Kadir has a long road ahead of him. His IQ sits well below the average, he has trouble paying attention, and he probably could be situated on the autism spectrum as well. He has a hard road ahead of him.
We've been working for a year, but most intensely since January when his mom pulled him from school and started a homeschool program that was done in self-defense. I don't think, long-term, that Sherri can be his best possible teacher, but it may be that she will be his best available teacher. I cannot be his best possible teacher, either, and next year I hope to be back in some classroom somewhere and I truly cannot be his teacher anymore. And that's all said and done and we know this is a short term arrangement.
We took spring break off, and we're taking this Friday off as well, but met today so I could see what was going on with him and what he should do this week with his mom. We started with more map skills, which are just about impossible for him. I need to stop pulling things off the internet and make my own map skills sheets because we need to start at extreme basics. Extreme.
I sat there at the table with him and thought, my God, nothing I'm doing is helping. He is just as incapable of simple tasks as he was when we first met. I was discouraged, and my jaw hurt a bit and my patience was low. I took two ibuprofen (I'm down from 4, so that's good--I do want to someday not be in chronic pain, I mean, is that too much to ask?) and got a cup of coffee. Time to try again with something different.
He's working in a spring semester 1st grade math book (Singapore Math). Some things go well (he knows a lot of his multiplication tables). Some things do not. He has no concept of place value. He cannot subitize (quick mental calculation of the number of objects in front of him--to see if you can subitize, toss a few coins on the table and tell me how many are there. If you don't have to point and count, you can subitize). He doesn't understand time or money.
He has a long hard road ahead of him.
We are working on addition up to 100, some across the ten ("carry the one" for those us from older math terms). The book has lots of methods to do this, and works from the concrete to the abstract. We're working through this bit by bit and the most frustrating part isn't that he doesn't really get it, but that he doesn't get the pattern. There will be 5 problems on the page that follow a pattern and each one is brand spanking new.
I've been here before. I taught a classroom full of children, my first year in the classroom, who did not understand pattern. Later at my parish school, most students did and the ones who didn't were so confused and confusing. I remember reading, so long ago, that this is a symptom of learned helplessness, but I can't give you a reference. I don't remember when I learned it. But the idea is that if you don't have any patterns in your life, if nothing makes sense and nothing can be changed, then a page full of addition problems are each individual confusing crazy things to be tackled, each one is new and each one is hard. There is no pattern.
This is Kadir. Completely.
And then there was today. After the map page failure, he asked me if we could do some math. It was like his brain woke up from spring break for a moment and I pulled out the math book. It was adding ones, with the tens staying the same, or the opposite. (For instance, 54 + 2, where the ones place changes (6) and the tens (50) does not; or 72 + 20, where the ones place stays the same (2) and the tens changes (90)). The page started out the same as it always has:
Kadir looks at the picture of 5 bundles of 10 sticks and 3 extra sticks and starts counting from zero instead of understanding that this is 53 (the number is right below) and he can start counting from 53 and add those 4 extra sticks to get 57. I stop him. I cover up the picture of 53 and just let the 4 sit there. "Start from what you know is true."
"But how do I know it's true?"
In a flash I saw classroom experiences where nothing is solid and everything is a trick. Conversations with Fiona's teacher when we were writing her 504 plan: is school a place of learning or a place to trip kids up? Asking my principal at my parish school, who taught the "smart" algebra kids while I taught the "slower" algebra kids in 8th grade (both groups wound up with the same percentage testing out of algebra I in high school), why on earth she would put "doozies" on a test that hadn't been expressly explained beforehand. Why are tests supposed to be tricks? Why can't they be genuine examples of WHAT YOU TAUGHT and what they learned, not some esoteric example you found in the back of the book that no one has gone to look at because no one knew it was required?
"Kadir, it's true. All the numbers on the left-hand side of this page are pictured right above them." I point to all the examples. "You start with that number and use the picture to add either more tens or more ones."
He looks at me, like he's trying to figure out what I mean by that. I show him. We do two of them together. We look. We prove. We do. He does the other three alone. On the next page, there are pairs of problems. 50 + 40 =, followed by 52 + 40 =. All of them follow the same pattern. Two sets of tens added together, and then one of those sets has something in the ones place. All the answers keep the ones place the same from the first number. I point this out with the first one. He looks and nods.
He does the page correctly. Still counting on his fingers, but now by tens: "50. 60, 70, 80, 90--92!" All of them correct, all of them the same pattern.
This is only the first step. He needs to be able to see the patterns in the world, now, and remember the patterns from the safe environment of the workbook. He's nowhere near knowing, spontaneously, what 34 + 40 might be. But that scaffold can be built.
I don't regret letting Sherri know I can't continue next fall and that they needed to find more resources if homeschooling continued, or a good classroom otherwise. I don't--I cannot spend my whole life tutoring Kadir and bringing him to a point where he can count change and read a map and so forth.
But I kind of wish I could.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Monday, March 26, 2012
Our Trip To Shaw Nature Reserve 2012
Our program last year was GPS/Finding Your Way. The first year was Wetlands Ecology. This year is Living Off The Land. Which means chores and drudgery. Fun!
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Math Philosophy Statement
All math should start in the concrete. Fractions are represented by real objects cut into equal portions. Addition adds blocks together, subtraction takes them apart. Multiplication has flowers that need to be put into vases. Division has legos that need to be distributed evenly. These concepts start long before anything is put onto paper. Kindergartners, most of the time, do not learn formal division but they should know how to put things into groups.
Math should be taught in an incremental way. Although many old (and current) textbooks are written with blocks of addition followed by blocks of subtraction, students should learn them in a formal way (semi-concrete through abstract learning) together. Especially considering older students building on what they've already learned, math should be taught in bits and pieces and constantly reviewed.
Math should not be a series of rote problems followed by the dreaded word problems. Problem solving should come first, with the rote method (computation) following in order to solve problems in an orderly way. Like rote skills, problem solving must be practiced.. The goal of a math program is not to get a better score on a standardized test. The goal of a math program is to be able to use math outside of the school day. Being able to do arithmetic is of little value if one does not know when to use the skills. Real-life situations (“when will I ever have to use this?”) must be the basis of all math teaching.
Math is truly outcome-based. Understanding comes incrementally and builds upon itself. Again, the end goal is not an arbitrary score or grade, but mathematical thinking. In order to create mathematical thinking, a teacher must be able to think mathematically herself. She must also, however, remain in a state of knowing how she knows something. Consider learning in four stages:
Teachers must remain in the “Practice” stage of learning even if they are masters of a subject (hopefully they are!). The worst thing a child—or adult student—can encounter in a math classroom is a teacher who is such an expert in the field that she can no longer explain how she knows something. It has become part of her being and she stands there in front of her classroom, not understanding why her students don't “get it.” Good teachers know they must shift down a notch to the practice stage of learning and keep in their minds, always, how it was that they first understood this concept.
This is especially true in math teaching. Since math is taught incrementally and beginning in the most concrete concepts, teachers must be careful not to teach the shortcut or the rote skill in isolation from the mathematical thinking. Explaining to students that when dividing by a fraction, “just flip the second fraction and multiply”, while completely factual, skips over all the reasons behind why it is that this is true. It makes math a mystery full of tricks. Instead, beginning with concrete concepts, testing them out, and then introducing the rules with explanation, fashions math into a tool.
