The month of May is swishing on by, and with it the end of my teaching career in Miami. I know it sounds a bit fatalistic, but I can safely say that I will never teach for Miami-Dade Public Schools after May 31st of this year. Summer is fast approaching; in the 305, this means palpably humid afternoons, a searing summer sun, and the softly beckoning beach. I have indulged in several of these summer pleasures over the past few weekends, heralding the end of spring and the beginning of my long-anticipated freedom. Added to that was the commencement of the Summer Movie Season: the release (and subsequent opening-night viewing) of M:I 3, c/o everyone's favorite screenwriter, J.J. Abrams. Bravo, J.J., you made a movie with Tom Cruise in it, and people want to see it anyway!
Standing outside of Tamarind Thai last night, the four inhabitants of apartment 266 took a moment to gaze around in the breezy crepuscular Normandy air, bewildered by the circumstances for our reunion. Teach for America sponsored a "Reflect and Reconnect" dinner featuring Thai food and education-related talking points. It was hard to believe that we were finally at an end of year event, let alone an end of committment event. Alumni Induction next weekend is going to be positively surreal. It was good to see the twenty-odd other '04 corps members who have stuck it out this far, for whatever reason. Carlos and I decided that a lot of the reason that some of us are still working seems to be perverse stubbornness. I'm okay with that. If anything, I'm too damn stubborn to quit, even in the face of destruction and calamity. Hyperbolic conditions, you say? Well, these things seem to follow me wherever I go, tagging along doggedly behind the best of my intentions. See: "Reflect and Reconnect" Dinner. Of course, everything seems to be going along swimmingly, and then, because it's a large party and restaurants are rarely careful, I discover that I've eaten a peanut. While all of this wonderful and interesting conversation is going around me, there I am sitting in my chair staring at the wall for twenty minutes waiting for the benadryl do alleviate the constricting pain in my chest. Boo.
I was really sad at work today, and it took me a little while to figure out why. Part of it was probably the aftereffects of my emergency antihistamine last night, but there were other factors involved as well. Now don't get my wrong; this melancholy mood has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I'm leaving Miami Central (South), or that I'm moving from the Sunshine State and its turquoise waters. It has more to do with things unravelling around me. I mean unravelling in the sense of decadence and downfall, not psychologically.
As part of our end of the year project in my reading classes, I wanted the kids to read a graphic novel. There are a bunch of them in the Read 180 library, but none of them are particularly spectacular, as they are merely adaptations of classic novels. They're making their own books, and as an accompaniament they are reading Maus, everyone's favorite graphic novel (and really the only one I know of). I spent a boatload of my own money on the books, mostly because I felt strongly that my students should read them. There was a bout of antisemitism on campus: swastikas on the Jewish teacher's desk, lots of throwing around the term Nazi without really knowing what it means, just more evidence of the childrens' lack of a sense of history. In any case, Maus was a success, and a bunch of students really took to it. One of them, A., has literally slept through 70% of my classes. He comes in gregariously, half-asses his Do Now assignment, usually yells at me, then falls immediately to sleep in a petulant huff. He is one of the most childish teenagers that I teach. On Friday, A. fell asleep again, but this time he did it on a copy of Maus. We've had severaly chats about how one treats a book, so I was pretty unsympathetic when he woke up at the end of class. A split second after waking up, I mention that it's time to leave, and probably had something flippant to say like "Good morning, A." A split second later, he begins to shower insults at me from across the room. Impassively, I write down everything he says, words and phrases loosely strung together with interjections such as "What, huh, you speechless! Yeah, huh, you ain't got nuthin' to say to that?" Yes, A., I've got absolutely nothing to say. It's all being written down for your referral.
An hour later, A. and I crossed paths near the AP's office. No more of the blustering aggressive male; A. was bawling his eyes out with his suspension papers in his hand. Pathetic.
This morning, easing out of last night's Benadryl, I taped back together the 35 pages that had fallen out of Maus I after A. broke the spine during his nap. For whatever reason, it made me incredibly depressed.
3rd Period's final SRI scores also depressed me. Every student made at least 1 year's learning gains, but only 55% made significant gains. 5th Period redeemed the day, wiht an astounding 92% of the students with 2 years's learning gains, and a few kids haven't even taken the test.
Still, there are other demolition projects around me that just make me so melancholy. Biscayne Boulevard, the city's major throughfare east of 95, has been under construction since I set eyes on Miami. September '04 the cones went up, and right now a 2.5 mile stretch right next to our apartment is being peeled away from the surface of the earth. The chaos might be justified if it were for some larger purpose; if the streets were being widened, left turn lanes added, or some sort of functional rehabilitation were going on, I would bite my tongue and keep the proverbial stiff upper lip. But the only reason that Biscayne is being resurfaced is to put an island of royal palm trees down the middle of it. Surreptitiously, the irrigation and drainage system will be marginally improved, but the ostensible purpose is the palm trees. Why, in a city which is so desperately in need of real public transportation, are hundreds of millions of dollars being wasted on a *cosmetic* overhaul of Biscayne?!? It baffles me with its absurdity. The shallowness of the entire project screams "Miami," so I shouldn't be too surprised. Total wanton destruction for no purpose. It's not even the cathartic sort of demolition that breaks ground for new growth and creates the possibility for something better to take the place of the old fashioned, the outmoded, the obsolete. This is no cleansing purge that precedes a rebirth, it's an immense waste of time to perpetuate an already doomed system. Why does it seem as if I'm the only person who thinks this is a bad idea? Couldn't maybe, the city planners, whose job it is to make the city function better, have anticipated these issues? Apparently not. [NB: best line, hands down, in MI:3 :"Don't interrupt me when I'm asking rhetorical questions!" ha! a man after my own heart.]
Ick.
Furthermore, there are several students in my classes who are engaged in the process of self-destruction of various sorts. Both of them are so different, but the end result is the same.
The first is a girl, we'll just call her Nasty. Nasty is a truly special sort of person, exemplified in the manner in which I met her. She did not choose to attend school for the first three months, then the truancy officer showed up at her residence threatening reprisals, so she attends my 8th period class. She arrives 10 minutes late, I ask who the hell she is, and she sits down. I explain the ridiculously simple premise of the class: read for 35 minutes each day, and she proceeds to take out a bottle of hooker-hot-pink nailpolish to paint her nails. She has done a total of three assignments since this first precious day of class. In addition to frequently missing classes, Nasty likes to express herself primarily with profanity. She once put gum in my water bottle, convinced a student to put gum in my hair, and put gum on my chair. She's also been pregnant and had an abortion. While she was visibly pregnant, she wore crop tops to show off her growing abdomen. How classy, no? On the same Friday when A. broke my book, Nasty spent 25 minutes of 8th period on a narrative explaining how one of her friends, who gives head to various ex-students of mine from last year, was jumped in the park. She said the word "fuck" 25 times, and "bitch" 19 times. I am sure that I can recall a conversation in which my vocabulary was at least that colorful, but the key difference here is that I have the mental capacity to choose whether or not to use such language, while Nasty's range of diction is somewhat limited.
Nasty is morally, physically, sexually, verbally, socially, academically, and intellectually disgusting...and people like her! The truly tragic part of this whole ordeal, however, is that a large quantity of the female population idolizes her. Children will do whatever she tells them to, just to win her favor. Girls and boys grovel at her Steve Madden clad feet, worship her bleached blonde weave. Her power over lesser minds is astounding, so much so that it is difficult to catch her actually doing anything wrong except for exuding an air of putrescent morality. She coerces, connives, betrays, and cheats her way through the school day, using class time as social hour and added ammunition for her already deplorable reputation. What a joy.
The other student who has engaged in an impressive masochistic self-destruction over the past few months is Boy 2 (see post of February 22nd). He went from being one of my most involved, athletic, energetic, enthusiastic, and intelligent students to being the most apathetic student and worst disruption in the class. Case in point: he just made a farting noise behind my back. What scares me is that after several parent conferences and multiple referrals, he's just getting worse. It's not just academically either. He went from a playful jokester to an intentionally hurtful tormentor. He doesn't even take care of himself either. his shoes are dirty, his clothes don't match, and he doesn't cut his hair. It's bizarre to see this kind of academic and spiritual destruction manifest itself physically, but in his case it's true. He's failing both of my classes right now, when he used to be close to an A. He gets suspended all the time, fights in between classes, and sometimes doesn't even bother to show up to school. If I weren't so tired, I would want to cry.
I'm at the end of my patience, the end of my energy, and the end of my commitment to Teach for America. It's time for all of this to be over so that I can move on with my life. There are so few kids that I will genuinely miss, and there's nothing to keep me here any more. I don't feel like I'm losing a connection to the school or to the mission to improve education, because that all ended for me when I shipped off to this damn sattelite campus. I had to say goodbye last year, and this entire school year has been more like a state of limbo than an actual part of my life. Being bounced from place to place, administrator to administrator, policy to policy, it just exemplifies the lack of continuity which destroys these childrens' educations. On days like today, and days like every school day for the past three weeks, it makes me so angry.
