Last night I was working in an isolated corner surrounded by large racks that were caged in by chickenwire for safety.
I overheard a whistling and turned to find a co-worker smiling at me from the other side of the wire.
He commented, "You're like a pretty bird that flew in here by mistake, and  now here they've got you in a cage."
It's surprizing sometimes how grizzled old factory workers can sometimes turn a phrase.

Reading:  A Love Story


I’m trying to remember when I first picked up a book and was able to read the words across the page, because it seems it must have been love at first sight. I never used to believe in such nonsense, even as a child reading Grimm’s Fairy Tales – especially reading those, now that I think of it. (For the most part, they had dire endings that I imagine were precursors of film noir.) Ah, but Reading! Reading has been a lifelong romance. When does life begin? Is it that first spark, that embryo of interest in the written word? Studies show that being read to is the first step toward reading independently – that the more a child is exposed to literature the more likely they are to read themselves. Likewise, if their parents have a mutually respectful, loving relationship, the easier it is for them to take that model into their adulthood.

My mother says she read to me, but I don’t remember it at all. Furthermore, she says that when she was working on her bachelor’s degree in computer programming, she used to sit at the table with me while she was doing her homework and I would sit and color as she studied. Should a test arise, I might be just as likely to hear Biology 101 for a bedtime story as Cinderella. She went into labor with the first of my younger sisters while in class taking a test. Did these efforts on my mother’s behalf foster literacy despite my second-hand memories of them? Certainly they instilled a sense of education as a priority.

The first person I remember reading to me was the librarian at the public library, and then afterward my first grade teacher Mrs. Lynch, whom I adored. She was sweet and kind and never berated me for drawing on the back of my math papers. She had a little friendly ghost puppet who made special appearances in some of the books she read to us, though I don’t recall his name. We read about Ben Franklin and his kite, which may well have been the beginning of my fascination with history. The book that stands out most firmly in my memory was the story on the origins of Smokey the Bear. A compassionate child, I was horrified to think of that poor little cub clinging to that burnt tree, his parents dead or lost in the horrifying blaze. Thus opened a vista through which I could see and hear and feel through a story.

Library day was my favorite day of the week - A tryst with the dearest love of my heart. I would slip between the bookcases and peruse the shelves, running my fingers indiscriminately along the spines of books old and young, tattered or shining, at my age level or well beyond. A title, a picture, a texture – something would catch my eye and my curiosity would not be satisfied until I could feel that book in my hands and smuggle it home with me. I would then read it from cover to cover whenever and wherever I could steal a moment to admire the pictures or taste the words upon my lips. I read Babar the Elephant, Where the Wild Things Are, Nancy Drews, Beatrix Potter, Grimm’s Fairy Tales, Hans Christian Anderson, The Red Fairy Book, the Blue one… I loved picture books for the art and the way words were matched to the page and stacked to create fun or suspense, but equally loved the more complicated plots of stories written long ago.

I don’t know when I crossed over from children’s literature to Juvenile Fiction. It was like I’d tentatively kissed a storybook and felt its gentle caress and never looked back, plunged deeply into a physical connection from which I could not easily disentangle myself. I felt and experienced, tasted, touched, dreamed and longed for more. I had no idea I was developing a vocabulary advanced for my years, learning history and plot and character development. I read because I must read; I read because I loved the worlds and lives that I could explore. I grew to love words and characters like people, and the stories became at times more real to me than the mundane round of home and school.

There was a certain influence in the form of my need to escape. Childhood was difficult. Unhappy in her marriage, my mother set aside her textbooks and became lost to me in her affair with Harlequin Romances. My father graduated college with a degree in social work or counseling, but never put it or books to use again. His desires developed toward copious amounts of alcohol. Fellow students mocked my snooty use of big words to the point that I retreated further into the books for solace. The characters might surprise me or the plot may take an uncertain turn, but always things resolved themselves in one way or another. My dearest love seldom let me down and never deserted me.

 Here in the library I found my guidance, my hold on life – I read The Secret Garden (My second grade teacher told me that it had been her favorite as a child, and I always respected the thoughts and opinions of my teachers, who seemed the only people who understood the importance of words and ideas.) One valuable lesson my father taught me was that movies could have meanings – themes – He asked us after taking us to see The NeverEnding Story what the movie had meant, and when we couldn’t come up with an answer, he said that it was that we must never give up or lose hope. I clung to that idea, and I took it further into the world of my books – what did each of them mean? What was the lesson to be learned here, and how could I use it to face the other world, the reality, that I must live in? So I read The Secret Garden, and I decided that I must always try to banish my fears and failures, worries and losses with positive thoughts and actions. I read A Little Princess because I’d liked The Secret Garden so much, and this new line of thinking led me farther into the books instead of out of them. The  idea that Sara Crewe could imagine herself a princess no matter how difficult or ugly her world became, an idealized version of a princess, of the sort that was always kind, polite, and generous toward others – and that she could imagine this hard enough to make it a reality! I pretended for a good two years after that. My inner life became more and more real to me. There I was protected; brave and strong and no one could hurt me.

By third grade, my teacher was telling my mother at conferences: “Heather lives in a world all her own – I wish I could go there sometimes, because it seems like such a nice place.” She showed my mother her revolving book rack and told her emphatically, “Heather has read ALL these books! I need to order more so she’s got new people and places to explore when she gets done with her work.” My favorite was Helen Keller’s Teacher. After all, the blind girl who accomplished so much was not nearly as fascinating as the remarkable woman who taught her. Additionally, I admired how Ann Sullivan worked her way out of poverty and near blindness herself. She was a strong woman who stood up to people when it was important to her.

