My Soap Box on the State of Education

             Jody, like many men I know, is an intolerable channel surfer. The minute a show or movie transitions to a commercial his finger is clicking away on the remote control in search of another commercial free program. This drives me insane! So much so that we very rarely end up watching TV together for very long because his endless channel surfing more often than not results in missed scenes and half watched programs. When I begin a show or movie, I like to watch it continuously to the end, catching every tear, every smile, every laugh, every karate chop, and every bomb explosion. I utilize commercial breaks to grab myself a drink, a snack, or take a much-needed potty break. Most nights you will find me either nagging Jody to cease his endless channel surfing or, more likely, upstairs watching one of the programs he his downstairs flipping back and forth between. Therefore, imagine my surprise when last week, I found our roles reversed.

To say that education, and education in this country in particular, is an important issue to me is an extreme understatement. I chose teaching as a career, not only because I am passionate about learning, but also because I am passionate about the effects an enlightened education can have on individuals and the difference those individuals can make in society and in the world. Having attended both a Jesuit high school and college, I fully subscribe to the Jesuit philosophy that education should not only encompass the mind, but also the body and the spirit! That to study is to pledge a life dedicated to serving others. Therefore, I should have been thrilled when Jody came to rest on a program regarding the state of education in this country. However, I was soon begging him to change the channel before my blood boiled over, spilling from my body.

The program was, in reality, an interview. A Doctor of Education who specialized in the history of education, taught at a prestigious school, and who had over the years, been highly involved in the politics of education was interviewing a reporter who had just released a book outlining the problems with education in America. (I remember neither the man’s name nor the book, for good reason). I sat listening with interest, hoping that someone had finally published a book worth reading. I soon discovered that not only had this man NOT published a book worth reading, but that both this man and his book were only maintaining the political status quo and needed some serious educating of their own.

This man, like a large portion of the American population, believes that our educational systems are failing because teachers are not doing their jobs. He came to this conclusion by observing the actions of teachers in two New York City schools, one a charter school and one a regular public institution, though I must add that he never cited more than one teacher observation in the public school. According to this author, the teacher he observed in the public school was a lazy good-for-nothing, who did little more than sit at his desk, yell questions at his students, and wait for their response, whereas the teachers in the charter school were dynamic and interactive. This author argued that, as a result of these teaching styles, the children in the charter thrived and the children at the public did not, thus the stupidity of American children.

The argument that a teacher’s worth is based on the success of his/her students (which is measured through fact-based tests) is ridiculous and, frankly, a load of shit! The belief that a student’s success is not only the teacher’s responsibility, but also the school’s responsibility is the true reason our children are not achieving. The problem with today’s education is not the schools but the parents! Our society has allowed parents far too much freedom to shirk their responsibilities and place blame on teachers when their children are not achieving the unrealistic goals they have set for their children. Not only has education ceased to become the responsibility of the child and family, but disciplining, socializing, and even providing healthy meal options have ceased to be the parents’ responsibilities. Parents have rescinded their rights to the schools but have no issue criticizing and suing when those individuals involved do not act as the parents see fit. Teacher’s have their hands tied. That is not to say there are not horrible teachers currently standing in front of classrooms. However, every profession has worthless employees. Apparently, teaching is supposed to be exempt from the issues of humanity though.

During my years of teaching, I had several contentious parent meetings. I can say that the parents most irritated and angry with me, due to their child(ren)’s lack of achievement were those parents who did the least at home both in regards to their child(ren)’s schooling and disciplining, but resented my handling of their children. I very often wanted to ask these parents what they did for a living, and how they would react to me walking into their office telling them how to do their job. Until both children and parents are held accountable for their actions and educations, our country will continue to fall behind other industrialized nations. Until our country can break from the belief that all children are superstars and geniuses, destined to be professional athletes and CEO’s, every pursuit will end in disaster.

Watching this author interviewed on my television, I wanted to challenge him to stand in front of a classroom for a year; a classroom with forty two students, at least ten percent of whom have learning or behavioral issues, on top of the other children dealing with broken homes, poverty, and abuse; and then inform him that his worth as a teacher would be dependant upon his students test scores, and then savor the satisfaction of watching his face register horror and disbelief.