[Side note: how would I teach division of fractions? I would first teach multiplication of fractions and how multiplying by ¼ is the same as dividing by 4, with many iterations of this idea. I would bring in something, say a block of cheese, that weighed a half pound, and have students divide it by 3. This is the same as cutting it into thirds (multiplying by 1/3). I would have them weigh each piece and find the answer. I'd have a loaf of bread 8 inches long that needs to be cut into 2/3 inch slices. How many slices? And so forth. Using the data from these concrete examples, I would move to the algorithm of writing 8 / 2/3. Then I would ask (since they would already understand common denominators before this lesson): how many thirds-of-an-inch is 8 inches? It is 24 thirds-of-an-inch. Now I want 2/3 of an inch slices: 24 divided by 2 is 12. Problems would continue in this style until the student masters the why: at that point, the math shortcut would be introduced if it hadn't been derived by the student already: if you simply find the reciprocal of 2/3, which is 3/2, and then multiply by 8, the answer is 24/2. Simplified, that is 12.]
Math require practice. Concepts may come easily to some students but skills require practice. Rote practice of both facts and higher skills is necessary to keep a student from becoming bogged down in computation. Not every student needs extensive skills practice, but students should demonstrate progress towards mastery of computational skills before moving forward with higher concepts. There are exceptions to this general rule, of course. Students with certain learning differences and disabilities find memorization of math facts cumbersome and sometimes impossible. It is a disservice to keep these students from learning higher math concepts when technology can aid them in computation. This should not be the first route taken, but should be in the teacher's arsenal of adaptations. Most upper level math courses assume a calculator, even beginning in middle school. Students should understand the concepts but if the computation gets in the way, they should be allowed a bridge across that chasm after careful consideration.
Mathematics is a natural process. Young children learn quickly how to create “fair” portions of grapes and cookies. Counting steps, fingers, plates on the table, and so forth are obvious first steps in math. As opposed to reading, which is not an innate process but something we have trained our brains to do over the centuries, math has always been here. Moving through a math curriculum in the right way, with incremental steps, concrete to abstract, reviewing and practicing with a teacher who understands how one learns these concepts, creates mathematical thinkers who know exactly when they will “have to use this in real life.”
Math should be taught in an incremental way. Although many old (and current) textbooks are written with blocks of addition followed by blocks of subtraction, students should learn them in a formal way (semi-concrete through abstract learning) together. Especially considering older students building on what they've already learned, math should be taught in bits and pieces and constantly reviewed.
Math should not be a series of rote problems followed by the dreaded word problems. Problem solving should come first, with the rote method (computation) following in order to solve problems in an orderly way. Like rote skills, problem solving must be practiced.. The goal of a math program is not to get a better score on a standardized test. The goal of a math program is to be able to use math outside of the school day. Being able to do arithmetic is of little value if one does not know when to use the skills. Real-life situations (“when will I ever have to use this?”) must be the basis of all math teaching.
Math is truly outcome-based. Understanding comes incrementally and builds upon itself. Again, the end goal is not an arbitrary score or grade, but mathematical thinking. In order to create mathematical thinking, a teacher must be able to think mathematically herself. She must also, however, remain in a state of knowing how she knows something. Consider learning in four stages:
Teachers must remain in the “Practice” stage of learning even if they are masters of a subject (hopefully they are!). The worst thing a child—or adult student—can encounter in a math classroom is a teacher who is such an expert in the field that she can no longer explain how she knows something. It has become part of her being and she stands there in front of her classroom, not understanding why her students don't “get it.” Good teachers know they must shift down a notch to the practice stage of learning and keep in their minds, always, how it was that they first understood this concept.
This is especially true in math teaching. Since math is taught incrementally and beginning in the most concrete concepts, teachers must be careful not to teach the shortcut or the rote skill in isolation from the mathematical thinking. Explaining to students that when dividing by a fraction, “just flip the second fraction and multiply”, while completely factual, skips over all the reasons behind why it is that this is true. It makes math a mystery full of tricks. Instead, beginning with concrete concepts, testing them out, and then introducing the rules with explanation, fashions math into a tool.
[Side note: how would I teach division of fractions? I would first teach multiplication of fractions and how multiplying by ¼ is the same as dividing by 4, with many iterations of this idea. I would bring in something, say a block of cheese, that weighed a half pound, and have students divide it by 3. This is the same as cutting it into thirds (multiplying by 1/3). I would have them weigh each piece and find the answer. I'd have a loaf of bread 8 inches long that needs to be cut into 2/3 inch slices. How many slices? And so forth. Using the data from these concrete examples, I would move to the algorithm of writing 8 / 2/3. Then I would ask (since they would already understand common denominators before this lesson): how many thirds-of-an-inch is 8 inches? It is 24 thirds-of-an-inch. Now I want 2/3 of an inch slices: 24 divided by 2 is 12. Problems would continue in this style until the student masters the why: at that point, the math shortcut would be introduced if it hadn't been derived by the student already: if you simply find the reciprocal of 2/3, which is 3/2, and then multiply by 8, the answer is 24/2. Simplified, that is 12.]
Math require practice. Concepts may come easily to some students but skills require practice. Rote practice of both facts and higher skills is necessary to keep a student from becoming bogged down in computation. Not every student needs extensive skills practice, but students should demonstrate progress towards mastery of computational skills before moving forward with higher concepts. There are exceptions to this general rule, of course. Students with certain learning differences and disabilities find memorization of math facts cumbersome and sometimes impossible. It is a disservice to keep these students from learning higher math concepts when technology can aid them in computation. This should not be the first route taken, but should be in the teacher's arsenal of adaptations. Most upper level math courses assume a calculator, even beginning in middle school. Students should understand the concepts but if the computation gets in the way, they should be allowed a bridge across that chasm after careful consideration.
Mathematics is a natural process. Young children learn quickly how to create “fair” portions of grapes and cookies. Counting steps, fingers, plates on the table, and so forth are obvious first steps in math. As opposed to reading, which is not an innate process but something we have trained our brains to do over the centuries, math has always been here. Moving through a math curriculum in the right way, with incremental steps, concrete to abstract, reviewing and practicing with a teacher who understands how one learns these concepts, creates mathematical thinkers who know exactly when they will “have to use this in real life.”
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Magnolia Hollow Archery Range
It exists. It is marked off at 35, 25, and 15 yards. It is the first parking lot after an interminable gravel road into Magnolia Hollow Conservation Area. I say these things because as we started planning our day trip and I always wonder if an archery range still exists or is designed for, well, kids, novices, etc. So I google for photos and find nothing and wonder. But we were headed to the conservation area anyway and knew we'd be hiking regardless of the range. I warned the girls that it might not exist (the one at an Illinois State Park that we hunted for last fall didn't exist). But it does. It's a mowed strip with warning signs and a big styrofoam target.
The girls shot from 15 yards (and later from about 10). I shot from 35 with pretty bad accuracy--it was difficult with my 20# bow to get it to go far enough accurately enough. Windy day, too. But at 30 yards I did well.
Yes, the sky was that blue. Texas blue. And the hike at the river bluff, down into the hollow and back up was a good run with Billy.
The girls shot from 15 yards (and later from about 10). I shot from 35 with pretty bad accuracy--it was difficult with my 20# bow to get it to go far enough accurately enough. Windy day, too. But at 30 yards I did well.
Yes, the sky was that blue. Texas blue. And the hike at the river bluff, down into the hollow and back up was a good run with Billy.