In fourth grade I was reading At The Back of the North Wind, A Wrinkle in Time, Little Women, Lloyd Alexander, and The Complete Sherlock Holmes. I loved Holmes – such a clever, unorthodox man.  Every time I completed a book or series, I felt a sweet melancholy slip over me at the loss. I believe I took Holmes especially hard. I wanted to be his Irene Adler, but it was never meant to be and I mourned his passing. I’d wait a respectful amount of time before the dull emptiness gave wake to such a deep longing that I would find myself among the book stacks again, hungrily reading titles and stealing illicit glances at covers. I read books about Russia, Ireland, the Aids epidemic, biography after biography. If I saw Lawrence of Arabia, I looked up T.E. Lawrence and I read about him. If we read about Amelia Earhart in class, then I’d have to look her up at the library and read more.  I had a growing fixation with the 60’s which began with my mother’s interest in the Kennedys and ended with me reading up on any and every major historical figure I heard of from the time: Dylan and Baez, Warhol, Lenny Bruce, Martin Luther King Jr – oh, and the Beatles. Oh, they were my first loves in the music industry, so in addition to reading every awful tell-all book I could find I naturally knew all their music. I could probably write another entire blog on the 60’s – the music, the movies, the singers, actors, and major events.  I read the books on this time period and many others. Classmates came to me as much as to the Librarian if they needed to find something to read or for a report.

Fifth Grade: I'm spending the night at my friend Toni's house. She and her other friend decide that I need a makeover. They proceed to sit me in a chair and pull out all the brushes, make-up and hairspray they can find. They talk about my features, the volume and texture of my hair, and experiement on me for at least half an hour. When they get distracted, I sneak into Toni's closet. I may not know the word "objectify" at this time, but I resent the feeling that goers along with it, so  when I find Alice Walker's The Color Purple on the floor, I pick it up and read for the rest of the night.

Sixth grade and I was reading my parents’ World Book Encyclopedias. Actually, I'd been looking at the pictures since I was a small child. That year I looked up Greek Mythology, the kings and queens of England, every reference to King Arthur that I could find – one subject would have a list of sub-subjects beneath it, and I would be eagerly turning pages to discover this next treasure, on and on until I had everything read except the rather dry accounts of geography or references to mathematics.  That was the year I read To Kill a Mockingbird, and recognized in the imaginary games Scout and her brother played in the backyard my own childhood gambols with my brother, understood  that she loved books so much that she said learning to read was like learning to breathe – and envied her the calm, steady presence of Atticus Finch.

In the Seventh grade my English teacher was the esteemed Mr. Ceaderholm, a man who always struck me as better suited to the college environment than to a middle school. He treated us like adults and had high expectations for our work.  When I wrote a book report on Susan Cooper’s work, he cornered me and demanded to know why I wasn’t reading The Classics, a smart girl like me. I wasn’t sure why not, though I rather resented the implication that Susan Cooper wasn’t worthy of my time. Still, this was a challenge. I read Dickens and fell in love with Sydney Carlton. I read Jane Austin and the Bronte Sisters.  Oedipus Rex, Plato (Loved Socrates!), Wordsworth, Longfellow, Whitman, and Twain. To this day compassionate, daring and eccentric Jane Eyre is my favorite read. I adored Jane. She reminded me of myself.

In Eighth grade, I read Gone With The Wind in one night.  Strange choice, I'd think, but every year the film came to television in mini-series form and my mother would watch it while I was always sent to bed. My curiosity was aroused. Then I tried experimenting with Stephen King, but the language was shocking at the time and  Christine had me eying antique cars suspiciously for months.

I read my way through high school, read toward my dreams, read toward a better reality, read toward the future. I know plot and character development. Writing comes to me as easily as breathing. To this day find myself vexed when life doesn’t fit this pattern. I pick out conflicts, climaxes – and wait for conclusions that never quite come. My life is a series of chapters, the people I meet flat or round characters as they or I choose them to be, the setting  sometimes less than to be desired. I take everything and decide what the meaning is, and base where I go next upon what those meanings tell me. I know of no other way to live. I have a very hard time relating to people who don’t have any desire to read, who don’t love words and stories with the same passion as I do. Love is an exclusive thing, shared between two people to such an extent that no one else can comprehend what the draw is. I love reading. It excites me, interests me, and seems to know my thoughts as much as to evoke them, putting it all into words across a page – worlds across a page.

“In what earthly way is reading ever anywhere near as good or better than sex?! ” challenged a co-worker.

I smiled. “You can go as fast or as slow as you like, as deeply or emotionally involved as you want, and you don’t have to worry about the pleasure of your partner because the book needs you as much as you need the book, and the two of you share something so profoundly beautiful together than you will feel that connection for the rest of your life. It’s better than sex. It’s love.”

“You’re crazy!” he declared.

Nah.

I’m just a romantic.

 

 

Idylles of a Storytelling Pre-Teen

When I was about twelve years old, a faded volume of the poetry of Lord Alfred Tennyson fell into my posession. I read it cover to cover, but  Idylles of the King interested me most - that and a stray poem about a woman standing in a garden beside the lilacs, distraught and waiting for someone who never came. Or was it the one about the lilacs that was about the death of his brother? I must look that up, as I haven't read it since I was in the 6th grade.

My favorite thing to do was to share what I was reading with my little sisters, mini-series form, as bedtime stories each night, Thus they heard Lloyd Alexander's entire Prydian series, a western by Zane Grey, The Lord of the Rings, and various stories about The Beatles that are now embarrassing to think upon. The lights were out when I told these stories, because our parents would have kicked me right out of there if they had known to what hours I spun these tales (once in awhile they would catch me at it and this very thing would occur). Besides, I always imagined my sisters could see the story better in the dark. If I could have made a living as a travelling Bard I would have done so, but I was born in a difficult age for professional storytelling.

With Tennyson, I departed from a simple interpretation of the poems and added everything else I'd ever read that I liked, splicing in Malory, Chrétien de Troyes, Stewart,  Mary Sutcliff  and a little T H White. Any story or plotline that I didn't care for (Arthur deliberately having an affair with his half-sister - yuck!), I sent packing. I think this often happens within oral tradition, and The Tales of King Arthur have fallen prey to this selectiveness for centuries. Probably the best thing I ever did for the characters was to model them after a large disfunctional family that I knew of, and to give some of them the personalities of my siblings. After all, I had to bear my audience in mind. If my sisters giggled hysterically at something they found funny, then I milked that bit for all it was worth. If I could move them to tears, so much the better.

Because I did.

And they never forgot it, and a few years ago they made me start writing the stories down. As one sister said, "I keep picking up all these books about King Arthur, thinking to tell the stories to my own kids someday, but I can't find anything like what you told us."

Because there simply isn't.

