Fighting back against mandatory school testing, Part 2
“The bottom line is that standardized testing can continue only with the consent and cooperation of the educators who allow those tests to be distributed in their schools—and the parents who permit their children to take them. If we withhold that consent, if we refuse to cooperate, then the testing process grinds to a halt.”
—Alfie Kohn, parent, author and education expert
(photo from Peg With Pen)
Jan. 7 has been declared National Opt Out Day by the grassroots organization United Opt Out National, whose goal is to eliminate high-stakes testing (HST) in public education. With the unreachable goal of 100-percent student proficiency in math and reading by 2014, the bipartisan No Child Left Behind (NCLB) Act and its component standardized testing will result—in fact is designed to result—in an unprecedented, manufactured event of 100-percent school failure. Education privatizers are salivating like hyenas.
Budget Woes: California is one hot mess with a tough governor
This week’s installment of BAIHH (acronyms are so stupid, and I just needed to prove it) was going to be a meditation on the state of state government, except I can’t quiet my mind.
The deadline for passing a state budget is here, and in the balance hangs the future of lots of stuff, including my topic du siécle—education—or, more specifically, the operation and financing of the 2011-12 school year. I don’t dare to think much beyond that—sort of like our leaders. The difference is that they’re paid by you and me to consider the future when making decisions that affect us, and we have little say (none, if Republicans get their way) in any of it. Depressed yet?
Wingnuts: Opportunistic, hypocrital, unaccountable bullies. Still. Forever. Always.
“Our nation was shocked by the tragedy in Arizona earlier today. Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords, members of her staff, and others became the victims of a senseless act of violence. Congresswoman Giffords serves Arizona’s 8th District with distinction and thoughtful leadership, and it is horrifying that she was exposed to such violence at an event designed to reach the people she represents. I couldn’t agree more with Speaker Boehner, who earlier said that, ‘an attack on one who serves is an attack on all who serve.’ Along with our nation, this institution has suffered a horrible tragedy. We are saddened, mourn those who lost their lives, and stand together in hopeful prayer for the recovery of the victims and their families.” -Eric Cantor, House Majority Leader
You know, I’m struck by Rep. Cantor’s comment. I am curious to know where Cantor and other members of the right were during the many threatening, near-violent and (at times) violent town hall meetings that took place during the health care reform debate days.
‘Memba that? Way back then, the Tea Baggers, who liked to openly carry guns to Presidential events, and Republicans, who defended such ridiculousness— even though they would never in a gajillion years have taken the same stance during the Dubya years—did little to denounce the dangerous vitriol and outright intimidation aimed largely at those who might have possibly supported health care reform in this country (i.e. Democrats). In fact, those who define themselves as right-wingers have a nice track record of inciting the kind of mindset and behavior that leads to the murder of public representatives. We need look no further than John McCain and that awful offense of a woman who was his running mate to see but one starting point for today’s events.
The shooting of the Arizona congresswoman and the 18 other people that went to meet her isn’t just another pock mark for Arizona (the place we will not be visiting during Ruby’s month-long spring break, no matter how much we all want to see the Grand Canyon). It’s a loss for our democracy, as Sheriff Clarence Dupnik dared to say in a press conference tonight:
“When you look at unbalanced people, how they respond to the vitriol that comes out of certain mouths about tearing down the government. The anger, the hatred, the bigotry that goes on in this country is getting to be outrageous. And, unfortunately, Arizona I think has become sort of the capital. We have become the Mecca for prejudice and bigotry. It’s not unusual for all public officials to get threats constantly, myself included. And that’s the sad thing of what’s going on in America. Pretty soon, we’re not going to be able to find reasonable, decent people who are willing to subject themselves to serve in public office.”
He later added:
“Let me just say one thing—because people tend to poo-poo this business about all the vitriol that we hear inflaming the American public by people who make a living off of doing that—that may be free speech. But it’s not without consequences.”
Then he closed with a sad and resigned z-snap as he left the podium. (Not really. But he could have.)
Families: Who needs ‘em?
This picture was taken when Ruby was three weeks old, during my second week of mothering. It was early in the triathlon of late night feedings, diaper changes, and the seemingly endless shooshing of a crying baby, and already Sam and I were exhausted. We’d had 36 hours—not 9 months—to prep ourselves for parenthood (the last minute crash course in swaddling proved to be clutch). But this isn’t a competition.