The irony of it all is that this year I truly did teach my students. Most of my kids achieved amazing things. With the exception of a small group of ignorant, bigoted, pieces of shit (who happen to be in my classroom right now overshadowing the decent kids), they tried hard and worked to their potential despite incredible odds. I just wish they saw that too.
I'm ready to be in a place where I don't have to wash my hands every 2 hours because of the filth all around me. I'm ready to be able to leave my lunch in the closet without finding a roach in it. I'm ready to not hear the word "gay" every thirty seconds used as an insult. I'm ready to not have to tell children to stop hitting each other. I'm ready to not have to wake up at 6:00 in the morning. I'm ready to not have to tell anyone "how many grades is this worth?" And I am certainly ready to leave Miami Central.
I'm ready for it all to be over. The end is near, so near that I can taste it. Please, could you hurry it up a bit?
If, on a winter's night a traveler outside the town of Malbork, leaning from a steep slope without fear of wind or vertigo, looks down into the gathering shadow...on the carpet of leaves illuminated by the moon around an empty grave, what story there awaits its end? -italo calvino
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Monday, April 24, 2006
Un vistazo a Baja California
Here are some highlights from the B.C. Road trip this Spring Break. Spain is go for launch this fall, and I'm actually starting to think seriously about jobs for next year, which is a big leap from sort of kind of thinking about jobs for next year. Maybe within the week I might get as far as "looking" for jobs. Woah.
This weekend was fantastically fun, with a wine-tasting on Friday, cleaning, shopping, and "Thank You For Smoking" on Saturday, and well, Sunday wasn't fun. Dave's coming next weekend! Yay! I'm not feeling very revelatory, seeing as how I've just done my laundry and my 4th period staged a mutiny today while I sat silent at my desk for 85 minutes. I've already resigned in my head, so it's kind of hard to keep telling myself that I still have to do a job.
The Zoo is our planned fieldtrip on Wednesday; more accurately, there's a zoo at Central *every* day.
Much more fun, is the carefree Bajacalifornia. Enjoy.
Day 1: Viajando
Twenty minutes from the airport, a sign saying “Tijuana 5, Border 4” appears, and all of a sudden there’s some orange cones and a huge cement overpass. With merely a flag from a Mexican official and a $2.40 toll, we cross la frontera into Mexico. There are literally miles of cars lined up going the other way; wonder of wonders, it’s harder to get out of Mexico than get in.
After about twenty miles of beachfront property and surfer communities, we arrive at Ensenada. The road is right on the mountains which lead to the Pacific, and the view as the afternoon sun sinks down is pretty incredible. There are tons of white stucco houses hugging the hill both above and below the highway. Pulling in to Ensenada, we see the cruise ships looming on the horizon, boding ill for whatever sort of ‘culture’ we may find.
We select a modest hotel for the evening, and then go about exploring the town. A walk down the malecón is requisite for a Saturday night, so we obliged. Dinner was an adventure, at a place called Guadalajara. I thought I had ordered beef tacos, but to my surprise stew came out instead. Thankfully, it was wonderful, and the ice cold Dos Equis that accompanied it was most welcome. Our tortillas came right off the cast iron griddle: hot, steamy, and deliciously full of lard.
Day 2: Blowhole "La Bufadora", en coche
Despite the pitfalls of Sunday traveling, spirits were high as we set off from La Bufadora. I was a little tired, and unsure of how our outdoor plans for the week were going to pan out, so we decided to hoof it south instead of spending any more time in Baja Norte.
We could not have made a better decision. The road through vineyard country was breathtaking; the transpeninsular highway follows a mountain valley down the coast with green-grey hills cradling olive, citrus, and wheat farms. Nearly 200 miles of beautiful scenery, mountain overlooks, red plowed earth, and picturesque farmland. One highlight of the trip was getting stuck behind a small, small sedan carrying a family of eight. Through the zonas de curves it’s impossible (even if you’re a crazy local driver) to pass, so we tailed a rusted blue 1970’s car as it chugged perilously up the mountain curves.
It was unclear whether or not we would actually make it to San Quintín before nightfall, and we definitely pushed the limit of the guidebook regulations. It looks like the crisis of 1994 hit northern Baja pretty hard; as dusk set in, the settlements around the road approaching San Quintín became poorer and poorer. Many had dozens of half-completed houses and buildings that look as if they’d been forgotten about for a decade. As if all the residents in the town suddenly died. More likely, the funds which were fueling the development died out, and people cut their losses by selling the risky agricultural land to some foreign-owned agri-business.
Nearly got lost on some dirt roads trying to find a place to stay, but we made it to the Old Mill Motel safe and sound, only to find a Haverford lisence plate holder on an SUV with California plates. The world is a very, very small place.
Day 3: Desierto Central
From there, the scenery changed dramatically. The water dried up, and the cacti sprang out of the hillsides. Even on the coastal road, the land was dry, and as soon as 1 hooked east at Rosario, all non-desert vegetation vanished. Huge cardón started to appear, as well as the spindly cerio trees, which by the time we were close to Cataviña really did have the flaming yellow flowers at the top. Huge mesas, protected by the harsh forces of erosion by volcanic deposits, stuck up from the horizon in random intervals, and the highway climbed up among them as it wound southeast. I even saw a kestrel perched on top of a cactus, hunting for prey. Then, just as the guidebook said it would, the boulder plain appeared. Right in the midst of cacti and tumbleweed (palo verde bushes?) were immense piles of granite boulders. Our first guess was that the ice age was responsible for depositing that kind of rubble, but the museum a little later on explained that the rock piles used to be whole granite mountains that have been broken apart by wind, rain, and other natural forces. We stopped for a brief road hike to a couple of interesting looking cardones, and then really settled in the “museum,” a small plastic geodesic dome with some information plaques and a sketched out map of trails in the area.
After un paseo por the small circular path which named the local flora, we returned to the car for hiking supplies and set out for the top of one of the smaller mountains nearby. Following a sandy horse trail through the prickly underbrush, we found a small dry riverbed that took us to the base of the hill. An hour and several scratches later, we found ourselves at the top of the valley, looking down on miles and miles of cacti, elephant trees, and huge chunks of granite. A pair of hawks cavorted overhead in the thermals, completing the perfect desert landscape. Satisfied with our adventure, we picked our way down the mountainside admiring the oddly shaped boulders. One was shaped like a chair, another carved hollow, and one that was decidedly vaginal.
Day 4: Bahia de los Angeles
After three days of driving, we made it to the only intersection that we would ever have to take. Hung a left when we saw the sign for Bahía de los Angeles, and 66 kilometers later we saw the ocean over the next ridges. In honor of the completely cloudless skies and the atmosphere which the turkey vultures sunning themselves on cacti created, I turned the iTrip to Wilie Nelson, and we sang along to most of “Red Headed Stranger” on our desert leg of the trip, which got gradually drier and drier as we moved farther east from highway 1. Rocky islands popped up out of the sparkling silver water, and we had arrived.
At 10:30 we had checked in to Raquel and Larry’s Restaurant and Hotel, after surveying the other lodging options in the “town” itself. Before our stay in Cataviña, when the electricity didn’t switch on until the sun went down, I never would have understood the luxury of the well-advertised “24 hour electricity” that flows through the circuits of Raquel and Larry’s Motel. Bahía consists mainly of taquerias and campgrounds strung out along the beach, with a lighthouse and museum thrown in for spice. Tickled pink that we had the whole day to frolic, we took the kayaks out after budgeting out the rest of our cash. Not surprisingly, there are no banks from Guerrero Negro to San Quintín, but that was not a fact that we had counted on when assessing our financial situation in Ensenada. If we ate sparingly and spent no money on water activities, we would have just enough money for lodging, meals, and gas to get back to civilization, or the land of electronic banking.
Throwing pecuniary cares to the wind, we grabbed paddles and headed out into the bay. Dave was daring enough to go all the way in the water, but I wasn’t quite that ambitious. It was decided upon that we would take one of the leaden tandem kayaks compliments of Larry. The water was brisk, but felt good with the sun on us all day. We beached the boats by a British retirement home and walked down the beach for a while as the tide came in. It was so relaxing to explore for the sake of exploring, run just to try to beat the waves up the beach, and have no more cares than not stepping on shells.
Day 5: Bahia II
Somewhat less of an early start began what we consider to be our only somewhat indolent day. Pinched for pennies, we did not breakfast with abandon, but snacked on almonds and whatever else we could scrounge from the room. After that, we prettied ourselves for a trip to the Campamento Torgugueño.
