On Saturday Mr. J and I went to the Camden County Courthouse in Camden, NJ, to see some of my students compete in a thing called "Mock Trial." Mock Trial is hard to describe, but I'll try: Every year, school teams get a "case" that is fictitious but on a timely topic. The students have to be attorneys and witnesses -- they have roles to learn, but it's not a drama: It's a court case. The competition is held over two weekends in the courthouse and is presided over by real judges who accord points to each team. The team with the most points at the end goes on to a state-level competition.
I went because four of my eleven Freshman Honors students are on the mock trial team. When I got there I found out which opposing team my freshmen would be facing: Our county's most expensive and exclusive parochial school, Bishop Eustace Prep.
So here are my minority kids from Camden, who collect their free lunches every day, going up against kids whose parents can fork over $16,000 a year in high school tuition, knowing that college is just around the corner.
My students acquitted themselves very well, under the circumstances. Given that they are freshmen, if they stick with it they could really contend in a year or two.
It was what I saw when I left the courthouse that made me want to cry.
Right across the street from the Camden courthouse is a branch of the Camden City Library. The building was vacant and boarded up. No books there!
Our American government has sunk millions upon millions into a standardized test that is based upon the notion that students are only ready for college and careers if they are literate and critical thinkers. The coffers of Pearson, Inc. are brimming with taxpayer ducats that have been used to develop this test.
On top of that, our sitting president just told us, in his State of the Union Address, that he wants to make community college free. Everyone needs two years of community college to get a good job in this modern world, and four-year institutions are way too expensive.
So we have money that has been spent developing a national standardized test for grades 3 through 11. And ostensibly we will spend more taxpayer money on free college.
And the public library in Camden sits shuttered and empty.
Billionaire Bill Gates want to influence our national educational curriculum to better reflect the way he learned. To his way of thinking, school teachers are enemy number one, because they aren't all like the professors he admires.
Did I mention that the public library in Camden is shuttered and empty?
I'm not Bill Gates, not by a long shot. But I did comport myself well at Johns Hopkins University. I graduated 15th in my class. To me, that makes me as much an expert on education as he is. Quite.
Mr. Gates, open the libraries! President Obama, open the libraries! Get every one of those public libraries open, warm, well-lit, and filled to the brim with books! Have a whole floor just for ages one through six -- books, toys, computers, fish tanks, guinea pigs, toddler time, movie night! Have another floor for elementary school. Another for high school. Another for adults who need to use computers to take online classes. Open the goddamn libraries!
Our country will never meet its literacy and critical thinking objectives by designing fancier tests. Our students will never become great readers just through the efforts of school teachers. WE NEED LIBRARIES, AND WE NEED THEM NOW.
Take that free community college earmark and use it to re-open, refurbish, and re-stock all the shuttered libraries in all the poor communities across this wide nation!
I learned to read at the public library.
I got all my reading material, growing up, from the public library.
I did my homework in a public library.
I researched my family history in a public library.
I wrote encyclopedia entries -- hundreds and hundreds of them -- using public library resources.
My imagination caught fire within the walls of a public library.
Do you want to know why America lags behind many other nations in its education scores? Look no farther than the SHUTTERED LIBRARIES. There's no root under the tree.
Saturday, January 31, 2015
Thursday, January 29, 2015
Other Side of the Coin
Okay, so the other day I went to town on people who post nude photos of themselves onto social media. Not a great idea.
But you know what else isn't a great idea? Overdone dress codes.
Where are we living if a teenager can't wear this to a dance?
Oh my Bored Gods! Where do we draw the line? Poor kid! (Well, she's not that poor, she bought the dress in Paris.)
You know what I think? I think this must have been a Utah high school full of gossiping Mormons. The Mormonism contributes to the dress-shaming, but so does the gossip. Do you think it was a secret that this teenager went with her mom to Paris and bought a beautiful, classic dress to wear to dances?
When you combine repressive religious rules with gossip and jealousy, you're going to get a situation where an extremely modestly attired young lady gets shamed for her dress. In this case I think there was more going on than a bare shoulder. This story stinks of two things: religious extremism and sour grapes.
But you know what else isn't a great idea? Overdone dress codes.
Where are we living if a teenager can't wear this to a dance?
Oh my Bored Gods! Where do we draw the line? Poor kid! (Well, she's not that poor, she bought the dress in Paris.)
You know what I think? I think this must have been a Utah high school full of gossiping Mormons. The Mormonism contributes to the dress-shaming, but so does the gossip. Do you think it was a secret that this teenager went with her mom to Paris and bought a beautiful, classic dress to wear to dances?
When you combine repressive religious rules with gossip and jealousy, you're going to get a situation where an extremely modestly attired young lady gets shamed for her dress. In this case I think there was more going on than a bare shoulder. This story stinks of two things: religious extremism and sour grapes.
Monday, January 26, 2015
One Crone's Opinion
This post isn't going to win me friends or influence people. Have to get it off my chest anyway.
"They had it coming" is an ugly phrase that's thrown around a lot, and to my mind it obscures an incovenient truth.
That inconvenient truth is that decisions have consequences, and if these consequences can be foreseen, this somewhat mitigates the damage done.
Harsh? Yes. But the world is a place where decisions have consequences.
Let us take the unfortunate example of a young woman who playfully posts nude pictures of herself on Facebook, or even in an Instagram to her boyfriend. Did she ask herself the important question about the nature of online platforms? What happens when you post a nude photo of yourself on an online platform, even if only your friends or your lover can see it?
First of all, you are assuming that life will never change for you, that the people you love and trust now will always be lovable and trustworthy. This is not a safe assumption to make, even after you're happily married for 30 years, still chumming around with your high school buddies. The Internet is a public forum. Anything you post can wind up anywhere ... do people forget that?
As harsh as it sounds, I cannot summon a whole lot of sympathy for a young woman whose naked photos, playfully entrusted to her Facebook wall, wind up on a pornography site. This woman would not have sat in the hot tub at her health club naked, where it is extremely unlikely that anyone would see her, let alone post a photo of her. Why not? Because strangers might see her naked. And that's a health club. The Internet might as well be Times Square. Would anyone walk naked in Times Square? (If you've seen Birdman, I won't spoil, but ...)
Gentlemen, this applies to you as well. The Internet is a public forum. Your decision as to what you post will have consequences.
At least a young woman who finds her photos hacked is an adult. (Now Anne's really gonna rub people the wrong way.) It really, really, really bothers me when people post photographs of their young children on any kind of online forum. I probably would have done this when the Heir and the Spare were babies. Oh, they were really cute! But wait. Your baby is an autonomous person who cannot ask kindly that you not post photos of him online. Will he want a record of his every baby smile on the Internet? Maybe. Maybe not. Will a pedophile stumble upon those beaming baby pictures and re-purpose them? Unlikely, but still in the realm of possibility. The Internet is a public forum. I'm so glad it wasn't around when my daughters were children.
Now we move on to another touchy topic, the satirists at Charlie Hebdo.Decisions have consequences. You can make a science of it:
Fact: The Muslim religion considers it a sin to create pictures of any human being, most notably their prophet.
Fact: Muslims live in France.
Fact: Some of those Muslims are dangerous terrorists.
If you know these three facts, and you choose to satirize Muhammad, then you should know that this could have consequences. You don't even have to buy into the whole "respect a religion" argument. Nothing says you have to respect a religion. You do need to be aware of potential repercussions from extremists if you satirize the religion.
I'm not saying I don't have any sympathy for the artists and writers who were killed. Of course I do. I'm just not surprised that it happened. When you place something controversial into a public forum, you know who might see it. You have made a decision.
I don't expect everyone to agree with me on this issue, but to my way of thinking, it's important to weigh the possible consequences of your actions before you act. Call me anxiety-ridden or paranoid if you like ... remind me of the essence of "freedom of speech" if you like. I'll still say that when you're in a public forum, weigh your decisions carefully. Decisions have consequences.
"They had it coming" is an ugly phrase that's thrown around a lot, and to my mind it obscures an incovenient truth.
That inconvenient truth is that decisions have consequences, and if these consequences can be foreseen, this somewhat mitigates the damage done.
Harsh? Yes. But the world is a place where decisions have consequences.
Let us take the unfortunate example of a young woman who playfully posts nude pictures of herself on Facebook, or even in an Instagram to her boyfriend. Did she ask herself the important question about the nature of online platforms? What happens when you post a nude photo of yourself on an online platform, even if only your friends or your lover can see it?
First of all, you are assuming that life will never change for you, that the people you love and trust now will always be lovable and trustworthy. This is not a safe assumption to make, even after you're happily married for 30 years, still chumming around with your high school buddies. The Internet is a public forum. Anything you post can wind up anywhere ... do people forget that?
As harsh as it sounds, I cannot summon a whole lot of sympathy for a young woman whose naked photos, playfully entrusted to her Facebook wall, wind up on a pornography site. This woman would not have sat in the hot tub at her health club naked, where it is extremely unlikely that anyone would see her, let alone post a photo of her. Why not? Because strangers might see her naked. And that's a health club. The Internet might as well be Times Square. Would anyone walk naked in Times Square? (If you've seen Birdman, I won't spoil, but ...)
Gentlemen, this applies to you as well. The Internet is a public forum. Your decision as to what you post will have consequences.
At least a young woman who finds her photos hacked is an adult. (Now Anne's really gonna rub people the wrong way.) It really, really, really bothers me when people post photographs of their young children on any kind of online forum. I probably would have done this when the Heir and the Spare were babies. Oh, they were really cute! But wait. Your baby is an autonomous person who cannot ask kindly that you not post photos of him online. Will he want a record of his every baby smile on the Internet? Maybe. Maybe not. Will a pedophile stumble upon those beaming baby pictures and re-purpose them? Unlikely, but still in the realm of possibility. The Internet is a public forum. I'm so glad it wasn't around when my daughters were children.
Now we move on to another touchy topic, the satirists at Charlie Hebdo.Decisions have consequences. You can make a science of it:
Fact: The Muslim religion considers it a sin to create pictures of any human being, most notably their prophet.
Fact: Muslims live in France.
Fact: Some of those Muslims are dangerous terrorists.
If you know these three facts, and you choose to satirize Muhammad, then you should know that this could have consequences. You don't even have to buy into the whole "respect a religion" argument. Nothing says you have to respect a religion. You do need to be aware of potential repercussions from extremists if you satirize the religion.
I'm not saying I don't have any sympathy for the artists and writers who were killed. Of course I do. I'm just not surprised that it happened. When you place something controversial into a public forum, you know who might see it. You have made a decision.