Regardless of allotted nesting time, I think what we were experiencing when my cousin snapped this photo is universal among new parents: While we were nothing short of elated, there was a sense that we’d been hit and flattened like silly cartoon characters, by an 18-wheeler that missed a hairpin turn after careening down an 11% grade slicked with black ice. The impact on our lives was so stunning, I didn’t even hear the warning screech of air brakes. One minute, I wasn’t a mother, the next minute I was. And this photo, which I’ve posted before, exemplifies that for me.
And it reminds me, every time, of a conversation I had with a representative from my HR department two months before it was taken. I had called to find out whether I would qualify for maternity leave once we were matched with our baby, and was told that I would not. “You’re not really a mother,” the representative told me. “Maternity leave is for women who have babies. Because they have to heal. You’re not healing from anything.” I hung up in disbelief and anger.
But I let it go and when Ruby was born, I took 12-weeks off without pay so I could not really be a mother. My husband and I borrowed 3-months’ worth of salary from my generous in-laws so that I could not really make and wash bottles, not really change diapers, not really attend doctor visits, not really pace around my dining room table for hours and hours with a crying baby in my arms, so I could not really rock her to sleep. I had support—certainly not from my employer—that allowed me the luxury to not really bond with my new child, to not really sit in my rocker with her or lie in my bed with her naked body curled like a ribbon against mine, to not really have her perfect ear pressed as close as possible to the beating of my heart, a sound I hoped was something close to the white noise she’d known in her birth-mother’s belly.
Today, a court ruled that the Massachusettes Maternity Leave Act, a law from the dark age of 1972, affords a woman 8-weeks of maternity leave following the birth or adoption of a child. After that time, she is not protected by the law and can be fired from her job. An excellent policy for children and parents as far as I can tell.
Apparently, I was lucky to have absconded with an entire 12-weeks of unpaid leave without fear of being fired from a place that clearly undervalues me to begin with.
The righting of a wrong
In February of 2004, I flew to San Francisco on a whim. My friends decided to tie the knot, take the plunge, insert-your-own-cliché here and Gavin Newsom was the only person who brave enough to let them do it. It was a Sunday and the marriages had been taking place since Friday, so the crowds were huge. The line wound three deep all the way around City Hall and if you’ve ever been to San Francisco’s City Hall, you know this is a huge swath of land. There was an A-Line for people who had tickets to be married that day. There was a B-Line for those who might get in before closing time, a time extended by the mayor and his many generous employees, many of whom volunteered to work extra hours. And there was a C-Line—the “hopeful overflow” line as they were calling it—for those who didn’t get tickets, people who had driven and flown in from all across the United States but who were likely to be turned away. We were in that line.
Our friends managed to get in and have a ceremony because they knew someone in the DA’s office (it was all very illicit but times like this, you take advantage of any advantage). The women in front of us, a lovely couple in their mid-sixties, weren’t so lucky. They had flown all the way from Florida and they stood, their suitcases at their ankles, despondent at hearing a man on a bullhorn announce, as he paced the line, that they might as well come back in the morning and take their chances then. “But what about us?” one of them asked him. “We’ve waited for this day for 32 years. We just flew in this morning.”
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I don’t know what to tell you except that maybe you can go to the A-Line and ask someone if they might be willing to give up their ticket for you.”
So the shorter and rounder of the two women kissed her partner good-bye, leveraged herself over a retaining wall onto the sprawling green lawn and made her way toward those lucky thousands (and their family members and friends who’d come out to witness the happy day) in possession of tickets. Forty minutes later, as we were still negotiating how we were going to be sneaked through a side entry to the building, the woman came running across the lawn, her hand raised high above her head and in it, was a little piece of paper.
“We’re getting married! We’re getting married!” She said. There were tears running down her face. The hopeful overflowers cheered and applauded and whistled and cried. The woman on the grass leaped into the arms of her beloved and they kissed. I remember they both had short hair the color of the clouded sky above us. I remember their suitcases toppling awkwardly as they heaved to pull them up and over the wall. I remember them walking away to get married, schlepping their stuff from the C-Line to the A-Line, their hearts buoyant and full.
The day was not a political statement for that couple or any of the other thousands of couples who waited to marry. It was not an agenda driven act designed to vex right wingers and the morally indignant. It was about love and commitment and a rightful public declaration of that love and commitment. It was, to this day, one of the happiest days of my life.
That a Bush One-appointed California judge overturned proposition 8 today has left me breathless. I had steeled myself for the other verdict. And in a time when each day–and the one that preceded it, and the one that preceded it, and so on and so on—is filled with so much bad news and injustice of all kinds, this clear and obviously just ruling blows my hair back.