Sittin’ in The Red Zone of Heaven

            Throughout my elementary school career, no three words frightened me more than THE RED ZONE. The Red Zone was, in reality, several red zones, or painted red boxes, scattered around the edges of Sunset Elementary School’s paved section of schoolyard and reserved for those children who chose to disobey, act out, or disregard teacher instructions. Each day at recess, those children naughty enough to earn a trip to The Red Zone would sit inside those red boxes, isolated from their friends and denied the fun and freedom of outdoor play. Trips to The Red Zone while a temporary physical punishment were also accompanied by a dreaded mark on one’s permanent record.

            Earning a trip to The Red Zone was my worst nightmare; a nightmare I consciously avoided throughout my elementary school career. Never comfortable with unkind words or looks from the teachers I so admired, I strove throughout elementary school to listen, follow directions, and complete both class work and home work with care. I never dreaded a parent teacher conference or report card, but rather looked forward to the positive comments I was sure to receive; comments that my parent’s would hear and take pride in. The Red Zone, though a looming threat in my own mind, was never once threatened. Therefore, imagine my surprise, no my horror, when, in my last year at Sunset Elementary School, my worst nightmare came true with a trip to The Red Zone, and that highly dreaded mark on my permanent record.

           

            As a student eager to please, and used to being loved by my teachers, having a teacher that was indifferent to my charms was foreign and baffling. However, in the fifth grade my teacher, Mrs. F, was not only indifferent to my eagerness, but also unimpressed by my abilities. She was not, however, indifferent to Kay’s abilities. In fact, all Kay had to do was smile, and toss her blonde, ribboned curls and Mrs. F not only sung praises, but also practically broke into opera over the wonders of Kay. No matter how hard I worked, how well I behaved, Mrs. F’s loyalty to Kay could not be broken; everyone else was mediocre at best. Therefore, it should not have come as a surprise when one day after returning from a three-day absence without my homework completed (because I was deathly ill) that Mrs. F sentenced me to The Red Zone.  For me, a girl who had really only heard hushed whisperings of The Red Zone, a trip to The Red Zone, and for something as minor as not completing my homework due to illness, was not just surprising, but shocking.

            When Mrs. F asked me for the eagle drawing that was due that day, and I responded by telling her that I had yet to complete it due to my sickness, I expected her to obligingly allow me two or three more days to work on it. Instead, she stared at me crossly, told me I had been aware it was due for over a week, turned to her desk, pulled out the red slip indicating a sentence to The Red Zone and in the sickeningly perfect handwriting of an elementary school teacher began inscribing my name across the top. Each dainty swoop and swirl of the pen brought with it the unbearable screeching that accompanies nails being painfully scraped down a chalkboard. Stunned, I turned, walked zombie like back to my desk, and stared with unseeing eyes at Mrs. F as she began the next lesson. It was not until the recess bell rang and she forcefully thrust the slip indicating my internment into my hands that the reality of the situation hit me. Tears burned hot and fast down my face. Snot ran flood like down my throat and out of my nose. Gasping for air, unable to stop the torrential downpour, I lumbered my way out of the classroom and onto the schoolyard, The Red Zone looming before me. Next to me, my best friend, Laura, walked, arm around my shoulders consoling me, talking to me, trying her best to calm me by lessoning the torture, easing the pain.

            Time is deceptive. Memories tricky. As vivid as my memory of being sentenced to The Red Zone is, my memory of sitting in The Red Zone is short-lived and somewhat foggy. During the fifteen to twenty minutes I sat in that square, two things ring true; Laura acting as the perfect friend by giving up her entire recess to sit next me, just outside of that red square, and console me as I sobbed the entire time; and the sounds of laughter, jump ropes, and screams that daily accompany children at play.

            With Laura’s help, I managed to stop crying and finish my day in relative calm. Though I do believe the flood gates once again opened when that afternoon, upon being asked how my day was by my mother, I was forced to relive the nightmare that was my sentencing to The Red Zone. I was not only ashamed, but also feared my parent’s disapproval, their disappointment in the child that had never been in trouble. However, never normal, my parents reacted with laughter. The emotional trauma I had suffered was to them amusing; so amusing and poignant that my trip to The Red Zone inspired my father to write a country western song. The laughter and hilarity it brought my family dried up my tears and helped me to see the hilarity of the situation. However, Mrs. F’s lack of sympathy for my emotional state, as well as her never-ending loyalty to Kay (the name she chose for the daughter she had soon after my exit from the fifth grade), forever earned her my disdain.

