Category Archives: encore

And More Awareness

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Today’s political climate is scary in that so many seem to have forgotten the fights that have already been fought. Seeing so many attempts to return women to a marginalized group (I can’t bring myself to say “minority”) reminds me of a story from not-really-so-long ago. The original title was “Being a Woman”. Here it is, courtesy of Grandma Daisy. 

I almost posted a quiz – a list of feminist slogans and quotes along with a list of years, with an opportunity for readers to match the two. Instead, I offer you an chance to reminisce about creativity in the feminist movement. Remember the Barbie Liberation League? In the 1990s….Grandma Daisy does this sort of storytelling best, so here she is.

Oh, children, your world is different, thank goodness. I lived through a fascinating and yet difficult time we called the Women’s Movement, or Women’s Liberation, Women’s Lib for short. We reminded lawmakers and voters that we are people, endowed with basic human rights along with our, ahem, voluptuous figures. To put it bluntly, we didn’t need balls to make good decisions about …. oh, your mother is listening. I can’t say that in front of you young ones., so back to the history behind the story. We had rallies, we held demonstrations. We ran for office ourselves instead of waiting for men to take care of our needs. We worked to pass laws that protected our right to make health care decisions.We built awareness of the importance of birth control and how much that birth control meant for our freedom, our liberation. We fought for equal pay for equal work. Laws passed, medications improved, but attitudes were harder to change. 

Sometimes women got creative to make a point. The Barbie Liberation League was one such example. We females were determined to be good students and make it “cool” to be smart. Math and science were supposedly men’s territory, so girls had some catching up to do. Adult role models like teachers and nurses pushed us young ones to go farther, higher, faster into the world of advanced math and sciences. 

Barbie dolls. You know the doll, right? Of course. They’re at the bottom of your sister’s closet with the rubber ducky and the worn out blankie she won’t throw away. Barbie, the doll with the unrealistic figure (39-21-33 at 6 feet tall were the proportional measurements, if you’re into trivia) was a favorite of many young girls. Girls knew she wasn’t realistic, but some tried too hard to look like her and became anorexic. A doll for a role model? Well, it happens.

When the Talking Teen Barbie came out, she had a limited vocabulary. Unfortunately, the people who programmed and recorded Barbie’s phrases had been in a fog throughout the entire women’s movement. Take a look at these examples.

Will we ever have enough clothes?

I love shopping!

Math class is tough.

Wanna have a pizza party?

In the old toy store aisles, G.I. Joe was a parallel type of doll, er, action figure, on the little boy side. His vocabulary was macho and tough – what they called “all male” back then. 

This is going to be rough. Can you handle it?

I’ve got a tough assignment for you!

Mission accomplished. Good work, men!

The Barbie Liberation League took action. They bought Talking Barbie and Talking G.I. Joe from toy stores, swapped out the voice boxes, and then repackaged the dolls and returned them to the stores. Little boys and little girls got Barbies that said, “Vengeance is mine!” and G.I. Joes that suggested, “Let’s plan our dream wedding.” When Joe proclaimed “Math class is tough”, it sounded ludicrous.

Well, darlings, that was the point. If a man couldn’t say it without sounding idiotic, why should a woman repeat that phrase and internalize that philosophy? Talking Barbie wasn’t pulled off the market, but the feminists and the Barbie Liberation League had made their point. Being female didn’t mean being less intelligent. It still doesn’t. 

Anyway , my grand-precious ones, some day I’ll tell you what we did when the guys at our college claimed that women couldn’t play jazz. Hah! We showed them, all right. Now go practice your trombone, and I’ll tell you that story later. 

 

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The Awareness Series: let’s move on, already.

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From fall of 2012 — I still feel this way. The first in a three- day series, Awareness Encores.

Breast Cancer Awareness is all over the networks – at least it’s all over ESPN, NFL Network, NBC, CBS, and Fox Sports. Guess it yet? The NFL is blowing the horn to the tune of Pink – massive pinkness in the most macho of arenas.

Pink Gatorade towels. Pink shoe covers. Pink wristbands. Pink cleats, chin straps, and ribbon decals. Pink whistles for the (real) referees, for heaven’s sake. And why?

The purpose of all this pink on the turf is supposed to make all NFL football fans think about breast cancer. Be Aware. Know it’s there.

I can’t help it. My inner cynic is screaming “Enough with the pinky dances already!” My inner cynic, for those who don’t know, is very tuned in to breast cancer in the realm of early detection through mammograms. I’m more than aware of radiation studies, chemo, reconstruction – you name it, friends and family in real life have lived it. Yes, Mom, my latest mammogram was once again normal.