And I’m not alone. Below are some of the status updates on my Facebook wall this afternoon:
WAY TO GO CALIFORNIA.
”Proposition 8 fails to advance any rational basis in singling out gay men and lesbians for denial of a marriage license. Indeed the evidence shows Proposition 8 does nothing more than enshrine in the California constitution the notion that opposite sex couples are superior to same sex couples.” – U.S. District Court Chief Judge Vaughn Walker
To celebrate Prop 8 being ruled unconstitutional, I ordered this t-shirt for my kid. She loves toast. http://tinyurl.com/2djpywe
PROP 8 overturned in CAlifornia supreme court—–YAAAAAAA, now I need to find a husband
YES!!! Prop 8 GOES DOWN AGAIN!!!! Yay for Judge Walker!!
News flash: Prop 8 has been OVERTURNED! No More H8!
Yes!!!!!
“Moral disapproval alone is an improper basis on which to deny rights to gay men and lesbians.” Judge Walker
My love and I are no longer outlaws.
[Name redacted] is pleased to see that reason has prevailed, and very happy for those whose lives are directly affected by this law.
Woooooo!
I’m proud of California today! Woo-hoo!
#Prop8 gets rim-rocked, reminds me why I traded TX for CA in the 1st place.
blam suckas…all the fundie christians can pretty much, well, ya know…welcome to civil society, where your pastor/priest. etc doesn’t have shit to say about the law. Don’t like it. Move.
[Name redacted] must join the chorus and send mad props to Judge Walker for holding some truths to be self-evident.
Very happy that Prop 8 was overturned today. A big step forward in LGBT rights and for our society as a whole.
Human Rights = 1. Discrimination = 0. Prop 8 is overturned. Tonight, we celebrate. Tomorrow, the fight continues.
From France to Floatopia and back
On the night of my 38th birthday two years ago, Sam and I awoke from a nap around 9:30, hopped on Le Metro and made our way to La Tour Eiffel. We held hands and walked toward the park against the setting sun. The air around us filled with the growing sound of every language on earth as laughter and conversation rose into the warm summer night and combined to make one vibrant, celebratory hum.
We arrived at the far end near the Wall For Peace and looked down along the Champs du Mar toward the Eiffel Tower, where hundreds upon hundreds of (very fashionable) people reclined on picnic blankets, shared bottles of wine and baguettes, cheese and patisseries.
Some people had set their bicycles down on the lawn and joined their friends. Some lit votive candles. Others set out fresh sunflowers in vases, raising the bar for ambiance. I wondered as to what the special occasion might be but after strolling to the tower and sharing a sugary crepe with my husband, I realized it was just another Tuesday night in Paris. It was all so civilized.
It was this night I thought about when I heard the story today of San Diego’s Floatopia event this weekend.
Organized in response to the 2008 alcohol ban on San Diego’s public beaches, Floatopia is a floating booze party that utilizes a loophole in the ban and allows revelers to drink alcohol so long as their feet do not touch the sand.
(photo by Katie Orr, KPBS)
Could this possibly be the same planet? Where can you set a vase with fresh flowers?
Participants seem to be young-ish and dumb-ish, which is probably part of the reason for the original ban—a few bad apples, and all that—though it’s dumb-asses of all ages who can’t drink responsibly to begin with. Oh, if we ‘Murkins could just handle our alcohol with aplomb and a little je ne sais quoi.
But no.
Instead of sticking it to The Man and subtly masking their cocktails in unmarked cups like any good subversive, these knuckleheads noisily take their drink to the ocean. I won’t enumerate on the many problems inherent in that choice except to offer two words: Jerry Whipple. Not surprisingly, the city council will vote on another ban next week.
One Floatopia attendee, Ashley MacDonald, told KPBS reporter Katie Orr she understands why the police and lifeguards and council members want to put an end to the event. “I think the reason they’re trying to do it is they’re old and they suck!”
The lack of eloquence in that statement made me cringe, so I plunked it in to Google translator to take the edge off:
Je pense que la raison pour laquelle ils essaient de le faire, c’est qu’ils sont vieux et ils sucent!
God, isn’t that beautiful? I’ll bet even woo-hooing sounds refined in French.
I feel dirty
Tonight, for the first time since I was legally able to vote, I blew off an election. With a reported 35% voter turn out in today’s California primary election, I am THAT person: The one who doesn’t bother to show up, the one I always disdain, the one the other side counts on. Today, I joined the 65% of California citizens in apathetic solidarity.