I don't expect everyone to agree with me on this issue, but to my way of thinking, it's important to weigh the possible consequences of your actions before you act. Call me anxiety-ridden or paranoid if you like ... remind me of the essence of "freedom of speech" if you like. I'll still say that when you're in a public forum, weigh your decisions carefully. Decisions have consequences.
Tuesday, January 20, 2015
SunSmart Solar: A Worthy Cause
We at "The Gods Are Bored" are somewhat reluctant to put commercial breaks in the proceedings. After all, you might just hit the clicker to pass the commercial and then bypass the whole blog right along with it. Every now and then, however, a fundraiser comes onto the radar that is so epic in its worthiness that we pause for a word from our sponsors.
I call your attention to an indiegogo campaign for a product called SunSmart Solar. Check out their page, their video, and their product. I was sold on the thing even before I saw it, feeling for quite some time that what this country needs is small solar generators.
I wish I had some big-time ducats to fling at this fledgling entrepreneur, but alas, all I can do is urge you to check out the SunSmartSolar campaign and decide for yourself. If you feel (as I do) that our biggest energy provider is just sitting there in the sky every day, beaming down upon us, you'll see the merits of SunSmartSolar.
To check it out, click here: http://igg.me/at/SunSmartSolar
I call your attention to an indiegogo campaign for a product called SunSmart Solar. Check out their page, their video, and their product. I was sold on the thing even before I saw it, feeling for quite some time that what this country needs is small solar generators.
I wish I had some big-time ducats to fling at this fledgling entrepreneur, but alas, all I can do is urge you to check out the SunSmartSolar campaign and decide for yourself. If you feel (as I do) that our biggest energy provider is just sitting there in the sky every day, beaming down upon us, you'll see the merits of SunSmartSolar.
To check it out, click here: http://igg.me/at/SunSmartSolar
Saturday, January 17, 2015
Interview with a Bored God: Stan
I've said it time after time. We don't know the names and ranks of a fraction of all the deities who were ever praised and worshiped. Gosh, we only go back a few millenniums when it comes to recorded history, with names and images and that sort of rot. Before people started drawing horses on cave walls, they already had Gods and Goddesses.
Therefore, please give a warm, wonderful, Gods-Are-Bored welcome to Ancient Stan, the bored God of Ultimate Respect!
Anne: All hail, Stan!
Stan: The "all hail" is acceptable. But you must address me as Sir Stan, Sir.
Anne: Wait a minute! Are you in the Corps?
Stan: No, but I admire the way they do things. Respect! Yes sir! Have you ever noticed that all gods demand respect?
Anne: Actually, no. Some deities don't care that much about respect.
Stan: About respect, what?
Anne: Huh?
Stan: ABOUT RESPECT, WHAT?
Anne: Oh! About respect, Sir Stan, Sir!
Stan: Better. But you're not on your knees with your nose to the ground.
Anne: Ah, you're one of those gods.
Stan: I don't like your tone. What do you mean, one of those gods?
Anne: All I mean, Sir Stan, Sir, is that you seem more bent upon getting respect than upon bestowing blessings or curing the ills of the world.
Stan: Wrong, insolent modern mortal! I will bestow blessings upon you abundantly when you accord Me the proper respect! Respect comes first, and then you get a treat!
Anne: I think I'm in rebellion against that model, actually. But it never hurts to be polite.
Stan: REBELLION? I SMITE rebellion! Disrespect me, and I'll send you a tornado! And you know what else? I don't even have to OPENLY SEE the disrespect. If I THINK you're disrespecting me, I will rot the crops with too much water!
Anne: Yes sir, Sir Stan, Sir! Far be it from me to want the crops rotted in the fields! Oh, wait. It's wintertime. I have a question for you, Sir Stan, Sir. Here. Let me get down on my knees...
(Anne has creaky knees, especially when it's going to rain.)
Anne: Nose to the ground ... wow, this is awkward. Why do people do this?
Stan: TO HUMBLE THEMSELVES! You are extremely cheeky. You are trying My patience.
Anne: You're not the first to notice my cheekiness, Sir Stan, Sir. Is this totally prostrate posture good enough for you?
Stan: How old are you?
Anne: I'll call you "Sir" all night, but I won't tell you that.
Stan: WHERE'S MY TORNADO?
Anne: Golly, you are impossible, Sir Stan, Sir! My nose is practically putting a dent in the linoleum! I just wanted to ask ... This whole respect thing ... How did it work out for You? What happened to Your praise and worship team?
Stan: They forgot to show Me respect, so I sent tornadoes and crop failure. Then a neighboring tribe took over their land and enslaved. them.
Anne: I guess You showed them, huh? But where did that leave You, if Your praise and worship team got walloped?
Stan: I had My respect intact. And I was busy doing other things.
Anne: Other things, Sir Stan, Sir? What could possibly be more important for a deity than having a praise and worship team?
Stan: I was having Children. Strong, strapping Sons. Wait until I leave before you rise from the floor.
Therefore, please give a warm, wonderful, Gods-Are-Bored welcome to Ancient Stan, the bored God of Ultimate Respect!
Anne: All hail, Stan!
Stan: The "all hail" is acceptable. But you must address me as Sir Stan, Sir.
Anne: Wait a minute! Are you in the Corps?
Stan: No, but I admire the way they do things. Respect! Yes sir! Have you ever noticed that all gods demand respect?
Anne: Actually, no. Some deities don't care that much about respect.
Stan: About respect, what?
Anne: Huh?
Stan: ABOUT RESPECT, WHAT?
Anne: Oh! About respect, Sir Stan, Sir!
Stan: Better. But you're not on your knees with your nose to the ground.
Anne: Ah, you're one of those gods.
Stan: I don't like your tone. What do you mean, one of those gods?
Anne: All I mean, Sir Stan, Sir, is that you seem more bent upon getting respect than upon bestowing blessings or curing the ills of the world.
Stan: Wrong, insolent modern mortal! I will bestow blessings upon you abundantly when you accord Me the proper respect! Respect comes first, and then you get a treat!
Anne: I think I'm in rebellion against that model, actually. But it never hurts to be polite.
Stan: REBELLION? I SMITE rebellion! Disrespect me, and I'll send you a tornado! And you know what else? I don't even have to OPENLY SEE the disrespect. If I THINK you're disrespecting me, I will rot the crops with too much water!
Anne: Yes sir, Sir Stan, Sir! Far be it from me to want the crops rotted in the fields! Oh, wait. It's wintertime. I have a question for you, Sir Stan, Sir. Here. Let me get down on my knees...
(Anne has creaky knees, especially when it's going to rain.)
Anne: Nose to the ground ... wow, this is awkward. Why do people do this?
Stan: TO HUMBLE THEMSELVES! You are extremely cheeky. You are trying My patience.
Anne: You're not the first to notice my cheekiness, Sir Stan, Sir. Is this totally prostrate posture good enough for you?
Stan: How old are you?
Anne: I'll call you "Sir" all night, but I won't tell you that.
Stan: WHERE'S MY TORNADO?
Anne: Golly, you are impossible, Sir Stan, Sir! My nose is practically putting a dent in the linoleum! I just wanted to ask ... This whole respect thing ... How did it work out for You? What happened to Your praise and worship team?
Stan: They forgot to show Me respect, so I sent tornadoes and crop failure. Then a neighboring tribe took over their land and enslaved. them.
Anne: I guess You showed them, huh? But where did that leave You, if Your praise and worship team got walloped?
Stan: I had My respect intact. And I was busy doing other things.
Anne: Other things, Sir Stan, Sir? What could possibly be more important for a deity than having a praise and worship team?
Stan: I was having Children. Strong, strapping Sons. Wait until I leave before you rise from the floor.
Tuesday, January 13, 2015
Conversation
Just now I had to go and check New Jersey's abortion laws, because a conversation I had today made me wonder if I had just slipped into Alabama without knowing it. Still a little shaky, but believing the Kaiser Family Foundation when it tells me that New Jersey does not require an ultrasound before an abortion.
I had a conversation with an acquaintance. I'll call her Davida. We've known each other a long time. The conversation went something like this:
Davida: Guess what? My son's going to be a father!
Anne: Really? Is he going to marry the girl?
Davida: No, but he moved in with her. They were fighting for awhile, but I kicked him out because he was drunk all the time, so he moved in with her. He's pretty shocked about the responsibility. But the girl says he's being nicer to her these days.
Anne: Does he have a job?
Davida: Yes! He works three days a week! He got his degree ... finally. And the mom is almost through with her college work too. Get this: The girl's mother tried to get her to have an abortion. I even talked about it with the girl's mother. I said, "Wow, that's a little life in there!" But the mother wouldn't hear it. She took the girl to the clinic, but they had to have an ultrasound, and when the girl saw the ultrasound, she couldn't go through with it.
Anne: I didn't think that was the law in New Jersey.
Davida: It is! But anyway, the girl is keeping the baby, and my son is just going to have to get used to the idea. He'll have to get a full-time job. Well, after all, he is 25.
Anne: Not making any predictions here, but it sounds like you're going to wind up with a lot of child care.
Davida: Oh no! I'm not going to give them a dime or spend one hour taking care of that baby! It's all on them. I told my son, "All that money you spend partying with your boys is going to have to go toward taking care of that baby!"
Anne: How about the girl's mom?
Davida: Well, she's just furious. She doesn't want a thing to do with it all. This girl hasn't ever gotten along with her mother. That mom isn't going to help out at all. Just think! She wanted the girl to have an abortion! Can you imagine?
---------------------------------
At that point, I had heard enough about this little domestic arrangement. The part that puzzled me was the ultrasound. I just looked it up. New Jersey doesn't require an ultrasound. So, did the girl lie, or did the clinic misrepresent the law?
Either way, I feel like I just heard the pre-narrative of another poor human soul who will enter this world in less-than-ideal circumstances. Oh well. All I really wanted to do was to ascertain the laws of my state, because when our governor isn't rooting for the Dallas Cowboys, there's no telling what he's up to.
I suppose in due time I will meet this little tyke, since Snobville's a small town and I do run into Davida a good bit. But I needn't worry. Davida won't be hosting a baby shower. No way. Not one penny for that "little life in there" -- before, during, or after!
I had a conversation with an acquaintance. I'll call her Davida. We've known each other a long time. The conversation went something like this:
Davida: Guess what? My son's going to be a father!
Anne: Really? Is he going to marry the girl?
Davida: No, but he moved in with her. They were fighting for awhile, but I kicked him out because he was drunk all the time, so he moved in with her. He's pretty shocked about the responsibility. But the girl says he's being nicer to her these days.
Anne: Does he have a job?
