It's my dentist's fault I have cavities, the doctor's fault I have cancer, the teachers' fault our kids are failing

I’ve spent the last couple of weeks thinking about high stakes testing. I’ve had plenty of better things to mull over – my marathon training, my fundraising, my fat intake – which is up, my protein intake – which is not.  Those are things I have some control over. Those are things worth spending time on. 

I have no control over the high stakes testing that rules my professional life. Why obsess over our MCAS? Why worry?  And yet I can’t help but wonder because it’s been building inside me.  I can’t help but ask. Is the MCAS my fault? And by my fault I don’t mean just me. I mean, is the huge monster that the MCAS has become the fault of the teachers of Massachusetts. 

Should we have said what we thought, way back in 1999, when the testing was in its infancy? Could we have nipped it in the bud? Could we have said to the Ed Reform folks, find another way?  

When we saw how few fourth graders scored advanced on that first one – about five percent or so in my city that first year -- should we have gathered together and shouted, “Enough with this nonsense. Let’s do away with this broken thing. Let’s get back to teaching! ”

Maybe, once that first test was fixed and given again in 2000 then fixed then given again in 2001 and so on, we should have said what we all thought: This is a waste of time.  This is a boondoggle. This is a giant shell game. This is a hole into which we are throwing money. This is a way of blaming me, the teacher, for everything.  This is garbage.  

Maybe we should have talked about what we saw. What we felt. What we knew to be true.  What we know to be true still today. I’ve been teaching 21 years. I’ve taught in the inner city all but that first year.  Here are the truths I know.  

1.  The only thing we can say the MCAS truly reveals is how much stamina a student has – as in holding a pen, as in sitting still, as in working with a full bladder.  

  

Fact: Your typical 11-year-old is highly unlikely to do their best work when that work takes place over a solid hushed six hours with the exception of a silent 20-minute lunch. 

How many grownups do you know who would test well under those circumstances?  I honestly don’t know because I don’t know of any test that requires an adult to sit still for that long. 

I don’t know of any test that requires an adult to raise a hand to use the toilet and to wait and continue testing, full bladder and all, for maybe an hour or more for the basic human right to use a toilet. Why the wait? Because so many others in the room raised their hands before you did and the rules say you need to have a trained MCAS escort bring you quietly to the bathroom in case you use that time to cheat. So you must continue to work while you wait and wait and wait for the one trained person on the floor who has the job of bringing each of the ninety of you to the bathroom three floors down. 

 I would have flunked the SATs if I had to take that test on a full bladder. I know that much.  

2. The maturity factor.  MCAS reveals as much about the maturity level of the student as it reveals about that student’s reading level. I have met maybe two nine-year-olds who truly understood that filling in all those silly bubbles really mattered.  

3. You want to use the test to judge my teaching ability?  That test reveals maybe a little about my teaching ability. It is not the end all and be all of who I am or what I do. 

There were some years where up to a quarter of the students in my class had parole officers who had multiple opportunities to place the kids in facilities with more restrictive learning environments due to the huge disruptions to learning that these kids would instigate. Yet these officers would give the kids second and third and fourth chances.  Those kids didn’t know how to read well, but had straight As in manipulation of court personnel. Do you think my class as a whole learned a lot those years? I have no idea. It's all a blur at this point.

On the plus side, those were the years I got back into running. My doctor said it was either that, find another profession, or go on high blood pressure meds.    

On the reverse end of things, I’ve gotten many compliments on my high test scores over the years.  My responses vary. Here are some: 

I had very few students with behavior issues that year.

I couldn’t have done such a good job were it not for the hard work of my colleagues who taught them so well in kindergarten, first grade, second, or it was that music teacher who took that child under her wing from day one, or the art teacher, and so on. I'm still waiting, by the way, for those high school Advanced Placement teachers to throw me and my elementary colleagues a complimentary bone some day. . .  we deserve more than what we get from them, which is ignored.

Here’s my favorite response:  Most of the kids have lots of books at home. Their parents were reading with them from the day they were born. 

Here’s one I don’t get to use that often any more: None of my students this year were homeless or hungry or involved with DCF, or moved constantly. 

4. Parents.  The MCAS reveals a ton about a huge factor: parental priorities. Ask any teacher anywhere and  he/ she will be able to reel off names of kids who – just when their teachers were really getting them primed for some solid bubbling-in  action -- got pulled out of school sometimes for weeks right before the MCAS for family reunions in Vietnam or El Salvador or Disney World.   

You try getting a kid to focus on a state test when they’ve just spent the night before on the red­-eye from San Francisco.  Or at an impromptu family get-together a few towns over that went until midnight. Watch those heavy lids flutter, close, and open again only to flutter, close, etc. Cry inside when they finish first. Imagine your class MCAS average dropping, that year of hard work flushing right down the tubes. 