I doubt anyone else would ever think the material worthy of publication - how many stories about knights and ladies does anyone else care to hear? But they were worth a great deal to us then. And as I attempt to recall and rewrite them, I suppose that they still are. The story as I told it was like Tennyson's in that thete was this great ideal that the king held and tried to create. The tragedy was that he asked more of human beings than they could live up to. The beauty of humanity lies in that they never stop trying.

“Sometimes I’m doing things considered crazy by others, but then my heart giggles. That’s when I know I am doing the right thing.”―Dodinsky
 

The Book of Learning and Forgetting, by Frank Smith

I love reading books on teaching by creative, daring educators with a liberal bent, and in that sense this was a great book. Written more formally than Teach Like Your Hair's on Fire, it was still a fascinating read. Here are a few thoughts upon the text...


1. Inflammatory Language: Have a Little Respect for the Intelligence of the Reader

 

This book is quite radical in many respects. If I have any objection to the material, it would be
Smith’s use of inflammatory language which certainly will never serve to change
the minds of those who really need to hear what he has to say. When he speaks of
social change and mindless conformity (p 46), he states that individual
relationships between students and teachers has all but disappeared. Not in my classroom, I say! Nor the classrooms of many other teachers I know. Another example of inflammation would be the eugenics example (p 62), which more or less compares educational psychology to the forced sterilization or mass murder
perpetuated by the Nazis in World War II, or when he claims that the induction
of psychology into the classroom eliminated all hope of students learning
values, loyalty, compassion or care (p 590.) In these respects, Smith is insulting certain
sensitive teachers by not giving them enough credit for knowing and reaching
their students. I very much doubt that any teacher is in their position for the
money. It therefore stands to reason that we teach because most of us have a
genuine liking for our students and desire to know and reach them. These types
of examples, though useful as illustrations and in many ways quite apt,
alienate more conservative readers. Having said this, I have to say that my
only other objection to Smith’s writing is that in my case he is preaching to
the choir. His use of inflammatory illustrations is actually quite deliberate.
He wants readers to be outraged at
the Official Theory of Education. He wants
educators to be incensed that proponents of the official theory don’t give them
enough credit for knowing how to teach well. He wants us to be so angry about
these issues that we decide to do
something about them. I might even go so far as to state that those who don’t
understand this point actually deserve to feel a little insulted for their
intellectual capacity. I mean, seriously, who can read about John Watson’s
claim that he could teach children whatever he wanted from birth if he had
enough control over them, and his subsequent career change to advertizing (p.
58) and not find this book vastly entertaining, if not outright amusing at
times?

2. The Literacy Club

Like the Freemasons, I know this club exists because I am a member. I know the secret

handshakes and all the tricks of the trade. I had the great privilege of having
a mother who was a voracious reader, valued education, and went to college
while I was in elementary school. We sat at the kitchen table doing our
homework together. When Mom had to cram for a Biology test, I'm convinced I got
creative bedtime stories such as “The Positive Little Proton.” I went to school
already inundated with vocabulary to the point that my classmates teased me for
sounding “like a robot.” (This was perhaps the beginning of my realization that
not everyone was in “the club” and perhaps didn’t understand it like I did.)
My ex husband, on the other hand, was not a member of the club. Given what I now
know about literacy, I’d say his teachers didn’t realize that he was dyslexic.
He would see the words and read them, but get mixed up and then forget
everything he had read. Perhaps even more detrimental to his education was the
fact that his father did not read, either, and neither parent ever read to him.
Frustrated and unhappy, deciding school was simply not for him (and by Smith’s definition
of what schools are I’d say he was right), he dropped out high school.


Given our
respective backgrounds, we were both very anxious when our son’s Kindergarten
teacher informed us that he wasn’t picking up on his reading as well as he
ought to for his age. Truthfully, we both worried that maybe dyslexia was
genetic. Additionally, I was angry and afraid because I felt helpless about
what was happening to my son in school. At home I did everything a mother
could. Since my children were infants I read to them and around them, and if
they came to me carrying a book, I dropped everything I was doing and sat down
and read to them. I read menus to them, and cookbook recipes, and if they asked
me a question I went to the library and we looked up the answers in a book.
First grade came, and still my son was not “in the club.” In fact, he was put
in the other club, Title I reading, and drawn out of the
classroom for the “extra help” he needed. And do you know why he was placed in Title I? Because he didn’t understand the portion of The Dibles with the nonsense
words! (Note p. 54 and Ebbinghaus’ laws of forgetting in relation to nonsense
words) Crushed, I watched as my son struggled and feared he would consider
himself a non-reader forever because he was being segregated and opened up for
attacks on his reading ability.
This is where I feel conflicted about what
Smith has to say: My son got better. By the end of the year, he had written and
illustrated his own sixteen paged story about a laboratory mouse, and he won
first prize in the Young Authors and Illustrators competition. Yes, it is
possible for kids to get labeled and to feel inferior, but not if it’s handled
properly. I believe more and more that educators are taking classes where these
things are discussed and they are doing things about the climate in their
classroom that encourages collaboration and peer support. I believe it because
it is what I have been learning in college myself. I'm certain if they're teaching it at a little university like Ferris, they are teaching it elsewhere

3. Testing and Rote Memorization Lead to Forgetting

I hate spelling tests. I think they are evil and quite useless. This is not because I myself

struggle with spelling. Quite the contrary: I was a member of “the spelling
club.” I seldom missed a word, and I loved
using the words correctly in a sentence, because I knew I was good with
spelling words. I also knew, and so did everyone else in the class, who was not good at spelling. Worse, they knew it, too. No amount of spelling
tests or years in school ever changed the nonspellers to spellers. I never
understood this, because I knew that spelling was simply an exercise in rote
memorization. As such, I despise spelling words on principle.
On the other
hand, I love vocabulary words. Vocabulary words are powerful and beautiful. However,
like all powerful things, vocabulary words can be abused. For example, they can
be turned into spelling words.