Davida: Yes! He works three days a week! He got his degree ... finally. And the mom is almost through with her college work too. Get this: The girl's mother tried to get her to have an abortion. I even talked about it with the girl's mother. I said, "Wow, that's a little life in there!" But the mother wouldn't hear it. She took the girl to the clinic, but they had to have an ultrasound, and when the girl saw the ultrasound, she couldn't go through with it.
Anne: I didn't think that was the law in New Jersey.
Davida: It is! But anyway, the girl is keeping the baby, and my son is just going to have to get used to the idea. He'll have to get a full-time job. Well, after all, he is 25.
Anne: Not making any predictions here, but it sounds like you're going to wind up with a lot of child care.
Davida: Oh no! I'm not going to give them a dime or spend one hour taking care of that baby! It's all on them. I told my son, "All that money you spend partying with your boys is going to have to go toward taking care of that baby!"
Anne: How about the girl's mom?
Davida: Well, she's just furious. She doesn't want a thing to do with it all. This girl hasn't ever gotten along with her mother. That mom isn't going to help out at all. Just think! She wanted the girl to have an abortion! Can you imagine?
---------------------------------
At that point, I had heard enough about this little domestic arrangement. The part that puzzled me was the ultrasound. I just looked it up. New Jersey doesn't require an ultrasound. So, did the girl lie, or did the clinic misrepresent the law?
Either way, I feel like I just heard the pre-narrative of another poor human soul who will enter this world in less-than-ideal circumstances. Oh well. All I really wanted to do was to ascertain the laws of my state, because when our governor isn't rooting for the Dallas Cowboys, there's no telling what he's up to.
I suppose in due time I will meet this little tyke, since Snobville's a small town and I do run into Davida a good bit. But I needn't worry. Davida won't be hosting a baby shower. No way. Not one penny for that "little life in there" -- before, during, or after!
Friday, January 09, 2015
Tough Day in the Trenches for Decibel and Gamma
It's hard out there for a pet. We Northern Hemisphere humans struggle with seasonal lack of sunlight. Couldn't our pets feel the same?
I stayed home from work today because I feel crappy and worn out. But it's a good thing I asked for a substitute teacher on Thursday, because today I had to take Decibel the parrot to the vet.
Two years ago, Decibel had a disagreement with a squirrel on the small matter of ownership of the seed in Decibel's cage. Both parrot and squirrel emerged with injuries. Decibel injured her wing and needed $2000 + in vet care to shore her up.
So the other night when I saw blood on the floor beside Decibel's cage (and no cats with feathers in their mouths), I called the vet promptly. We got an appointment the next day.
It's a balmy 28 degrees out there with a stiff wind and some snow flurries. Just the day for a tropical bird to take an outing! Bundle up, Decibel!
When Decibel was a chick, she was real cool with standing on my hand and riding around on my shoulder. Then along came The Heir, and Decibel probably hit maturity, and Decibel started biting like a fiend. Just the other night she got me on the thumb, and OOOO WEEE! Felt like I'd shoved my digit in a hornets' nest.
To get Decibel into a pet carrier requires grabbing her with a bath towel. When she sees the towel coming, she knows what's about to happen and reacts accordingly. It's a merry chase sometimes, with much shredding of fabric and any unlucky fingers that peek out. Today was no different, except the destination wasn't the bathtub where she's showered. It was the vet.
Decibel's vet loves her to death. It's sickening. "Kissy kissy, birdy birdy, oh, LOOK at you Decibel! You look so GOOD! How's my sweetie?"
No chance of alienation of affection, though, because while the vet is cooing like a turtledove, she's also checking out Decibel's old injuries. This process elicits crabby, loud squawks from birdy birdy.
Long story short, Decibel's okay. She's got some anti-inflammatory medicine for good measure. She's back in her sunny spot, nursing her wounded pride and her sore wing.
Having returned Decibel to home and hearth, I turned my attention to the Xmas tree, which looked like it had spent the season out in some harsh desert, rather than my living room. Next year will be my last and final Xmas tree. These Jersey trees are cut before Halloween and shipped across the country, and they're dry as bones when we set them up.
Anyway, it's not terribly taxing to remove ornaments and lights, remove the tree from the stand, and place it at the curb for mulching by the borough of Snobville. Nor is it much of a chore to sweep up the ten pounds of needles shed in the process of removal.
But you'd have thought I was committing a cardinal sin.
My indoor cat, Gamma, had bonded with this tree. He saw this dry, prickly piece of foliage as his own personal forest. Shed needles be damned, Gamma had staked out a space in the corner behind the tree, from which he imagined the life of a rugged outdoors cat.
Gamma watched intently as I took the ornaments and lights off the tree. Then he stood in shocked disbelief as I dragged his forest out the front door. Then he paced the open space where the tree had been, batting petulantly at the snowdrift of fallen needles.
Finally, with one last piercing glance, he turned his back on me and gave in to his sorrows.
I've never owned a cat that didn't go outside. But I got Gamma from a shelter. He had always been an indoor cat, and frankly, he's a ten-pound sniveling wretch, afraid of his own shadow. The one time he did get out, he hid under broken glass, cowed to silence by the threats of the local outdoor feline community.
All in all, the only happy pet here at Chateau Johnson today is Beta, and judging by the way she's walking, her old arthritic joints aren't feeling up to snuff either.
It's hard out there for a pet.
I stayed home from work today because I feel crappy and worn out. But it's a good thing I asked for a substitute teacher on Thursday, because today I had to take Decibel the parrot to the vet.
Two years ago, Decibel had a disagreement with a squirrel on the small matter of ownership of the seed in Decibel's cage. Both parrot and squirrel emerged with injuries. Decibel injured her wing and needed $2000 + in vet care to shore her up.
So the other night when I saw blood on the floor beside Decibel's cage (and no cats with feathers in their mouths), I called the vet promptly. We got an appointment the next day.
It's a balmy 28 degrees out there with a stiff wind and some snow flurries. Just the day for a tropical bird to take an outing! Bundle up, Decibel!
When Decibel was a chick, she was real cool with standing on my hand and riding around on my shoulder. Then along came The Heir, and Decibel probably hit maturity, and Decibel started biting like a fiend. Just the other night she got me on the thumb, and OOOO WEEE! Felt like I'd shoved my digit in a hornets' nest.
To get Decibel into a pet carrier requires grabbing her with a bath towel. When she sees the towel coming, she knows what's about to happen and reacts accordingly. It's a merry chase sometimes, with much shredding of fabric and any unlucky fingers that peek out. Today was no different, except the destination wasn't the bathtub where she's showered. It was the vet.
Decibel's vet loves her to death. It's sickening. "Kissy kissy, birdy birdy, oh, LOOK at you Decibel! You look so GOOD! How's my sweetie?"
No chance of alienation of affection, though, because while the vet is cooing like a turtledove, she's also checking out Decibel's old injuries. This process elicits crabby, loud squawks from birdy birdy.
Long story short, Decibel's okay. She's got some anti-inflammatory medicine for good measure. She's back in her sunny spot, nursing her wounded pride and her sore wing.
Having returned Decibel to home and hearth, I turned my attention to the Xmas tree, which looked like it had spent the season out in some harsh desert, rather than my living room. Next year will be my last and final Xmas tree. These Jersey trees are cut before Halloween and shipped across the country, and they're dry as bones when we set them up.
Anyway, it's not terribly taxing to remove ornaments and lights, remove the tree from the stand, and place it at the curb for mulching by the borough of Snobville. Nor is it much of a chore to sweep up the ten pounds of needles shed in the process of removal.
But you'd have thought I was committing a cardinal sin.
My indoor cat, Gamma, had bonded with this tree. He saw this dry, prickly piece of foliage as his own personal forest. Shed needles be damned, Gamma had staked out a space in the corner behind the tree, from which he imagined the life of a rugged outdoors cat.
Finally, with one last piercing glance, he turned his back on me and gave in to his sorrows.
I've never owned a cat that didn't go outside. But I got Gamma from a shelter. He had always been an indoor cat, and frankly, he's a ten-pound sniveling wretch, afraid of his own shadow. The one time he did get out, he hid under broken glass, cowed to silence by the threats of the local outdoor feline community.
All in all, the only happy pet here at Chateau Johnson today is Beta, and judging by the way she's walking, her old arthritic joints aren't feeling up to snuff either.
It's hard out there for a pet.
Wednesday, January 07, 2015
New Year's Resolutions
We all make them. Right? A number changes, and everything must change with it. Never mind that the next day is just like the previous day, and the next week will bring the same challenges as the week before. It's 2015! Time to resolve!
Anne's New Year's Resolutions 2015
1. I hereby resolve to look at one or more cat videos a day. I think I might have missed some days last year.
2. I hereby resolve to eat as much chocolate as I want, all year long. Again, I might have missed some opportunities to eat chocolate in 2014. This will not happen again.
3. I hereby resolve to wear silk pajamas to bed. I have a pair of silk pajamas. Sometimes I'm too lazy to look for them at bedtime, so I hope into the sheets in some stupid thermal shirt or something. Unacceptable.
4. I hereby resolve not to attend a single Christian church service this year. Excluding funerals of close family, should they arise. (Hopefully they won't arise.)
5. I hereby resolve to have a negative attitude at times. I've tried resolving to be more positive in the past. F*** that. Gonna be crabby whenever I feel like it.
6. I hereby resolve to begin smoking cigarettes. I'm 55, and I've never smoked. High time I start.
7. I hereby resolve to look at the weather report only once a day. This one will be hard, especially whenever a snowstorm is in the forecast.
8. I hereby resolve to see the Perseids meteor shower this year. There's to be a new moon that night.
9. I hereby resolve to avoid the state of Alabama completely and utterly, throughout the whole year.
10. I hereby resolve to continue writing "The Gods Are Bored" throughout 2015. This is the decade year for my blog!
Anne's New Year's Resolutions 2015
1. I hereby resolve to look at one or more cat videos a day. I think I might have missed some days last year.
2. I hereby resolve to eat as much chocolate as I want, all year long. Again, I might have missed some opportunities to eat chocolate in 2014. This will not happen again.
3. I hereby resolve to wear silk pajamas to bed. I have a pair of silk pajamas. Sometimes I'm too lazy to look for them at bedtime, so I hope into the sheets in some stupid thermal shirt or something. Unacceptable.
4. I hereby resolve not to attend a single Christian church service this year. Excluding funerals of close family, should they arise. (Hopefully they won't arise.)
5. I hereby resolve to have a negative attitude at times. I've tried resolving to be more positive in the past. F*** that. Gonna be crabby whenever I feel like it.
6. I hereby resolve to begin smoking cigarettes. I'm 55, and I've never smoked. High time I start.
7. I hereby resolve to look at the weather report only once a day. This one will be hard, especially whenever a snowstorm is in the forecast.
