This post is for parents of high school juniors in the state of Michigan. Of course, others are more than welcome to stick around for my plea.
On March 5, 6, and 7, high school juniors in Michigan will endure state mandated testing. Day one will be the ACT, day two will be the Work Keys (by the ACT people), and day three will be the Michigan MME. These tests determine a school's grade and rank in the state. Eventually, they will also determine if individual teachers keep their jobs. If you read my blog regularly, you know that I will likely lose my job because of these tests. You also know that I work in an impoverished area with an extraordinarily. high number of non-English speaking students.
The state spends a ton of money on these tests. If my laptop were not in the shop, I would provide links galore to show you. I'm on my phone, so this will have to do. I am asking parents of high school juniors to keep your kid home on those days. Tell the school that you do not want your child participating in the state testing. Do it especially if your child attends a primarily white district. Then tell your representation in Lansing what you've done and that you're disgusted by the waste of taxpayers money.
This is the only way to stop the madness. If teachers in primarily minority schools refuse to test, we will be viciously attacked. Called parasites and lazy. Someone will demand that we all lose our jobs. But, if you,the parents, refuse to play the game, the game will have to change.
What's the worse that can happen? The district tells your child he/she can't walk the stage on graduation day? That's not exactly like voluntarily walking over a bridge in Selma, knowing full well you were going to take a beating to the head.
I already know what my fate has in store for me. I know that my school will be taken over and that I will be fired for organizing the staff when the for-profit company tries to prevent a union. That is my Selma Bridge. I want to urge you just to keep your kids home, and take a very small stand. You won't lose your job for it.
Keep your high school juniors home on March 5, 6, and 7. It's a small act that could ripple into real change.
Friday, February 22, 2013
Monday, February 18, 2013
Empathy
Yesterday, Andrew and I went to the Art Gallery of Windsor to make visual poetry. He was unenthusiastic, declaring, "I hate poetry!" Undaunted, I cajoled the boy into giving it a try.
When we got there, he was his usual ray of sunshine, asking the people in charge thoughtful questions. We gathered out materials and went to work. The idea was to take a copy if what appeared to be an old advertisement and add words. Andrew found an airplane and had a blast. As we were finishing, a young man around 12 and his mom entered the studio. The boy was rocking and whining and crying. He did not want to be there.
The mom spent a few minutes consoling the boy and he agreed to sit with here while she made a visual poem. They sat next to us, about two seats away. The young man held on for as long as he could, but set to whining and crying again. This caught Andrew's attention. My beamish boy walked over to console the boy. He leaned in and said, "It's okay. This is really fun." He then patted the boy on the shoulder. That was not a good idea as the boy nearly elbowed Andrew in the chest. The mom thanked Andrew and I urged him to come back and help clean up.
He was a little shaken up that he had been nearly hit. I was, too. We talked very briefly about it and determined that even if people are uber-crabby to you, you should still be as nice as you can. Perhaps, you can put something into their empty bucket.
Watching that mom and her son, I realized just how lucky I am. My boy is not as severe as that young man. Gone, for the most part, are the days when I think Andrew is going to end up in a group home as an adult. Anyone who can show such kindness to a total stranger is going to do alright and make to world a better place.
When we got there, he was his usual ray of sunshine, asking the people in charge thoughtful questions. We gathered out materials and went to work. The idea was to take a copy if what appeared to be an old advertisement and add words. Andrew found an airplane and had a blast. As we were finishing, a young man around 12 and his mom entered the studio. The boy was rocking and whining and crying. He did not want to be there.
The mom spent a few minutes consoling the boy and he agreed to sit with here while she made a visual poem. They sat next to us, about two seats away. The young man held on for as long as he could, but set to whining and crying again. This caught Andrew's attention. My beamish boy walked over to console the boy. He leaned in and said, "It's okay. This is really fun." He then patted the boy on the shoulder. That was not a good idea as the boy nearly elbowed Andrew in the chest. The mom thanked Andrew and I urged him to come back and help clean up.