5. The language/ immigrant/ poverty redux factor. The state admits it takes a full seven years for most kids to learn English thoroughly enough to read, write and speak on grade level. So how fair is it that kids in this country less than two years are expected to show huge gains in reading and writing right from the get-go?  How fair is it to those kids? How fair is it to their teachers?  

Throw in the fact that learning a new language is oftentimes the least of the problems these kids are living with. Those of us who teach in the inner city know at least two, five, seven, a dozen kids who are homeless RIGHT NOW. Would you test well if you didn’t know where you’d be spending the night? Or if the family in the shelter with you, the one in the next thin-walled room over, had a sick kid who cried all night, which prevented you from sleeping and kept your little brother up, and maybe your parent too, and then everyone was fighting because they were crabby and stressed out? 

We have kids who never see their parents. I’m not talking neglect here. I’m not talking about the highly- paid parent who’s always away on business trips. I hear that’s a huge issue too, but not one I’m familiar with. I’m talking the reality of being new to a country and having no money and working three jobs just to put generic cereal on the table and cheap coats on backs. I’m talking parents who can’t write in their own languages, never mind in English; parents who don’t understand about high stakes tests because they themselves never went to school or because they’re too busy focusing on day-to-day survival to care. I’m talking about the parent who can’t check the kids’ homework or can’t read the school test notices because they truly can’t read them and so can’t reinforce at all what teachers mean when they tell the kids how important these tests are, and that they need to get to bed early.  

There is so much more I could go on and on about. But I need a break. I need a nap. I went to school sick again today because I work in an old building filled with dust and moldy smells and I was surrounded by sick kids, many of whom took the MCAS while they were at tops 80 percent. Sick while testing. Another factor. 

Why didn’t we raise these issues years back? Why didn’t we stomp our feet and shout “Not fair! Our kids deserve better! WE deserve better!” 

We’re the ones in the trenches. We’re the ones who see how demoralized these kids get when, bladders full, noses running, stomachs growling they do their best and it’s still not good enough.  

I asked all this of a colleague recently. She listened patiently, then reminded me that we did complain. That we’ve been complaining all along, to principals, to administrations, to our local union, to our elected representatives, to the Massachusetts Teachers Association. We’ve been complaining. But no one’s been listening. 

"Why haven’t they been listening?"

“Remember?”  She gave me a funny look. A look that said, Silly thing. You know why. 

I shrugged. I wanted to hear her say it. I figured hearing the words would ease my guilt a little.

She smiled. It was an angry, you've got to be kidding me smile. “We’re a dime a dozen. We’re replaceable. We’re only teachers. No one ever listens to us. Remember?”

The wearin' of the green, red, white, and blue: On being an Irish-American

The weekend before St. Patrick’s Day is upon us, which means lots of Facebook postings on drinking, being Irish, and more drinking.  

You all know that St. Patrick’s Day originally started as a Catholic holy day, right? And that the wearing of the green refers to wearing a shamrock, which tradition holds was a symbol St. Patrick may have used to teach my pagan forebears about the Holy Trinity? And that St. Patrick, the world’s first eco-terrorist –  they say he banished the snakes from Ireland -- was supposed to have died on March 17?  And that when you’re drinking your green beer and eating your green bagels and vomiting up your green puke that you’re doing it all in homage to Ireland’s patron saint? 

Well, talk about religious fervor. . . 

Pretty sure this isn't what St. Patrick meant when he said Holy Trinity.

I am not a huge fan of St. Patrick’s Day. I’m not against drinking, and I do look halfway decent in dark shades of kelly. I’m an especially big fan of green when it’s on large bills in my wallet. But I cringe when I see bars advertise St. Paddy’s day green beer and boiled dinner specials, when I hear drunks murdering my grandmother’s language with their fake Irish brogues, when I hear newscasters blithely announce that on St. Patrick’s Day everyone is Irish.  Oh, please.

Okay, this is funny.

My culture isn’t about drinking, or pins, or parades.  And I think corned beef and cabbage is gross. My culture isn’t about charming thatched roof cottages,  Bono, buttery scones  or painted on freckles.  And you pretenders are no more Irish on St. Patrick’s Day than I’m Pakistani, Burmese,  Belgian,  Vulcan, Californian, or who knows what on whatever days were commercialized by the powers that be for you all to celebrate.  Because that’s how modern St. Patrick’s Day came to be. It was all about the green as in cash when in the mid-60s Ireland started holding parades and advertising its heritage in order to open the world’s eyes to all that rocky land had to offer and to start making big tourism bucks.  Way to go, Ireland.  

“This is one race of people for whom psychoanalysis is of no use whatsoever.” (Freud)

Proof is the pic above. Ick. 

I’m second generation Irish, which means I’m more Irish than most, but less Irish than many. I’m also staunchly and proudly American.  I’m a mixed breed, just like all of the other millions of us who were born here but not born of Native Americans. 