8. I hereby resolve to see the Perseids meteor shower this year. There's to be a new moon that night.
9. I hereby resolve to avoid the state of Alabama completely and utterly, throughout the whole year.
10. I hereby resolve to continue writing "The Gods Are Bored" throughout 2015. This is the decade year for my blog!
Friday, January 02, 2015
No Time for Losers
Most people stay up on New Year's Eve to be awake at 12:00 when the next year begins.
Not me. I go to bed early.
I go to bed early because I get up early on January 1 (basically 6:15 a.m.). I put on a satin-and-sequined costume and go to the clubhouse of the Two Street Stompers, a Philadelphia Mummers Parade comic brigade.
We wish each other a Happy New Year. We put on makeup and wigs. We partake of beverages of our choice. Then we get on buses and ride over to Philly to be in the Mummers Parade.
Our youngest marchers are actually carried or pushed in strollers. Not sure how old the oldest marchers are, but they are certainly senior citizens who know that being able to dance all day gives you a longer, healthier life.
Philadelphia has been hosting a Mummers Parade since 1901, when rowdy behavior in the neighborhoods was cause for concern. Now the parade is a tradition, and I think the Powers-That-Be have been trying to marginalize it for awhile. Good luck with that, because 10,000 marchers and over eight hours of entertainment aren't going to be something you just sweep under the rug.
The parade was live-streamed on computer and broadcast on t.v. Ahem. Our Two Street Stomper routine lasted exactly one minute and 52 seconds, and somehow the network cut to a commercial after the first five seconds, resuming live coverage with five seconds left in the routine. Basically a commercial break of two minutes right in the middle of a routine? Curious. Could our content be deemed worthy of censorship?
It's difficult to get a video of the routine. Even in these days of YouTube. With that in mind, I hereby re-create it with still photographs shamelessly stolen from the Internet.
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, WELCOME TO THE MISS MUMMERDELPHIA PAGEANT, 2015!
Out comes our "host," Donald Trump (a member in a suit and wig) and all the kids under 12, dressed as judges with cute white wigs.
OUR FIRST CONTESTANT, FROM 9TH AND WASHINGTON, MISS ITALIAN MARKET, IN HER SWIM SUIT!
(cue "Rocky" music)
SHE'S A REAL KNOCKOUT.
OUR NEXT CONTESTANT, FROM 8TH AND ARCH, MISS CHINATOWN!
(This was the unit I was in.)
(cue Donna Summer, "Lookin' for Some Hot Stuff")
SHE'S HOT AND STEAMY.
OUR NEXT CONTESTANT, FROM 5TH AND CHESTNUT, MISS OLD CITY, DOING HER SPECIAL TALENT, THE MUMMER STRUT!
(Miss Old City's unit limps out, then cue music, "Get Up Off Of That Thing." The whole unit, with Miss Old City front and center, begins the energetic and traditional Mummer strut.)
AND THE WINNER IS, MISS OLD CITY!
(Miss Old City is crowned.)
HAPPY NEW YEAR! HAPPY NEW YEAR! HAPPY NEW YEAR!
And we're finished. Exit stage right, onto Broad Street.
The weather was absolutely glorious.
And, thanks to some special fans on Broad Street, I got this terrific image of Self and Spare.
The Two Street Stompers strutted. And strutted. And strutted. We were on Broad Street, basically Philadelphia's main drag, and the cross traffic was allowed to go at the green lights. It took us a long time to complete our entire circuit. Not that we minded. Did I mention that the weather was beautiful?
Between the weather and our general good humor, the miles seemed like ... well, today I must say they felt like miles, because my bones ache from stem to stern. At the time they felt more like furlongs.
At length we danced up to the banquet hall on Oregon Avenue, where a warm lunch awaited. (Beverages are distributed bountifully along the route.) As we chowed down, our captain came in, hushed us all, and told us ...
...Some members who passed away this year looked down upon us, and ...
We won.
Not me. I go to bed early.
I go to bed early because I get up early on January 1 (basically 6:15 a.m.). I put on a satin-and-sequined costume and go to the clubhouse of the Two Street Stompers, a Philadelphia Mummers Parade comic brigade.
We wish each other a Happy New Year. We put on makeup and wigs. We partake of beverages of our choice. Then we get on buses and ride over to Philly to be in the Mummers Parade.
Our youngest marchers are actually carried or pushed in strollers. Not sure how old the oldest marchers are, but they are certainly senior citizens who know that being able to dance all day gives you a longer, healthier life.
Philadelphia has been hosting a Mummers Parade since 1901, when rowdy behavior in the neighborhoods was cause for concern. Now the parade is a tradition, and I think the Powers-That-Be have been trying to marginalize it for awhile. Good luck with that, because 10,000 marchers and over eight hours of entertainment aren't going to be something you just sweep under the rug.
The parade was live-streamed on computer and broadcast on t.v. Ahem. Our Two Street Stomper routine lasted exactly one minute and 52 seconds, and somehow the network cut to a commercial after the first five seconds, resuming live coverage with five seconds left in the routine. Basically a commercial break of two minutes right in the middle of a routine? Curious. Could our content be deemed worthy of censorship?
It's difficult to get a video of the routine. Even in these days of YouTube. With that in mind, I hereby re-create it with still photographs shamelessly stolen from the Internet.
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, WELCOME TO THE MISS MUMMERDELPHIA PAGEANT, 2015!
Out comes our "host," Donald Trump (a member in a suit and wig) and all the kids under 12, dressed as judges with cute white wigs.
OUR FIRST CONTESTANT, FROM 9TH AND WASHINGTON, MISS ITALIAN MARKET, IN HER SWIM SUIT!
(cue "Rocky" music)
SHE'S A REAL KNOCKOUT.
OUR NEXT CONTESTANT, FROM 8TH AND ARCH, MISS CHINATOWN!
(This was the unit I was in.)
(cue Donna Summer, "Lookin' for Some Hot Stuff")
SHE'S HOT AND STEAMY.
OUR NEXT CONTESTANT, FROM 5TH AND CHESTNUT, MISS OLD CITY, DOING HER SPECIAL TALENT, THE MUMMER STRUT!
(Miss Old City's unit limps out, then cue music, "Get Up Off Of That Thing." The whole unit, with Miss Old City front and center, begins the energetic and traditional Mummer strut.)
AND THE WINNER IS, MISS OLD CITY!
(Miss Old City is crowned.)
HAPPY NEW YEAR! HAPPY NEW YEAR! HAPPY NEW YEAR!
And we're finished. Exit stage right, onto Broad Street.
The weather was absolutely glorious.
And, thanks to some special fans on Broad Street, I got this terrific image of Self and Spare.
The Two Street Stompers strutted. And strutted. And strutted. We were on Broad Street, basically Philadelphia's main drag, and the cross traffic was allowed to go at the green lights. It took us a long time to complete our entire circuit. Not that we minded. Did I mention that the weather was beautiful?
Between the weather and our general good humor, the miles seemed like ... well, today I must say they felt like miles, because my bones ache from stem to stern. At the time they felt more like furlongs.
At length we danced up to the banquet hall on Oregon Avenue, where a warm lunch awaited. (Beverages are distributed bountifully along the route.) As we chowed down, our captain came in, hushed us all, and told us ...
...Some members who passed away this year looked down upon us, and ...
We won.
Wednesday, December 31, 2014
In Which I Admit My Total Failure as a Parent
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Wow, a whole week and no post! Annie has been a lazy girl.
Let me tell you parents out there: You can raise your children in a loving household, showing them the difference between right and wrong, fucking up before their very eyes, and by golly, when they get to adulthood, they are going to do as you did, not as you said. In other words, they're going to muddle through, making all the same mistakes you did ... and you have to watch, just watch and hope that some of the sensible things you told them sank in.
Today I am dismayed to report that my daughter The Heir has risen in total rebellion of all I hold dear. I'm heartbroken. Heartbroken, I tell you!
Tomorrow is Philadelphia's annual Mummer's Parade, and as my six readers know, I'm a regular participant in this gala. I am in a Comic Brigade called the Two Street Stompers.
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And boy, oh boy I am proud to be a Two Street Stomper!
Many Mummer's units are comprised of extended families and friends who have been marching together for years. It's sometimes hard to find a club to join.
In 2011 when I decided to become a part of the Mummer's Parade, I read in the newspaper about a new group called the Vaudvillains. The name was intriguing, and Mr. J actually knew someone in the group. So that was my first call -- to the Vaudvillains, who are mostly artists and writers. Actually I sent a text to Mr. J's friend, he asked his club, and he got back to me. The Vaudvillains were not accepting new members.
I'm sure there was nothing personal about it, but I still felt totally and utterly rejected by the Vaudvillains. This doubled my determination to find a club that would have me.
That's when I started making phone calls. That's when I found the Stompers. My first conversation with their captain was warm and welcoming, his philosophy being basically "the more, the merrier." If I could come up with the reasonable fee for a costume and beer, I was in.
The first year I strutted with the Stompers, we finished first. It's a competition, you see. We are in contention with numerous other brigades ... one of them being the Vaudvillains.
During this calendar year, my daughter The Heir moved away from home. She now lives in West Philly, down the block from the Fresh Prince. She's an artist, and she runs with the artistic set.
Bet you can see where this is going.
At least she had the nerve to tell me.
She is going to be a marshal for ... the Vaudvillains.
Oh! Disloyal and rebellious offspring! In vain did she protest that the Vaudvillains practice in a big studio chock-a-block with discarded art supplies that she could cart away for her own use! So what if one of her house mates is in the group? Shouldn't she remain steadfast for her own dear mama? And oh yes, she is apologetic, full of excuses like the high cost of art supplies and a chance to network with her own kind. Snap! I'm crushed. Crushed, I tell you! Crushed!
Now see, this is where you need to have two children -- an heir and a spare. Hearing of her sister's perfidy, my daughter The Spare promptly went out and bought posters. Last night she and her best friend spent the better part of the evening creating signs to cheer on the Two Street Stompers. That's Mama's little girl! Never mind that she lives one block from the parade route. She knows where loyalties lie. I'm sure she'll hiss and jeer at the Vaudvillains if she still happens to be watching when they glide past in all their artistically-created, socially conscious, message-laden costuming.
(I'll add here that we Two Street Stompers have a message with our routine as well. It's that men look funny in women's swim suits.)
This is us. See these lavish costumes? I don't have to make mine ... trust me, I couldn't even choose the fabric. But every year I get a new one, and I get to keep it. Someone in my family is going to have a treasure trove of authentic Philadelphia Mummer apparel in the years to come. Guess we know which daughter that will be!
(For the record, I'm the second gold girl from the left, front row.)