Billy at Magnolia Hollow
It's a conservation area I'd never heard of. But we went there today on our trip to Ste. Genevieve, the first European settlement in Missouri. French. Old. Fun. But I knew a day of walking down old streets going into touristy shops and buying sourball candy needed to be balanced with a good hike. And a good hike it was. Mostly a trail run. All that elliptical is starting to pay off...
Monday, March 19, 2012
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Lady J
When it comes to the Meyers-Briggs Type Indicator, I'm an ENFJ. I'm an extrovert (although I'm not 100% on that one). I'm intuitive, not sensitive. I'm a feeler, not a thinker. And I'm a J. I'm a judger, not a perceiver.
Extrovert/introvert is self explanatory. The intuitive/sensitive marker has to do with how folks gather information and the feeling/thinking has to do with decision making. None of this is important. Seriously. I can get along fine with IST's as well as all sorts of combinations of E/I, S/N, T/F's. It's the J/P problem that gets me every time.
Perceivers like things to be up in the air. They like their options open. They are crazy people. My husband is a P and I can never understand this. I would, frankly, prefer bad news that is definite to good news that is a maybe. I cannot handle things that are not decided. I can be part of the decision making process, but I have to know it will come to an end. Soon. I'm fine with things up in the air if I know there's a deadline (for instance, what classroom my child will be in next year. If I know the decision will be made on June 12, I can stop being anxious until June 11).
I'm the sort of person who likes knowing a store back and forth so she can move into it, find the salad dressing she buys, the milk, the sour cream, and never even see the other choices.
I would thrive in that Scandinavian country where you have to line up on a Friday evening to buy alcohol from the government supplier.
One of the hardest things about living in a big city with lots of school choices was that I had lots of choices (now, one bad choice would still make me nuts, but I would be in the boat with everyone else and maybe together we could fight the Man).
I read the synopsis for Downton Abbey before I decided I could watch it. I know what's coming and I like it anyway. Same is true for novels. I have to read the end to see how it ends. I still enjoy the journey of how it gets there.
I wear black t-shirts and blue jeans. Every day. I don't like making decisions, I don't like having too many choices. I understand this is unamerican and possibly mentally ill, but this is the way I am.
Right now I don't know what I'm doing next year. I know what I want to do. I know what my second choice is. And third. I can't really talk about any of it. But it is the overriding source of thought and anxiety in my life now...for like the last month. Nothing is known for sure and there's nothing I can do about it.
It's spring break and there is absolutely nothing I can do for a week. My biggest worry is that I will say yes to one and then another will present itself. But I couldn't put all my eggs in one basket. Maybe I should have. Then it would be a binary decision, not my decision, and eventually I would know yes or no. Now there is the potential for several yes and no answers and then decisions will have to be made. Swiftly, which is good. Without knowing the end of the story, which is bad. There is no wikipedia article with spoilers. I have to have faith here.
I'm going to leave the computer here and go clean out my sock drawer. Then something will be accomplished. Something will be decided. Maybe that will help.
Extrovert/introvert is self explanatory. The intuitive/sensitive marker has to do with how folks gather information and the feeling/thinking has to do with decision making. None of this is important. Seriously. I can get along fine with IST's as well as all sorts of combinations of E/I, S/N, T/F's. It's the J/P problem that gets me every time.
Perceivers like things to be up in the air. They like their options open. They are crazy people. My husband is a P and I can never understand this. I would, frankly, prefer bad news that is definite to good news that is a maybe. I cannot handle things that are not decided. I can be part of the decision making process, but I have to know it will come to an end. Soon. I'm fine with things up in the air if I know there's a deadline (for instance, what classroom my child will be in next year. If I know the decision will be made on June 12, I can stop being anxious until June 11).
I'm the sort of person who likes knowing a store back and forth so she can move into it, find the salad dressing she buys, the milk, the sour cream, and never even see the other choices.
I would thrive in that Scandinavian country where you have to line up on a Friday evening to buy alcohol from the government supplier.
One of the hardest things about living in a big city with lots of school choices was that I had lots of choices (now, one bad choice would still make me nuts, but I would be in the boat with everyone else and maybe together we could fight the Man).
I read the synopsis for Downton Abbey before I decided I could watch it. I know what's coming and I like it anyway. Same is true for novels. I have to read the end to see how it ends. I still enjoy the journey of how it gets there.
I wear black t-shirts and blue jeans. Every day. I don't like making decisions, I don't like having too many choices. I understand this is unamerican and possibly mentally ill, but this is the way I am.
Right now I don't know what I'm doing next year. I know what I want to do. I know what my second choice is. And third. I can't really talk about any of it. But it is the overriding source of thought and anxiety in my life now...for like the last month. Nothing is known for sure and there's nothing I can do about it.
It's spring break and there is absolutely nothing I can do for a week. My biggest worry is that I will say yes to one and then another will present itself. But I couldn't put all my eggs in one basket. Maybe I should have. Then it would be a binary decision, not my decision, and eventually I would know yes or no. Now there is the potential for several yes and no answers and then decisions will have to be made. Swiftly, which is good. Without knowing the end of the story, which is bad. There is no wikipedia article with spoilers. I have to have faith here.
I'm going to leave the computer here and go clean out my sock drawer. Then something will be accomplished. Something will be decided. Maybe that will help.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
South Side, North Side
The BBC has made a depressingly accurate video about my hometown. It's about Delmar, which is a sort of dividing line between black and white in St. Louis. There are other lines, of course. South of Loughborough may be entirely white, for instance. West of Hampton, south of Chippewa is probably pretty durned close. And then there are the exurbs, but I don't know enough about them to have anything to say.
My area, and most of south city, is a mixed population. It's the home of several immigrant groups as well as black and white American-born folks. But this is recent--the last 30 years or so. And my own block only has 2 black families out of 30 households. For a while the only racial diversity was found in 4 adopted children, in fact.
I saw this link on Facebook, and passed it on after I watched it. I did so because this fact, this dividing line of rich and poor, white and black, urban preservation and urban deterioration, came home to sit in my dining room yesterday.
Kadir, his mom Sherri, and Bethany, the woman from the special education center who has been so kind to meet with us, sat in my dining room yesterday discussing potential schools for Kadir next year. I mentioned that my plan is to be back in the classroom next year and therefore would not be able to continue the homeschool help like I have this semester. Bethany and I both agreed that pulling Kadir out of school in December and homeschooling was the best thing Sherri had ever done for him and her family. And that now it was time to decide what to do next.
I could tell, just listening to Bethany talk, that she thinks Kadir is on the autism spectrum. So I wasn't far off. Just as an aside.
Kadir and his mom live north of Delmar, just north of a traditionally black neighborhood called the Ville. Inside the Ville is a new charter school that Bethany loves. She trusts the people who are running it. She talked about it with Sherri and then sort of stopped talking about it as Sherri crossed her arms over her chest and gave some pretty clear body language signals.
"It's just that, Kadir's dad, he isn't from St. Louis. And I grew up here and went to schools that were all African-American, deseg didn't happen until I was in high school, and Kadir's dad grew up all over the place with all different sorts of people and he wants that sort of environment for Kadir."
All three of us knew that this new school would be 100% African-American, situated in the Ville and drawing from that neighborhood. All Bethany's praise aside, it wasn't going to work for their family because they wanted something that reflected the world, not that reflected the ghettoization of St. Louis.