My grandparents brought their culture with them from Ireland. But in the century since they arrived, our Irish family traditions have diluted and morphed into new customs born from decades of living in New England and from brushing shoulders and sometimes other body parts with folks from exotic places like Somalia, Italy, Cleveland, Vegas. 

In Las Vegas, I believe this is called the "barin' of the green."

On Monday, I guarantee you at least one student will walk in wearing a shirt saying “Kiss Me I’m Irish” or something to that effect.  In an accent hailing from the Caribbean or, mid-Africa, or some country that borders on the Pacific, that child will wish me a happy St. Patrick’s Day. I will bite my lip or take a deep breath in order to keep my mouth from blurting out most of what I just wrote above.

 Okay, so maybe some of the stereotypes have basis in fact. .  . 

I will look out upon my class, and remember that all but a handful are immigrants themselves. Many have been in this country for less than two years. I’ll talk a bit about my heritage, my grandparents, then say, “Enough about me and my culture! Let’s hear your families’ stories.”  The kids will start talking about Viet Nam, Nicaragua,  the Dominican Republic, Ghana, and lots of other countries.  

Eventually one of the students will point out that though we come from many different backgrounds, deep down we all share similar immigrant stories about poverty, separation, adapting, holding on to old ways, learning new ones. Then we'll talk about how when you come right down to it, we're all different, but we're all similar too.I know this will happen because this is how it always happens, every year.

It's pretty neat to be Irish. Being an American too? Very cool. 

Yeats is fucking awesome. Yeah, the swearing stereotype is sort of true too. 

We haven't come a long way, honey buns

Happy International Women’s Day 2014!  

“Inspiring Change,” is the theme of this year’s celebration, according to www.internationalwomensday.com . The site explains the history of the day and lists celebratory events scheduled around the world. 

There are 254 events scheduled here in the United States. In case you were wondering, that’s almost 200 less than event frontrunner Great Britain, which lists 418. Shame, shame, shame on you, USA.  Rounding out the top four are Australia with 158, followed by Canada, 151. 

More than seventy nations across the world, from Antigua to Zambia, are hosting a total of 1337 events this weekend in honor of me, my daughters, and all the other humans out there who share the same type of plumbing but who don’t share equally when it comes to life, liberty, and pursuits of happiness.   

  

There’s a searchable list of international events on the IWD website  I clicked through it randomly, expecting to find parades or maybe proclamations, or at least some lighthearted partying festivals, sort of in the vein of the cutesy pastel Google doodle I found on my home page today. It was the Google doodle that cued me in to the fact that International Women’s Day actually exists. I never knew about it until this morning. Isn’t that interesting? And yet it’s a day that’s been celebrated for close to or over 100 years, depending on the site you get your info from. 

                                            Compare the UK amounts to the "other" total.
 

Ethiopia lists one event, a 5k road race expected to draw 10,000 women and girls. There’s still time to register. The race isn’t until tomorrow, March 9. I hope the race is still around in ten years. I’ll be retired by then and won’t have a school vacation schedule dictating my travel plans. I’d love to run it.  

Most events are in the form of talks and seminars. Some seem a little sketchy and I had to wonder if they were listed more to look like the country was doing some participating or if perhaps event sponsors were looking to make some bucks. Argentina for example has one event, the launching of a website on beauty and wellness; Wellness here meaning beauty, not health. Yes, a change of eye shadow is exactly the inspiration we women are searching for. Be the change, the lilac-hued change? No thanks.

But then there’s Bangladesh with seven events. One is an informational session on cervical and breast cancers. It’s being held at a university. Seems that one might be on the level, though I don’t have the bucks or time to get there and check it out. 

I noticed that Afghanistan and Iraq are missing from the searchable results list, which prompted me to then google countries that are dangerous for women. The first result took me to a United Nations site, unwomen.org, with this somber heading: Ending Violence Against Women: A Pandemic in Diverse Forms.  

I learned that according to international data, 35 percent of women worldwide have experienced some form of physical and/or sexual violence. I have to wonder even now, why the or? Sexual violence IS physical violence.  That wondering aside, the 35 percent figure might be off quite a bit. The site says that in surveys by country, 70 percent of women report physical and/or sexual violence.  So are "just" four out of ten women abused? Or are we talking seven out of ten? Hmmm. My gut says go with the bigger number.

I wonder about the nature of statistics. I wonder if that figure includes the trend of aborting female fetuses in China? I wonder if denying women access to birth control and AIDs education fits in those categories? And what about denying education of any kind whatsoever, denying the basics of reading, writing, math? Studies show that educated women generally live better and raise healthier kids than women with little or no education. Surely, denying education should be classified as a form of violence too.  