I wish I could say it was apathy that led me to hurl my yellow absentee ballot along with the voter guide into the recycling bin more than a week ago, which at the time, felt really good, I’ll admit. Indifference would be so much more preferable to the real reasons I shrugged as I pitched the material into the square straw bin beneath my office desk and then walked to the kitchen to pour myself a whisky. Why does it matter? I thought to myself in the days before I made my decision.
My voting materials sat for three days, untouched, on my dining room table where I’d neatly stacked them. I’d eyeball the sealed booklet and envelope—the window of which displayed my name with an extraneous initial I’ve attempted to correct with the registrar’s office multiple times—on every pass through the room, contemplating whether I could actually go through with it. On the fourth day, I picked them up and moved them to the office. I sat down on the chair, pressed my toes against the floor and launched myself into a slow spin while I wrestled my thumb into the corner of the envelope with the yellow ballot. I yanked at the paper, making a jagged, uneven tear, immediately giving myself a paper cut.
“Shit!” I said, tossing the half-opened envelope away from me, sucking the blood from my thumb. Clearly, I was supposed to sit this election out.
“MAH-ahm! You owe a quarter,” Ruby said to me from the other room.
And thinking about that quarter got me thinking about all of the many quarters I’ve paid for my potty mouth, which got me thinking about my daughter’s college education, which got me thinking about the state of public education in California, which got me thinking about our fiscal nightmare, which got me thinking about the self-interested, re-election-happy representatives too paralyzed to do anything productive, which got me thinking about how our public offices and initiatives are really just for sale to the highest bidder, which led me to the conclusion (again) about how this is all a big dog and pony show.
I’ve always operated under the philosophy that it’s my obligation to vote. That by doing so, I’m at the very least staking out my right to complain. But I’ve started to think that if I participate in a broken system, then I am part of the problem. So I decided to skip it.
And all day, I felt nothing. Until I began watching the returns and realized that I didn’t know a single local initiative. Certainly, there is a peacefulness in having no investment and I am definitely a happier person by not following politics as closely as I did way back when I was more hopeful and less cynical. Still. I started to feel sorta bad when I couldn’t have an intelligible conversation with friends.
Maybe I should have voted…not that my voice would have mattered. But what if even half of the other 65% of us had voted. Would my voice have mattered then?
It’s all in the perspective
This shot was taken by one jonmmmayhem who I discovered via Violet Blue (I shouldn’t even have to tell you that today’s links are NSFW). mayhem is a naughty guy with a river of titillating and whoa, doggie! images made in varying formats. I’m partial to his Polaroids—I love the retro feel (I covet my Polaroid camera), and the imperfections and grain of the film only feed the intensity and rawness of his subjects. But I thought this particular capture would help start a conversation I’ve been having in my head lately about what exactly constitutes obscene. Because that up there? To me? There’s not even a lint ball of obscenity in it. Unless, of course, your definition of “obscene” is number two in the following itemized list from dictionary.com:
ob·scene
/əbˈsin/ [uh
b-seen] –adjective
To clarify, I’m using definitions 1 and 3 as my baseline. As such, jonmmmayhem’s work—or these fantastic mouth-waterers over here—are not obscene. This, however, is obscenity times a jillion, raised to the seventh plus three exclamation points:
I was on the hunt yesterday for a wind chime for Ruby’s school when I had a massive I-have-to-have-a-Coke-right-now attack. For the record, I have a Coke about three times each year and have never driven through a drive through just to order one. But yesterday I did just that. I whipped through Burger King between stops and ordered a large Coke. That was it. No burger, no fries, just a large Coke. And look at what I got! That isn’t large. That is obscene. My reaction upon seeing it was not unlike my reaction during college when I paired up with my friend Geoff for a little laundry-room fellatio during a house party one summer afternoon. He and I had always been platonic until that day when we’d enjoyed too much tequila and when, as a result, I learned precisely why he was often referred to as “The Howitzer” by his friends. Suffice it to say, once I composed myself, I had to politely decline my services. And I’m not one to back down from a challenge. Whether I’m being honest, obscene or delicately crass is a matter of opinion.
Anyway, it’s not just the size (!) of the drink or the toxicity of the beverage itself that is disconcerting. It’s not even the giant plastic, petroleum-made cup that will end up in a landfill after my trash is collected today. But guess how much that howitzer cost me? Ready for this? $2.49. I mean, hello. Totally, absurdly, unquestionably obscene.