Let me tell you parents out there: You can raise your children in a loving household, showing them the difference between right and wrong, fucking up before their very eyes, and by golly, when they get to adulthood, they are going to do as you did, not as you said. In other words, they're going to muddle through, making all the same mistakes you did ... and you have to watch, just watch and hope that some of the sensible things you told them sank in.
Today I am dismayed to report that my daughter The Heir has risen in total rebellion of all I hold dear. I'm heartbroken. Heartbroken, I tell you!
Tomorrow is Philadelphia's annual Mummer's Parade, and as my six readers know, I'm a regular participant in this gala. I am in a Comic Brigade called the Two Street Stompers.
And boy, oh boy I am proud to be a Two Street Stomper!
Many Mummer's units are comprised of extended families and friends who have been marching together for years. It's sometimes hard to find a club to join.
In 2011 when I decided to become a part of the Mummer's Parade, I read in the newspaper about a new group called the Vaudvillains. The name was intriguing, and Mr. J actually knew someone in the group. So that was my first call -- to the Vaudvillains, who are mostly artists and writers. Actually I sent a text to Mr. J's friend, he asked his club, and he got back to me. The Vaudvillains were not accepting new members.
I'm sure there was nothing personal about it, but I still felt totally and utterly rejected by the Vaudvillains. This doubled my determination to find a club that would have me.
That's when I started making phone calls. That's when I found the Stompers. My first conversation with their captain was warm and welcoming, his philosophy being basically "the more, the merrier." If I could come up with the reasonable fee for a costume and beer, I was in.
The first year I strutted with the Stompers, we finished first. It's a competition, you see. We are in contention with numerous other brigades ... one of them being the Vaudvillains.
During this calendar year, my daughter The Heir moved away from home. She now lives in West Philly, down the block from the Fresh Prince. She's an artist, and she runs with the artistic set.
Bet you can see where this is going.
At least she had the nerve to tell me.
She is going to be a marshal for ... the Vaudvillains.
Oh! Disloyal and rebellious offspring! In vain did she protest that the Vaudvillains practice in a big studio chock-a-block with discarded art supplies that she could cart away for her own use! So what if one of her house mates is in the group? Shouldn't she remain steadfast for her own dear mama? And oh yes, she is apologetic, full of excuses like the high cost of art supplies and a chance to network with her own kind. Snap! I'm crushed. Crushed, I tell you! Crushed!
Now see, this is where you need to have two children -- an heir and a spare. Hearing of her sister's perfidy, my daughter The Spare promptly went out and bought posters. Last night she and her best friend spent the better part of the evening creating signs to cheer on the Two Street Stompers. That's Mama's little girl! Never mind that she lives one block from the parade route. She knows where loyalties lie. I'm sure she'll hiss and jeer at the Vaudvillains if she still happens to be watching when they glide past in all their artistically-created, socially conscious, message-laden costuming.
(I'll add here that we Two Street Stompers have a message with our routine as well. It's that men look funny in women's swim suits.)
(For the record, I'm the second gold girl from the left, front row.)
Wednesday, December 24, 2014
All Is Calm
There's no use looking back at your life and thinking about what might have been. All you can do is move forward.
On this Christmas Eve, I am indeed looking back at all of the years I spent dragging my daughters to Children's Service, and then dragging them home, and then dragging them out again for a later service. And wedging in a big meal between the two services.
It was insane.
Tonight, here I sit, with The Spare next to me, and The Heir expected later, and the cats, and the bird, and Mr. J and Extra Chair, and it's time to chill.
Time to build a fire and let Spare make the dinner.
I am happily finished with the Christian faith. What remains is an appreciation of the vacation I get at the darkest time of the year ... time I can spend quietly, with my family.
I've lit some Frankincense for the bored gods. You know many, I'm sure, who claim this holy time as Their own. But of course there are 1,000 times as many -- that is no exaggeration -- who also claim this time as Their own. The smoke is for the Forgotten Ones. Before Jesus started doing it, these deities brought back The Light.
Someone ought to throw them a party.
On this Christmas Eve, I am indeed looking back at all of the years I spent dragging my daughters to Children's Service, and then dragging them home, and then dragging them out again for a later service. And wedging in a big meal between the two services.
It was insane.
Tonight, here I sit, with The Spare next to me, and The Heir expected later, and the cats, and the bird, and Mr. J and Extra Chair, and it's time to chill.
Time to build a fire and let Spare make the dinner.
I am happily finished with the Christian faith. What remains is an appreciation of the vacation I get at the darkest time of the year ... time I can spend quietly, with my family.
I've lit some Frankincense for the bored gods. You know many, I'm sure, who claim this holy time as Their own. But of course there are 1,000 times as many -- that is no exaggeration -- who also claim this time as Their own. The smoke is for the Forgotten Ones. Before Jesus started doing it, these deities brought back The Light.
Someone ought to throw them a party.
Monday, December 22, 2014
Just Another Navel Gaze
Hello, my dear fellow-sojourners in this harsh and weary world! It's me, Anne Johnson, welcoming back the Sun!
This year I learned that a medication I've taken for 25 years causes Alzheimer's disease. Which already runs in my family. I figure I'm brain-fried even if I do stop taking the medicine, which I'm trying to do over the next few months.
The thought that you might forget your life is pretty scary. Lo and behold, I have kept an archive of the events of my life, here on this web log. At 2500+ columns, there's probably stuff I have totally forgotten already that will some day be fun to read again.
Saturday I participated in a lovely, intimate Ritual and even hosted it. The event was held at the pond near my house, under the limbs of a spreading oak. It was the Rite of Alban Arthan, also known as Yule. My dear friends Nettle and Cliff came, and we meditated on the return of the Light.
The day was cold, maybe even colder than is seasonably expected. I lugged a paving stone to the park and decked it out with holly and ivy. (It's still there. I'm going to photograph it and maybe even leave the stone there.) A noisy street runs nearby, but doggone if I can recall any car noise at all during that Ritual. We might as well have been on Avalon itself, calling to Arthur to return and redeem His people.
After the Ritual, the three of us sat by the fire and made merry, talking about this and that. Then Cliff and I went to Woodstock Trading Company. Cliff wanted some incense, and I needed to check on one of my foster cats who lives at the store.
This whole day was uplifting, just the sort of quietly holy experience we all need amidst the gloomy darkness and high expectations of the holiday season. I thank my friends for joining me.
On Sunday I woke early, stuffed my craw with cinnamon buns, and worked off the calories by stacking firewood. Have you heard the Christmas forecast? We'll need dry wood!
THEN, full 90 minutes early, I showed up at the Two Street club house to help make props for our Mummers brigade. Since I was so early, I joined the two club members who were going to the craft store to get supplies.
Ordinarily, craft stores like AC Moore make me break out in acne pimples and cold sweat. But there was something about being there, decked out in my official Two Street Stompers hoodie, with others in their Two Street Stomper hoodies, that made it bearable. I was dispatched to find wide Sharpie markers, and by golly, it must have been Divine Intervention -- I found the doggone things without even having to ask the over-taxed staff!
Back we went to the club house, where I spent the rest of the afternoon making tissue paper flowers for parasols. I only screwed up the first ten or so, and then I got into a groove and made some decent flowers. Oh, I wish you could see our act on New Year's Day! Here's hoping it'll be simulcast on the t.v. station's web site, but even so you'll have to get up early to see my club -- we march fifth in a parade that literally lasts all day.
After helping the Stompers, I went home. It got dark at about 4:15. (Just kidding. It got dark at 4:45.) So Extra Chair and I took the fancy new Subaru out for a spin in search of crazy Christmas houses. We had a swell jaunt! She gets so excited by this stuff and loves taking photos of it. Not kidding when I say that sometiems she coos like a dove.
Saved the best for last. When I got home from the Stompers club house, I discovered that my daughter The Spare had cleaned the whole house and started the laundry. I didn't even ask her to do anything! What a load off my back! Sweet thang.
In less than 24 hours I'll be off for a nice, long Christmas break. This includes another New Year's Day Mummer's Parade. My suit is gorgeous.
Making cookies tonight!
Blessed be to all of you. The light returns. Time to strut.
This year I learned that a medication I've taken for 25 years causes Alzheimer's disease. Which already runs in my family. I figure I'm brain-fried even if I do stop taking the medicine, which I'm trying to do over the next few months.
The thought that you might forget your life is pretty scary. Lo and behold, I have kept an archive of the events of my life, here on this web log. At 2500+ columns, there's probably stuff I have totally forgotten already that will some day be fun to read again.
Saturday I participated in a lovely, intimate Ritual and even hosted it. The event was held at the pond near my house, under the limbs of a spreading oak. It was the Rite of Alban Arthan, also known as Yule. My dear friends Nettle and Cliff came, and we meditated on the return of the Light.
The day was cold, maybe even colder than is seasonably expected. I lugged a paving stone to the park and decked it out with holly and ivy. (It's still there. I'm going to photograph it and maybe even leave the stone there.) A noisy street runs nearby, but doggone if I can recall any car noise at all during that Ritual. We might as well have been on Avalon itself, calling to Arthur to return and redeem His people.
After the Ritual, the three of us sat by the fire and made merry, talking about this and that. Then Cliff and I went to Woodstock Trading Company. Cliff wanted some incense, and I needed to check on one of my foster cats who lives at the store.
This whole day was uplifting, just the sort of quietly holy experience we all need amidst the gloomy darkness and high expectations of the holiday season. I thank my friends for joining me.
On Sunday I woke early, stuffed my craw with cinnamon buns, and worked off the calories by stacking firewood. Have you heard the Christmas forecast? We'll need dry wood!
THEN, full 90 minutes early, I showed up at the Two Street club house to help make props for our Mummers brigade. Since I was so early, I joined the two club members who were going to the craft store to get supplies.
Ordinarily, craft stores like AC Moore make me break out in acne pimples and cold sweat. But there was something about being there, decked out in my official Two Street Stompers hoodie, with others in their Two Street Stomper hoodies, that made it bearable. I was dispatched to find wide Sharpie markers, and by golly, it must have been Divine Intervention -- I found the doggone things without even having to ask the over-taxed staff!
Back we went to the club house, where I spent the rest of the afternoon making tissue paper flowers for parasols. I only screwed up the first ten or so, and then I got into a groove and made some decent flowers. Oh, I wish you could see our act on New Year's Day! Here's hoping it'll be simulcast on the t.v. station's web site, but even so you'll have to get up early to see my club -- we march fifth in a parade that literally lasts all day.
After helping the Stompers, I went home. It got dark at about 4:15. (Just kidding. It got dark at 4:45.) So Extra Chair and I took the fancy new Subaru out for a spin in search of crazy Christmas houses. We had a swell jaunt! She gets so excited by this stuff and loves taking photos of it. Not kidding when I say that sometiems she coos like a dove.