[social justice interlude; skip if you will =)]
There, to my surprise, was a very down to earth and knowledgeable caretaker whom we chatted with for about an hour after the irritating teenage tourist and her mother left. They promised excessively to return to “limpiar las tortuguitas.” There were 11 turtles in all, living in what I considered to be pretty substandard accommodations of flaking concrete tanks. What one observes on first sight, however, is rarely what is actually true. Upon discussion with the caretaker, we learned that the Mexican government had recently taken over the administration of the program, and thus its purpose and funding became rather uncertain. As can be expected, the promised money from the government gets caught up in bureaucratic red tape for months, and the survival of the center pretty much depends on it. Also, due to new regulations regarding the capture and care of endangered species, it seemed that the government was becoming more and more particular about who was able to care for the turtles, who brought them in, how long they stayed, and when (or if) they were released. While I certainly see the necessity of regulation, here it really seemed that the citizens of the town were trying to combat the damage previously done to the turtle population, and were being criticized as opportunistic, or the government was afraid that people were taking advantage of the turtle program. How anyone could construe the townspeople of gaining something from this sad little center is pretty amazing, but I would venture to guess that few of the regulatory bodies had ever seen the place to begin with. He also mentioned that a lot of people criticize them for keeping the turtles in inhumane conditions, but it seems better than leaving them stranded in a gill net, or however injured they might arrive at the station. We also had an interesting talk about the classification of national parks in Mexico, as Bahía de los Angeles is applying for ‘biosphere’ status from President Fox before he leaves office. The experience on the whole started off rather depressing, with the state of the Turtle Conservation Program leaving little hope for the Mexican sea turtle at all, but after speaking with the dedicated, intelligent staff of the center and hearing plans for improvements, as well as the other turtle centers all over the country, it was invigorating to see people working to protect something that they care about, even in the face of frustration and financial difficulties.
From there, we continued on into town to do some shopping, but the store, not surprisingly was a bit of a dump. They did have cold-ish coca cola light for sale, in which I chose to indulge. Man, was that delicious. Still hungry, we decided that our best option was Raquel’s fare.
What ensued was a deliciously relaxed lunch on the porch of the hotel, overlooking a sunny, golden beach, and the weathered palapas. Fish tacos for Dave, and a quesadilla with homemade guacamole for me was just enough to fill us up. I find it hard to tire of freshly crisped tortilla chips. While waiting for lunch, Dave continued his día de español by reading the local bilingual tourist magazine and practicing explaining things to me in Spanish. We did some work on metacognition (recognizing vowel sounds), as well as eliminating inhibiting factors. Thanks to my ESOL classes, I have become much more aware (if not effusively supportive yet) of the hows and whys of learning a language.
After lunch, we rested our tummies before venturing out for more outdoor activities. The kayaks were again our chosen water sport, sardonically bringing with us the underwater camera, which had as yet gone unused, along with our poor snorkel equipment. Fortunately, the water was slightly warmer, it being low tide, and there was much to be seen in the shallows around the kelp bed: pufferfish, small blackish stingrays, fish, sea stars, and all sorts of sponges and small corals. It was quite the informative trip, and it felt divine to have the sun on our faces and the wind in our hair. It got quite cold as the sun went down, so a hot shower in the semi-functional bathroom sans water pressure was more than necessary before venturing up the homemade stairs for dinner, so that my toes returned to their normal pinkish-tan.
As the sun set that evening, we took P&P up to the restaurant part of the hotel for our final dinner. Nursing a few coronas which barely squeezed into our budget, we nearly finished the book as the noisy families around us shared the cool night air. We could see every single crater on the full moon through Larry’s antique telescope chained to the tilting porch.
This weekend was fantastically fun, with a wine-tasting on Friday, cleaning, shopping, and "Thank You For Smoking" on Saturday, and well, Sunday wasn't fun. Dave's coming next weekend! Yay! I'm not feeling very revelatory, seeing as how I've just done my laundry and my 4th period staged a mutiny today while I sat silent at my desk for 85 minutes. I've already resigned in my head, so it's kind of hard to keep telling myself that I still have to do a job.
The Zoo is our planned fieldtrip on Wednesday; more accurately, there's a zoo at Central *every* day.
Much more fun, is the carefree Bajacalifornia. Enjoy.
Day 1: Viajando
Twenty minutes from the airport, a sign saying “Tijuana 5, Border 4” appears, and all of a sudden there’s some orange cones and a huge cement overpass. With merely a flag from a Mexican official and a $2.40 toll, we cross la frontera into Mexico. There are literally miles of cars lined up going the other way; wonder of wonders, it’s harder to get out of Mexico than get in.
After about twenty miles of beachfront property and surfer communities, we arrive at Ensenada. The road is right on the mountains which lead to the Pacific, and the view as the afternoon sun sinks down is pretty incredible. There are tons of white stucco houses hugging the hill both above and below the highway. Pulling in to Ensenada, we see the cruise ships looming on the horizon, boding ill for whatever sort of ‘culture’ we may find.
We select a modest hotel for the evening, and then go about exploring the town. A walk down the malecón is requisite for a Saturday night, so we obliged. Dinner was an adventure, at a place called Guadalajara. I thought I had ordered beef tacos, but to my surprise stew came out instead. Thankfully, it was wonderful, and the ice cold Dos Equis that accompanied it was most welcome. Our tortillas came right off the cast iron griddle: hot, steamy, and deliciously full of lard.
Day 2: Blowhole "La Bufadora", en coche
Despite the pitfalls of Sunday traveling, spirits were high as we set off from La Bufadora. I was a little tired, and unsure of how our outdoor plans for the week were going to pan out, so we decided to hoof it south instead of spending any more time in Baja Norte.
We could not have made a better decision. The road through vineyard country was breathtaking; the transpeninsular highway follows a mountain valley down the coast with green-grey hills cradling olive, citrus, and wheat farms. Nearly 200 miles of beautiful scenery, mountain overlooks, red plowed earth, and picturesque farmland. One highlight of the trip was getting stuck behind a small, small sedan carrying a family of eight. Through the zonas de curves it’s impossible (even if you’re a crazy local driver) to pass, so we tailed a rusted blue 1970’s car as it chugged perilously up the mountain curves.
It was unclear whether or not we would actually make it to San Quintín before nightfall, and we definitely pushed the limit of the guidebook regulations. It looks like the crisis of 1994 hit northern Baja pretty hard; as dusk set in, the settlements around the road approaching San Quintín became poorer and poorer. Many had dozens of half-completed houses and buildings that look as if they’d been forgotten about for a decade. As if all the residents in the town suddenly died. More likely, the funds which were fueling the development died out, and people cut their losses by selling the risky agricultural land to some foreign-owned agri-business.
Nearly got lost on some dirt roads trying to find a place to stay, but we made it to the Old Mill Motel safe and sound, only to find a Haverford lisence plate holder on an SUV with California plates. The world is a very, very small place.
Day 3: Desierto Central
From there, the scenery changed dramatically. The water dried up, and the cacti sprang out of the hillsides. Even on the coastal road, the land was dry, and as soon as 1 hooked east at Rosario, all non-desert vegetation vanished. Huge cardón started to appear, as well as the spindly cerio trees, which by the time we were close to Cataviña really did have the flaming yellow flowers at the top. Huge mesas, protected by the harsh forces of erosion by volcanic deposits, stuck up from the horizon in random intervals, and the highway climbed up among them as it wound southeast. I even saw a kestrel perched on top of a cactus, hunting for prey. Then, just as the guidebook said it would, the boulder plain appeared. Right in the midst of cacti and tumbleweed (palo verde bushes?) were immense piles of granite boulders. Our first guess was that the ice age was responsible for depositing that kind of rubble, but the museum a little later on explained that the rock piles used to be whole granite mountains that have been broken apart by wind, rain, and other natural forces. We stopped for a brief road hike to a couple of interesting looking cardones, and then really settled in the “museum,” a small plastic geodesic dome with some information plaques and a sketched out map of trails in the area.
After un paseo por the small circular path which named the local flora, we returned to the car for hiking supplies and set out for the top of one of the smaller mountains nearby. Following a sandy horse trail through the prickly underbrush, we found a small dry riverbed that took us to the base of the hill. An hour and several scratches later, we found ourselves at the top of the valley, looking down on miles and miles of cacti, elephant trees, and huge chunks of granite. A pair of hawks cavorted overhead in the thermals, completing the perfect desert landscape. Satisfied with our adventure, we picked our way down the mountainside admiring the oddly shaped boulders. One was shaped like a chair, another carved hollow, and one that was decidedly vaginal.
Day 4: Bahia de los Angeles
After three days of driving, we made it to the only intersection that we would ever have to take. Hung a left when we saw the sign for Bahía de los Angeles, and 66 kilometers later we saw the ocean over the next ridges. In honor of the completely cloudless skies and the atmosphere which the turkey vultures sunning themselves on cacti created, I turned the iTrip to Wilie Nelson, and we sang along to most of “Red Headed Stranger” on our desert leg of the trip, which got gradually drier and drier as we moved farther east from highway 1. Rocky islands popped up out of the sparkling silver water, and we had arrived.
At 10:30 we had checked in to Raquel and Larry’s Restaurant and Hotel, after surveying the other lodging options in the “town” itself. Before our stay in Cataviña, when the electricity didn’t switch on until the sun went down, I never would have understood the luxury of the well-advertised “24 hour electricity” that flows through the circuits of Raquel and Larry’s Motel. Bahía consists mainly of taquerias and campgrounds strung out along the beach, with a lighthouse and museum thrown in for spice. Tickled pink that we had the whole day to frolic, we took the kayaks out after budgeting out the rest of our cash. Not surprisingly, there are no banks from Guerrero Negro to San Quintín, but that was not a fact that we had counted on when assessing our financial situation in Ensenada. If we ate sparingly and spent no money on water activities, we would have just enough money for lodging, meals, and gas to get back to civilization, or the land of electronic banking.