While I was
teaching reading, spelling tests were a required part of the curriculum and, as
a mere substitute teacher, it would appear there was nothing I could do about it.
I mentioned wistfully to the head of the English department that I thought
spelling tests were pointless exercises in memorization, and received a very
long lecture on the virtues of proper spelling in a society full of pernicious
texting in place of real literature. (This seemed a bad time to mention my
Romeo and Juliet assignment wherein students rewrote the scenes as text message
conversations that they then preformed and had to translate for me by use of PowerPoint
presentations. I learned what “BRB” meant, among other things.) When the
lecture was over, I had the nerve to suggest that there was such a thing as
spell check. At this rash statement, my colleague became positively apoplectic.
The main point is that I had no control over the use of spelling tests in that
classroom. The only control I was given was
what
words were to be spelled. Truthfully, I decided to use the vocabulary

words, and I chose the words from the book we were reading in class. Why did I
do this? Because this was how I was
taught, and in desperate times when we are backed against walls, we resort to
what we learned, and how we learned it. I hated the spelling tests because the
students who were “good” spellers wouldn’t need to study and the students who
considered themselves “bad” spellers wouldn’t try to study. I was teaching
eighth grade, and they had all already decided which “club” they were in. The
only way in which I redeemed those words was in putting them into a context and
helping the definitions make sense to the students. I used each week’s words as
often as possible in conversation, on worksheets, and in notes on the board. I
gave students extra credit for using the words in casual conversation or
finding examples of how the words were used in our books, on the news, and by
their parents. In Frank Smith’s words, I provided a framework within which the
vocabulary made sense to the students, so that they could remember them (p 33) I
know teaching methods such as this are not dead, because I learned them from one of my former teachers as
well. And I did not forget.


I remember in the fourth grade that two of my
spelling words were “mallard” and “detergent.” I don’t remember this because
the spelling test helped me learn the words. I will never forget it because I
decided that if I was going to have to use every single word correctly in a
sentence, I should try to make a story out of them. I remember the words
because my story was about a mallard duck who appeared at the door of a
detective (another spelling word) one dark and stormy night covered in suds,
coughed out the word, “Detergent!” and then died there. Thus followed a
harrowing murder mystery in which pollution was the blame. My teacher was so
amused by my story that he had me read it to the class, and from then onward I
was not only a member of the spelling club and the reading club, I was an
author, and such a talented one that my classmates begged for new stories every
time we had another spelling test. I agree with Smith that testing should be about
doing rather than data. I agree that
we should find what makes our students tick and use that to help them discover
and use their talents toward learning that is sufficiently meaningful and
significant for them that they never forget it.

4. The Official Theory Goes Online

Ten years ago I’d
have thought this chapter was ridiculous. Computers replace teachers?! Hogwash!
Now I see with these Apex classes at Big Rapids High School or in New
Directions and other alternative school settings that this is exactly what is
happening. Smith says “There is always more money for equipment than for people
(p 74),” and sadly he’s right. In fact, some schools are looking to get more of such classes, because they can
pay a paraprofessional less to monitor them than they would have to pay a
teacher. Even more tragically, this is the absolute worst demographic of students that they could possibly do this to.
The kind of students who need to attend alternative schools are the kind of
students who most need dynamic, creative teaching that inspires them to learn
for themselves. Giving up and just sitting them in front of computers is
telling them that they aren’t worth the money and effort of a good teacher,
reinforcing their exclusion from the learning “club.” I’ve subbed in these
classrooms and I’ve seen it, and it’s heartbreaking. These classrooms are
packed with students who, if you get to know them, are phenomenally talented at
art and music, or mechanics, but there isn’t enough time or money for schools
to invest in the “enrichment” courses at which they would excel. I hate what I
see happening in education but have yet to figure out exactly how to fight it.


Of course, Smith doesn’t just tell us what’s wrong with the system and leave it at that;
he does make an effort to address how to sally forth into battle against the
dragons he has demonized at the continued expense of my peace of mind. He says
that it begins in the classroom. Of course, he contradicts this statement
earlier in the book when he also states that nothing can be done in the
classroom because of the “second-hand smoke” of the official learning theory
polluting our minds and the minds of our students. I want to kick him in the
kneecaps for this pessimistic, dreary illustration, but I have to agree with it
on some level because I see it in their faces. I see it in the faces of my
students as they trudge warily into my classroom and glare at me, waiting to
see what torture will be inflicted upon them next (p. 59). Education shouldn’t
be like this, and yet there it is. They are gun-shy from whatever the other
teachers may have done to them that day, from what their parents may have done
(or not done) for years, and somehow I have to cut through all that and reach
them, teach them anyway. And, surprisingly, I do. I don’t do it in the daily,
perfect way that I strive for, but in fits and bursts of fireworks and
enthusiasm, I see it happening despite all my faults. Because Smith is exactly
right when he says that students have an innate desire to learn. We just have
to give them enough of a chance to see that they can learn. Smith provides a history of how education morphed from
what was good to what he paints as evil; and yet he doesn’t actually “throw the
baby out with the bathwater” as his inflammatory illustrations might lead one
to believe. In the end, he isn’t making any suggestions as to what constitutes
good teaching that most teachers don’t use already. If nothing else, he leaves
teachers with the question not of whether or not students are learning so much
as what they are learning – and how they are learning it. If educators were to
pay more attention to this, student learning could be taken for granted, and
the standardized classrooms and testing we could all forget.

"Meeting a man for coffee is the kiss of death," he told  me.

"That depends on what you're looking for," I replied, thinking that Death is probably not a very good kisser.

I'd be perfectly happy simply to speak with someone who has an opinion on Daniel Day Lewis playing Lincoln.

Or who has read a book recently and would love to discuss it. Discuss it with me. I love talking about literature!

To Richard

I see you there still

little vacant winter nest

stagnant, clinging stubbornly 

to the crook of that diminutive tree

 

How did that bird ever fit inside?

Did she have to squeeze herself flat 

huddled in that hard, cold minute space 

Imagining comfort there?

 

Still you hang on

empty inside 

is it worth it

what you lost in your pride?

 

Where is the bird who once lived there? 

Did she outgrow you, stretch her wings and soar? 

She is flying out farther 

than you have ever seen before

 

While still you hang tight 

dry and spare 

your empty spaces 

exposing the emptiness there.

It All Began In a Pile of Clothes at the Back of My Van

Here is a small sample of the opening of my novel.
The basic synopsis is Crazy Homeless Woman Makes Good.
The thing is, it can happen so easily, homelessness. One day you're an active member of society - one tragedy, and you're living on the streets and have become invisible.
The book gets off on a rollingly depressing start, and then really soars in the final chapters.
I'm an optimist; so sue me.
And yes, I am aware that I can't afford in real life to include even so much as one single line of Beatles music, but this is my rough draft and I'll damn well quote The Beatles if I feel like it.