I've been on their website and I think they're probably doing amazing things. They're new, and who knows what the future holds, but they have all sorts of support and they are a grass-roots charter school (like ours), which always is a point in a school's favor in my mind. But hearing Sherri's comment, I realized how much I've become a part of this place. I hadn't even considered that this wouldn't be seen as a great idea--and yet my kids go to a school that reflects our neighborhood (about 60/40 white/black ratio).
Then Bethany brought up another school, a 6th-12th grade charter in Soulard, which draws from all over the city and has been around longer than ours has. Sherri looked at the information and relaxed. I know the school is bound to be primarily African-American, but not completely. "That looks more like what we want," she nodded.
I worry, because it is so far from home, and as a parent at a school 10 blocks away, I know it is so easy to be a part of things when school is in your backyard. But on the other hand, I was looking at high school websites for Fiona yesterday and discarded on in south county simply on the fact that all the girls pictured (an all-girls school) were white. The one 3 blocks away had all sorts of girls on their front page. It's our top choice for her.
I want the same things Sherri wants, and I know that. I want a good school filled with lots of different folks so that it reflects reality, not some artificial concoction determined either by socioeconomics (why I'm not looking at the expensive private high schools out west) or by race.
In the end, she left with some things to do and I said that no matter what route she took, Bethany and I were going to make sure to help her, and she would make sure to help Kadir, find a situation that would be supportive. There are good classrooms, even if she's never seen one. And perhaps with more work, she can find good homeschool support, too. But I think with my leaving, she'll lean more towards the good classrooms. I hope they don't disappoint.
Then I saw that video this morning and took a deep breath. This city is such a study in institutionalized racism. It's not all we are, but it colors everything about our history and our current situation. And probably our future.
My area, and most of south city, is a mixed population. It's the home of several immigrant groups as well as black and white American-born folks. But this is recent--the last 30 years or so. And my own block only has 2 black families out of 30 households. For a while the only racial diversity was found in 4 adopted children, in fact.
I saw this link on Facebook, and passed it on after I watched it. I did so because this fact, this dividing line of rich and poor, white and black, urban preservation and urban deterioration, came home to sit in my dining room yesterday.
Kadir, his mom Sherri, and Bethany, the woman from the special education center who has been so kind to meet with us, sat in my dining room yesterday discussing potential schools for Kadir next year. I mentioned that my plan is to be back in the classroom next year and therefore would not be able to continue the homeschool help like I have this semester. Bethany and I both agreed that pulling Kadir out of school in December and homeschooling was the best thing Sherri had ever done for him and her family. And that now it was time to decide what to do next.
I could tell, just listening to Bethany talk, that she thinks Kadir is on the autism spectrum. So I wasn't far off. Just as an aside.
Kadir and his mom live north of Delmar, just north of a traditionally black neighborhood called the Ville. Inside the Ville is a new charter school that Bethany loves. She trusts the people who are running it. She talked about it with Sherri and then sort of stopped talking about it as Sherri crossed her arms over her chest and gave some pretty clear body language signals.
"It's just that, Kadir's dad, he isn't from St. Louis. And I grew up here and went to schools that were all African-American, deseg didn't happen until I was in high school, and Kadir's dad grew up all over the place with all different sorts of people and he wants that sort of environment for Kadir."
All three of us knew that this new school would be 100% African-American, situated in the Ville and drawing from that neighborhood. All Bethany's praise aside, it wasn't going to work for their family because they wanted something that reflected the world, not that reflected the ghettoization of St. Louis.
I've been on their website and I think they're probably doing amazing things. They're new, and who knows what the future holds, but they have all sorts of support and they are a grass-roots charter school (like ours), which always is a point in a school's favor in my mind. But hearing Sherri's comment, I realized how much I've become a part of this place. I hadn't even considered that this wouldn't be seen as a great idea--and yet my kids go to a school that reflects our neighborhood (about 60/40 white/black ratio).
Then Bethany brought up another school, a 6th-12th grade charter in Soulard, which draws from all over the city and has been around longer than ours has. Sherri looked at the information and relaxed. I know the school is bound to be primarily African-American, but not completely. "That looks more like what we want," she nodded.
I worry, because it is so far from home, and as a parent at a school 10 blocks away, I know it is so easy to be a part of things when school is in your backyard. But on the other hand, I was looking at high school websites for Fiona yesterday and discarded on in south county simply on the fact that all the girls pictured (an all-girls school) were white. The one 3 blocks away had all sorts of girls on their front page. It's our top choice for her.
I want the same things Sherri wants, and I know that. I want a good school filled with lots of different folks so that it reflects reality, not some artificial concoction determined either by socioeconomics (why I'm not looking at the expensive private high schools out west) or by race.
In the end, she left with some things to do and I said that no matter what route she took, Bethany and I were going to make sure to help her, and she would make sure to help Kadir, find a situation that would be supportive. There are good classrooms, even if she's never seen one. And perhaps with more work, she can find good homeschool support, too. But I think with my leaving, she'll lean more towards the good classrooms. I hope they don't disappoint.
Then I saw that video this morning and took a deep breath. This city is such a study in institutionalized racism. It's not all we are, but it colors everything about our history and our current situation. And probably our future.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Endings
I tend not to just burn bridges but set them off with dynamite and rip up the road leading to them and plant the place with weed trees to disguise the fact that there was ever a bridge. I try to do ok, but if there is any resistance to the ending (breaking up with a boyfriend, leaving a friendship abruptly, leaving a teaching job and not signing next year's contract) it goes badly.
Today is a beginning of an ending. My homeschool tutoring student, Kadir, while an interesting case study, will eat too much of my time if I continue to work with him in the fall. My somewhat subtle hints to his mother are not catching on:
"So I'm not sure what I'm going to be doing next year," I'll interject in a conversation. "At least part time, possibly full time in the classroom."
"Well, Miss Bridgett, you just tell me what your schedule is and we'll work around you."
"I'll let you know my plans as soon as I know them." Gah. She was getting in the car...the ignition was started...there was no time to be firm. What is my problem?
Now, I'm perfectly happy helping a neighbor kid cram for a test or getting someone over a particularly sticky piece of Algebra I (absolute value inequalities come to mind). But next fall, it will kill my family life if I tutor in the evenings after working all day (or even part of the day) in a classroom. Afternoons need to be detox and evenings need to be free. No question. Kadir takes 4 hours a week.
Another time, I asked if she'd looked into the school in her neighborhood, which the folks at the special education place I'm talking to really really like. And she gave me a bashful "yeah I was supposed to do that but I didn't" look.
"But I just don't know if a classroom is the best setting for Kadir," she started. Which may be true, except that I have a hunch his needs will not be met at home. Not even close. "There are things you do with him that you can't do in the classroom."
It's sad that she says this, because nothing I'm doing is extraordinary. Seriously. We watercolor (so do my daughters' classrooms). We study plants and birds. We do math and reading. Nothing shocking or amazing. We're not traveling down to the Gulf Coast to study the ecosystem post-oil-spill. We're not digging up my backyard as urban archaeologists (although I'd love to, on my own). Field trips I tell his mom about are Powder Valley and the Zoo and the Botanical Gardens--my kids have been to all of these in school. It says something about the cruddy schools she's experienced.
But then two weeks ago Kadir showed up and I went through his logbook. His mother hadn't written anything in it. Thinking it was an oversight, I asked him what they'd done that week. He pointed to the parts of speech worksheet. "I did that this morning." Further investigation produced several movies he'd watched. Breakfasts he'd eaten: "But I got up in the afternoon."