Throwing pecuniary cares to the wind, we grabbed paddles and headed out into the bay. Dave was daring enough to go all the way in the water, but I wasn’t quite that ambitious. It was decided upon that we would take one of the leaden tandem kayaks compliments of Larry. The water was brisk, but felt good with the sun on us all day. We beached the boats by a British retirement home and walked down the beach for a while as the tide came in. It was so relaxing to explore for the sake of exploring, run just to try to beat the waves up the beach, and have no more cares than not stepping on shells.
Day 5: Bahia II
Somewhat less of an early start began what we consider to be our only somewhat indolent day. Pinched for pennies, we did not breakfast with abandon, but snacked on almonds and whatever else we could scrounge from the room. After that, we prettied ourselves for a trip to the Campamento Torgugueño.
[social justice interlude; skip if you will =)]
There, to my surprise, was a very down to earth and knowledgeable caretaker whom we chatted with for about an hour after the irritating teenage tourist and her mother left. They promised excessively to return to “limpiar las tortuguitas.” There were 11 turtles in all, living in what I considered to be pretty substandard accommodations of flaking concrete tanks. What one observes on first sight, however, is rarely what is actually true. Upon discussion with the caretaker, we learned that the Mexican government had recently taken over the administration of the program, and thus its purpose and funding became rather uncertain. As can be expected, the promised money from the government gets caught up in bureaucratic red tape for months, and the survival of the center pretty much depends on it. Also, due to new regulations regarding the capture and care of endangered species, it seemed that the government was becoming more and more particular about who was able to care for the turtles, who brought them in, how long they stayed, and when (or if) they were released. While I certainly see the necessity of regulation, here it really seemed that the citizens of the town were trying to combat the damage previously done to the turtle population, and were being criticized as opportunistic, or the government was afraid that people were taking advantage of the turtle program. How anyone could construe the townspeople of gaining something from this sad little center is pretty amazing, but I would venture to guess that few of the regulatory bodies had ever seen the place to begin with. He also mentioned that a lot of people criticize them for keeping the turtles in inhumane conditions, but it seems better than leaving them stranded in a gill net, or however injured they might arrive at the station. We also had an interesting talk about the classification of national parks in Mexico, as Bahía de los Angeles is applying for ‘biosphere’ status from President Fox before he leaves office. The experience on the whole started off rather depressing, with the state of the Turtle Conservation Program leaving little hope for the Mexican sea turtle at all, but after speaking with the dedicated, intelligent staff of the center and hearing plans for improvements, as well as the other turtle centers all over the country, it was invigorating to see people working to protect something that they care about, even in the face of frustration and financial difficulties.
From there, we continued on into town to do some shopping, but the store, not surprisingly was a bit of a dump. They did have cold-ish coca cola light for sale, in which I chose to indulge. Man, was that delicious. Still hungry, we decided that our best option was Raquel’s fare.
What ensued was a deliciously relaxed lunch on the porch of the hotel, overlooking a sunny, golden beach, and the weathered palapas. Fish tacos for Dave, and a quesadilla with homemade guacamole for me was just enough to fill us up. I find it hard to tire of freshly crisped tortilla chips. While waiting for lunch, Dave continued his día de español by reading the local bilingual tourist magazine and practicing explaining things to me in Spanish. We did some work on metacognition (recognizing vowel sounds), as well as eliminating inhibiting factors. Thanks to my ESOL classes, I have become much more aware (if not effusively supportive yet) of the hows and whys of learning a language.
After lunch, we rested our tummies before venturing out for more outdoor activities. The kayaks were again our chosen water sport, sardonically bringing with us the underwater camera, which had as yet gone unused, along with our poor snorkel equipment. Fortunately, the water was slightly warmer, it being low tide, and there was much to be seen in the shallows around the kelp bed: pufferfish, small blackish stingrays, fish, sea stars, and all sorts of sponges and small corals. It was quite the informative trip, and it felt divine to have the sun on our faces and the wind in our hair. It got quite cold as the sun went down, so a hot shower in the semi-functional bathroom sans water pressure was more than necessary before venturing up the homemade stairs for dinner, so that my toes returned to their normal pinkish-tan.
As the sun set that evening, we took P&P up to the restaurant part of the hotel for our final dinner. Nursing a few coronas which barely squeezed into our budget, we nearly finished the book as the noisy families around us shared the cool night air. We could see every single crater on the full moon through Larry’s antique telescope chained to the tilting porch.
Sunday, April 16, 2006
AWOL
Back from Baja, and for the first time in a while, actually feel like writing. Work has settled down, and the end is near, which helps me fend off the ever encroaching depression about the state of public education, in Miami-Dade county particularly. More to follow.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Not In My Job Description
Carrying along the theme of "responsibility" which is most salient these days, I find myself consistently redefining what my job is. If I were to write a true and faithful description of the responsibilities that I have incurred as a result of my position in the Miami-Dade County Public School system, my resume would more resemble a gangsta novel than a non-fiction text. Unfortunately, that is the reality of working at a job in an underresourced, understaffed, underregulated, and overlooked low-income school. Several events serve as fantastic exemplars of these types of activities. The down side of trying to be a responsible person is that you end up picking up the slack when other people can't seem to do the things that they are required to do at their job.
For some reason, there seems to be a miscommunication about what is and is not part of different staff members' job description, creating confusion and often chaos when incompetant assholes decide that their job includes 2 hour lunch breaks, taunting students, and encouraging physical violence. Apparently, these tasks are the purview of the high school Security Guard, unbeknownst to me. Really, someone should send out a memo about modified job responsibilities to clue in the rest of the school, just so we're all on the same page.
Two Thursdays ago, before the rash of suspensions that spread through campus quicker than syphilis British Renaissance royalty, I wish people could have just done their jobs. My job, in case I haven't been explicitly clear, is that of a teacher. This means I am responsible for maintaining certain documentation, controlling the classroom, delivering instruction, and assessing my students. While I was in the process of doing my job, two of my little darlings decided to get into a shouting match.
The smaller of the two, a 4' 4" young man who likes to talk a lot of smack, may or may not have instigated the confrontation when he came into class late. Regardless of whomever was responsible for starting the conflict, he and his antagonist, a girl expelled from her previous high school for pulling a knife during a fight, began to abuse each other verbally. As with many confrontations at my school, most of this centered around whether or not each child was ready to "step," or engage in a physical fight. Also, as can be expected, the insults soon degenerated into the steadfast "yo' mama" comments. The most colorful of these I believe was "That's yo' mama's pussy that smells stank."
After taking the steps necessary to fulfill my job requirements, I write down what each child is yelling at each other, give them verbal warnings, and confront them both with what they have said. Keep in mind, I would have to be straight up insane to approach either student physically in order to separate them from each other. That is most definitely not within my rights or responsibilities as a classroom teacher. That's why we have another staff member on campus called a "Security Guard" who is allowed to physically remove a student from class. Playing by the book (stupid Thea, when will you learn how infrequently this ever has positive results?), I walk outside and request that the Security Guard remove the more aggressive female student from the class.
I'm not an expert on the best-practices for Security Guards, but I'm going to hazard a guess that when a young lady is screaming about how stank somebody's mama's pussy is, calling her name softly from outside the door is not going to be your most effective strategy for dissipating the conflict.
Hey, guess what, I was right.
As I turned my back from the incident to grab a referral form from inside my desk, the girl gets up out of her seat, walks over to the boy sitting at his computer, and punches him in the head. Not even knowing what to do, the attacked kid tries to hide against the computer. At this point, the security guard has done nothing. Incredulous, I run across the room and frantically try to think of what I need to do to solve the crisis. I'm not thinking "Hey, that fat fuck over in the corner should be handling this" or "Why doesn't that useless ignorant sorry excuse for a sentient being move his lazy ass." I'm thinking "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." With these eloquent words rolling around in my head, the larger girl takes the boy's head and slams it into the computer monitor. The monitor slides off onto the table, and my first thought is not "Wow, I really shouldn't have to deal with this" or "Oh, I'm sure the security guard is rushing over to intervene." It's "They're going to fire me for letting the kids break computer equipment."
Then, the boy starts to fight back. Both fall to the floor, and my fear of reprimand from the administration gives way to my very real concern for both students' safety. I kick my way into the fight, trying to separate the two. As they writhe away from each other and stand up, still yelling nonsense about somebody's mamma, they fly at each other again, knocking over three desks and a chair, nearly flattening two frightened timid girls. I grab one student's shoulders, and another student intervenes to grab the other belligerant one. I can't even remember which was which.
Now that the immediate violence has abated, I whip around to assess the classroom situation with as much rapidity as I can manage. What should I see but our security guard grinning at the doorway, arms crossed over his rolling gut.