Saved the best for last. When I got home from the Stompers club house, I discovered that my daughter The Spare had cleaned the whole house and started the laundry. I didn't even ask her to do anything! What a load off my back! Sweet thang.
In less than 24 hours I'll be off for a nice, long Christmas break. This includes another New Year's Day Mummer's Parade. My suit is gorgeous.
Making cookies tonight!
Blessed be to all of you. The light returns. Time to strut.
Wednesday, December 17, 2014
Torture Is Bad
I have not approved of how my nation has conducted its defense ever since 9/11.
The reason I don't approve is because of the Knights Templar.
The Knights Templar were arrogant, violent, mass murderers, and incredibly wealthy. In order to take their wealth, the king of France had them rounded up and tortured until they admitted to all sorts of absurd and completely unbelievable behavior. Many of them were burned at the stake after very lengthy imprisonments, for which there was no due process.
Before the Knights Templar were rounded up and tortured, your average medieval European did not like them. After the Knights Templar were rounded up and tortured, they became martyrs, heroes, and their fame lives to this day.
I've read quite a bit about how these men were tortured. It's scary how little the techniques have changed since the early 1200s. The Knights Templar were chained in dark dungeons where they were subjected to the whims of the outdoor temperature. They were fed hog slop and deprived of sleep and daylight. They were not allowed to wear clothing, except in "court." The Inquisition would torture one man while the others watched.
All of this barbaric torture did not elicit a single verifiable "confession," because there were no charges filed in the first place.
I cannot believe that the United States of America is treating human beings this way in the 21st century. It boggles the mind.
It also runs absolutely counter to every logical manner of national defense.
When people are tortured, those who love them venerate them. Those who might have been mildly interested in the cause become zealous about it. Torture does not curb terrorism. It creates martyrs. Heroes. It reflects badly on the nation that initiates the torture. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but in the centuries to come, even in the decades to come. Even in the nearest years to come.
I would rather myself and my beloved daughters be killed in a terrorist attack than be a citizen that condones the inhumane treatment of individuals in my defense. In fact, in the remote chance that anyone in my family actually is harmed by a terrorist, refer to this post! I do not condone torture!
The men who flew those planes into buildings were barbarians. Our response to those acts has been equally barbaric. What is it we teach kids about bullying? Don't fight back! But why, then, have we responded to bullying by being worse than our attackers? What does that solve? What does that say about us?
It could very well be that, 800 years from now, there will be boys' service clubs called Bin Laden. Jacques de Molay was pretty much a dimwit when he led the Templars and was burnt at the stake. Now his name is highly regarded. Torture does that. It makes heroes out of people whose deeds should be vilified or at least long forgotten.
I'm ashamed of my nation. "God bless America" is a strong damnation of the Christian deity.
The reason I don't approve is because of the Knights Templar.
The Knights Templar were arrogant, violent, mass murderers, and incredibly wealthy. In order to take their wealth, the king of France had them rounded up and tortured until they admitted to all sorts of absurd and completely unbelievable behavior. Many of them were burned at the stake after very lengthy imprisonments, for which there was no due process.
Before the Knights Templar were rounded up and tortured, your average medieval European did not like them. After the Knights Templar were rounded up and tortured, they became martyrs, heroes, and their fame lives to this day.
I've read quite a bit about how these men were tortured. It's scary how little the techniques have changed since the early 1200s. The Knights Templar were chained in dark dungeons where they were subjected to the whims of the outdoor temperature. They were fed hog slop and deprived of sleep and daylight. They were not allowed to wear clothing, except in "court." The Inquisition would torture one man while the others watched.
All of this barbaric torture did not elicit a single verifiable "confession," because there were no charges filed in the first place.
I cannot believe that the United States of America is treating human beings this way in the 21st century. It boggles the mind.
It also runs absolutely counter to every logical manner of national defense.
When people are tortured, those who love them venerate them. Those who might have been mildly interested in the cause become zealous about it. Torture does not curb terrorism. It creates martyrs. Heroes. It reflects badly on the nation that initiates the torture. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but in the centuries to come, even in the decades to come. Even in the nearest years to come.
I would rather myself and my beloved daughters be killed in a terrorist attack than be a citizen that condones the inhumane treatment of individuals in my defense. In fact, in the remote chance that anyone in my family actually is harmed by a terrorist, refer to this post! I do not condone torture!
The men who flew those planes into buildings were barbarians. Our response to those acts has been equally barbaric. What is it we teach kids about bullying? Don't fight back! But why, then, have we responded to bullying by being worse than our attackers? What does that solve? What does that say about us?
It could very well be that, 800 years from now, there will be boys' service clubs called Bin Laden. Jacques de Molay was pretty much a dimwit when he led the Templars and was burnt at the stake. Now his name is highly regarded. Torture does that. It makes heroes out of people whose deeds should be vilified or at least long forgotten.
I'm ashamed of my nation. "God bless America" is a strong damnation of the Christian deity.
Tuesday, December 16, 2014
It's Not Just Teenagers
When you get your ticket punched to Geezer City, your consolation prize is a cup of wisdom. Sadly, that wisdom comes from years of doing the wrong thing and seeing how it turns out in your own life.
For instance, I'm intensely glad that there was no Blogger or Facebook when I was an impetuous youth. If you are an impetuous youth reading this, you've probably already been around the block and learned a sharp lesson about social media.
But what about the in-betweeners? The people who are neither savvy young people nor creaky change-of-lifers? Those are the folks getting themselves into trouble.
I friended a few of my school colleagues on Facebook. Not many. Just a few that I work with closely. These few are mostly in their thirties and early forties.
Last Friday, my school district threw a dinner party for the employees. It was free for the staff and $15 if you wanted to bring a spouse.
I would rather spend an evening scrubbing my basement floor than to go to a party with people I see all day long. (This shows I'm a geezer.) So I didn't go. Friday is drum circle night anyway. I didn't even have to scrub the basement.
Actually, not many of my colleagues went, either. But a goodly cluster of them had their own party at another venue. And they posted a beery photo on Facebook the next morning.
I looked at the photo and recognized everyone in it. If I was in my thirties, I would have been crushed to not be asked to hang out with the office clique. However, I'm in my fifties. When I looked at that photo I did not see a bunch of folks I would love to drink with, but rather a largish group of adults who should know better than to pose for a group photo in a party setting and then post it on a social media site where their colleagues and employers might see it.
Some of my co-workers are deeply hurt that they weren't invited to the side party. They saw the photo on Facebook and realized what they had missed (whatever that was).
I look at that photo from the perspective of an alcoholic. Chances are, in my thirties I might have been in that picture. Now all I see in it is the bad outcomes it could have for the people I work with who haven't reached my stage in life. I feel for them. It's a stressful job we have, and this is how they are handling it. I know, because until the summer of 2012, I was handling it by doing the tango with Tanqueray each and every night. Only when my daughters could take no more and called me out did I drop the green bottle and do a little reflecting.
It's a shame it had to come to that.
So, when I see a party photo and know most of the people in it, and know they are under stress, I think to myself, "When will they reach the milestone I reached, and how will they get there?"
I hope their outcome is better than mine, and that their parties become placid and stodgy over time. Better yet, I hope they reach a day when they'd rather be anywhere but a bar.
This is not a sermon from a church lady. This is the hard-won wisdom of bad mistakes and rotten decision-making. I'm not predicting anyone's doom here. I just hope their lives turn out okay.
For instance, I'm intensely glad that there was no Blogger or Facebook when I was an impetuous youth. If you are an impetuous youth reading this, you've probably already been around the block and learned a sharp lesson about social media.
But what about the in-betweeners? The people who are neither savvy young people nor creaky change-of-lifers? Those are the folks getting themselves into trouble.
I friended a few of my school colleagues on Facebook. Not many. Just a few that I work with closely. These few are mostly in their thirties and early forties.
Last Friday, my school district threw a dinner party for the employees. It was free for the staff and $15 if you wanted to bring a spouse.
I would rather spend an evening scrubbing my basement floor than to go to a party with people I see all day long. (This shows I'm a geezer.) So I didn't go. Friday is drum circle night anyway. I didn't even have to scrub the basement.
Actually, not many of my colleagues went, either. But a goodly cluster of them had their own party at another venue. And they posted a beery photo on Facebook the next morning.
I looked at the photo and recognized everyone in it. If I was in my thirties, I would have been crushed to not be asked to hang out with the office clique. However, I'm in my fifties. When I looked at that photo I did not see a bunch of folks I would love to drink with, but rather a largish group of adults who should know better than to pose for a group photo in a party setting and then post it on a social media site where their colleagues and employers might see it.
Some of my co-workers are deeply hurt that they weren't invited to the side party. They saw the photo on Facebook and realized what they had missed (whatever that was).
I look at that photo from the perspective of an alcoholic. Chances are, in my thirties I might have been in that picture. Now all I see in it is the bad outcomes it could have for the people I work with who haven't reached my stage in life. I feel for them. It's a stressful job we have, and this is how they are handling it. I know, because until the summer of 2012, I was handling it by doing the tango with Tanqueray each and every night. Only when my daughters could take no more and called me out did I drop the green bottle and do a little reflecting.
It's a shame it had to come to that.
So, when I see a party photo and know most of the people in it, and know they are under stress, I think to myself, "When will they reach the milestone I reached, and how will they get there?"
I hope their outcome is better than mine, and that their parties become placid and stodgy over time. Better yet, I hope they reach a day when they'd rather be anywhere but a bar.
This is not a sermon from a church lady. This is the hard-won wisdom of bad mistakes and rotten decision-making. I'm not predicting anyone's doom here. I just hope their lives turn out okay.
Friday, December 12, 2014
In Honor of December 13: Young Black Men
I can't make it to Washington, DC on December 13 to march for justice. This is my contribution to that cause.
Over the past nine years, I have gotten to know over 100 young black men. Let me tell you about a few of them.
"M" stands out in my mind. He was very tall and very dark-skinned, and he had a Muslim surname. I was a substitute teacher, and he was a high school freshman surrounded by his buddies. We locked horns. He got angry and shouted right in my face. (I can't remember what he said. He didn't curse.) I just blinked at him and wrote him up. Never raised my voice. After that, I had a private conference with "M." I told him, "You know, you're a born leader. You have presence. You should put it to good use." We were fast friends after that. He graduated a few years back and went to college.