He was a little shaken up that he had been nearly hit. I was, too. We talked very briefly about it and determined that even if people are uber-crabby to you, you should still be as nice as you can. Perhaps, you can put something into their empty bucket.
Watching that mom and her son, I realized just how lucky I am. My boy is not as severe as that young man. Gone, for the most part, are the days when I think Andrew is going to end up in a group home as an adult. Anyone who can show such kindness to a total stranger is going to do alright and make to world a better place.
Sunday, February 10, 2013
Sigh...
I have been in a sighs-able funk lately. I can only pinpoint it on the fact that I haven't had much of a social life lately. This past week has been demonstrably worse and I blame Valentine's Day.
I have always tried to tell myself that this holiday is meaningless. I pride myself on being a no-fuss, low-maintenance type of gal. I don't wear much jewelry. I often shop re-sale. I was a tom boy growing up. But every time I really try to convince myself that I don't need flowers on February 14, I am telling myself a lie. I have always been secretly envious of the women at work who get flowers. The most romantic Valentine's gift I have ever gotten was an enormous heart-shaped chocolate chip cookie that my then boyfriend made for me. He piped on frosting that spelled out "Happy Valentine's Day" but ran out of room. He also gave me flowers and made dinner for me. We had been dating for about three months and he was still trying to woo me. No other Valentine's gift sticks out in my memory.
I don't want to feel blue about any media-hyped gift giving event. I'm not particularly materialistic and living without a television, I'm not under a media assault to buy junk. These facts do not alleviate my sadness.
For the first time in a long time, I am in the position of kind-of-seeing someone on Valentine's. I have no idea what to expect. I could take the step of out and out saying I expect something. I have never done that because I can't get over the fact that it was my idea and not his. If I like a man and we are dating around a holiday, I agonize over a gift that sets the right tone. I almost never ask a man what he wants as a gift. Perhaps it is unfair for me to expect the same in return. Or is it?
I can't help but feel that buying a Valentine's gift for a woman is not a daunting task. All a man has to do is buy the greatest cliche ever: flowers. This gift requires no thought at all. Unless a woman is a radical enviro-anarchist, we all love flowers. I don't mean flowers for the dining room table or fireplace mantle, I mean flowers that are specifically for her. Delivered, with a card. In my case, delivered to work, as a sign that someone is publicly declaring he likes me. It's not that difficult.
I have always tried to tell myself that this holiday is meaningless. I pride myself on being a no-fuss, low-maintenance type of gal. I don't wear much jewelry. I often shop re-sale. I was a tom boy growing up. But every time I really try to convince myself that I don't need flowers on February 14, I am telling myself a lie. I have always been secretly envious of the women at work who get flowers. The most romantic Valentine's gift I have ever gotten was an enormous heart-shaped chocolate chip cookie that my then boyfriend made for me. He piped on frosting that spelled out "Happy Valentine's Day" but ran out of room. He also gave me flowers and made dinner for me. We had been dating for about three months and he was still trying to woo me. No other Valentine's gift sticks out in my memory.
I don't want to feel blue about any media-hyped gift giving event. I'm not particularly materialistic and living without a television, I'm not under a media assault to buy junk. These facts do not alleviate my sadness.
For the first time in a long time, I am in the position of kind-of-seeing someone on Valentine's. I have no idea what to expect. I could take the step of out and out saying I expect something. I have never done that because I can't get over the fact that it was my idea and not his. If I like a man and we are dating around a holiday, I agonize over a gift that sets the right tone. I almost never ask a man what he wants as a gift. Perhaps it is unfair for me to expect the same in return. Or is it?
I can't help but feel that buying a Valentine's gift for a woman is not a daunting task. All a man has to do is buy the greatest cliche ever: flowers. This gift requires no thought at all. Unless a woman is a radical enviro-anarchist, we all love flowers. I don't mean flowers for the dining room table or fireplace mantle, I mean flowers that are specifically for her. Delivered, with a card. In my case, delivered to work, as a sign that someone is publicly declaring he likes me. It's not that difficult.
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