Apparently, he needs a friendly reminder about what is and is not in HIS job description. Call me a lunatic, but I'm going to guess that it was his responsibility, not that of a TEACHER and a STUDENT to break up the fight in the classroom and ensure everyone else's safety. If I do nothing else this year, I will get this man fired. He is the scum of the earth, and a fantastic example of why Miami-Dade Public Schools are fucked. Speaking purely from my own personal anecdotal experience, our school is falling down a long spiral into whatever sort hell your spirituality permits you to imagine: the deep, dark, fiery pits of it.
This was a Thursday, about ten days ago. Mercifully, I'd planned a trip to New York that weekend, and was able to escape the torments of Miami's blistering inferno...for the biggest blizzard to hit Manhattan in recorded history. See, I didn't know it, but I'm actually a well-refined magnet for calamity, natural disasters included. Nearly every day since then, there has been some sort of traumatic event at school, save today.
On Monday, the school board voted to change the calendar, moving the semester up two weeks, making failure notices due in three days. For the next three days, I spent 11 hours at school. I spent more time on 35th Avenue than I spent in my own damn house. On Wednesday, a student in my 4th period stabbed a boy in the arm with a pencil. He was bleeding. Now, I officially reached the end of my rope. Fraying fibers, rope burn, grasping frantically for sanity. My job is no longer teaching, but crowd control. I shut down into war mode...
Phase I 13:00 casualties at zero, maintain position and await commands from headquarters.
13:35 combat site under lockdown, following aggressive action
Phase II 14:30, new bogies intercepted, 18 incoming hostiles
RETREAT!! 15:35 RETREAT TO BASE!!!
Base is now Starbucks, where I reconvene and attempt to process the events of the afternoon. I will narrate them thus:
Girl 2 (not Girl 1 who attacked small boy at computer on Thursday, but different, wholly unrelated girl) says something like "get away from me, little bitch" to Boy 2 (not small boy beaten up Thursday, but singularly different boy) who stands over her at a table. Boy 2 does not move, but Girl 3 stands up out of seat and begins screaming. Girl 3, hitherto to be known as PPLPOSDC (psychotic pathological liar piece of shit devil child) gesticulates wildly while yelling "Now, I know you heard that! That's a referral! [Girl 1] was cussin'! If that was me, you'd a wrote me up! Ms. Williamson, I know you heard that!"
Thanks. Caught that the first time.
Girl 3 is now officially hysterical, so I ask both her and Boy 2 to come outside to discuss their behavior. On his way out, I see blood (albeit a small amount) dripping from his arm. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Now, in the less than a week, blood has been spilled in my classroom. I probably saw more bodily fluids that week than my roommate's boyfriend, who is in medical school. PPLPOSDC continues to yell at me outside the classroom, and considering how this has happened at least 12 times so far this school year, I decide that it's not my job to stand there and be verbally abused by a spoiled 16 year old, so I call security.
Ha.
Did I say call security? I should clarify. By "call" I mean raise the volume of my voice, since there are no phones and no electronic means of communication with either the Central South Office or the security guard, incompetent fuck that he is. I ask an administrator visiting from the Main Campus where I might be able to find someone to take this screaming child out of my presence, and he tells me, I kid you not "I'm looking for him too. He's been missing for an hour." In disbelief, I spend a fraction of a second pondering the ironic fact that Girl 3 hadn't even been the cause of this fucked-up situation which had now escalated into a full-scale conflict, then begin to scream myself. Because that is the only recourse that I have left, when all of the proper steps and countermeasures in my job description have failed or were never even there as options as the first place. When I can't do my job, when I am completely powerless and want nothing more in the world than to ball up my fist, take aim, and land my knuckles right on her mean, abusive, deceitful lips, I scream.
"S-E-C-U-R-I-T-Y"
I walk to the corner so that my words rattle the paint flakes on the concrete walls, and force all my anger out through my lungs: "CAN I P-L-E-A-S-E get some SECURITY?"
I bellow down the other corridor, towards the Madison office: "SECURITYYYYYYYYYYYYY"
Finally, a security guard employed by the Middle school which does not employ me took PPLPOSDC away so that I could deal with the sheepishly bleeding Boy 2 sitting on the bench. I talk to him about why he got stabbed with a pencil, and by now it's almost time to switch classes. My kids come out of the classroom, the halls flood, and PPLPOSDC comes back along with the Madison security guard. I tell both of them, as is well within my rights as a teacher, that I will not speak with her until I see a parent, so she should please leave the room.
Fuming, I resume the duties in my contract, to fill out a 4-ply carbon copy "SCAM," or behavior referral on all three students: Girl 2, Boy 2, and now PPLPOSDC. A good ten minutes later, now nearly an hour since the original pencil-stabbing took place, Fat Ass (as I now call Mr. B---, our friendly, useful security guard) comes into my class.
His words, concise and to the point: "Uh, somebody said you needed me?"
Slowly pulling my seething eyes up from the third referral form to inform him "I needed you twenty minutes ago, when a student was screaming in my face. It's under control now."
From this moment on, when my concentration returned to the green paper underneath my ballpoint pen, Mr. B--- has ceased to exist on the campus. I do not look at him, I do not acknowledge the fact that he is a group of cells which intakes oxygen and releases carbon dioxide, he is not my peer nor my colleague like the custodians, the secretaries, the administrators, or the students who do their jobs. If you can't figure out how to do your fucking job, then I'll do it for you, AND mine too. It's not like I've never had to do that before.
For some reason, there seems to be a miscommunication about what is and is not part of different staff members' job description, creating confusion and often chaos when incompetant assholes decide that their job includes 2 hour lunch breaks, taunting students, and encouraging physical violence. Apparently, these tasks are the purview of the high school Security Guard, unbeknownst to me. Really, someone should send out a memo about modified job responsibilities to clue in the rest of the school, just so we're all on the same page.
Two Thursdays ago, before the rash of suspensions that spread through campus quicker than syphilis British Renaissance royalty, I wish people could have just done their jobs. My job, in case I haven't been explicitly clear, is that of a teacher. This means I am responsible for maintaining certain documentation, controlling the classroom, delivering instruction, and assessing my students. While I was in the process of doing my job, two of my little darlings decided to get into a shouting match.
The smaller of the two, a 4' 4" young man who likes to talk a lot of smack, may or may not have instigated the confrontation when he came into class late. Regardless of whomever was responsible for starting the conflict, he and his antagonist, a girl expelled from her previous high school for pulling a knife during a fight, began to abuse each other verbally. As with many confrontations at my school, most of this centered around whether or not each child was ready to "step," or engage in a physical fight. Also, as can be expected, the insults soon degenerated into the steadfast "yo' mama" comments. The most colorful of these I believe was "That's yo' mama's pussy that smells stank."
After taking the steps necessary to fulfill my job requirements, I write down what each child is yelling at each other, give them verbal warnings, and confront them both with what they have said. Keep in mind, I would have to be straight up insane to approach either student physically in order to separate them from each other. That is most definitely not within my rights or responsibilities as a classroom teacher. That's why we have another staff member on campus called a "Security Guard" who is allowed to physically remove a student from class. Playing by the book (stupid Thea, when will you learn how infrequently this ever has positive results?), I walk outside and request that the Security Guard remove the more aggressive female student from the class.
I'm not an expert on the best-practices for Security Guards, but I'm going to hazard a guess that when a young lady is screaming about how stank somebody's mama's pussy is, calling her name softly from outside the door is not going to be your most effective strategy for dissipating the conflict.
Hey, guess what, I was right.
As I turned my back from the incident to grab a referral form from inside my desk, the girl gets up out of her seat, walks over to the boy sitting at his computer, and punches him in the head. Not even knowing what to do, the attacked kid tries to hide against the computer. At this point, the security guard has done nothing. Incredulous, I run across the room and frantically try to think of what I need to do to solve the crisis. I'm not thinking "Hey, that fat fuck over in the corner should be handling this" or "Why doesn't that useless ignorant sorry excuse for a sentient being move his lazy ass." I'm thinking "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." With these eloquent words rolling around in my head, the larger girl takes the boy's head and slams it into the computer monitor. The monitor slides off onto the table, and my first thought is not "Wow, I really shouldn't have to deal with this" or "Oh, I'm sure the security guard is rushing over to intervene." It's "They're going to fire me for letting the kids break computer equipment."
Then, the boy starts to fight back. Both fall to the floor, and my fear of reprimand from the administration gives way to my very real concern for both students' safety. I kick my way into the fight, trying to separate the two. As they writhe away from each other and stand up, still yelling nonsense about somebody's mamma, they fly at each other again, knocking over three desks and a chair, nearly flattening two frightened timid girls. I grab one student's shoulders, and another student intervenes to grab the other belligerant one. I can't even remember which was which.
Now that the immediate violence has abated, I whip around to assess the classroom situation with as much rapidity as I can manage. What should I see but our security guard grinning at the doorway, arms crossed over his rolling gut.
