to the madness, I daresay, one day in the not so distant future, you will find yourself racing around the building like a madman, tearing your hair out by its roots and shrieking in acronyms “The MAP, no the DIBELS, no the DRA, on the PR form, the PR form, why don’t you understand what I’m saying???” On the other hand, if you do succumb to the madness, while you will undoubtedly still be shrieking and bald, you will probably also enjoy the journey into insanity a whole lot more.

So, my friends, welcome to the madhouse. Here’s hoping you succumb and embrace the madness within!

A fourth grade teacher shared some of the issues she’s been dealing with lately in her classroom.  There seems to be a racial war that begins in elementary schools long before people even recognize that racial tension exists among children.  There is in the primary grades a sense of them and us:  those who speak Spanish and those who don’t, those who have color and those who don’t, those who have parents and those who don’t, those who have a home and those who don’t.

Some of these issues are the planting of the seed that ultimately develops into a deeply-felt sense of racism and prejudice and injustice.  And there is a cultural war going on as well.  In order to truly understand the conflicts that are occurring, you have to understand the root cultures at play. 

At the younger grades, the weapon of choice among the Hispanic population is the use of words, particularly as they acclimate to the school culture of the United States.  These are the children who have been acclimating to a foreign culture for years.  These are the ones who are learning to play the game, who are learning how to find the words in English, how to follow the rules, how to just make it by.  I love these students.  They are fighting against a system that is prejudiced against them from the beginning, that tells them their language has no value, their culture has no value, their citizenship is in jeopardy and their future in this country is in doubt.  These are the students who fight for everything we would deny them as a culture and as a race.  They stand up and they find their way despite the many obstacles we present them, including an education that would deny them their identity.

Then there are my African-American students who fight so desperately for anyone to even notice their existence.  I adore these students too.  They are the ones fighting against a system that has been built to keep them down since the days of slavery.  These are the students who will fight that system for the rest of their lives, trying desperately to gain those things the rest of us take for granted, by virtue of our whiteness.  These are the students many claim are destined for prison or death:  born in the inner city, stricken by poverty, held under the thumb of a system that provides a lower-quality education (by virtue of inadequate funding and inequitable resources) and a systematic prejudice that will not be defeated through any of our best efforts.  These are the students who come to school day by day with heartbreak in their eyes, hope in their trembling smiles, and defeat in the slump of their shoulders.  Already.  At age 7. 

Then there are my white students who tremble in our school doorways, timidly approaching their education with fear in their hearts.  And yes, I adore these children too.  They are the ones completely forgotten and ignored by society.  Society does not acknowledge the white child attempting to make it in the inner city schools.  They do not exist.  They cannot exist because they have been given something the others just don’t have — white skin.  That they too suffer under the umbrella of poverty is of no consequence.  Why do they not live up to the promise of their skin?  Because they too have been abandoned, the unfortunate casualties of the war waged against the weak. 

 And so society turns its back on the children of its inner cities and leaves their future to the will of the beast.  And the beast is poverty.

There was a fight on the playground among the 4th graders.  A Hispanic child called a black child a nigger.  The black child laid out the Hispanic child with one punch.  Who do you think was suspended?  Who do you think got off with a lecture and nothing more?  The black child was suspended for fighting.  The Hispanic child received no true consequences from the office.  Which of those children is in more danger today of not surviving their upbringing?  The Hispanic child who has not been taught the consequences of shouting a racial slur on the playground or the black child who defended his entire race against that slur?

These two children’s teacher had a sit-down session with her entire class and discussed with them the unacceptability of using such racial slurs against anyone. 

 One student raised his hand and said, “yeah, but I don’t like it when they call me African-American either.”

His teacher asked, “Well, what do you want people to call you?”

“I just want them to call me a boy,” the ten-year-old replied. 

 How utterly and singularly profound.  “Just call me a boy.”

Went skating this evening for the second time in my adulthood.  I think that brings me to perhaps a total of 5 times in my lifetime.  Needless to say, I am not very good at this whole skating thing.  I’m sure it has nothing to do with the fact that my sense of balance is never very good, even when not attempting to travel with wheels attached to my shoes.  Who came up with this bizarre pasttime anyway?

The truth is I had a great time.  Of course, I went skating with my nieces, which pretty much assured me of having a good time.  I adore them both and take great delight in spending time with them.  I should be grateful that neither of my nieces are experts in the skating rink either, and therefore do not leave me in their dust like many of the other munchkins on the rink’s floor.

T.S. in particular likes for me to skate with her.  So, over and over, we maneuvered our way around the rink, with the wall as our prop and savior.  A.J. had a bear in her arms for half the night, after receiving it from an older child who won it in a raffle and wished to pass it on.  Therefore she skated with one arm waving for balance and the other arm clutching that bear, as if the bear was her prop.  If I had had a stuffed bear at the skating rink, I think I would have wanted it strapped to my ass for additional padding (not that there’s not plenty of padding already there), but that’s just me.

At some point during the evening, I had to go to the restroom, so I left the two girls skating together (A.J. made a face at my command, but then appeared to have fun with her sister despite her reluctance — isn’t that the way of siblings everywhere?) and headed for the facilities.  I now believe that Skate City’s bathrooms were designed by some kind of torture enthusiast.  Upon entering the women’s restroom, I was appalled to realize there were no pads on the floor.  Of course, this realization came a little too late as I flew in the doorway, leaving the carpeted hallway behind and hurtling at breakneck speed across the tile floor toward a stall door.  All I could think is “god I hope no one’s in that stall, because I’m going to land in her lap!”

Luckily the stall was empty.  I slammed into the door and managed to catch myself on the top of the door, which was so short that I gave myself whiplash as my head bounced forward over the top of the stall door and back.  I think those stall doors were designed for midgets.  Did they not consider the fact that adults might also be idiot enough to don roller skates and come flying through their restroom doors?

After entering the stall, I was appalled to realize that the toilet was only about a foot off the ground.  On roller skates, I somehow managed to lower myself four feet where I took care of business with my knees in my face (when my feet weren’t flying out from under me of course).  The worst part was trying to extricate myself and stand back up.  It required a sense of balance (see above), inhuman strength (not one of my assets) and wheelchair bars (which were not in evidence at all).  With my feet scrambling for purchase, I used the bottom of the stall to haul myself forward and up.  Thank god the restroom was empty and no one heard my growls and curses as I attempted to lift my carcass from that damn toilet. 

Note to self:  NEVER ATTEMPT TO USE THE RESTROOM WHILE ON ROLLER SKATES AGAIN.

Truthfully, despite the crazy bathrooms, we had a great time, A.J., T.S. and I.  I am looking forward to the time with my nephew C.S. is in kindergarten and can join us on these school-sponsored events.  Yep, lots of fun flying into the walls with less-adventurous parents looking on.  

When I asked T.S. whether her parents skated with her when they brought her to these things, she said no.  I asked why I had to skate then and she said, “because you’re a nice aunt.”  I guess I cannot ask for a better reason than that.  The things we do for love.