Four hours a week with me, to make suggestions, teach some math concepts, and go over reading? It does not make a homeschool curriculum.
He needs something more.
Mom is not listening.
I don't want this to end badly. I want them to make the right decisions. I am going to have to say no and I think it's going to come as a great surprise.
Or maybe not--she has stopped respecting my time (showing up 10 minutes early to drop off, coming 15 minutes late to pick up). Maybe the honeymoon is over on both sides.
We'll see. They'll be here in a few minutes, and then the meeting is early in the afternoon, after tutoring is over. Maybe she will have called the school we suggested. Maybe things will be in motion.
Or maybe I'll have to say no.
Today is a beginning of an ending. My homeschool tutoring student, Kadir, while an interesting case study, will eat too much of my time if I continue to work with him in the fall. My somewhat subtle hints to his mother are not catching on:
"So I'm not sure what I'm going to be doing next year," I'll interject in a conversation. "At least part time, possibly full time in the classroom."
"Well, Miss Bridgett, you just tell me what your schedule is and we'll work around you."
"I'll let you know my plans as soon as I know them." Gah. She was getting in the car...the ignition was started...there was no time to be firm. What is my problem?
Now, I'm perfectly happy helping a neighbor kid cram for a test or getting someone over a particularly sticky piece of Algebra I (absolute value inequalities come to mind). But next fall, it will kill my family life if I tutor in the evenings after working all day (or even part of the day) in a classroom. Afternoons need to be detox and evenings need to be free. No question. Kadir takes 4 hours a week.
Another time, I asked if she'd looked into the school in her neighborhood, which the folks at the special education place I'm talking to really really like. And she gave me a bashful "yeah I was supposed to do that but I didn't" look.
"But I just don't know if a classroom is the best setting for Kadir," she started. Which may be true, except that I have a hunch his needs will not be met at home. Not even close. "There are things you do with him that you can't do in the classroom."
It's sad that she says this, because nothing I'm doing is extraordinary. Seriously. We watercolor (so do my daughters' classrooms). We study plants and birds. We do math and reading. Nothing shocking or amazing. We're not traveling down to the Gulf Coast to study the ecosystem post-oil-spill. We're not digging up my backyard as urban archaeologists (although I'd love to, on my own). Field trips I tell his mom about are Powder Valley and the Zoo and the Botanical Gardens--my kids have been to all of these in school. It says something about the cruddy schools she's experienced.
But then two weeks ago Kadir showed up and I went through his logbook. His mother hadn't written anything in it. Thinking it was an oversight, I asked him what they'd done that week. He pointed to the parts of speech worksheet. "I did that this morning." Further investigation produced several movies he'd watched. Breakfasts he'd eaten: "But I got up in the afternoon."
Four hours a week with me, to make suggestions, teach some math concepts, and go over reading? It does not make a homeschool curriculum.
He needs something more.
Mom is not listening.
I don't want this to end badly. I want them to make the right decisions. I am going to have to say no and I think it's going to come as a great surprise.
Or maybe not--she has stopped respecting my time (showing up 10 minutes early to drop off, coming 15 minutes late to pick up). Maybe the honeymoon is over on both sides.
We'll see. They'll be here in a few minutes, and then the meeting is early in the afternoon, after tutoring is over. Maybe she will have called the school we suggested. Maybe things will be in motion.
Or maybe I'll have to say no.
Monday, March 12, 2012
Ridiculously Busy: Yard Plans
Fits and starts over here. It's spring, in fact, we didn't even have winter, and my yard is a huge mess. I try...but pernicious weeds are smarter than I am. Or at least more pernicious. The English ivy is everywhere on the west side of the path; wild strawberries (not useful) and violets are everywhere else. Those last two are annoying but the ivy tries every year to take down my fence. It is a true foe. My friend Mary is fond of the aphorism, "If you strike the king you must slay him" and I think of that when I go after the English ivy.
Each year it seems the shade changes in my yard. Now, under the magnolia tree, it is sunny and happy. But the southeast corner where the gangway comes into the yard gets no sun except directly at noon. Even then it is partially shaded in the summer by a small redbud. So the ferns had to come out from under the magnolia and go where they won't turn a burnished olive color. While I was there, I went ahead and took out the surprise lilies, too, leaving nothing but the English ivy and a highly successful breed of vinca. I'm debating how best to kill all of it and start over with something less, well, successful.
The back garden cage was in desperate need of work. One of the raised beds had fallen and Jake put that back together for me this weekend. The soil had been used three years in a row without much more than a bit of compost flicked into it here and there. So down went the cardboard boxes (Girl Scout cookie boxes, flattened) and the leaf mold and straw. Compost (my compost, it seems, is made completely of eggshells and orange rinds--and my girls were really really bad at hitting the pile with the kitchen waste this winter, I see), and then a healthy layer of manure. Peat moss on top of that and it's ready to go again for a year or two. Last year we got no tomatoes--none. And no cucumbers. It was all lettuce and peas, okras and peppers. Good stuff, but the tomato failure is the canary in the coal mine for me.
We're building a potato box by the treehouse. Jake has a good plan. Fiona and I started the tomatoes and basil last week and I'm going down to start the okra and whatever else looks like an indoor start plant. Hoping to have the garden area ready for planting by tomorrow--peas, lettuce, spinach, beets, onions are all ready and waiting. The garlic, of course, is wild and already nice and healthy. It'll be an early harvest this year. I cannot WAIT for scapes.
Gravel is going into the round area where the pool sits in the summer and the little fire pit sits the rest of the year. That's this coming weekend's project. By then I hope to have the living parts of the yard underway.
So just in case I was worried how I was going to spend my time post-art projects, post-art test, I found it.
BTW, the art test? I think I did pretty well.
Each year it seems the shade changes in my yard. Now, under the magnolia tree, it is sunny and happy. But the southeast corner where the gangway comes into the yard gets no sun except directly at noon. Even then it is partially shaded in the summer by a small redbud. So the ferns had to come out from under the magnolia and go where they won't turn a burnished olive color. While I was there, I went ahead and took out the surprise lilies, too, leaving nothing but the English ivy and a highly successful breed of vinca. I'm debating how best to kill all of it and start over with something less, well, successful.
The back garden cage was in desperate need of work. One of the raised beds had fallen and Jake put that back together for me this weekend. The soil had been used three years in a row without much more than a bit of compost flicked into it here and there. So down went the cardboard boxes (Girl Scout cookie boxes, flattened) and the leaf mold and straw. Compost (my compost, it seems, is made completely of eggshells and orange rinds--and my girls were really really bad at hitting the pile with the kitchen waste this winter, I see), and then a healthy layer of manure. Peat moss on top of that and it's ready to go again for a year or two. Last year we got no tomatoes--none. And no cucumbers. It was all lettuce and peas, okras and peppers. Good stuff, but the tomato failure is the canary in the coal mine for me.
We're building a potato box by the treehouse. Jake has a good plan. Fiona and I started the tomatoes and basil last week and I'm going down to start the okra and whatever else looks like an indoor start plant. Hoping to have the garden area ready for planting by tomorrow--peas, lettuce, spinach, beets, onions are all ready and waiting. The garlic, of course, is wild and already nice and healthy. It'll be an early harvest this year. I cannot WAIT for scapes.