Apparently, he needs a friendly reminder about what is and is not in HIS job description. Call me a lunatic, but I'm going to guess that it was his responsibility, not that of a TEACHER and a STUDENT to break up the fight in the classroom and ensure everyone else's safety. If I do nothing else this year, I will get this man fired. He is the scum of the earth, and a fantastic example of why Miami-Dade Public Schools are fucked. Speaking purely from my own personal anecdotal experience, our school is falling down a long spiral into whatever sort hell your spirituality permits you to imagine: the deep, dark, fiery pits of it.
This was a Thursday, about ten days ago. Mercifully, I'd planned a trip to New York that weekend, and was able to escape the torments of Miami's blistering inferno...for the biggest blizzard to hit Manhattan in recorded history. See, I didn't know it, but I'm actually a well-refined magnet for calamity, natural disasters included. Nearly every day since then, there has been some sort of traumatic event at school, save today.
On Monday, the school board voted to change the calendar, moving the semester up two weeks, making failure notices due in three days. For the next three days, I spent 11 hours at school. I spent more time on 35th Avenue than I spent in my own damn house. On Wednesday, a student in my 4th period stabbed a boy in the arm with a pencil. He was bleeding. Now, I officially reached the end of my rope. Fraying fibers, rope burn, grasping frantically for sanity. My job is no longer teaching, but crowd control. I shut down into war mode...
Phase I 13:00 casualties at zero, maintain position and await commands from headquarters.
13:35 combat site under lockdown, following aggressive action
Phase II 14:30, new bogies intercepted, 18 incoming hostiles
RETREAT!! 15:35 RETREAT TO BASE!!!
Base is now Starbucks, where I reconvene and attempt to process the events of the afternoon. I will narrate them thus:
Girl 2 (not Girl 1 who attacked small boy at computer on Thursday, but different, wholly unrelated girl) says something like "get away from me, little bitch" to Boy 2 (not small boy beaten up Thursday, but singularly different boy) who stands over her at a table. Boy 2 does not move, but Girl 3 stands up out of seat and begins screaming. Girl 3, hitherto to be known as PPLPOSDC (psychotic pathological liar piece of shit devil child) gesticulates wildly while yelling "Now, I know you heard that! That's a referral! [Girl 1] was cussin'! If that was me, you'd a wrote me up! Ms. Williamson, I know you heard that!"
Thanks. Caught that the first time.
Girl 3 is now officially hysterical, so I ask both her and Boy 2 to come outside to discuss their behavior. On his way out, I see blood (albeit a small amount) dripping from his arm. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Now, in the less than a week, blood has been spilled in my classroom. I probably saw more bodily fluids that week than my roommate's boyfriend, who is in medical school. PPLPOSDC continues to yell at me outside the classroom, and considering how this has happened at least 12 times so far this school year, I decide that it's not my job to stand there and be verbally abused by a spoiled 16 year old, so I call security.
Ha.
Did I say call security? I should clarify. By "call" I mean raise the volume of my voice, since there are no phones and no electronic means of communication with either the Central South Office or the security guard, incompetent fuck that he is. I ask an administrator visiting from the Main Campus where I might be able to find someone to take this screaming child out of my presence, and he tells me, I kid you not "I'm looking for him too. He's been missing for an hour." In disbelief, I spend a fraction of a second pondering the ironic fact that Girl 3 hadn't even been the cause of this fucked-up situation which had now escalated into a full-scale conflict, then begin to scream myself. Because that is the only recourse that I have left, when all of the proper steps and countermeasures in my job description have failed or were never even there as options as the first place. When I can't do my job, when I am completely powerless and want nothing more in the world than to ball up my fist, take aim, and land my knuckles right on her mean, abusive, deceitful lips, I scream.
"S-E-C-U-R-I-T-Y"
I walk to the corner so that my words rattle the paint flakes on the concrete walls, and force all my anger out through my lungs: "CAN I P-L-E-A-S-E get some SECURITY?"
I bellow down the other corridor, towards the Madison office: "SECURITYYYYYYYYYYYYY"
Finally, a security guard employed by the Middle school which does not employ me took PPLPOSDC away so that I could deal with the sheepishly bleeding Boy 2 sitting on the bench. I talk to him about why he got stabbed with a pencil, and by now it's almost time to switch classes. My kids come out of the classroom, the halls flood, and PPLPOSDC comes back along with the Madison security guard. I tell both of them, as is well within my rights as a teacher, that I will not speak with her until I see a parent, so she should please leave the room.
Fuming, I resume the duties in my contract, to fill out a 4-ply carbon copy "SCAM," or behavior referral on all three students: Girl 2, Boy 2, and now PPLPOSDC. A good ten minutes later, now nearly an hour since the original pencil-stabbing took place, Fat Ass (as I now call Mr. B---, our friendly, useful security guard) comes into my class.
His words, concise and to the point: "Uh, somebody said you needed me?"
Slowly pulling my seething eyes up from the third referral form to inform him "I needed you twenty minutes ago, when a student was screaming in my face. It's under control now."
From this moment on, when my concentration returned to the green paper underneath my ballpoint pen, Mr. B--- has ceased to exist on the campus. I do not look at him, I do not acknowledge the fact that he is a group of cells which intakes oxygen and releases carbon dioxide, he is not my peer nor my colleague like the custodians, the secretaries, the administrators, or the students who do their jobs. If you can't figure out how to do your fucking job, then I'll do it for you, AND mine too. It's not like I've never had to do that before.
Friday, February 10, 2006
Hot off the Presses
Lately, breaking news has been quite a crucial part of my life. It's taken me a week or so to get over the bottled up anger that I have inside about work, but now that I've rewarded myself with a long weekend and a trip to NY to visit Mandi, I have some time to think.
My relationship with the press began in October, when a member of the ESAAC Committee came to the Central South campus to see how things were going. He spoke with a lot of students over several days, and then sat down on a Planning day to talk with the teachers. We aired our grievances, vented about the ridiculous situation in which we had found ourselves this school year, and generally bitched. He left, and I assumed that our words would go the way of many complaints, suggestions, and solutions in the Miami-Dade school system: unnoticed.
Then, three weeks ago a vaguely disturbing email came by way of my work account saying that a "report" had been published about Miami Central. Confused, I didn't put much stock in the worries of the administration, who have categorically ignored the South Satellite all year. You blow me off, I blow you off.
That is, I blow you off until you attack me.
Following the press release of the 13 page ESAAC (I can't even remember the acronym it's so complicated. Something involving School Accountability Committee: a community oversight board), the state of Florida and the district of Miami-Dade county suddenly decided to "notice" us again. We had a representative from one of these educational organizations every day for three weeks; keep in mind now, that this is the place where we had to struggle, scream, and stomp to even get our own PRINCIPAL to pay attention to our needs. Ironic? Yes, I think so. My favorite day was when I had 9 visitors, including 4 computer technicians in my classroom on one day. That was Tuesday, two weeks ago. These IT people from the district told me that I was not only irresponsible for not contacting them about the malfunctioning computers in my room, but that my children weren't learning because of it. They did this in front of an entire classroom of my students. Super. Great. I proceeded to tell them, in professional but forceful terms, that their "computer glitch" did nothing but throw off some meaningless statistics required by the district, and that they didnt' know their asses from a hole in the ground regarding 1. my students' learning gains, and 2. the DISTRICT REQUIRED teaching program called Read 180 that they came to supposedly "monitor" and "troubleshoot."
After that, I was ripped. The Miami Herald published an article the day before called: "Central Kids Set Up to Fail" which of course the Administration freaked out about. My personal favorite line was "Dr. Simmons, the other principal, was unavailable for comment because she was out of town." Every fact in the article was true, and I sent an email stating as much to the author at the Herald. No response.
Wednesday rolled around, and there were more people than ever in the classroom. I made up my mind to attend the Town Hall meeting scheduled for that evening, but what exactly I would do/say was unclear. The meeting started, and who should I see on the dias when I walk in, but the same parent who had been at Madison in September and October. This was going to be interesting. Unfortuntately, the Superintendent refused to come to the meeting, claiming that the parents didn't get to decide when they would speak to him, but that he had the power to decide when he felt like speaking to the parents. Right. Anyway, the meeting dragged on with bickering about the new construction which hadn't even started yet. Finally, we moved on to the academic progress of the students, and one of our Assistant Principals spoke on that. She spouted off some statistics about benchmarks, learning gains, bi-weekly assessments, and crap like that, saying that they've been monitoring the progress of the students, and growth has already occurred. I was flaming mad, and could barely think I was so pissed. I get up out of my back-row seat in jeans an a central athletic jacket, walk over several of my colleagues getting out of the row, and step up to the mic.
I introduced myself, projecting my voice into a microphone barely held steady by my shaking hand. Then, I proceeded to call out the school on major "inconsistencies" in their statements, the first of which was my AP's claim that they have "documentation" of the kids' learning gains. My comment was "It's the 25th week of school I've only given 5 bi-weekly assessments to my students. I'm not a math teacher, but I can figure out that these numbers don't add up. And, I've also addressed this concern with each of the SIX administrators who have been in charge of the Madison satellite this year."