A brief exert from Rodger Coupe’s Song “Sitting in The Red Zone of Heaven”

I’m sittin’ in The Red Zone of Heaven

Repenting for the sins of my life.

My Inner Geek: Back to School Excitement

I noticed this morning, while painfully struggling through a 10-mile run, that though warm and muggy, summer is beginning to wane; shadows are lengthening, clouds are becoming more prevalent, sunset creeps in a bit sooner with each passing evening and nights will soon require sweatshirts and long pants for warmth. The novelty of family time is beginning to wear on my patience as I yearn for the school year to begin, for Jody to return to work and Lu to start another year of pre-school. I am beginning to yearn for routine and the comfort and sanity that a predictable schedule delivers, while simultaneously mourning the end of summer warmth, spontaneity, fresh air and fun. And while all these thoughts swirl haphazardly in my head, I remember the anxiety and excitement that I felt, first as a student and then as a teacher, as the end of summer quickly approached.

Every year I was in school, since about the third grade through becoming a teacher, the end of summer brought with it a nightmarish, anxiety-inducing dream. One in which, I was standing outside my school (this varied depending upon where I was attending or teaching) holding my school schedule. Printed clearly on my schedule was the time school started, and my classroom or first period class. I was, as always, at school 15-20 minutes early, in order to allow myself the necessary time to find my classroom, and settle in to my desk. However, in my dream, I find myself wandering lost among the halls, unable to find my classroom. With each building I enter, each numbered door I pass, I feel my heartbeat elevating until, it is not only racing, but I am racing up and down hallways on the verge of tears. In some scenarios, I end up finally finding my classroom, only to walk into class late, producing embarrassment and mascara smearing tears. In other scenarios, I end up entering the wrong classroom, producing more embarrassment, tears, and extra anxiety. Each time I experienced this dream I woke up sweaty, teary, and extremely nervous about the coming school year. So much so that I often went to school days ahead of time, to find my classes, physically map out my schedule, and prepare myself for that first day.

Ridiculous! Yes, I know! However, school was and remains today one of my greatest joys and accomplishments. Jody likes to joke that if I could find a way to make money being a student, I would. I would most definitely be a perpetual student could I afford to do so. My feelings toward school are no different today than they were at thirteen, sixteen, or twenty-one. I bask in being a student, and was thrilled each year when the “Welcome Back” letter that so many students dread and abhor, cheerfully popped up in my mailbox.

Returning to school meant back to school shopping, not only for new trendy outfits, but also for school supplies. Choosing binders, dividers, pocket folders, and pencils made my heart super happy! Assembling and organizing my school supplies was akin to reading an incredibly engaging book! I became thoroughly immersed! It meant finding out and/or buying the books that I would be reading throughout the year, freshly cracking the spines of new books or inhaling the comforting musk of used books. Back to school meant seeing and interacting with friends regularly, as opposed to sporadically throughout the summer, due to conflicting family vacations, and camp schedules. It meant late night football games, acting in or attending school plays. Back to school meant new love interests and new friendships. It meant dances and dressing up. Back to school even meant the anticipation of vacations. It meant school spirit in the form of spirit days, homecoming, and rallies. It meant loving teachers, and hating teachers. Going back to school meant intellectual discussions, eye opening information, and life changing experiences. Returning to school was returning to life.

Each year I spent the day before the first day of school carefully choosing and laying out the next day’s outfit, checking and double checking my school supplies for any missing items, packing my backpack, packing my lunch, triple checking my schedule and situating all necessary items by the front door to ensure I did not forget anything important. After fretting, organizing, and arranging, I would then spend the rest of the day stifling my anxious excitement with phone calls to friends or the television. In the evening, I would lay in my bed lazily dreaming of the year to come, the future fun, and the dreams to capture. In the morning, I would wake, the geek in me fluttering with anticipation and excitement as I walked out the door and back to school.

            I must admit that because I am no longer teaching or in school, I find myself living vicariously though Lu. When she began school last year, I found myself fretting and fluttering as if it were my first day back. To date, Lu loves school, and seems to get as excited and anxious as I did throughout my life. I hope that of all my traits she has inherited a bit of geek. It will make her next 20 or so back to schools a lot less painful. However, if she is like her father when it comes to school…