Before readers denounce me as a Bah Humbug, my inner cynic must look into its own wardrobe for two (at least two) pink t-shirts designed by an art teacher who was raising money for the Avon Walk in Chicago. I also own a pink polo shirt with the Green Bay Packers logo on it and the famous pink Packers baseball cap pioneered by Deanna Favre. Both of these items sold out quickly, and not just for Deanna. We still liked Brett back then, but we who bought pink knew a significant portion of our purchase money would go toward breast cancer research.

Well, readers, you might recognize my tone already. I have contributed to breast cancer research through purchases of t-shirts, baseball caps, and just simply by donating to sponsor my amazing friends who walked the walks. So why, why would I complain about the wealthy NFL putting its pink on parade to bring attention to breast cancer for Breast Cancer Awareness?

I complain because awareness is the lowest form of knowledge. Awareness means we know it exists. Awareness means, hey, look at that guy, he’s man enough to put on pink wristbands. This pink thing must be important. What does the pink stand for again?

Awareness doesn’t mean understanding, public support, private support, or personal support. The biggest anticlimax is that all that pink doesn’t mean financial support.

I’ll pose a few questions.

The NFL plans to auction off pink gear to raise money. How much will they raise? How much do they hope to sell? What percentage of the proceeds will actually become donations? And to whom will those donations go?

How much did Gatorade spend on those towels? I’d venture a guess that it could have funded many mammograms for women who don’t have medical coverage. Those dollars might have made up for some of the bucks that Susan B. Komen foundation tried to pull from Planned Parenthood – money that funded just that.

How about those pink whistles? Cute, huh? Cute, however, doesn’t pay the bills when a woman is recuperating from reconstructive surgery. Putting the bucks directly into a fund for follow-up care would go much further than the whistle-stop campaign.

The hot pink shoes, wow, they really show up well on TV hoofin’ their way toward the end zone or during a dramatic kickoff or punt return. But again, at what cost? How much good could that money do if it were used for research toward saving lives?

Okay, NFL, you know I’m a fan. I’m a true blue green and gold cheesehead shareholder type. I’ll keep watching games, pink or no pink. The token pink, though, still irritates me.

Let’s see the teams and their officials and their coaching staff wear the regular colors and have the organization instead make a more-than-token donation to breast cancer research. Maybe when public groups like football teams move beyond the pink ribbons and towels we as a society can admit that research and treatment will gain more from a sizable infusion of cash than from muscular young men sporting hot pink shoelaces.

Until then, maybe I’ll stick to listening to my beloved Packers on the radio for the rest of October.

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One Child A Year

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This post and the philosophy it describes came to mind recently. It came up in the context of a team meeting, and then it came to mind again when I was choosing writing samples for my Amtrak Residency application. I settled on two posts: Death and Drama, the day the sirens stopped outside our office windows, and a post with a more positive outlook, One Child a Year. Here’s the post, updated slightly to have the correct number of years teaching. Enjoy.

Beginning teachers want to change the world, put their hearts into their work, matter to someone, somehow. I have come to realize that there are limits, big limits, to the good I do through my teaching. And when it comes down to changing a life, having an impact on a child’s future, a wise co-worker told me to expect to make a difference once a year. One child a year.
At first it sounds callous, minimizing. Realize, however, that we’re not talking about everyday teaching. I teach the entire class to read, to write, to handle long division. But a life-changing impact? An impact that changes the route students will take, puts them on a path to success — or not — doesn’t happen nearly as often as idealists think.
Now, in my nineteenth year of teaching, I wonder who those children are and were. I may never know. A few may touch base with me again. Most won’t or can’t. Many don’t even realize that a teacher, any teacher, turned them around and set them in the right direction.
The victim of bullying who learned to take control might join the list. Then there’s the slacker with a high IQ who earned his first D or F and finally learned study skills. The late bloomer who discovered her favorite book ever on my shelves and realized she loved to read may feel that connection as well. But those are the easy ones.
The child whose family was evicted from their apartment, the family I helped find services for the homeless, won’t ever know that I made a difference. Her parents are too busy keeping a roof over their heads and feeding the kids to think about teachers, and that’s exactly where their priorities belong. The depressed tweens that I referred for help? The counselor made a bigger difference than I did, and again that’s just as it should be. The student who struggled with math and finally, finally “got” fractions under my watch, may be the one child for that year. Or not. It might have been the quiet student, the one who sat in the back and listened intently, absorbing everything he heard, but never saying a word.
So I keep on plugging, planning for class, differentiating for those who need it, and hoping. I hope as well that maybe, just maybe, I made a difference for someone, somehow, each year.