My own voice ringing in my ears, I made my way back to my seat and glanced at the smiles and astonished eyes of the Central teachers sitting around me in the back of the auditorium. There wasn't much of a reply from the Assistant Principal, some bullshitting and backtracking but nothing of substance. The reply came instead from a reporter for the Miami Herald, who sprinted over to ask for my name and teaching position. [enjoy the real thing here]
Unfortunately, absolutely no reply at all came from either of our principals. I was disgusted that throughout the entire 4 hour meeting neither of them got up to address the community. Such a disrespectful attitude is so frustrating; it's almost as if they absolved themselves of any responsibility in the situation, acted like it wasn't "their" problem. Yeah, that would be so stupid, if the principals actually were held accountable for what went on at the school.
The community response to my little rant has been slow in trickling in, but those people who either heard me at the town meeting, or read the Herald article which was published in the next day's paper have taken time to appreciate my very small voice. For the past year and a half, I have felt like I was screaming at a system that didn't make any sense, and did its best to make my life miserable. I have a shit job at a shit school that nobody wants to pay attention to. White suburbia doesn't really even want to acknowledge that places like Miami Central exist, let alone advocate on their behalf. I've lead a pretty emancipated life, and if there's one value that I take very seriously, it is the pride I take in voicing my dissent. Arguing a point, speaking up in class, and sharing my views has always been second nature to me, so I feel stifled and powerless in a system where you are expected to "C.Y.A." and tow the company line lest someone "write you up."
I may feel voiceless and disempowered, but I do have the freedom of a vagabond, without the strong social or economic ties to my position as a public school teacher. The Herald article wasn't the death blow to the Miami-Dade County Public School system, but at least a few people heard. One parent took the time to come in early before her job the next day to thank me for speaking out. Security guards, other teachers, and my family and friends have commended me for having a little puff at a very large whistle, but some part of me feels so unsatisfied.
There have been changes around school since the report came out, namely an actual clerk to do paperwork and copies, new headphones for the computers, and more attention from the Main Campus, but it's just too damn little and too damn late. Huge mistakes were made by so many people in so many levels of the school system, and each of those officials will get off scott-free at the end of the year. The people that their mistakes truly hurt are those who the system is supposed to serve: the class of 2009.
The parents can lash out at the administration, the administration can hand out the tired old 'no comment' line, and the district can apologize like Dr. Tosada did, saying "There is no excuse for that" but when the consequences are played out, it doesn't matter if the mistakes are excusable. The kids still missed out on nearly a year of normal education.
This is why I think it's amazing that some of my kids really are learning. In a positive backlash, I printed out all of my students SRI (Reading Inventory) scores and made a huge poster for my class to show all the assholes who are in my classroom every day, three times a day that no matter what the fuck they throw at us, we come to school every day and we learn. The State's not there every day; hell, our principals aren't here every day, but the teachers and the students show up every morning at 7:20, take out a pen, a pencil, a whiteboard marker, and a book, and dammit, we read.
My relationship with the press began in October, when a member of the ESAAC Committee came to the Central South campus to see how things were going. He spoke with a lot of students over several days, and then sat down on a Planning day to talk with the teachers. We aired our grievances, vented about the ridiculous situation in which we had found ourselves this school year, and generally bitched. He left, and I assumed that our words would go the way of many complaints, suggestions, and solutions in the Miami-Dade school system: unnoticed.
Then, three weeks ago a vaguely disturbing email came by way of my work account saying that a "report" had been published about Miami Central. Confused, I didn't put much stock in the worries of the administration, who have categorically ignored the South Satellite all year. You blow me off, I blow you off.
That is, I blow you off until you attack me.
Following the press release of the 13 page ESAAC (I can't even remember the acronym it's so complicated. Something involving School Accountability Committee: a community oversight board), the state of Florida and the district of Miami-Dade county suddenly decided to "notice" us again. We had a representative from one of these educational organizations every day for three weeks; keep in mind now, that this is the place where we had to struggle, scream, and stomp to even get our own PRINCIPAL to pay attention to our needs. Ironic? Yes, I think so. My favorite day was when I had 9 visitors, including 4 computer technicians in my classroom on one day. That was Tuesday, two weeks ago. These IT people from the district told me that I was not only irresponsible for not contacting them about the malfunctioning computers in my room, but that my children weren't learning because of it. They did this in front of an entire classroom of my students. Super. Great. I proceeded to tell them, in professional but forceful terms, that their "computer glitch" did nothing but throw off some meaningless statistics required by the district, and that they didnt' know their asses from a hole in the ground regarding 1. my students' learning gains, and 2. the DISTRICT REQUIRED teaching program called Read 180 that they came to supposedly "monitor" and "troubleshoot."
After that, I was ripped. The Miami Herald published an article the day before called: "Central Kids Set Up to Fail" which of course the Administration freaked out about. My personal favorite line was "Dr. Simmons, the other principal, was unavailable for comment because she was out of town." Every fact in the article was true, and I sent an email stating as much to the author at the Herald. No response.
Wednesday rolled around, and there were more people than ever in the classroom. I made up my mind to attend the Town Hall meeting scheduled for that evening, but what exactly I would do/say was unclear. The meeting started, and who should I see on the dias when I walk in, but the same parent who had been at Madison in September and October. This was going to be interesting. Unfortuntately, the Superintendent refused to come to the meeting, claiming that the parents didn't get to decide when they would speak to him, but that he had the power to decide when he felt like speaking to the parents. Right. Anyway, the meeting dragged on with bickering about the new construction which hadn't even started yet. Finally, we moved on to the academic progress of the students, and one of our Assistant Principals spoke on that. She spouted off some statistics about benchmarks, learning gains, bi-weekly assessments, and crap like that, saying that they've been monitoring the progress of the students, and growth has already occurred. I was flaming mad, and could barely think I was so pissed. I get up out of my back-row seat in jeans an a central athletic jacket, walk over several of my colleagues getting out of the row, and step up to the mic.
I introduced myself, projecting my voice into a microphone barely held steady by my shaking hand. Then, I proceeded to call out the school on major "inconsistencies" in their statements, the first of which was my AP's claim that they have "documentation" of the kids' learning gains. My comment was "It's the 25th week of school I've only given 5 bi-weekly assessments to my students. I'm not a math teacher, but I can figure out that these numbers don't add up. And, I've also addressed this concern with each of the SIX administrators who have been in charge of the Madison satellite this year."
My own voice ringing in my ears, I made my way back to my seat and glanced at the smiles and astonished eyes of the Central teachers sitting around me in the back of the auditorium. There wasn't much of a reply from the Assistant Principal, some bullshitting and backtracking but nothing of substance. The reply came instead from a reporter for the Miami Herald, who sprinted over to ask for my name and teaching position. [enjoy the real thing here]
Unfortunately, absolutely no reply at all came from either of our principals. I was disgusted that throughout the entire 4 hour meeting neither of them got up to address the community. Such a disrespectful attitude is so frustrating; it's almost as if they absolved themselves of any responsibility in the situation, acted like it wasn't "their" problem. Yeah, that would be so stupid, if the principals actually were held accountable for what went on at the school.
The community response to my little rant has been slow in trickling in, but those people who either heard me at the town meeting, or read the Herald article which was published in the next day's paper have taken time to appreciate my very small voice. For the past year and a half, I have felt like I was screaming at a system that didn't make any sense, and did its best to make my life miserable. I have a shit job at a shit school that nobody wants to pay attention to. White suburbia doesn't really even want to acknowledge that places like Miami Central exist, let alone advocate on their behalf. I've lead a pretty emancipated life, and if there's one value that I take very seriously, it is the pride I take in voicing my dissent. Arguing a point, speaking up in class, and sharing my views has always been second nature to me, so I feel stifled and powerless in a system where you are expected to "C.Y.A." and tow the company line lest someone "write you up."
I may feel voiceless and disempowered, but I do have the freedom of a vagabond, without the strong social or economic ties to my position as a public school teacher. The Herald article wasn't the death blow to the Miami-Dade County Public School system, but at least a few people heard. One parent took the time to come in early before her job the next day to thank me for speaking out. Security guards, other teachers, and my family and friends have commended me for having a little puff at a very large whistle, but some part of me feels so unsatisfied.
There have been changes around school since the report came out, namely an actual clerk to do paperwork and copies, new headphones for the computers, and more attention from the Main Campus, but it's just too damn little and too damn late. Huge mistakes were made by so many people in so many levels of the school system, and each of those officials will get off scott-free at the end of the year. The people that their mistakes truly hurt are those who the system is supposed to serve: the class of 2009.
The parents can lash out at the administration, the administration can hand out the tired old 'no comment' line, and the district can apologize like Dr. Tosada did, saying "There is no excuse for that" but when the consequences are played out, it doesn't matter if the mistakes are excusable. The kids still missed out on nearly a year of normal education.