Input is otherwise quite welcome.

Contents

 

I.                    This Part is Called: The Downside of Fairy Tales

 

1.       Five-Cigarette Fairy Tale

2.       Tell Cinderella She Better Watch Her Back

3.       Once A Pumpkin, Always a Pumpkin

4.       The Amazing Adventures of Ruthie On The Lam

5.       Princes Who Are Not Charming Need Not Apply

6.       Whatever Happened to Charging in On a White Horse?

7.       You Call This a Fairy Godmother?

8.       Illegally Blonde

9.       Once Upon a Time…

 

II.                  This Part is Called: When You Wish Upon a Star

 

10.   Does This Apple Taste Bitter to You?

 

III.                This Part is Called: And She Lived Happily Ever After (Although Not In the Way She Might Have Expected)

 

 

 

THIS PART IS CALLED:

THE DOWNSIDE OF FAIRY TALES

 

 

Five Cigarette Fairytale

 

I sat and stared at the round window as my clothes swirled among the suds, concentrating on the white noise of fifty washing machines in an effort to drown out the monotony of my thoughts. Little round window with my own face staring glumly back at me. Brown eyes – bloodshot. Straight hair that was too thin and wispy to be much good for anything – dirty dishwater blonde, my parents used to call it. Round, expressionless face I hardly even recognized anymore. Seriously, if I didn’t know I was staring at my own reflection, I would have thought it was someone else, while most anybody else simply wouldn’t look twice. Just one more nameless face in the city, far from home.

 I was sitting in one of many yellow plastic chairs. The brothers of the chair gaped at me from varying positions along dirty white walls. I wondered where their occupants had gone. Trick-or-Treating, maybe? The Laundromat was empty, save for its lone caretaker, a thin, angry-looking woman with dark roots and high hair who apparently had never been told that smoking was a dirty habit best done outside the establishment. I used to be the kind who didn’t tell people these things myself, so instead I sat in the chair and tried to re-focus on the front of the washing machine. A watched washing machine never boils, I thought absently. God knows you don’t need to stare at yourself a moment longer.

                I glanced at the woman behind the counter. Was she angry, or just bored out of her skull like me? The harsh lines along her lips were grooved permanently into her face, a matter of fate more than choice, I decided.

                “My kids are out Trick-or-Treating with their dad,” I announced. ”My son, Stuart- he wanted to be a Ninja Vampire. Can you believe that? I don’t know where he comes up with these things.” I was proud of him, though – proud to have such a quirky kid. “Lucy, she’s a princess. Typical little girl – but she’s sweet – loves animals.” I was talking too much – felt like an idiot, but it seemed like I hadn’t spoken out loud to anyone in two or three days now. Funny, thinking of myself as someone with no one to talk to, coming from such a big family and all.

                She glanced over at me and flicked her cigarette into a green glass ashtray on the Formica countertop that could have come right out of the living room of my childhood.

                “I know it’s just Halloween,” I apologized, “but I’ve never been without them on a holiday before.”

                The woman pressed her cigarette into the tray with such force I thought I’d offended her. She came around the counter and sat in the yellow chair against the wall beside the counter. When she spoke, it was impossible to distinguish the huskiness of years worth of smoke inhalation from the whittled dryness of years worth of harbored grudges. “I thought I’d married fucking Prince Charming or something, but then my ex-husband ran off with a damn waitress.”  I spent the next half hour listening to a harrowing story of betrayal and abuse, drenched in the woman’s bitterness more thoroughly than my clothes in the rinse cycle.  The main theme of her tale was that assholes who leave their wives for waitresses are the worst kind of assholes around, and that their children never get over it. It was a five cigarette fairytale, ending with “He has completely fucked up my poor kids for life.”

                “That’s awful,” I managed inadequately, “How long ago did he leave you?”

                I had this habit then of trying to measure the potential length of my pain against the experiences of others.

                “Thirty years ago,” she said dryly, lighting another cigarette, “The son-of-a-bitch died last year without ever having to pay a cent of child support.”

                I shoved my clothes from the dryer into my basket, eager to get out of the glare of the chair and its occupant. She stared at me significantly, seeming to expect some sort of response.

                “That bastard!” I smothered a nervous smirk on my way out the door, swearing to God if he was listening that there was no way in hell I was ever going to be that bitter thirty years down the road.

                So I can tell you right now, this is not going to be a story about how horrific shit happened to me and I came out of it a stronger, better person. In my family, shit happens to you and then you make a joke out of it and move on. Maybe it’s not psychologically sound, but it’s a hell of a lot more entertaining than the alternative. Besides, psychologically sound is not exactly my style. Instead you get the delightful story of how I handled the situation in a manner characteristic of my family’s dysfunction and fell in love with the real deal despite it all. And it’s no less happy just because I had to kill him off, either. You’ll see.

               

 

                 

 

 

 

This Chapter is Called:  Tell Cinderella She Better Watch Her Back

 

When I was younger, so much younger than today,

I never needed anybody's help in any way.

But now these days are gone, I'm not so self assured,

Now I find I've changed my mind and opened up the doors.

 

Help me if you can, I'm feeling down

And I do appreciate you being round.

Help me get my feet back on the ground,

Won't you please, please help me?

 

And now my life has changed in oh so many ways,

My independence seems to vanish in the haze.

But every now and then I feel so insecure,

I know that I just need you like I've never done before.

              

                                                             ~ Lennon/McCartney

 

It all began innocently enough. I don’t like to be alone, that’s the bottom line. I was raised in this big family. There was always someone around: My brother bursting into my room to yell something at me about the Russian Revolution; two little sisters pounding on the bathroom door; cognitively impaired older sister tapping on the door telling me, “Don’t worry. I’m your best friend. If you need anything, I’ll be right over there in my room.” All I ever wanted was a moment of privacy, time to be myself, to hear myself think. I used to lock my bedroom door and tell my sisters, “Quiet! I’m trying to ‘find’ myself!’” I didn’t understand exactly what that meant, but it sounded right. I was lost, that’s what it was. I thought I was lost in the constant din of sibling voices – Plain old Ruth, the middle child, lost in the shuffle, invisible to the naked eye whenever my brother announced some new concept to worship or my baby sister threw another tantrum. It was all bullshit, of course. Most of the Ultimate Truths I bought into as a teenager were complete bullshit.