"A" wanted to be a poet. He asked me to teach him how to write poetry. I said he probably was already doing it right, and he admitted he had a box of poems he'd written that he had hidden under his bed. He showed them to me. I typed them up for him and stored them in a file. "A" always had a smile on his face. He had big soulful eyes and had had a brush with the law. One day after he graduated, he returned to school and told me to delete his poems. He had embraced an austere sort of Christianity that lifted his soul but did nothing to his smile. He stopped by my room this past October, just to say hello. He's almost done four years of study at a Maryland Bible college.
"D" was in the performing arts program at my school. Since he already knew some poems, we registered him for a program called Poetry Out Loud. "D" would come to practice after school if he felt like it, but he would never take my advice. I told him, "You speak too fast. Your words aren't distinct." He did it his way. We went to the competition, and he was eliminated in the first round. His father, who had come to see it, glared at me as we got on the bus to return to school. After that, "D" never spoke to me again.
"S" was a jock. While in school he scored over 1,000 points as a power forward on the basketball team. I could get no work from him at all. He mocked me at every turn, gnawed at the edges of disrespect without crossing the line, and played shamelessly to his basketball buddies, who were all in class with him. I was probably the only teacher in the school who didn't congratulate him when he made his 1000th point. I have no idea where he is now.
"J" was in my class as a freshman and again as a sophomore. He was extremely serious and had a soft voice. He wasn't the best student I ever had, but he worked hard and turned in all his assignments. He seemed aggravated by his rowdier classmates. By the middle of sophomore year, I said it felt like he was my son or something, I had seen him grow so much. He hasn't even graduated yet, but this soft-spoken, lovely young fellow is working at Wegman's grocery store. Last week he rang up my order, and I got to introduce him to my husband.
"A" was also an athlete. He kept falling asleep in class. Finally I called his house and got his dad on the phone. I said to the dad, "I come in to the cafeteria for breakfast duty every day, and 'A' is already there ... at 7:00 in the morning. He's not getting enough sleep." The dad said, "I had no idea he had to get up that early. I work night shift."You see, "A" lives far from the school and has to take a bus at 6:15. Can you imagine a teenage boy having to get up that early? I still see him every day in the cafeteria. He plays his music too loud. I worry about his hearing. Those earbuds are no good.
"K" was highly intelligent and intensely competitive. He wanted to be valedictorian and was already planning for it as a freshman. His mother was a helicopter parent who hovered so close you could feel her wind in your hair. "K" was excitable and enthusiastic about everything he read and did. He brought energy into the classroom. As a junior he transferred to our sister campus. I haven't seen him since.
"T" is extremely overweight, to the point where he can hardly get around. Still he comes to school every day and struggles away to keep things in order, to get his assignments done, to get work in on time, to perform at the level at which the other students perform. He seems half out of breath all the time. I worry about him. I don't think I've ever seen him smile.
"D" is in my home room. He ran track this fall. He writes in a notebook every morning while the other students do silent reading. He's never shown me what he writes. He always has a pleasant word when I see him in the hall.
"C" comes to class late, doesn't turn in his assignments, comes to tutoring late, asks to go to the bathroom every day, and enjoys cutting up in class. He told me he has never read a whole book in his life. He's in tenth grade. I've asked the guidance counselor to arrange a meeting with his mother.
"T" is angry at the world. He won't do any school work. He just sits and glares. I suppose he must have problems with some of his other teachers, because he is often in detention. When "T" doesn't look furious, he looks abjectly miserable. No amount of encouragement seems to rouse him.
Another "T" is soft-spoken but remarkably observant and candid. He's in my Honors class. Earlier this year he took a standardized test, and his math score was college level. He also reads at college level. I saw him this afternoon, playing volleyball in the gym. The phys ed teacher and I agreed that if the planet was comprised solely of people like "T," the world would be heavenly.
Do you get the picture? These young black men are young men. They are just like other young men their age. Except for one thing: They're far more likely to be considered a threat, far more likely to be stopped and questioned by the police. Why? They're people. What exactly are we overlooking here?
Over the past nine years, I have gotten to know over 100 young black men. Let me tell you about a few of them.
"M" stands out in my mind. He was very tall and very dark-skinned, and he had a Muslim surname. I was a substitute teacher, and he was a high school freshman surrounded by his buddies. We locked horns. He got angry and shouted right in my face. (I can't remember what he said. He didn't curse.) I just blinked at him and wrote him up. Never raised my voice. After that, I had a private conference with "M." I told him, "You know, you're a born leader. You have presence. You should put it to good use." We were fast friends after that. He graduated a few years back and went to college.
"A" wanted to be a poet. He asked me to teach him how to write poetry. I said he probably was already doing it right, and he admitted he had a box of poems he'd written that he had hidden under his bed. He showed them to me. I typed them up for him and stored them in a file. "A" always had a smile on his face. He had big soulful eyes and had had a brush with the law. One day after he graduated, he returned to school and told me to delete his poems. He had embraced an austere sort of Christianity that lifted his soul but did nothing to his smile. He stopped by my room this past October, just to say hello. He's almost done four years of study at a Maryland Bible college.
"D" was in the performing arts program at my school. Since he already knew some poems, we registered him for a program called Poetry Out Loud. "D" would come to practice after school if he felt like it, but he would never take my advice. I told him, "You speak too fast. Your words aren't distinct." He did it his way. We went to the competition, and he was eliminated in the first round. His father, who had come to see it, glared at me as we got on the bus to return to school. After that, "D" never spoke to me again.
"S" was a jock. While in school he scored over 1,000 points as a power forward on the basketball team. I could get no work from him at all. He mocked me at every turn, gnawed at the edges of disrespect without crossing the line, and played shamelessly to his basketball buddies, who were all in class with him. I was probably the only teacher in the school who didn't congratulate him when he made his 1000th point. I have no idea where he is now.
"J" was in my class as a freshman and again as a sophomore. He was extremely serious and had a soft voice. He wasn't the best student I ever had, but he worked hard and turned in all his assignments. He seemed aggravated by his rowdier classmates. By the middle of sophomore year, I said it felt like he was my son or something, I had seen him grow so much. He hasn't even graduated yet, but this soft-spoken, lovely young fellow is working at Wegman's grocery store. Last week he rang up my order, and I got to introduce him to my husband.
"A" was also an athlete. He kept falling asleep in class. Finally I called his house and got his dad on the phone. I said to the dad, "I come in to the cafeteria for breakfast duty every day, and 'A' is already there ... at 7:00 in the morning. He's not getting enough sleep." The dad said, "I had no idea he had to get up that early. I work night shift."You see, "A" lives far from the school and has to take a bus at 6:15. Can you imagine a teenage boy having to get up that early? I still see him every day in the cafeteria. He plays his music too loud. I worry about his hearing. Those earbuds are no good.
"K" was highly intelligent and intensely competitive. He wanted to be valedictorian and was already planning for it as a freshman. His mother was a helicopter parent who hovered so close you could feel her wind in your hair. "K" was excitable and enthusiastic about everything he read and did. He brought energy into the classroom. As a junior he transferred to our sister campus. I haven't seen him since.
"T" is extremely overweight, to the point where he can hardly get around. Still he comes to school every day and struggles away to keep things in order, to get his assignments done, to get work in on time, to perform at the level at which the other students perform. He seems half out of breath all the time. I worry about him. I don't think I've ever seen him smile.
"D" is in my home room. He ran track this fall. He writes in a notebook every morning while the other students do silent reading. He's never shown me what he writes. He always has a pleasant word when I see him in the hall.
"C" comes to class late, doesn't turn in his assignments, comes to tutoring late, asks to go to the bathroom every day, and enjoys cutting up in class. He told me he has never read a whole book in his life. He's in tenth grade. I've asked the guidance counselor to arrange a meeting with his mother.
"T" is angry at the world. He won't do any school work. He just sits and glares. I suppose he must have problems with some of his other teachers, because he is often in detention. When "T" doesn't look furious, he looks abjectly miserable. No amount of encouragement seems to rouse him.
Another "T" is soft-spoken but remarkably observant and candid. He's in my Honors class. Earlier this year he took a standardized test, and his math score was college level. He also reads at college level. I saw him this afternoon, playing volleyball in the gym. The phys ed teacher and I agreed that if the planet was comprised solely of people like "T," the world would be heavenly.
Do you get the picture? These young black men are young men. They are just like other young men their age. Except for one thing: They're far more likely to be considered a threat, far more likely to be stopped and questioned by the police. Why? They're people. What exactly are we overlooking here?
Sunday, December 07, 2014
A Lesson in Resilience
Every winter, the town of Phoenixville, Pennsylvania holds a festival based on -- big "duh" here -- the Phoenix. The Heir and I make a pilgrimage to Phoenixville to participate in this event because it has a sacred application to life.
The festival occurred yesterday, in a deluge of rain. I told Heir we would go anyway, so long as the precipitation was water and not something frozen. Phoenixville is a pretty long way from where I live.
What happens in Phoenixville is this: After drumming and dancing by people clad in Firebird costumes, a giant bird sculpture made of wood gets set on fire. How does this happen in a pelting rain storm? Well, the thing is chock a block with accelerant.
Artists and builders work on the phoenix sculpture for months before the event. This year's bird was over 30 feet tall.
Until someone courting a maximum smite of Bored God karma burned it down at 3:00 a.m., the morning before the festival.
Phoenixville held the festival anyway. In a day's work, in pelting rain, its residents built a smaller but still inspiring substitute bird. With the dark ashes of the prematurely immolated bird still on the field, the new bird smoked, caught, and sent bright flames into the night sky.
How inspiring! What a lesson in resilience ... one I needed after a soul-sucking week at my workplace.
One of the traditions of the Firebird festival is that you can pay a small fee to have an Intention for the new year put into a box and sent Heavenward as the sculpture burns. This ritual had to be scrapped when the vandals struck.
But Heir and I are ourselves resilient. Heir made two origami birds while we ate dinner (the iconic Speck's Chicken in Collegeville, PA). We wrote our intentions on our paper birds and committed them, with prayers, to one of the smaller bonfires on the festival site. I brought a stick from that fire home to burn at Yuletide.
There we stood, Heir and I, dripping but unbent while the flames crested a sea of umbrellas. We knew the original bird had burned down before we left for Phoenixville. Like the other people there, we stubbornly proved that all which falls will rise again.
Blessed be the mighty Phoenix, the Sacred Firebird! All hail!
The festival occurred yesterday, in a deluge of rain. I told Heir we would go anyway, so long as the precipitation was water and not something frozen. Phoenixville is a pretty long way from where I live.
What happens in Phoenixville is this: After drumming and dancing by people clad in Firebird costumes, a giant bird sculpture made of wood gets set on fire. How does this happen in a pelting rain storm? Well, the thing is chock a block with accelerant.