This is why I think it's amazing that some of my kids really are learning. In a positive backlash, I printed out all of my students SRI (Reading Inventory) scores and made a huge poster for my class to show all the assholes who are in my classroom every day, three times a day that no matter what the fuck they throw at us, we come to school every day and we learn. The State's not there every day; hell, our principals aren't here every day, but the teachers and the students show up every morning at 7:20, take out a pen, a pencil, a whiteboard marker, and a book, and dammit, we read.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Goddamn Windshield Wipers. Grr.
My cryptic angry post of last night should be followed by some sort of explanatory narrative. There's a lot of amargura flowing through my veins lately, mostly due to my work, but it's seeping into other parts of my life as well. In order to root out this poisonous feeling, I wanted to find the cause (FCAT signal word!) of all the ire and nastiness, and I wound myself into a frenzy trying to figure out what was responsible for my current feelings.
This afternoon, I was angry with my windshield. I've been more or less angry for a week. I've looked pretty damn hard to find someone or something to place the blame on, since that seems to be the theme to my work life at the moment, and then I had a rather revelatory moment in the car this evening. The truth may be that I need to stop thinking about blame, and start thinking more about responsibility. The problem isn't quite as clear-cut as the mechanical one with my car, but I think a lesson can be learned.
Here's the story.
On our way to Sanibel Island, the wipers just stopped. They sat there at a 45 degree angle stuck to the windshield. We managed to get them back to their resting position, and even made it out to Sanibel in the misty drizzle that blew away later that afternoon. Thankfully, the rest of the weekend was sunny beaches, bright mornings and good food, doing their best to cleanse the less-pleasant thoughts from my head. After a fun Superbowl with BBQ at M's apartment, I woke up to go back to school.
I didn't want to go. There is just too much to deal with there, and more horrendous crap accumulates every day. Example: on Monday afternoon, the teachers find out at the same time as the students that there will be a three hour practice FCAT the next day. Great. Thanks for the advance warning. The teachers have been stepped on, pushed out of the way, and ignored all year, and I'm about ready to bust on someone.
But I did not. Instead, I packed up my things, took D. back to the airport that night, and dragged my very reluctant self to work on Tuesday. Administering standardized tests is never very fun, so there were about as many people suprised by my wretched mood on Tuesday afternoon as there are penguins in Miami. [NB: there are no penguins in Miami. Neither are there glassblowing studios, reputable colleges or universities, or decent grocery stores].
To top things off, the grimy filth that sifts down through the lower atmosphere every day in South Florida had settled in a crusty layer over my entire windshield making it decidedly difficult to see. I was totally and completely powerless to fix the situation: I don't know enough about the mechanics of my car to repair it; I have not yet had the time to take it to a shop; I didn't have any way to clean the windshield on the way home; and I had forgotten to wipe it off before I left for work in the morning. All I could do was sit there and stew at the perfectly sparkling pane of glass that stood between me and the dusty crud. Ready to scream and throw an empty coffee mug through the window, I screamed at the car, hit the steering wheel, and tried to find someone or something I could blame for the wipers' failure.
Thinking through the possible reasons for the malfunction, I tried to figure out why I was so angry. A driving force was the fact that I was now responsible for fixing the wipers, which would be a royal pain in my ass. Then, as wheels kept on turning, I realized that while I may be responsible for the car and all of its parts, it is not my fault that they are broken. The blame lies elsewhere, if there really is any blame to be placed. Sometimes it's nobody's fault, or the culpability is fragmented in so many pieces, scattered in so many directions that figuring out who is at fault is futile. It's an old car, and sometimes shit happens to old cars. It may not even be *technically* my car, but it is my responsibility, and therefore I have to shoulder the burden of taking care of it. I don't mean to get too melodramatic about the wipers, but my contemplative little brain extrapolated the lesson to other parts of my life which have also made me rather frustrated in the past few months. It is NOT my fault that R. reads on barely a 2nd grade reading level. Unfortunately, until June it is my responsibility to see that he comes to school and at the very least sees people engaged in learning around him. I think it's healthier for everyone to take a step back, after yelling at the windshield wipers, and figure out whose responsibility it is to fix them, instead of getting our metaphorical panties in bunch over who has to accept the blame. The subtle difference between the two, blame and responsibility, is not something that I am finely attuned to, but I'm trying. Differentiating seems to be crucial to my psychological well-being, and should also make my work environment somewhat healthier.
Of course, none of this fancy philosophizing does anything to change the fact that the garage closes at 5:00 pm, and all this week I didn't even leave my room until 4:45, but that's another topic for another day.
This afternoon, I was angry with my windshield. I've been more or less angry for a week. I've looked pretty damn hard to find someone or something to place the blame on, since that seems to be the theme to my work life at the moment, and then I had a rather revelatory moment in the car this evening. The truth may be that I need to stop thinking about blame, and start thinking more about responsibility. The problem isn't quite as clear-cut as the mechanical one with my car, but I think a lesson can be learned.
Here's the story.
On our way to Sanibel Island, the wipers just stopped. They sat there at a 45 degree angle stuck to the windshield. We managed to get them back to their resting position, and even made it out to Sanibel in the misty drizzle that blew away later that afternoon. Thankfully, the rest of the weekend was sunny beaches, bright mornings and good food, doing their best to cleanse the less-pleasant thoughts from my head. After a fun Superbowl with BBQ at M's apartment, I woke up to go back to school.
I didn't want to go. There is just too much to deal with there, and more horrendous crap accumulates every day. Example: on Monday afternoon, the teachers find out at the same time as the students that there will be a three hour practice FCAT the next day. Great. Thanks for the advance warning. The teachers have been stepped on, pushed out of the way, and ignored all year, and I'm about ready to bust on someone.
But I did not. Instead, I packed up my things, took D. back to the airport that night, and dragged my very reluctant self to work on Tuesday. Administering standardized tests is never very fun, so there were about as many people suprised by my wretched mood on Tuesday afternoon as there are penguins in Miami. [NB: there are no penguins in Miami. Neither are there glassblowing studios, reputable colleges or universities, or decent grocery stores].
To top things off, the grimy filth that sifts down through the lower atmosphere every day in South Florida had settled in a crusty layer over my entire windshield making it decidedly difficult to see. I was totally and completely powerless to fix the situation: I don't know enough about the mechanics of my car to repair it; I have not yet had the time to take it to a shop; I didn't have any way to clean the windshield on the way home; and I had forgotten to wipe it off before I left for work in the morning. All I could do was sit there and stew at the perfectly sparkling pane of glass that stood between me and the dusty crud. Ready to scream and throw an empty coffee mug through the window, I screamed at the car, hit the steering wheel, and tried to find someone or something I could blame for the wipers' failure.
Thinking through the possible reasons for the malfunction, I tried to figure out why I was so angry. A driving force was the fact that I was now responsible for fixing the wipers, which would be a royal pain in my ass. Then, as wheels kept on turning, I realized that while I may be responsible for the car and all of its parts, it is not my fault that they are broken. The blame lies elsewhere, if there really is any blame to be placed. Sometimes it's nobody's fault, or the culpability is fragmented in so many pieces, scattered in so many directions that figuring out who is at fault is futile. It's an old car, and sometimes shit happens to old cars. It may not even be *technically* my car, but it is my responsibility, and therefore I have to shoulder the burden of taking care of it. I don't mean to get too melodramatic about the wipers, but my contemplative little brain extrapolated the lesson to other parts of my life which have also made me rather frustrated in the past few months. It is NOT my fault that R. reads on barely a 2nd grade reading level. Unfortunately, until June it is my responsibility to see that he comes to school and at the very least sees people engaged in learning around him. I think it's healthier for everyone to take a step back, after yelling at the windshield wipers, and figure out whose responsibility it is to fix them, instead of getting our metaphorical panties in bunch over who has to accept the blame. The subtle difference between the two, blame and responsibility, is not something that I am finely attuned to, but I'm trying. Differentiating seems to be crucial to my psychological well-being, and should also make my work environment somewhat healthier.
Of course, none of this fancy philosophizing does anything to change the fact that the garage closes at 5:00 pm, and all this week I didn't even leave my room until 4:45, but that's another topic for another day.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
What's my deal?
Why can't I just get my shit together?
Why is it so *fucking* hard to get a dentist's appointment? It can't have been this difficult when I was in high school.
Why does my job suck out my soul?
When am I going to get to do the things that I like to do? When can I blow glass? When can I cook? When can I write and talk about literature?
When will it not be such a struggle to be *heard*, in the classroom, by my bosses, by the "system" and myself?
Why is speaking up so hard?
I'm done for the night. 2.5 hour practice FCAT which I couldn't even complete correctly. 2 more days of work this week...get through this Thea. Get through this year.
Why is it so *fucking* hard to get a dentist's appointment? It can't have been this difficult when I was in high school.
Why does my job suck out my soul?
When am I going to get to do the things that I like to do? When can I blow glass? When can I cook? When can I write and talk about literature?
When will it not be such a struggle to be *heard*, in the classroom, by my bosses, by the "system" and myself?
Why is speaking up so hard?
I'm done for the night. 2.5 hour practice FCAT which I couldn't even complete correctly. 2 more days of work this week...get through this Thea. Get through this year.
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