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Political Parties – an encore post, mostly

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My students have been learning about the Articles of Confederation and the events and debates and compromises leading up to the writing and ratification of the United States Constitution. I’ve been correcting their tests lately, and the essay questions and their thoughtful or not-so-much answers have kept me thinking. I share with you an encore post, and I promise I plan to collect this year’s responses and form a new post.

I can’t post the specific question, but I’ll just tell you that they were discussing the creation of the Constitution and interpreting George Washington’s warning against the destructive nature of political parties.

Actual student answers:
-“I think Washington wanted people to be happy and to work as a team.”
Can this student run for office some day? Please?
 
-“They would disagree on things because they would have different opinions and they would argue a lot.”
Run-on sentence aside, she was predicting the future with amazing accuracy.
 
-“It creates tensions and the good that could be done is lost in the arguments of each party’s plans.”
Another candidate for office someday – governor, perhaps.
“Washington knew that if the country split into political parties, then the country would be more split up and there would be too many disagreements.”
Politicians, stand warned. This student and others like him will be voting before you know it.
 
It’s time, it’s well past time, to start cooperating. Bipartisan collaboration would be a good start, but in all honesty, nonpartisan cooperation would be even better.
I’m sure George would agree.
Now back to the gradebook to grade the section on Shay’s Rebellion.

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Don’t Stop Believing

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A favorite memory from teaching 6th grade

The entire school was bouncing. I expected the building itself to go boing, boing, boing any time, with the amount of pre-holiday energy inside it. One of our specialists commented, “Ms. M. has the ‘too-cool-for-school’ class this year, and you have the energetic one.” She was right. My class, full of really nice kids from wonderful parents, has turned into the elementary equivalent of Animal Planet. Since tranquilizer darts are frowned upon in public schools (I’m KIDDING, I’m kidding!), I had to resort to creative drama to bring them to attention.
My class, as a whole, had been quiet exactly twice the previous day.
The questions of the day revolved around Christmas and Santa. All. Day. Long. “Is Santa real?” “How many reindeer does Santa have?” “Is Santa Claus real?” “How did all this Santa stuff start, anyway?” “Is Santa real?”
They were 6th graders, ages eleven and twelve. They were old enough to know the truth, but did they? I couldn’t take a chance on destroying someone’s innocence and having their parents hit the roof. So I gave them my stock answer: it depends on who you ask. Well, that didn’t last long.
During my graduate program, I took a class in storytelling from a professional storyteller. I relied on those skills to get the students’ attention. When they asked me how many reindeer there were, I stopped, put on my hmmm, there’s a story in here somewhere pose, and waited for quiet. Amazingly, quiet descended almost immediately.
“How many reindeer? Well, it depends on who you ask. If you ask Clement C. Moore, he’d have said Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen, Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, and Vixen.” They were almost nodding along with me. Some were counting on their fingers. “Now of course you recall the most famous reindeer of all.”
“Rudolph!” they chimed in.
“And Rudolph makes nine. But there’s a tenth reindeer, too. Do you know her name?”
One highly gifted child knew. “Olive!!!”
Yes, Olive the other reindeer… you know, the one who “…used to laugh and call him names.”
And that was just math class.
The “Is Santa real?” question wouldn’t die. They finally cornered me during Classroom Guidance on my “It depends on who you ask” with the statement “We’re asking you.”
Thank goodness for the Internet.
I found a copy of Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus, told them the story, and read them the editorial. For those few moments, they were spellbound.

That year my class left me exhausted and happy every single day. They wore me out with their energy, and they energized me with their enthusiasm. And every year around this time, I remember the way they listened and absorbed my answer to their question. This year, I’ll quote Journey and the Glee cast: Don’t stop believing.

from Facebook

from Facebook

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Testing – one, two, three

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Test Booklets en masse

Test Booklets en masse

This is the last year for the boxes upon boxes of test booklets. We’re not done testing, by any means, but the tests themselves are changing. Next year, when we’re all set up, I’m sure I’ll post an overview. In the meantime, I guess we’ll just reminisce about The Way Testing Was.