Gravel is going into the round area where the pool sits in the summer and the little fire pit sits the rest of the year. That's this coming weekend's project. By then I hope to have the living parts of the yard underway.
So just in case I was worried how I was going to spend my time post-art projects, post-art test, I found it.
BTW, the art test? I think I did pretty well.
Wednesday, March 07, 2012
The last project; time for well-deserved sleep
Miss Anne and Miss Bridget's class (yes, there are two Bridget/t's at school, which means that class calls me "Miss Bridget-tuh" which, trust me, NEVER GETS OLD. This one was the other Bridget's idea, which if I had to do it over again, I would have made all the roads black paint and the details in the other three colors. But here we are. I think it works anyway, and the quilting was fun--in the border are all the children's names in my best handwriting. And the center allowed me to practice one my my favorite fabric art techniques, one so simple a child can do it (if you do the ironing): freezer paper stencils. The hardest part is cutting out all those little shapes...
I'm also a big fan of the chartreuse binding. That color always makes me happy.
Of all the projects, this one has the most visible "artist's hand" in it. And I think, with the sharpie tie dye a close second, the most fun for the kids to create.
All done. They go to school tomorrow. I'm going to bed and tomorrow night I'm not doing a thing with art.
I'm also a big fan of the chartreuse binding. That color always makes me happy.
Of all the projects, this one has the most visible "artist's hand" in it. And I think, with the sharpie tie dye a close second, the most fun for the kids to create.
All done. They go to school tomorrow. I'm going to bed and tomorrow night I'm not doing a thing with art.
Gala Part III
Kandinsky's Circles is something the upper elementary imitated in watercolor a few weeks back. I found the result so striking (it sat propped on my piano for a week or two before I brought it into school, as wide as the piano and 3 feet tall) that I tweaked it a bit, did it on a canvas with acrylics in the school's logo's colors. One student at a time. I did clean up some edges. 
I went to the park
Just wanted to report back. We spent over an hour at Tower Grove's center playground. Almost the whole time was devoted to swings. I listened to young moms complain about stupid things--things I didn't even complain about when I was a young mom, much less now as a seasoned parent--and caught an eye-roll from another not-so-young mom standing over by the fence watching her youngster. I love sharing moments like that with strangers.
Billy left without complaint because we stayed so long. We bought milk at the little organic/local grocer and went home for lunch.
Billy left without complaint because we stayed so long. We bought milk at the little organic/local grocer and went home for lunch.
Tuesday, March 06, 2012
I am writing on my blog to avoid things I need to do
I was sick today. Not sick, like a virus or a bug of some kind. I was worn out. I have pushed my 30-something body and mind over the edge of reasonable activity. I am learning, yet again, that there are limits to the number of things I can do in a day, in a week. In a nutshell:
Make 4 gala art projects with 4 different classes all on an individual level and then take them home to put them together into something usable and hopefully auction-able in order to satisfy a promise I made and then almost didn't keep because of so many things that I can't go into here and then I have a girl scout cookie order of several hundred cases of cookies for the troop so I had to take my dad's truck and Zelda's car and pick them up--in the rain--and haul them into Zelda's house and divide them up by girl and go to the cookie cupboard which is our cute girl scouty way of saying "the woman who volunteered to turn her house into a storeroom of cookie cases" and in this specific case means awkward moments in her living room with her chain smoking husband who obviously is so done with his wife being a girl scout volunteer, it's like a cautionary tale for all of us, so I went there not once but twice and then found another cookie order form in Shauna's bookbag at school while her dad was on the phone getting mad at the school secretary for not having the cookies to him yet even though that is so not her job it's funny and there's speech and tutoring and a new tutoring student who is so very endearing in his ADHD tendencies, we wound up standing around the table arguing about domain and range and the need to show our work and he's smarter than any student I've ever worked with and, like me, skipped from one half of one thing into the middle of the second half of another so I can understand the frustration of being very, very smart and so lost in a math course and the self-confidence issues and need to prove oneself and after two hours with my very, very not-smart homeschool tutoring student, to move from one to the other is a kind of whiplash for my brain and other typical every day things: art, coffee, worrying about money, my jaw hurting, trying and failing to get my garden started up, getting girls to dance, food to the house, garbage to the dumpster, exercise, did I mention girl scout cookies?
So, no, I don't sleep. And I don't eat lunch most days and then wonder what happened. And I spend a lot of time texting people telling them I'm on my way. And I don't like this.
Today I took a nap--I take naps, but I indulge in them the way others indulge in recreational drugs. They're not good for me and I feel bad afterward. But today I woke up from a 2 1/2 hour nap and felt better than when I lay down. That struck me. I need to slow things back down and breathe and relax my jaw and all that stuff I'm supposed to do.
Billy goes to preschool next year and we keep driving by playgrounds...and not stopping. His babyhood is almost over. I'm an idiot.
So tomorrow I go to coffee with Ann and then I'm not doing anything between 10 and 2. I'm going to put on a little sweater, grab some knitting, and go to the park with Billy.
On Thursday he goes to speech at 10, and then there's a break from 11-1. I'm packing us a lunch. It's supposed to thunderstorm that day but maybe we'll manage a trip to the park with lunch there in the middle of the day. If not, we'll have a picnic in the living room and get some clay out. Or paint. Or maybe just cars.
On Friday, I tutor my homeschool student from 11-1. I'm packing up all my art study stuff for my teaching exam on Saturday, and from 1 until school pick up, I think we'll be at the park.
Saturday I take the test. Jake's going to work in the afternoon and I think me, the girls, and Billy will go do something else. Go down to Suson (county park with a farm, with animals). Go to the zoo. Go. Somewhere.
Because all this busy-ness sucks. It's making my jaw hurt, it's making me tired, it's making Billy come not second or third, but somewhere around 5th. And don't get me started on other relationships in my life.
I do this every so often, and it always takes a crisis, and I cut back. I wish I were a quicker study. I wish I remembered lessons better. I wish I could say a better No and really mean it.
I guess I need to start tomorrow. At the park.
Make 4 gala art projects with 4 different classes all on an individual level and then take them home to put them together into something usable and hopefully auction-able in order to satisfy a promise I made and then almost didn't keep because of so many things that I can't go into here and then I have a girl scout cookie order of several hundred cases of cookies for the troop so I had to take my dad's truck and Zelda's car and pick them up--in the rain--and haul them into Zelda's house and divide them up by girl and go to the cookie cupboard which is our cute girl scouty way of saying "the woman who volunteered to turn her house into a storeroom of cookie cases" and in this specific case means awkward moments in her living room with her chain smoking husband who obviously is so done with his wife being a girl scout volunteer, it's like a cautionary tale for all of us, so I went there not once but twice and then found another cookie order form in Shauna's bookbag at school while her dad was on the phone getting mad at the school secretary for not having the cookies to him yet even though that is so not her job it's funny and there's speech and tutoring and a new tutoring student who is so very endearing in his ADHD tendencies, we wound up standing around the table arguing about domain and range and the need to show our work and he's smarter than any student I've ever worked with and, like me, skipped from one half of one thing into the middle of the second half of another so I can understand the frustration of being very, very smart and so lost in a math course and the self-confidence issues and need to prove oneself and after two hours with my very, very not-smart homeschool tutoring student, to move from one to the other is a kind of whiplash for my brain and other typical every day things: art, coffee, worrying about money, my jaw hurting, trying and failing to get my garden started up, getting girls to dance, food to the house, garbage to the dumpster, exercise, did I mention girl scout cookies?