                I might have been thinking about that the night I was lying in the backseat of my van, under a pile of clothes and garbage bags trying to keep warm, shivering. Everything I ever thought was true was utter and complete crap, and now I’d screwed up so badly I was homeless.  I might not have thought those exact words, but the idea was there, staring me in the face more relentlessly than the threat of hunger. I had more prominent things on the surface of my mind, though – like the police. What if I did manage to fall asleep out here? I was exhausted. There’d be a pounding noise on the window, a stern-faced officer peering in at me. What would he do? At best he’d tell me to drive on. “We don’t allow people to loiter around here. Move on!”

 

                 I remembered when I was seventeen at the women’s shelter, right after my mother left me there. It was dark then, too, when the police came and took the homeless woman away. Originally they’d brought her in from where they found her sleeping on the beach. Now she’d been asleep in the bed next to mine, a disheveled older woman with eyes that had been like bottomless pits when she was awake. At some point during the night, I felt her leaning over me, heard her breathing – and abruptly the lights on and they were there, a man and a woman in uniform, taking her away. I curled under the thin blanket – you know the ones - those ones that feel like felt, and have the fake satin borders around them  - and listened over the pounding of my heart as someone out in the hall whispered something about the woman being a child molester…

 

                Maybe the police would just find me a better place to sleep. That would be a relief. They’d find some shelter that was open in the middle of the night that would be willing to take me in. I could park my van somewhere around the back. I could get some kind of help.

                The thought of help made it hard to breathe right. I swallowed ineffectually and squeezed my eyes shut. Hot tears ran into my ears, tickling me. The only warmth I’d come in contact with all day. I cried harder.

                I started sort of talking to God. It’s a funny thing, how horrible things happen to some people and they get mean and cynical; while those same things happen to other people and they decide to come out of it on a more positive note. I wasn’t sure what the difference was, but in my case I started talking to God - It seemed a damn sight better than just sitting there crying, or talking to myself.  

                I listened for a moment to the sound of the cars whooshing by out on the streets – the cough of some other homeless person passing by who wasn’t fortunate enough to have a van to sleep in…

Yup, just me and God. So I said, “Hey, God?” and then I cried so much harder at the sound of my small, weak little voice in the silence of the cold van. “I’m sorry!” I wept, “I didn’t mean it! I know I messed up! Please get me out of this somehow – “I choked on the words shook convulsively under my protective pile.

                 I really needed some sleep. Tomorrow was going to be another long day trying to pull my life back together. I released my hair and grabbed what felt like a long-sleeved t-shirt. I sat up and felt around for the top of the shirt, then struggled to pull it over the sweater I was already wearing. Sure it should have gone under the sweater, but it was dark and I was cold and tired. Besides, it was too cold to take off a layer and try to get it right. I felt around and tried to yank up another piece of clothing. It came up so easily I fell back a little. Feeling the tiny buttons across the soft material, I held it to my face and cried. I scooted back down into my cocoon of clothes and wept into my daughter’s empty little shirt, clutching it in my fists like someone was going to come along and tear this from my hands, too.

                Silence.

                Except for my grief, it was still quiet.

                So quiet that I realized after a moment that I wasn’t crying anymore. I was just lying there hanging onto my hair and the baby’s shirt like an idiot, just listening to nothing.

                It occurred to me that my hands in my hair, up against my face: That was the closest thing to physical contact with living flesh that I’d felt in two months. .. I wiped my face on the shirt and blew my nose into it, feeling dirty and small for having to do it, but it’s not like there was any Kleenex in the van, or like I could have found it if there was.  Worse, there was no baby to wear the shirt, anyway. I sighed heavily; trying to shed the weight on my soul and stave off more tears, then reached out and pulled at another piece of clothing – jeans. Crap. Those were as cold as the upholstery. I felt around again and came up with what felt like another sweater, only this time I wrapped it around my shoulders and lay down with it. One sleeve was tucked around the shoulder pressed against the back seat, while I pulled the other one across my back and around to my chin. It felt almost like someone was holding me, if I closed my eyes and imagined hard enough.

And that’s how it started, really – with me homeless, crying under a pile of clothes in my van, parked outside the back of the old abandoned K-mart. Alone. Scared. Freezing. I closed my eyes and sort of pathetically imagined someone holding me. The back of the seat - that’s where he was. I don’t know why I had to go and decide it was a he, but there he was, lying there with me and just holding me, breathing in and out against my back and telling me everything was going to be all right. “Hey,” he said, “Ruthie, don’t cry. It’s going to be just fine. Trust me. You’re not alone, and you’re gonna get out of this, all right? You cry whenever you need to, but don’t you ever give up.” I know it sounds crazy, but it was kind of like talking to God again, only this time he was talking back. Anyway, I just defy you to be raised on Disney movies and then end up homeless and alone and see how you handle it. You come up with something better in the same situation, you let me know.  Not being the Cinderella type, all I could do was imagine this Prince Charming guy existed and kind of liked me. With my fabulous self-esteem, this was the best I could come up with at the time. It was a damn sight less self-indulgent than lying there asking God why he let me get into this situation in the first place.

 

The Parable of the Chickens

In the case of standardized testing, we have somewhat of a chicken and the egg scenario where it is difficult to determine which issue came first. Certainly since the beginning of public education, it has been deemed necessary to have evidence of learning so as to separate the good eggs from the bad eggs. Therefore, some politicians or businessmen (what’s the difference?) got together and decided that they must test students to see who was to sit at the governors’ tables and who was to work on the farm to fetch them their eggs benedicts for breakfast (Smith p. 61, Bracey p. 42 & 113, Garan p. 7 & 15). For want of a better way of comparing one egg to another, standardized testing was born, and for want of better testing results, teaching to the standardized test was born, and for want of the best teaching toward the tests, scripted curriculum became part of the “solution,” and all for want of someone to step forward and say “Stop! Wait just a minute here! This isn't the education I want for my children!” (Bracey, p. 15) In fact, the parents who could have and should have said “Stop! Wait just a minute – etc.” didn't think to come forward because they were too busy fetching those eggs and thinking surely the politicians and businessmen knew better than they did. (Garan, p. 3) And when it appeared that the politicians and businessmen might be wrong, the farmers turned their attention to the chickens. (Bracey p. 22)

                Teachers, meantime, tried to teach. For a time, they attempted to hide in their individual coops and avoid the wrath of the farmers, tried to help foster a love of learning in their students (Smith p. 28) because they understood that “useful learning doesn’t take place when we separate it from our normal lives and knuckle down to serious study (Smith p. 13).” Increasingly, however, the pressure was on for teachers to teach to the standardized tests by virtue of wishing to remain employed and receive funding from the government for their schools. (Garan p. 28 & 84) If teachers have not bought into the official theory of learning, then they have certainly been forced to bow down to it. (Smith p. 29, Garan p. 12)Now it seems more and more students are taught in batches with scripted texts via computer feeds (Garan p. 85, Smith p. 73) to save money and, when they are thoroughly conformed, run out of the buildings on conveyer belts and packed into egg cartons to be shipped to various stores for consumption.