And speaking of petroleum, how about this for obscene:
Or this:
Or this:
Or this:
Shall I keep going?
Because there’s plenty of it:
Everyday, for the forseeable future.
Of course, “sometimes accidents happen,” right?
We know that Rand Paul thinks he’s The Greatest American Hero and you gotta admit, the likeness is uncanny:
Paul even flails like our boy in red, perhaps the only silver lining in the obscenity that is Kentucky’s latest and greatest contribution to our planet. Somehow I doubt the guy named after the Objectivist Queen even knows who John Galt is. I personally think John Galt is the undocumented worker, and I’d like to see how well the U.S. would fare if they all went on strike in lieu of their own Utopian society. Seafood certainly wouldn’t be the only outrageously expensive food in our grocery stores.
Give me a (preferrably spiked) Coke and some anti-Steve Jobs internet porn any day. What say you, reader? What is obscene to you?
Who needs representatives when we have guys like Stupak?
While listening to an interview between Michele Norris on NPR and Bart Stupak, Democratic member of Congress from Michigan, I became outraged. Go figure. It’s so rare for me…
Anyway, I wrote about why I’m incensed over at The Women’s Colony. Check it out and see if you don’t agree. And if you wait long enough, the conservatives will come slithering along to tout their I-Got-Mine attitude throughout the comments section. Some of them will probably call me names, too. Oh, goody!
In the meantime, people, IT’S FRIDAY and I don’t have to go to my shit-sucking job!!! And my friend Justin posted the following video to my Facebook wall today so things are really lookin’ up. Gosh darn it, if I don’t adore Olivia Newton John. She was, and still is, totally awesome. Watch this and be happy with me despite all the craptastic news, won’t you?
C’mon, Californian’s: Let’s demand better
I ran into the mother of one of Ruby’s little classmates yesterday when I was picking my girl up from school. We’d barely gotten past the daily niceties when she said, “Well, I got my pink slip today.”
She’s a teacher and like previous years, as the state of California faces a never-ending and unfathomable budget crisis, pink slips are distributed mid-way through the school year. This year was even earlier than last. Now she’ll finish her work knowing she doesn’t have a job in the fall, wait to see what budget our deadlocked legislators hammer out and then hope to be rehired next year. This is just one teensy, tinsy corner of the tip of the iceberg-of-a-problem facing the schools in this state. Good things kids aren’t the foundation of our society or anything.
Think about this: The San Diego Unified School District is facing budget cuts somewhere in the $175 million dollar range for the coming year; the state is looking at a $3 to $6.5 billion-with-a-B deficit. (I know, your eyes are glazing. But I’m almost done with big numbers so STICK WITH ME, HERE!) Meanwhile, back at the ranch, certain decision-makers felt it was more important to put $300 million dollars toward digital whiteboards in classrooms of SDUSD schools, than it was to put it toward building repair. Now the teachers—those that are left—need additional training (with all their free time) on how to use the glorified chalk boards. And when a $200 light bulb burns out, the school is asking parents to pony up. It’s that or let the new-fangled technology gather dust and force teachers and students to get by with—gasp!—chalk. How primitive. Almost as primitive as trying to learn in a building with no heat or a leaky roof or which doesn’t have drinking fountains.
I’m not even in the public school system yet and the whole thing is totally demoralizing.
The news on education is bad. It’s bad everywhere but I’m speaking specifically of California. And to highlight just how dire things are, today is a nationwide day of action. My friend, the teacher, and her colleagues—and my daughter, but that’s pretty much a given—are all wearing pink to raise awareness. I’ll probably try to dig up something pink, too. (I’ve seen elsewhere that people are wearing red. Whatever. I think it would be best if people just make sure to wear clothes.) Throughout California, activists are going to be raising awareness about cuts to higher education through a flurry of activities.
Then tomorrow, a group of activists, including the California Federation of Teachers (CFT) and other unions, labor leaders, religious leaders and business leaders (yes, business leaders, too!), will begin a 7-week march from Bakersfield to Sacramento. The purpose of this March for California’s Future is to engage people and create a dialogue about the realities facing this state and the dire need to change the course we are currently on. To understand the purpose and goals of this march, please read this short piece. This isn’t just about education. This is about the future of California (hence the name, go figure) and, too, the rest of the nation.
I will be writing about this over the coming weeks, and posting excerpts from an interview I did with Jim Miller, a professor at San Diego City College and one of the organizers of the March. And I will be hoping that that all this hard work pays off, that my friend has a job in the fall, and that the education system gets better before my child is ready to graduate high school.