It’s that time of year again! State testing. The Wonderful Knowledge and Concepts Exam. Criterion Referenced Items (a.k.a. WKCE-CRI). Rubrics. Fill in the bubble next to the correct answer choice. Make sure you erase completely and make your new mark heavy and dark. Use only a number 2 pencil. Any questions? You have 40 minutes. Begin.

I teach in a public virtual charter school, an online school, and my students live all over the state of Wisconsin. Since we can’t expect all of them to come to us, we go to them for the required tests. After a day of laundry and raking leaves, I put on my test season sweatshirt (above), packed my bags, and got ready to go.

My destination: a hotel near a major metropolitan area with conference room or rooms that will hold all of our area students. Four of my colleagues and I set up camp in our hotel rooms, including connection to the hotel wi-fi and an in-depth investigation of the in-room coffee makers. We had supper in the bar (the hotel restaurant was out of our price range), checked out the conference rooms for size and set-up, and then settled into our hotel rooms again to relax.

I set out my clothes for the next day — casual, yet teacher-dressy — including my school name badge (so parents will know who I am) and my district ID (in case the state agency decides to audit us). I’m ready.

In the morning, students armed with number 2 pencils will arrive, ready to attack their test booklets.


I hope they all remember that multiple choice items have only one answer, and they should make their marks heavy and dark.

And I sure hope I can forget this repetitive test proctor speech so it stops running through my head and invading my dreams at night!

This year was slightly different for me. Instead of being a proctor and reciting directions all day long, I gave a presentation for learning coaches (usually parents) called Tips for Teaching Reading. We had a small turnout, but the parents were attentive and asked thoughtful questions. After that, I assisted with benchmark reading assessments. Now and then I supervised students in between test sessions or made sure they connected with their parents as they finished. And once in a while…
Yoga Break!

Yoga Break!

…I watched as my colleague led the high school students in a few sun salutations. Now that’s a test break!

 

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Writer’s Block? Not me.

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I’ve just been low on time while I make sure that no child remains untested in the fair state of Wisconsin. But meanwhile, something I submitted wound its way through the review process, back to my desk, and back to the review process and eventually out of the pipeline onto my employer’s national blog.

You can read it here. 

Or you can look into the archives of Compost Happens and find the original here. 

I used to use this example to teach my face to face students in the brick and mortar schoolroom that thinking like a writer meant opening their minds and noticing the world around them. The reviewers and editors interpreted that as “Carry a notebook.” Really, readers, that’s only one small postage-stamp size corner of the picture. Thinking like a writer means that I look up, not down. I look around and imagine. I look at that pile of dirt next to the porch and think, “Rock garden.” Where others see dirt, I see soil.

And when something interesting happens, I think “Blog!” Or I should say I think Blog! if Amigo hasn’t already said, “Mom, you should blog this.” He thinks like a writer, too.

So, peoples in Interweb Land, how does your outlook provide you with entertainment and/or writing fodder? Do you carry a tiny memo book in your bag?

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The Mane Attraction: Encore, updated

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It’s happening again, dear readers. A coworker and close friend starts radiation today to treat breast cancer. She’s a very strong woman, and the entire office is throwing our moral support her way.

Remember the Lions of the Valley project? More than a few years have passed since The Lion King made its appearance in our fair city. Here is one example of creativity and caring. Another friend and coworker teamed up with another artist friend to decorate this fiberglass lion. The lion’s title is lengthy, but straight to the point: Breast Cancer Survivors: Not an Endangered Species.”

It’s now several years later, and the lion is still pink, I think. It’s been moved from its former sponsor to a hospital’s entrance, and the pictures have been painted over. I’m a little sad about that. It was the humanity of the design that made it work for me. But in any case, the lion still lives, and so do many multitudes of those who had breast cancer. Had. Past tense.

Did I mention that I know four of the women pictured on the lion? Eat your heart out, Jeff Probst — these women are the real survivors.

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Encore; an open letter to the healthy recipe master, Zorba

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Originally posted in September of 2009, this post showed my reaction to what could have been a great recipe, but was only good. I have an abundance of corn right now, and I even have dill, the one ingredient I skipped last time.

An open letter to Zorba Paster of Public Radio fame:

Dear Dr. Paster (May I call you Zorba?); I enjoy your heart-healthy recipes. I find most of them delicious and practical. I often print out the good ones on Saturday morning as I’m making my list for the Farmers’ Market. When I heard Summer Vegetable-Corn Chowder, my reaction was “MMmmmm! Must make this!”