What is behind this mass production of eggs?  Smith and Garan say that the politicians and businessmen are not, in fact, attempting to improve education with their standardized tests and curriculum, but actually deliberately producing students who are trained not to think, question, or break the status quo. Meantime, bad eggs are generally reabsorbed by the chickens and used as fodder.  (Bracey p. 113) These “bad eggs” are the students who have been made to feel as if they are not part of the “literacy club.” As such, they need their sense of self worth to be reinforced, and this is done by “engaging them in activities that they find comprehensible, interesting, and confidence-building (Smith p.36).” As an undergraduate, one of the teachers I interviewed referred to this as “blowing sunshine up their asses,” I suppose because it didn’t meet the rigorous standards imposed upon us by the traditional theory of learning (Smith p. 69). And, frankly, I think Smith’s classic theory of learning sounded suspiciously like fun to that teacher, something I imagine he hadn't had in a very long time. (Smith p. 2) To his mind, students needed “more rigidly controlled” environments – when what they really need is more time, more help, and more encouragement (Smith p. 64). This teacher felt I had “bought into” a fantasy world that Ferris State University had fed to me in which there were no farmers, and the chickens were free to do with their eggs as they chose.

                Happily, there are experts who have researched how eggs grow and develop best, and really there is no magic or fantasy about it. Smith, Garan, and Kohn talk about how people are under the misconception that learning is achieved through some rigorous, contrived effort to memorize isolated facts, which the standardization movement surely would support in the minds of parents, students, and the occasional misguided teacher. (Smith p. 5, Garan p. 36 & 142, Kohn p. 7) It is from this vision of education that worksheets stem, although Garan rightly points out that they only “require low-level basic skills instead of high-level creative thinking” and that students can “quickly tune into the worksheet format and can often complete the skill pattern that’s required without thinking (p. 77).” I get the mental image of a group of eggs underneath a heat lamp rather than individually cared for by the seat of some chicken’s pants. Smith contends that standardized testing is not necessary because “you can see whether people are learning by observing what they are doing (p. 61. Kohn, p. 6 ).”  Smith adds that “classic learning” best takes place within a meaningful context without need of rote memorization at all. (p. 5) Israel Sheffler furthers this idea by speaking of education as “the facilitation of understanding, the development of taste and discrimination, the stimulation of curiosity and wondering…the growth of a thirst for new ideas and visions of the yet unknown (Bracey p. 43).”

 Another important point that Smith and Bracey both make about the eggs is that they really are not all alike, and learn best when someone takes the time to discover their individuality and teach to it. (Smith p. 36, Bracey p. 187) Smith and Garan agree that it is important to include students in their own education, be honest with them, to listen to them, and to “discuss the pressures of school and guide them through it (Garan p. 61).” If this is not done, the eggs think that they are not “part of the club,” and develop the impression that they don’t wish to be. (Smith p. 28) In my experience, these particular eggs often get labeled as “bad,” and are truly not included in the educational experience, neither by administrators, teachers, or even their parents. They are considered what Garan terms “the losers” in the standardized, high-stakes environment of schools. (p. 34, Kohn, p. 16) Smith views this as a sad commentary on how the classroom “that can’t cope with students of different mental, physical, and cultural abilities is a microcosm of a society that doesn’t respect such differences (p. 99).” Toward some solution to this problem, Garan talks about teaching students to work in groups and “assume the responsibility for their social as well as their academic behavior (p. 112).”  There is a responsibility for the teacher to create a safe environment where students can explore their ideas and emotions verbally and in print without the fear of red marks or poor scores for not getting it “right.” As an educator, I have strived to provide a safe, creative environment for every classroom I have entered, in nearly every lesson I have taught. You cannot imagine the unparalleled joy I felt upon getting an opportunity to teach as I had been trained and to find out that it all worked. There are few things in life as rewarding as finding out what inspires a student and enabling them to use that to their advantage, and no scripted curriculum or standardized test can do that for you.

                When I accepted a “permanent” substitute teaching position at a middle school late last year, the first thing I noticed as I walked the halls was that they were plastered from wall to wall with student-generated posters transcribed with anti-bullying slogans. This seemed promising. My mission, as I had chosen to accept it, was to teach the second half of To Kill a Mockingbird “to” the Eighth Grade Reading class. (The first half had already been covered by the previous two “Permanent” substitutes) I soon found that in this school, the test had essentially become the curriculum. (Kohn, p. 29) I was given a calendar (My Teaching Bible) and a Magic Binder which included all my “Lesson Plans,” consisting primarily of worksheets and standardized tests to go with each chapter (Garan p. 84). These two tools, I was informed, were specially designed to coincide with the standardized testing and would practically teach the class for me. All I had to do was maintain discipline.

                What I actually encountered was a room full of bored, angry, distrustful students who had been “reading” To Kill a Mockingbird independently since October. It was now mid-March. Most of them did not remember any of the events of the first half. They told me that their previous substitute had told them that it was admittedly boring and not all that important that they recall every last detail of the first half of the novel, since basically all it was doing was setting up characters and describing where the main characters lived. Shaken, I checked my calendar to see what “The Bible” said we should be doing on March 17^th. It read, “Read Chapters 12-15.” I flipped through the book until I found the quote I wanted and read loudly, “You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view--until you climb into his skin and walk around in it.”

                They stared at me blankly.