So, no, I don't sleep. And I don't eat lunch most days and then wonder what happened. And I spend a lot of time texting people telling them I'm on my way. And I don't like this.
Today I took a nap--I take naps, but I indulge in them the way others indulge in recreational drugs. They're not good for me and I feel bad afterward. But today I woke up from a 2 1/2 hour nap and felt better than when I lay down. That struck me. I need to slow things back down and breathe and relax my jaw and all that stuff I'm supposed to do.
Billy goes to preschool next year and we keep driving by playgrounds...and not stopping. His babyhood is almost over. I'm an idiot.
So tomorrow I go to coffee with Ann and then I'm not doing anything between 10 and 2. I'm going to put on a little sweater, grab some knitting, and go to the park with Billy.
On Thursday he goes to speech at 10, and then there's a break from 11-1. I'm packing us a lunch. It's supposed to thunderstorm that day but maybe we'll manage a trip to the park with lunch there in the middle of the day. If not, we'll have a picnic in the living room and get some clay out. Or paint. Or maybe just cars.
On Friday, I tutor my homeschool student from 11-1. I'm packing up all my art study stuff for my teaching exam on Saturday, and from 1 until school pick up, I think we'll be at the park.
Saturday I take the test. Jake's going to work in the afternoon and I think me, the girls, and Billy will go do something else. Go down to Suson (county park with a farm, with animals). Go to the zoo. Go. Somewhere.
Because all this busy-ness sucks. It's making my jaw hurt, it's making me tired, it's making Billy come not second or third, but somewhere around 5th. And don't get me started on other relationships in my life.
I do this every so often, and it always takes a crisis, and I cut back. I wish I were a quicker study. I wish I remembered lessons better. I wish I could say a better No and really mean it.
I guess I need to start tomorrow. At the park.
Monday, March 05, 2012
Gala So Far
I'm the art teacher. Sort of.
And the gala, our Big Fundraiser, is this weekend.
I was asked to do some art projects. One per class that I teach in. There was some confusion about what classes I taught, but that's ok. I'm a volunteer. And I decided, yeah, this could be good. It could be great. So here are two of the four. The first is a baby quilt made by one of the elementary (meaning "1st-3rd" grade, or ages 6-9ish) classes. It's done in sharpie marker and then turned into "tie dye" with rubbing alcohol. The second is a kindergarten project, thumbs in paint, to make the flower from our school's logo. I kind of love them both now. Very happy with the results.
The two not here yet are upper elementary (4th-6th, or ages 9-12ish), who are doing a take off on Kandinsky's color study in circles, but in the same colors as the poster; and another of the elementary classes, a complicated quilt that's a road map. I'll show it when it's done. As an aside, I sewed it together watching Good Will Hunting, which always makes me melancholy. So that's all caught up in the stitches. So weird. But good.
More tomorrow!
And the gala, our Big Fundraiser, is this weekend.
I was asked to do some art projects. One per class that I teach in. There was some confusion about what classes I taught, but that's ok. I'm a volunteer. And I decided, yeah, this could be good. It could be great. So here are two of the four. The first is a baby quilt made by one of the elementary (meaning "1st-3rd" grade, or ages 6-9ish) classes. It's done in sharpie marker and then turned into "tie dye" with rubbing alcohol. The second is a kindergarten project, thumbs in paint, to make the flower from our school's logo. I kind of love them both now. Very happy with the results.
The two not here yet are upper elementary (4th-6th, or ages 9-12ish), who are doing a take off on Kandinsky's color study in circles, but in the same colors as the poster; and another of the elementary classes, a complicated quilt that's a road map. I'll show it when it's done. As an aside, I sewed it together watching Good Will Hunting, which always makes me melancholy. So that's all caught up in the stitches. So weird. But good.More tomorrow!
Notes from the Carnivale: Just a Roustabout
When someone else holds all the power, your methods of revolt are few.
In fact, sometimes it is best not to revolt at all.
I read once, I don't recall where or in what context, about trees and barbed wire. Some trees that grow up along a fence line (osage oranges, for instance, which are known in Missouri as hedge apple trees), patiently standing still and growing around the wire. Decades later there's a tree with wire that goes in one side and goes out the other. Then there are other trees that rub up against that wire and let the wire scar the bark, and then the bark grows around the scar, and around the next year's bark scar, and so on until it is gnarled and deformed around that wire.
The tree can't do anything about the wire, and of course, trees don't choose which way they'll interact with it.
I can't do anything about Management right now. But I can choose--let them scar me or I can grow around them.
One day, and this is one of the hidden fruits of stability, that fence will come down and I'll still be there, marking where it once was. Management will eventually screw up big enough and be forced out. Or they will use the Carnivale as a stepping stone to something bigger. Maybe something in radio. Or war profiteering. I don't know. Something bigger.
So I'm currently taking the high road. I've got work assigned to me and I'm going to do it. Because it comes back to this: I am just a roustabout, even though I tend to be one of the leaders, informally, more of a whip than a leader. I am just a roustabout. Without the Carnivale, I'm an unemployed manual worker. I need to take some care. Do what I can, say what I need to say, be who I am, but never stoop into the gutter.
In fact, sometimes it is best not to revolt at all.
I read once, I don't recall where or in what context, about trees and barbed wire. Some trees that grow up along a fence line (osage oranges, for instance, which are known in Missouri as hedge apple trees), patiently standing still and growing around the wire. Decades later there's a tree with wire that goes in one side and goes out the other. Then there are other trees that rub up against that wire and let the wire scar the bark, and then the bark grows around the scar, and around the next year's bark scar, and so on until it is gnarled and deformed around that wire.
The tree can't do anything about the wire, and of course, trees don't choose which way they'll interact with it.
I can't do anything about Management right now. But I can choose--let them scar me or I can grow around them.
One day, and this is one of the hidden fruits of stability, that fence will come down and I'll still be there, marking where it once was. Management will eventually screw up big enough and be forced out. Or they will use the Carnivale as a stepping stone to something bigger. Maybe something in radio. Or war profiteering. I don't know. Something bigger.
So I'm currently taking the high road. I've got work assigned to me and I'm going to do it. Because it comes back to this: I am just a roustabout, even though I tend to be one of the leaders, informally, more of a whip than a leader. I am just a roustabout. Without the Carnivale, I'm an unemployed manual worker. I need to take some care. Do what I can, say what I need to say, be who I am, but never stoop into the gutter.
Sunday, March 04, 2012
I've always thought that
My brother has lost 50 pounds. He's about 6 foot or so and needed to lose it. He's all focused and bragging on facebook these days and that's great. I was telling my mother about it when I picked up Billy the other day--I'd been at art. Ian had posted a picture.
"Oh good," she said, "I'll have to go see it. You know, if he loses too much weight, and he knows this, but his head looks too big."
I nodded. It does.
"Remember back in high school?" she prompts. I do remember back in high school. It wasn't good.
"It's all Blake," she continues. "All your grandfather."
"Yeah, my face is too. It looks better on a boy," I say, smiling. I've come to terms with this.
"No, yours isn't quite the same--Ian's is longer, horsier, you know."
"Yeah, but when we walked into the nursing home a few years back? And Aunt Kay sitting there? It was like looking into a mirror 25 years in the future. That's where I'm headed. Maybe not the choices in hair style, and I won't have glasses, but that's what I look like."