I clicked on another button and got a UN report entitled “Women’s Land Rights Are Human Rights.” I had to smirk at that. Got that right. My great-grandmother had to get married when she was just twelve years old. No, she wasn’t pregnant. It was 1880s Ireland. Her father had died suddenly. She had no brothers. It was just great-grandma and her mother. Problem was that women at the time weren’t allowed to own land. This was British law because Ireland was under English rule at the time.

Family legend holds that there were no available men my great-great-grandmother’s age, so little Catherine was called upon to save the day. The man she married promised to hold off on touching her until her eighteenth birthday. Supposedly, he kept his promise. Then they went right to it and she eventually popped out a dozen kids, and they had kids and so on and now we pretty much own Ireland. Okay, that last part’s a lie, but it’s true that there are a lot of descendants. About half of us are women and almost all of us are college-educated, though most of us females still labor for true equality.   

I think of the Sex and the City episode from ten years ago, when Miranda buys her own condo. She has to check off her marital status – single. The mortgage officer asks if the down payment is coming from her father.  The surprise on his face when she responds with “just me” I’m sure is funny to some. To me it was just plain sad. 

That episode reminded me of the time I called in response to a Sears cabinet re-facing advertisement. I was all set to finalize the details of an appointment, then the sales guy on the other end said this, “Don’t you need to check with your husband to make sure the time is okay with him?” 

I was divorced but didn’t see how that was anybody’s business but mine. I asked why my husband needed to be there. 

The guy replied that it was store protocol to always have the husband present, because they’d found that lots of women went behind their husbands’ backs and set up these appointments without checking. Then the deal would fall through and it ended up being a gigantic waste of time for the Sears sales staff.  

This phone conversation didn’t happen one hundred years ago. This was not even two decades ago. This was just a few years back.  Needless to say, I hung up on the guy, but not before screaming something bad that I can’t write down here. Not because I’m ashamed, I’m not. I just don’t remember what I said. You could argue with me that he was just repeating store policy so I was out of line yelling at him. Here's my reply to that: Bullshit.  

It all worked out, for me anyhow. Instead of getting the cabinets resurfaced, I ended up getting the whole kitchen redone.  Too bad for Sears, though. I was ready and willing to drop a ton of cash. All of it my own. 

You’ve come a long way baby? That was the tag line of a Virginia Slims cigarette ad from way back when I was growing up. I can still hum the tune of the commercial that used to play on television and radio back before they banned those ads because of health concerns, not because the ads were sexist or untrue. 

See, as for equality for women, we’ve moved along a bit, here in the United States at least. But a long way?  I’m not buying it. 

And one more thing. Baby? Really? If you want my business, don’t infantilize me. I’m not a baby. I’m a human. I’m an adult. I’m just like you. In fact, there’s a good chance I might be even better.

                                                   Ummm. No. We haven't, honey buns.

Here are my MCAS results*

Wow, am I worn out. 

I’ve spent the last couple of hours doing tons of computer testing. Here’s what I learned.

I share a lot of commonalities with both Hitler and Gandhi because, like them, I am an INFJ.

I am both a universal learner and a universal student.

I am slightly more left-brained than right-brained.

My first name means I’m likely to vote democrat 66 percent of the time.    

If I was a drink, I’d be whiskey.

My literary soul mate is Henry David Thoreau.

In a previous life, I was a Greek philosopher.

My perfect European country is Norway. Considering that since I’ve been old enough to wield an ice chopper I’ve been allergic to snow and cold, I have to wonder about the validity of those test questions. I know plenty of folks who can attest to my love of all things Mediterranean.  Maybe I should go back and click on “yes” to the three-way?

If I was a Sesame Street character, I would be the Count. What a disappointment. I’ve always felt a kinship with Miss Piggy.  I retook the test and really truly did my best to be honest. I picked blue for my favorite color, instead of pink. It turns out now I’m an exact match with those grumpy old guys who sit in the balcony and make snarky remarks about everything.  Yeah. Sure. Okay. 

I am starting to think that maybe all this testing is a crock of hooey. The results of my fashion twin test prove my suspicions could be right on. Though I wear yoga pants to work two times a week at least, and own just one pair of old, scuffed one-inch heels, I supposedly have the same classic sense of style as Michele Obama, who always wears the perfect outfit 24/7.  

I guess I am fashion perfect too, as long as all my occasions call for yoga pants, jeans, running shorts, t-shirts, cardigans, bra tops, or today’s go to fave-rave: hand-me-down pjs covered in orange, gray, and black- white lap cats. Though now that I think about it. Yeah. That’s pretty much what most of my outings do call for.  

I’m thinking I’ll nix the crazy cat lady quiz. Why waste my time. 

*MCAS = My Crazy Ass Survey, which is in no way related to the Massachusetts Child Abuse System, Many Cocktails After School,  Massachusetts Comprehensive Assessment System, or any other acronym even remotely related to state testing.