Artists and builders work on the phoenix sculpture for months before the event. This year's bird was over 30 feet tall.
Until someone courting a maximum smite of Bored God karma burned it down at 3:00 a.m., the morning before the festival.
Phoenixville held the festival anyway. In a day's work, in pelting rain, its residents built a smaller but still inspiring substitute bird. With the dark ashes of the prematurely immolated bird still on the field, the new bird smoked, caught, and sent bright flames into the night sky.
How inspiring! What a lesson in resilience ... one I needed after a soul-sucking week at my workplace.
One of the traditions of the Firebird festival is that you can pay a small fee to have an Intention for the new year put into a box and sent Heavenward as the sculpture burns. This ritual had to be scrapped when the vandals struck.
But Heir and I are ourselves resilient. Heir made two origami birds while we ate dinner (the iconic Speck's Chicken in Collegeville, PA). We wrote our intentions on our paper birds and committed them, with prayers, to one of the smaller bonfires on the festival site. I brought a stick from that fire home to burn at Yuletide.
There we stood, Heir and I, dripping but unbent while the flames crested a sea of umbrellas. We knew the original bird had burned down before we left for Phoenixville. Like the other people there, we stubbornly proved that all which falls will rise again.
Blessed be the mighty Phoenix, the Sacred Firebird! All hail!
Thursday, December 04, 2014
The Charlotte Danielson Nightmare
Have you heard of the Danielson Framework for Teaching? It's a teacher evaluation tool.
It's 27 pages long.
It works like a scoring rubric: 4 to 3.5 = highly effective
3 to 2.65 = effective
2.65 and below = double secret probation
The model has four "domains" and over 22 subcategories within those domains. Only two of the four domains have anything to do with classroom activities. The other two have to do with planning, grading, collegiality, etc. etc. etc.
This thing is a nightmare. Go ahead and look it up if you want a case of vertigo.
I had my first bout of Danielson evaluation today. And it was not pretty, let me tell you. I didn't care at all that the woman gave me "partially effective" on my classroom teaching. But not deeming me highly effective for the lesson plans I created for the world wide web about my husband's book has me thumbing through the Bored God Craigslist Ads for a deity who will have nothing to do but smite her.
On any given day any evaluator is going to tear up your best lesson. They are paid to criticize, and they aren't gentle about it.
But the Danielson model is supposed to give credit for things done outside the classroom that enrich the teaching profession.
It doesn't.
I showed my evaluator the wonderful, thoughtful lesson plans I provided this nation's teachers absolutely free of charge. It happens I was using them for the class she observed, that's why they were pertinent. She said because I didn't create them during this school year, they didn't count. This, apparently, is district policy. NEVER MIND that I was USING THEM for the class.
I seriously doubt that my district even has a policy covering online content created by its teachers, because none of them have done it but me.
Picky, distracting shit like this, which teachers have to grasp for like thirsty demons in Hell, is an outcome of getting a numerical score on an evaluation.
The evaluators will tell you until they're blue in the face that it's not about the number. Mine got very vexed with me when I wrote my score on the white board:
2.89
and said I wanted to find a way to get the other
.12
After much haggling, I was able to wrangle another .04 out of her by showing a little loophole in the Ridiculous Rubric that actually deems a teacher "highly effective" for being able to get newspaper clippings off Google!
So, there you have it. A teacher can create a published unit of study for an award-winning book, and that's not highly effective. But that same teacher can Google "Brittnany Maynard," find an article, and that's highly effective.
I hate this profession.
Before you comment (again), "Why are you doing it, then?" I will tell you:
Two days ago, The Spare fell flat on her face when she tripped over a wire in her apartment. After 24 hours she had developed blurred vision and a bad headache. She and her dad spent last evening (until well after midnight) in the local emergency room. She had a CAT scan that revealed a concussion but no bleeding.
THAT'S WHY I'M DOING THIS. She's on my health plan.
Few professions provide health care anymore, and politicians are working like fiends to get around having to give it to teachers. That's where torture instruments like the Danielson Framework for Teaching come in handy. The harder they make it for teachers to be artistic about their work, the more likely the older, more experienced, and more creative teachers will bail.
Why did I ever cease to be a goat judge? I miss those little cloven-hoofed charmers!
It's 27 pages long.
It works like a scoring rubric: 4 to 3.5 = highly effective
3 to 2.65 = effective
2.65 and below = double secret probation
The model has four "domains" and over 22 subcategories within those domains. Only two of the four domains have anything to do with classroom activities. The other two have to do with planning, grading, collegiality, etc. etc. etc.
This thing is a nightmare. Go ahead and look it up if you want a case of vertigo.
I had my first bout of Danielson evaluation today. And it was not pretty, let me tell you. I didn't care at all that the woman gave me "partially effective" on my classroom teaching. But not deeming me highly effective for the lesson plans I created for the world wide web about my husband's book has me thumbing through the Bored God Craigslist Ads for a deity who will have nothing to do but smite her.
On any given day any evaluator is going to tear up your best lesson. They are paid to criticize, and they aren't gentle about it.
But the Danielson model is supposed to give credit for things done outside the classroom that enrich the teaching profession.
It doesn't.
I showed my evaluator the wonderful, thoughtful lesson plans I provided this nation's teachers absolutely free of charge. It happens I was using them for the class she observed, that's why they were pertinent. She said because I didn't create them during this school year, they didn't count. This, apparently, is district policy. NEVER MIND that I was USING THEM for the class.
I seriously doubt that my district even has a policy covering online content created by its teachers, because none of them have done it but me.
Picky, distracting shit like this, which teachers have to grasp for like thirsty demons in Hell, is an outcome of getting a numerical score on an evaluation.
The evaluators will tell you until they're blue in the face that it's not about the number. Mine got very vexed with me when I wrote my score on the white board:
2.89
and said I wanted to find a way to get the other
.12
After much haggling, I was able to wrangle another .04 out of her by showing a little loophole in the Ridiculous Rubric that actually deems a teacher "highly effective" for being able to get newspaper clippings off Google!
So, there you have it. A teacher can create a published unit of study for an award-winning book, and that's not highly effective. But that same teacher can Google "Brittnany Maynard," find an article, and that's highly effective.
I hate this profession.
Before you comment (again), "Why are you doing it, then?" I will tell you:
Two days ago, The Spare fell flat on her face when she tripped over a wire in her apartment. After 24 hours she had developed blurred vision and a bad headache. She and her dad spent last evening (until well after midnight) in the local emergency room. She had a CAT scan that revealed a concussion but no bleeding.
THAT'S WHY I'M DOING THIS. She's on my health plan.
Few professions provide health care anymore, and politicians are working like fiends to get around having to give it to teachers. That's where torture instruments like the Danielson Framework for Teaching come in handy. The harder they make it for teachers to be artistic about their work, the more likely the older, more experienced, and more creative teachers will bail.
Why did I ever cease to be a goat judge? I miss those little cloven-hoofed charmers!
Sunday, November 30, 2014
Guest Post: Mark Kram Jr. reviews Glimpsing Heaven:The Stories and Science of Life After Death
To the eternal question -- "What happens when we die?" -- the human species has searched for answers in a wide range of spiritual and scientific realms. Though I am not affiliated with any organized religion at the moment, I have always tended to think something happens, if only because of our inability to grasp the complexity of the question. I have an uncle who is of the belief that nothing happens, that we should enjoy the here and now because we end up as food for earthworms. Science has persuaded him of this, yet I am just as certain that there are aspects to our existence that are unknowable.
So I came with an open mind to Judy Bachrach's book, Glimpsing Heaven: The Stories and Science of Life After Death. But I also approached it with the eye of an experienced journalist, which is to say I held the author to high standards of reporting and writing. Happily, she exceeded both. Drawing on interviews with an array of people who have had what is commonly called "near death experiences" -- but what she refers to more accurately as "death experiences" -- Bachrach exhibits the same journalistic skill that has distinguished her as a contributor to Vanity Fair. All had been declared legally dear, yet they retained a consciousness that existed outside of their bodies. They came back and spoke of experiencing "pure unconditional love," of seeing deceased relatives and being overcome with enlightenment. And, yes, they remembered being drawn to a "white light."
One "experiencer" Bachrach spoke with was Bill Taylor, a computer analyst who had suffered a heart attack. "The next thing I knew, I was out in space, looking on all the stars and planets ... There were threads connecting all of the bodies in the universe. And I am also connected to all these forms ... The threads were energy -- and it was love that connected everything to everything."
Interviews with doctors and scientists who have explored this subject are woven into the narrative, which Bachrach moves along at a highly readable pace. There would appear to be agreement among them that something indeed happens when we die, although it is not yet clear how or why. No book of this sort could possibly answer all of our questions, but it does give us the "glimpse" it promises into a realm that exists beyond the wall of time. And it reminds us again how little we know.
Mark Kram Jr. is the author of the PEN/ESPN Award-winning narrative Like Any Normal Day: A Story of Devotion.
So I came with an open mind to Judy Bachrach's book, Glimpsing Heaven: The Stories and Science of Life After Death. But I also approached it with the eye of an experienced journalist, which is to say I held the author to high standards of reporting and writing. Happily, she exceeded both. Drawing on interviews with an array of people who have had what is commonly called "near death experiences" -- but what she refers to more accurately as "death experiences" -- Bachrach exhibits the same journalistic skill that has distinguished her as a contributor to Vanity Fair. All had been declared legally dear, yet they retained a consciousness that existed outside of their bodies. They came back and spoke of experiencing "pure unconditional love," of seeing deceased relatives and being overcome with enlightenment. And, yes, they remembered being drawn to a "white light."
One "experiencer" Bachrach spoke with was Bill Taylor, a computer analyst who had suffered a heart attack. "The next thing I knew, I was out in space, looking on all the stars and planets ... There were threads connecting all of the bodies in the universe. And I am also connected to all these forms ... The threads were energy -- and it was love that connected everything to everything."
Interviews with doctors and scientists who have explored this subject are woven into the narrative, which Bachrach moves along at a highly readable pace. There would appear to be agreement among them that something indeed happens when we die, although it is not yet clear how or why. No book of this sort could possibly answer all of our questions, but it does give us the "glimpse" it promises into a realm that exists beyond the wall of time. And it reminds us again how little we know.
Mark Kram Jr. is the author of the PEN/ESPN Award-winning narrative Like Any Normal Day: A Story of Devotion.
Thursday, November 27, 2014
Happy Thanksgiving!
We at "The Gods Are Bored" now have six readers! And to all six, and anyone else out there, we wish you a shopping-free, work-free, family-filled holiday!
This was my back yard on Polish Mountain. No wonder I love buzzards.
This was my back yard on Polish Mountain. No wonder I love buzzards.
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