"You're right," she sighs. "And she looks completely like her dad."
Fiona, sitting next to me at the counter, mumbles such that only I can hear her, and I have her repeat it. Something that I would only take from Fiona, and only from 10 year Fiona. Something without malice, filled with naivete quickly dropping.
"I think your face makes you look like a witch."
I laugh, my mom laughs. Fiona looks sheepish. I think about it. Kay does look like my grandfather, but there's a portrait done of her great-grandmother Jennie, a self-proclaimed witch if you believe the family legends. Kay looks like Jennie. I look like Kay. So be it.
I think Daisy has the greatest potential to inherit my nose, my chin. Oh, of course there's Billy. But like I said, it looks better on a boy.
"Oh good," she said, "I'll have to go see it. You know, if he loses too much weight, and he knows this, but his head looks too big."
I nodded. It does.
"Remember back in high school?" she prompts. I do remember back in high school. It wasn't good.
"It's all Blake," she continues. "All your grandfather."
"Yeah, my face is too. It looks better on a boy," I say, smiling. I've come to terms with this.
"No, yours isn't quite the same--Ian's is longer, horsier, you know."
"Yeah, but when we walked into the nursing home a few years back? And Aunt Kay sitting there? It was like looking into a mirror 25 years in the future. That's where I'm headed. Maybe not the choices in hair style, and I won't have glasses, but that's what I look like."
"You're right," she sighs. "And she looks completely like her dad."
Fiona, sitting next to me at the counter, mumbles such that only I can hear her, and I have her repeat it. Something that I would only take from Fiona, and only from 10 year Fiona. Something without malice, filled with naivete quickly dropping.
"I think your face makes you look like a witch."
I laugh, my mom laughs. Fiona looks sheepish. I think about it. Kay does look like my grandfather, but there's a portrait done of her great-grandmother Jennie, a self-proclaimed witch if you believe the family legends. Kay looks like Jennie. I look like Kay. So be it.
I think Daisy has the greatest potential to inherit my nose, my chin. Oh, of course there's Billy. But like I said, it looks better on a boy.
Friday, March 02, 2012
Croissants vs Concrete Apartment Houses
I took two languages in high school: Cajun French and Russian. Specifically Muscovite Russian, because later in college I took St. Petersburg Russian and was mocked by my pronunciation of a few letters. I might have the Moscow and Petersburg backwards. Anyway. I took French of a sort, and Russian of a definite sort. I don't remember much French except when other young people talk--like other young people learning French. No way could I look at French and tell you what it said, for instance. And listening to it? Ridiculous. Cajun makes you a ridiculous French speaker.
So then Russian--in high school I took 1 year of Russian from an Army captain, who promised us this would count for at least a year of college Russian. We all knew better, knowing folks who had taken 4 years of high school Spanish and skipped maybe one semester of the stuff in college.
Imagine my surprise when I arrived at my university and they were using the same textbook we had in high school--Russian For Everybody, a Soviet-era text--and yes, I was too far ahead to start in Russian I. Or Russian II.
Or Russian III.
I walked into Russian IV the next spring, with one of those sad catch-22s in front of me: I needed at least 2 semesters of a language to graduate, but Russian V wasn't offered on a regular basis. As an education major still tied to the Arts & Sciences requirements, I needed Russian V directly after Russian IV. So I took it as an independent study and did a lot of translating.
A lot of translating.
I was telling Gretchen and Zelda about it on the way home from our Mah Jongg weekend, in reference to Fiona's dyslexia and what colleges accept sign language as their language requirement (a post for another day). But I was talking about the translating, which was a lot of Soviet-era stuff like you'd expect:
Oleg went away suddenly to Novosibirsk to work in construction. They built many apartment houses there. When is Ivan Ivanovich going to visit Oleg? I don't know when Ivan Ivanovich will have a vacation from his job at the library. Which of the kalashnikov models is your favorite? I would love to purchase a new one but right now I am just browsing.
Those sorts of things. I'm only joking about the gun. But when I would read these and translate them into English, I would ponder their heaviness. Life sucks in Russia, I concluded. It is gray and dreary and the children go to tacky daycare rooms while their mothers work in the factories. One of the first verbs I learned was rabotat (transliterated badly there): to work.
I say a few of these things, sum them up, for Gretchen and Zelda. Gretchen laughs. She took a lot of French, real French. "It was all croissant and cafe au lait with us. Food." She went on to talk about translating from French novels and poetry.
Putting French bakeries out of my mind for a moment, I reflect on what food words I remember in Russian. Milk. Water. Bread. Pancake. Butter. Some cognates...not much.
Definitely no poetry or novels. Everything felt like an informative pamphlet. But I know how to work (rabotayu) and listen (slushayu). I know where to work. When to go to work. Where my children will stay while I work. Where I will go when I'm too old to work.
What I will work for? Nichivo.
I love Russian. I love moving inside that language a bit, the only foreign language I got comfortable enough with to dream in. Maybe one day I'll go back to it. Find some poetry. Or some good food.
So then Russian--in high school I took 1 year of Russian from an Army captain, who promised us this would count for at least a year of college Russian. We all knew better, knowing folks who had taken 4 years of high school Spanish and skipped maybe one semester of the stuff in college.
Imagine my surprise when I arrived at my university and they were using the same textbook we had in high school--Russian For Everybody, a Soviet-era text--and yes, I was too far ahead to start in Russian I. Or Russian II. Or Russian III.
I walked into Russian IV the next spring, with one of those sad catch-22s in front of me: I needed at least 2 semesters of a language to graduate, but Russian V wasn't offered on a regular basis. As an education major still tied to the Arts & Sciences requirements, I needed Russian V directly after Russian IV. So I took it as an independent study and did a lot of translating.
A lot of translating.
I was telling Gretchen and Zelda about it on the way home from our Mah Jongg weekend, in reference to Fiona's dyslexia and what colleges accept sign language as their language requirement (a post for another day). But I was talking about the translating, which was a lot of Soviet-era stuff like you'd expect:
Oleg went away suddenly to Novosibirsk to work in construction. They built many apartment houses there. When is Ivan Ivanovich going to visit Oleg? I don't know when Ivan Ivanovich will have a vacation from his job at the library. Which of the kalashnikov models is your favorite? I would love to purchase a new one but right now I am just browsing.
Those sorts of things. I'm only joking about the gun. But when I would read these and translate them into English, I would ponder their heaviness. Life sucks in Russia, I concluded. It is gray and dreary and the children go to tacky daycare rooms while their mothers work in the factories. One of the first verbs I learned was rabotat (transliterated badly there): to work.
I say a few of these things, sum them up, for Gretchen and Zelda. Gretchen laughs. She took a lot of French, real French. "It was all croissant and cafe au lait with us. Food." She went on to talk about translating from French novels and poetry.
Putting French bakeries out of my mind for a moment, I reflect on what food words I remember in Russian. Milk. Water. Bread. Pancake. Butter. Some cognates...not much.
Definitely no poetry or novels. Everything felt like an informative pamphlet. But I know how to work (rabotayu) and listen (slushayu). I know where to work. When to go to work. Where my children will stay while I work. Where I will go when I'm too old to work.
What I will work for? Nichivo.
I love Russian. I love moving inside that language a bit, the only foreign language I got comfortable enough with to dream in. Maybe one day I'll go back to it. Find some poetry. Or some good food.
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