Before I start, I want to say that I have not seen "Waiting for Superman," the movie about four charter schools in NYC. All I need to know is that these four schools choose students via a lottery. I work in a traditional public school that accepts children the old-fashioned way: you live in our district, here's some paperwork to complete, and now we'll enroll your child. I shall not talk about the movie whatsoever. Instead, I want to talk about dinner last night.
A former student (and Student Council vice-president)became an elementary school teacher. She ended up teaching at an international school in Poland for a few years. She came back this summer to make sure her Michigan teaching certificate was up-to-date and to start on a Masters' degree. She's a bright, engaging young woman who is, I'm sure, a wonderful teacher. I had dinner with her last night at Roma Cafe at Eastern Market. It didn't change my life, but I liked my meal and the wine, so I suggest it. Anyway, she told me the following story.
When she returned to Michigan, the only teaching position she was able to find was at a charter school in a lower income suburb. But, because the school didn't have enough students, it shut down shortly after school started. She was left scrambling. Luckily, she landed on her feet, unfortunately, it was at another charter school. This school is in Detroit, very close to Sharia-run Dearborn (if that lady in Nevada wins, I might just bang my head against the wall for several days). The school has the word "international" in its name, but don't let that fool you into thinking it offers several different languages. It doesn't - it offers only Arabic and only Arabic students attend the school. In my neck of the woods, charter schools are ipso facto re-segregating schools, beyond what economic class already does.
Because many of her students are new or relatively new to the country, one might think that the school would offer English Language Learning support to students. Not in her third grade class of 35 students. She has one little boy who speaks no English, and neither does his mother. The aide who works in the classroom has been told specifically to not work one-on-one with this boy. So he sits, and does nothing, because slowing down is not allowed in the classroom.
You see, my former student teaches from a script. She is not allowed to vary from the script. Students have a copy of the script and are only allowed to highlight items on the script. She is observed at least three times a day, and if she is not a script, she will be written up. For example, if at 10:30, she has not stopped her English lesson to start her math lesson, she will be written up. Then administration can have a file on her, making it easy for them to fire her, never give her a raise, and bring in a newer cheaper teacher. My former student is not protected by a union contract. She hates her job.
She is not the only charter school teacher to tell me things like this. Yes, I know that I have complained bitterly about my school district. Here's the difference, my district is overseen by a democratically elected school board. Everything is open for public scrutiny. The charter school is overseen by a private management company who answers to, theoretically, to Oakland University. The university must not be paying attention, because how in good conscience they allow this to happen. Unless of course, the private management company is kicking back a huge donation to the school. But, as X said, "I must not think bad thoughts."
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
The Big News
The past two weeks have been insanely busy. Every year, I get lost in the vortex that is homecoming. After that two week period, I emerge slightly battered and bruised and behind on paper work. This year is no different, but I need to go back and briefly re-live a defining moment.
I had decided to attend the Eastern Michigan Writing Project Writing retreat the second I saw the flier. I never get anything done at home; I'm either busy with Andrew or grading papers or falling asleep before nine. The price was right, only $25, and the location was nice and isolated, some cabins about a half-hour away from Traverse City. I paid my money, on deadline day and packed.
I rode up with another participant from this summer's Writing Project, Jessica. She teaches in Livonia. Her boyfriend dropped her off in Ham-Town after school and away we drove. First of all, the drive up was a blast. We chatted and laughed the whole time. We were so distracted, that at some point, we missed an exit to head toward Lake Ann. Opps, Jessica's GPS app on her iPhone to the rescue.
Upon arrival, there were only four other participants, all of them women. I just want to say for a moment that I was a little disappointed that there were no men attending. No, you perverts not for THAT reason! I appreciate the way men view writing, usually less emotional and a tad more analytical. Plus, they provide a different vibe. Wistfully, I would have preferred to have had a couple of free wheeling guys join the retreat. The two retreat leaders ushered us to our little dorm rooms and then showed us the main building that had the bathroom and dining facilities.
The whole compound is brand new and belongs to Eastern Michigan for retreats and off-campus classes. The area was completely isolated and peaceful. No Wi-Fi, but we survived. The rooms were small dorm style rooms that could accommodate two people, but with only six of use, we all had our own room. That was perfect for me because I need complete and utter isolation in order to get anything done. That includes grading papers (which is why I am always so far behind). I've always had to be alone to write. In college, I used to write in a closet (no, you perverts, not THAT type of closet). I stayed in my room almost the whole time, while the others wrote in the main building. At the start of the weekend, I knew that I was close to being done, but I honestly felt that I was still a few chapters away.