                I put “The Bible” in a desk drawer, ran to the front of the room where I could see everyone better and sat down on an empty table facing the class. Thirty suspicious eyes glared at me, daring me to ask them to read Chapters 12-15 quietly at their desks. “Let’s play a game,” I said.

                Thirty pairs of eyes looked studiously indifferent.

                “I’m going to tell you two horrible lies about myself, and then one thing that is true. Then I want you to guess what is the truth about me.” I told them about the time that I was stopped for not having my lights on at twilight and a mouse had made a nest of my proof of insurance. I told them about my modest career as a published poet, and how my cousin used to stalk Michael Jackson before his security got too tight. They all bought the poet story, so it was with great pleasure that I informed them that a mouse had, indeed, eaten my proof of insurance. 
“Now I want you to tell stories to me,” I said, “Make a game of it – see how many of you can fool me. If the majority of the class tricks me, no reading homework today.” Most popular game ever – even more successful than 7-Up. One especially smart tyke asked me afterward how they were ever supposed to trust me again now that they knew what a convincing liar I was. I told her that it was because they were going to learn that, while I am a good storyteller, I am also one who cares. Beginning with those anti-bullying posters. I’d learned a lot from our game that most of the class may not have picked up on. I learned that some kids had foster homes, some of them had only one parent, some of them hated reading, many of them were poor, and a lot of them were being horrifically bullied despite all the signs. Because of these observations, I was thrilled that we were going to be reading To Kill a Mockingbird. But I didn't tell them that. I told them that because they were such great storytellers too, we weren't going to do any reading tomorrow, either. We were going to do one of their favorite things: An online personality quiz about themselves.

                I found out a few other things that day. I found out that I had 130 students and only 25 copies of To Kill a Mockingbird. I found out that I didn't have regular access to the computers, and that there were only eight of them in the lab. I found out that my overhead screen that connected to my computer was missing and would not be replaced before the end of the school year. Why? Well, some said it was for lack of funding, for want of good standardized test scores in the State of Michigan. I didn't have time to worry about why. I made copies of 130 Multiple Intelligence Tests and Interest Inventories. I called the public library and the college and the ISD and also contacted a personal connection to see about getting more books in the classroom.

               The next day, I told the students that I couldn’t teach them because I didn’t know them yet (and they couldn’t learn from me because they didn’t trust me yet), so we were going to do these tests and then go from there. I found out that even though D----- had a bad reputation as an Emotionally Impaired kid with a temper, he was very artistic. I found out that even though A----- was disruptive and constantly grabbing for attention, he had excellent leadership skills. I found out that even though B----- was the worst bully in the school, he actually had an acute sense of justice and an eye for the big picture. I found out that even though R----- came from the resource room, he loved history. S----- was known as a failing student with poor social skills who had just come “out of the closet,” but he had an amazing sense of the dramatic. My theory had not changed since undergraduate school: If I “blew sunshine up their asses,” my students were going to learn better than they ever had before with all their worksheets and cookie cutter curriculum. I didn't have enough books, so I sat up each night typing out Reader’s Theater. I held auditions and I paired up kids according to their skills. I differentiated instruction so that group members all had different projects that came together as a whole grade for them.

With our first group assignment, the class decided to test me with bizarre disruptive behavior, primarily led by A-----. After class, “A” was posting signs all over my bulletin boards that said, “A is Awesome!” and “Everyone Loves A!”  I called him over to my desk and told him that I really admired his leadership skills and was wondering if he could help me get the class on board with the Reader’s Theater, because I was pretty sure there was a great part in there for him, and we weren't going to get anywhere if we didn't get started on it. End of problem.

Soon I had “D” making sets that correlated with descriptions from the novel, “B” demanding to play Atticus Finch because he admired his courage, “R” making elaborate speeches as Judge Taylor and also doing research on the historical background of the novel, and “S” happily all set to be my special actor chosen to play the part of Boo Radley because he “understood what it meant to be an outcast and misjudged by people who didn't even know him.” He even led an activity where everyone drew on the board their vision of what Boo Radley must look like, based on Jem’s description from the novel. Imagine their eventual surprise and S-----‘s personal satisfaction when they found out what a wonderful, if eccentric, person Boo Radley could be – once you really got to know him.

                In short, everyone really got excited about that book. I even caught “A,” who considered himself a non-reader, reading it outside of class in the hallway during lunch because, as he put it, “We’re reading it too slow in class – I want to find out what happens!” 

The toughest part of the entire experience was when we did the courthouse scene. There were students on one side of the courthouse tallying up the evidence against Tom Robinson and there were students on the other tallying up the evidence for him – And to my amazement, the majority of the class were not good enough at predicting to realize that Tom Robinson was going to lose. I had kids throwing their scripts across the room. Poor “D” just put his head down for two days and refused to speak to me. 

Two of the best things that came out of this experience: 1.) “B” apparently went on facebook and publicly apologized to “S” for judging him “without walking in your shoes first,” and 2.) All of those kids knew that story when it was time for their final test. I must admit a personal victory for me was when the student with autism was struggling to answer questions based on his feeling and opinions, I got with the special education teacher and created a test that covered significant facts instead --When he found out he'd passed it, he looked briefly right into my face and shot me a quick smile. It was the first time he’d ever made eye-contact. 

Significantly, whenever I felt rushed for time and used the handouts from the Magic Binder instead of tailoring lesson plans to suit my students, they did poorly on those same tests. On handout weeks, students had to memorize the information covered on their worksheets and then spit them out for the test. They were much better at remembering information that they had drawn, acted, laughed over, or debated in groups. This information they compiled into their long term memories, and I imagine many of them will never forget it, just as I will never forget the teacher who had me dress up as Socrates, lead a debate about social justice, and tell my classmates what it’s like to question authority and drink hemlock for it. I think Bracey held it best when he quoted Mann: “If you teach people right… they will love to learn (Bracey 177).”

Did we finish the novel at the time “The Bible” dictated that we should?  Did we do every worksheet in the Magic Binder? Does it really matter? Nobody cares but the farmers. In a sense, I have raised more questions than answers; questions like “What constitutes learning or educational success? How do we measure this?”  It takes more than just a good egg to figure out the answers to questions like that, let alone think to ask them in the first place: It’s time the chickens came out of their coops and started asking these questions again, for the sake of the eggs.