In a recent blog, I wrote about a former colleague who was allegedly remembered by a student who had been in a coma for years. This same colleague brings to mind another story. . .
Please keep in mind that I realize public education is flawed. I am acutely aware of this fact, but I am also aware of the fact that no other country attempts to do what we do on such an inclusive level. In many ways, I envy the German school system, but I admire our (sometimes misguided) heart. We really do try to find a way to educate every child in this country to whatever capacity he or she is able to be educated.
This brings me to my un-esteemed colleague. One year when we arrived back to school, she was severely disappointed with her schedule. It seems, that in addition to her upper level and Advanced Placement classes, she was expected to teach a couple of sections of "regular" kids. This, apparently, just would not do! She marched herself into the assistant principal's office and informed him that she was not suited to teach the regular kids (known to her as the dregs of society) because that would be like "asking a brain surgeon to work on feet." Despite her pleas, she did have to teach the feet, although I wouldn't call it teaching. Her best effort and attention went to her AP classes, and the other kids got mere crumbs.
I have a lot of problems with this. 1. I've seen her teach; she's no brain surgeon. 2. All kids should be treated like they can learn because they can. 3. I'm glad she likes the AP kids and I'm in favor of the AP program, but we have way more "feet" than we do AP kids, and the feet pay the bills and allow her to be employed. 4. Many teachers, and she is certainly one of them, who teach AP or gifted kids think that they are gifted by association, and that's bullshit. It's hard to teach gifted kids, but it is just as hard or harder to teach regular and special needs kids.
I love the feet! Not to take anything away from a gifted kid, but I love the kids who are maybe not as naturally endowed but still have intellectual curiosity. I like the average kid who is a hard worker. I like the kid who doesn't kiss my ass for a grade. I like the smart ass.
God bless the feet! And pardon the diatribe!
Friday, October 23, 2009
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Family Tradition, Tubby Style
I always get a little uncomfortable when people start talking about their family traditions. On almost any other subject, I have something to share, but when it comes to this, I'm at a loss. My family simply doesn't do tradition.
For those of you who haven't read my posts about my dad, let me introduce you to Tubby. Tubby, these nice people read my blog, and they seem to like me, I mean really like me. "Goddamn it, why are you putting stuff about yourself on the internet? Haven't I told you a thousand times not to do crap like this? When I die, your brother is going to get the money and he will hold it for you until you prove yourself responsible enough to handle it! Have you gotten another goddamn dog? I guess it's nice to have money to burn on those vet bills, Mrs. Got rocks."
That, readers, is my father. Here is an exchange from my childhood. I am 7 or 8 at the time.
Tubs: Do you think anyone in this world outside of this house gives a shit whether you live or die?
me: My teacher?
Tubs: Wrong! No one cares. Did you know that there are people in this world who will hurt you just for the fun of it?
me: No.
Tubs: Quit living in a dream world! Do I need to build you a sandbox?
me: No.
Tubs: Fine!
Not surprisingly, this man did not participate in any of the kind of ritual that I see other families enjoy. Special Thanksgiving meal? Not us. We made a trip to Wyatt's Cafeteria because Tubs doesn't like leftovers. Christmas carols? Nope. The Christmas tree could go up no sooner than 2 weeks before the big day and had to be down and stored (in a box labeled "X-Mas Shit") on December 26.
The closest thing we have to a tradition (aside from inappropriate drinking, which I'm not gonna lie, does help you deal with Tubs) is the New Year's Call. My brother and I started this when we were in our 20s, and admittedly, it's a really stupid thing to do. Each January 1st at midnight, my brother and I would call our dad, wait for him to answer, then hang up. We found such hilarity with this that we continued it for years, taking turns on the years we weren't together. The best part was this line from Tubby, "No matter where I live, some drunk asshole calls me on New Year's Eve and hangs up!" To this day, I don't think he knows that his kids are the drunk assholes!
For those of you who haven't read my posts about my dad, let me introduce you to Tubby. Tubby, these nice people read my blog, and they seem to like me, I mean really like me. "Goddamn it, why are you putting stuff about yourself on the internet? Haven't I told you a thousand times not to do crap like this? When I die, your brother is going to get the money and he will hold it for you until you prove yourself responsible enough to handle it! Have you gotten another goddamn dog? I guess it's nice to have money to burn on those vet bills, Mrs. Got rocks."
That, readers, is my father. Here is an exchange from my childhood. I am 7 or 8 at the time.
Tubs: Do you think anyone in this world outside of this house gives a shit whether you live or die?
me: My teacher?
Tubs: Wrong! No one cares. Did you know that there are people in this world who will hurt you just for the fun of it?
me: No.
Tubs: Quit living in a dream world! Do I need to build you a sandbox?
me: No.
Tubs: Fine!
Not surprisingly, this man did not participate in any of the kind of ritual that I see other families enjoy. Special Thanksgiving meal? Not us. We made a trip to Wyatt's Cafeteria because Tubs doesn't like leftovers. Christmas carols? Nope. The Christmas tree could go up no sooner than 2 weeks before the big day and had to be down and stored (in a box labeled "X-Mas Shit") on December 26.
The closest thing we have to a tradition (aside from inappropriate drinking, which I'm not gonna lie, does help you deal with Tubs) is the New Year's Call. My brother and I started this when we were in our 20s, and admittedly, it's a really stupid thing to do. Each January 1st at midnight, my brother and I would call our dad, wait for him to answer, then hang up. We found such hilarity with this that we continued it for years, taking turns on the years we weren't together. The best part was this line from Tubby, "No matter where I live, some drunk asshole calls me on New Year's Eve and hangs up!" To this day, I don't think he knows that his kids are the drunk assholes!
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