Saturday, September 20th is a date I'd like to remember. I had just walked up to the main building for dinner. The air was silent and contemplative, so I plugged in my laptop to write a few lines. Then it happened. My hands began to shake and tears filled my eyes, I was typing the last lines of the first draft and my body knew it before my brain did. I hadn't intended to end the book there, but the story told me nothing more was left to say. I needed to be alone. The other retreat participants were nearly strangers and I couldn't share this moment with them, I just didn't feel that connection. I rushed to the bathroom to hyperventilate and wash the puffiness from my eyes.
All through dinner, I said nothing about being done. I waited until sharing time after dinner. Many sincere and heartfelt congratulations came my way and I felt proud. I also wanted to celebrate. There was no wine on the premises (it's allowed, but no one had brought any), moving three of us drove to a grocery store 15 minutes away and bought wine to toasting. The other three did not join us, so I deceptively brought home the partially consumed bottle.
I am actually going to celebrate on Friday (tomorrow) with a handful of friends who have given me moral support or critical feedback throughout the writing process. I know that this is just the start. I have some heavy-duty editing to do and letters of inquiry to send out. All of that will come together over the next few months. I need this little victory party.
I have continually sabotaged myself throughout my life. I have pulled back at the near completion of every goal I have ever set for myself. I know why - years of therapy have taught me that. There is still, to this day, a part of my brain that tells me that I am not worthy of accomplishing any thing as lofty as my dreams. This first draft beats back that voice to a whimper. Now, I have to slay it completely and publish this baby. If I have to publish it myself, I will. But, I will publish it.
I had decided to attend the Eastern Michigan Writing Project Writing retreat the second I saw the flier. I never get anything done at home; I'm either busy with Andrew or grading papers or falling asleep before nine. The price was right, only $25, and the location was nice and isolated, some cabins about a half-hour away from Traverse City. I paid my money, on deadline day and packed.
I rode up with another participant from this summer's Writing Project, Jessica. She teaches in Livonia. Her boyfriend dropped her off in Ham-Town after school and away we drove. First of all, the drive up was a blast. We chatted and laughed the whole time. We were so distracted, that at some point, we missed an exit to head toward Lake Ann. Opps, Jessica's GPS app on her iPhone to the rescue.
Upon arrival, there were only four other participants, all of them women. I just want to say for a moment that I was a little disappointed that there were no men attending. No, you perverts not for THAT reason! I appreciate the way men view writing, usually less emotional and a tad more analytical. Plus, they provide a different vibe. Wistfully, I would have preferred to have had a couple of free wheeling guys join the retreat. The two retreat leaders ushered us to our little dorm rooms and then showed us the main building that had the bathroom and dining facilities.
The whole compound is brand new and belongs to Eastern Michigan for retreats and off-campus classes. The area was completely isolated and peaceful. No Wi-Fi, but we survived. The rooms were small dorm style rooms that could accommodate two people, but with only six of use, we all had our own room. That was perfect for me because I need complete and utter isolation in order to get anything done. That includes grading papers (which is why I am always so far behind). I've always had to be alone to write. In college, I used to write in a closet (no, you perverts, not THAT type of closet). I stayed in my room almost the whole time, while the others wrote in the main building. At the start of the weekend, I knew that I was close to being done, but I honestly felt that I was still a few chapters away.
Saturday, September 20th is a date I'd like to remember. I had just walked up to the main building for dinner. The air was silent and contemplative, so I plugged in my laptop to write a few lines. Then it happened. My hands began to shake and tears filled my eyes, I was typing the last lines of the first draft and my body knew it before my brain did. I hadn't intended to end the book there, but the story told me nothing more was left to say. I needed to be alone. The other retreat participants were nearly strangers and I couldn't share this moment with them, I just didn't feel that connection. I rushed to the bathroom to hyperventilate and wash the puffiness from my eyes.
All through dinner, I said nothing about being done. I waited until sharing time after dinner. Many sincere and heartfelt congratulations came my way and I felt proud. I also wanted to celebrate. There was no wine on the premises (it's allowed, but no one had brought any), moving three of us drove to a grocery store 15 minutes away and bought wine to toasting. The other three did not join us, so I deceptively brought home the partially consumed bottle.
I am actually going to celebrate on Friday (tomorrow) with a handful of friends who have given me moral support or critical feedback throughout the writing process. I know that this is just the start. I have some heavy-duty editing to do and letters of inquiry to send out. All of that will come together over the next few months. I need this little victory party.
I have continually sabotaged myself throughout my life. I have pulled back at the near completion of every goal I have ever set for myself. I know why - years of therapy have taught me that. There is still, to this day, a part of my brain that tells me that I am not worthy of accomplishing any thing as lofty as my dreams. This first draft beats back that voice to a whimper. Now, I have to slay it completely and publish this baby. If I have to publish it myself, I will. But, I will publish it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)