But Zorba, there were a few weak spots in this one. I present it here to share with my readers, complete with my own Daisy-style commentary.

2 potatoes, peeled and diced (What kind of potato? Russet? Red? Yukon gold? Blue?)
1/4 cup leeks, sliced thinly (I’ve never cooked with leeks before. This will be fun.)
1/4 cup red onion, diced
1/4 cup celery (feed the leftovers to the rabbits, of course)
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 Tablespoon margarine
2 cups low-sodium broth (my homemade broth is low sodium, but somewhat higher in fat)
2 Tablespoons cornstarch
4 cups skim milk
2 16 oz. cans Corn (Cans? Zorba, it’s harvest season! Get fresh corn! Cans? No way.)
1 cup evaporated skim milk
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon hot pepper sauce
1/4 cup parsley, minced (this came from the garden, and the bunnies got the leftovers)
1 Tablespoon Dill Weed (garden produce, too)

But wait – before we even start. Dr. Zorba, this recipe aired in late August. Really. Think about it. What do gardeners and farmers’ markets have in abundance in late August? Zucchini!! Where’s the zucchini in this recipe? And how about herbs? They’re all over, fresh as can be. 
I added 1/2 cup grated zucchini and at least a Tablespoon each of thyme and oregano and rosemary. The house (and my hands while cooking) smelled wonderful.

Back to business. In a large soup pot over medium heat, add chicken broth, potatoes, leek, onion, and celery. Add in margarine and garlic. Cover and simmer 25 minutes, stirring frequently.
In a saucepan, dissolve cornstarch in cold skim milk. Whisk over medium high heat until thickened, and then whisk into soup pot. Add corn (cans? Hmph, I used fresh corn), evaporated skim milk, salt, and hot pepper sauce to pot. Simmer uncovered for 15 minutes. Stir occasionally to thicken the chowder. Don’t allow to boil! Serve warm in bowls, topped with parsley and dill.

I had fairly good luck with this recipe. I wish I had cut it in half. It says “serves 6” and they mean it. I was feeding three, and I could have halved the recipe and still haved, er, had plenty. 
It wasn’t thick enough for my taste – I like my chowders thick and creamy – but I think that was my fault. I was feeling impatient and hungry and the teenager was too, so I rushed the cornstarch and milk step. Had I given it more time, the chowder might have been thicker. As it was, the soup was still delicious and the house smelled heavenly. 

Really, Zorba, I like going to your web site and finding full nutritional details for the recipe along with many other heart healthy selections. Right now I’m searching for recipes with fresh vegetables, and this one fit the bill.

But really. Canned corn? Bleh.

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Encore: Mom, Where does Zucchini come from?

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Originally posted in 2009. This year I didn’t plant zucchini, and I still have plenty. My coworker brought in a grocery bag full from her over-producing vines. I took two, and she offered more. Here’s the story of the Origins of Zucchinis.

Once upon a time, a very long time ago, about last May, there was a patch of dirt behind the garage. Mom dug in the dirt and called it Soil and planted many, many seeds. Then she watered, pulled out weeds, watered, pulled out weeds, and watched with pride as the many shades of green stems and leaves emerged from the ground. The stems and leaves and vines grew and grew until a forest grew all around and it became the place where the wild things are. Wait, that’s another story.

It was eventful along the way in that little patch of vegetables. A wood chuck paid a surprise visit.  A rabbit squeezed inside through a small opening. Mom fixed the fence and hung old computer CDs to help scare away the critters, hoping all along that the bees would still come by to pollinate the squash blossoms. Pollinators, rumor has it, are not afraid of Windows 3.1.

What’s a squash blossom? Well, honey, it’s this flower: the one that magically changes into a baby zucchini if the birds and the bees stop by at the right time. Ahem. Let’s stop right there. There’s a fiddle tune called Squash Blossom Reel, I think. Let’s look for it tomorrow on YouTube.

Well, little one, after the big orange blossom fades and falls off, the pretty green squash will grow and grow until it’s so long that Dad calls it a baseball bat and Mom takes ahold of it and twists it gently until it comes off the vine. Then she’ll bring it in the house, clean it up, dice it up, and add it to supper. And lunch. And make it into bread. And grate enough to fill the freezer.
Maybe the question shouldn’t be where does it come from, but where will it go? It’ll go in the zucchini bread, in the salads, in the stews, in the freezer, and it’ll end up in…. No, forget I said that, honey, and just go to sleep. Once upon a time, there was a little one who asked Mommy all about zucchini….

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