I Have Some Data Too...

Ummm...hello, out there...anybody home??

Can we talk for a minute?

Can we discuss what on earth is going on for teachers right now?

Our world has had an information explosion and schools have been bringing up the rear.

We have old fashioned desks, limited wi-fi, email that barely works, projectors that still use VCR tapes (no joke) or CD's for music and an old computer or two hanging around the back of the room, posing as a computer center.

Of course there are fancy districts with the latest technology.  

Those lucky teachers might have smart boards, doc-cams, the ability to stream something from their computer onto a screen or even a class set of Ipads.

But that's a tiny portion of our school districts.

Many are sadly out of date.

Shame on you Google, Yahoo, PayPal, Apple and the rest.

Have a symposium or some sort of summit, pat yourself on the back for your initiative, your drive and your stunning intelligence and for God's sake get some leadership going.

I know, I know...not your focus.

But you sure love to provide the data, don't you?

I have this job where I get to go around to all sorts of schools in all sorts of districts and see what's going on.  

I work with the best teachers who mentor my student teachers.

It doesn't matter how fancy the technology, the size of the cafeteria or if the school has a garden, a PE instructor, or a science lab.

It's the teachers that matter.

In the poorest districts, in the richest districts and everywhere in between the divining rod of excellence is the teacher.

And, boy, am I privileged to see excellence in action.

I'd like to be the Lorax and speak not for the trees (they seem to have plenty of people wanting to talk for them) but for the teachers.

The-day-in-day-out-nitty-gritty-not-glamorous warriors that take our children and love them like their own. They plan, teach, re-teach, assess, reflect and just generally obsess on how to help their students succeed.  These people come in early, stay late, use their own money, attend conferences on their own dime and with their off time and they love it.

They sign up and stay in the trenches for decades.

Not for any reason other than that is their life's calling.

They care.

They take pride in their work.

It matters.

Guess what has happened?

We've turned students into a commodity.

We can collect data on them.

Like the early cave man, we are hypnotized by the fire we've just discovered.

We can't stop staring...and we are getting burned.

We are drowning in data.

Oh, it's so very sexy.

Bar graphs.

Line graphs.

Pie charts and percentages.

Can you really measure a six year old like that?

Maybe.

But it better be a damn good test.

And trust me, I haven't found a single one that slides into the "damn good" category.

Most are junk.

Testing on standards that aren't used anymore.

In ways that are pedagogically unsound.

Most of the numbers are meaningless...but they are numbers and that makes them powerful.

Very powerful.

So powerful that I sat in a lunch room today with two stellar first grade teachers, one with 26 years worth of expertise and one with 28 years, who were shaken to their core.

These two are no joke.

They embody every single accolade I can  possibly think up:

selfless

hard-working

tireless

a true advocate for every child

generous

kind

child centered

professional

miracle worker

Those two people got data from their principal that gave them a sleepless night.

Their scores in literacy were down.

Way down.

The lowest in the district.

Alarm bells went off at the district level.

The data had spoken.

One of the teachers actually said, "Yesterday was the worst day of my teaching career."

No one bothered to wonder out loud why that data was so off.

Like the proverbial 5th grade science experiment, nobody bothered to ask a question.

Or hypothesize.

Or just say...sorry, that doesn't make sense.

The data had spoken.

Ummmm...yoooo hoooo....can you all pause for a minute?

I have data too.

My data says that after 28 years of learning your profession you actually know something of value and it's damn hard to measure.

These two are experts in teaching reading, writing and math but they are living sensei in the bigger picture.

They know how to comfort a child.

They know how to inspire a child.

They make school magical and wonderful and creative and fun.

They know what to do for second language learners that do not know a single word of English but get tested in it.

They know how to help the child whose mom "just forgot to pay that bill that keeps the lights on".

The child who's hungry.

Or dirty.

Or hungry in their heart.

No test measures those things.

There's no data on that.

And guess what??

What those teachers do day in and day out on behalf of the most vulnerable, voiceless victims in this whole data game is nothing short of heroic.

Shame on administrators who believe the data first.

Shame on parents and cities that take pride in high test scores when in reality all it measures is privilege and access to opportunity.

Shame on testing companies who make gobs of money convincing districts that they don't need field trips but instead a whole lot more tests...that measure what exactly?

Literacy?

Numeracy?

Character?

Honesty?

Grit?

Courage?

Creativity?

Spoiler alert: There's quite a bit of teaching and learning that is hard to quantify.

And I would argue that the non-quantifiable things are truly what matter most.

How do you measure a teacher who won't give up on a child?

A teacher who believes that every child can learn?

A teacher that can transform the way the child sees himself?

Tonight I am grateful for two very special teachers and the tidal wave of other similarly fantastic teachers who never hear this:

YOU ARE DAMN GOOD AT YOUR JOB.

You rock.

You stay strong and drown out the nay-sayers.

Own it.

I am proud to know you and see your excellence in action.

No test can measure what I know to be true.

You are what every educator aspires to be.

And the test is what has failed, not you.

Practice Kindness, Choose Happiness

I have this exact image and quote on my cupboard...staring at me everyday...

reminding me...prodding me...challenging me.

Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would ever get to see this man in person, 

but today I did.

I had the joy of witnessing the Dalai Lama's effusive, kind, tender-hearted presence at Santa Clara University.

Wow!

My first take away from him was his ability to transcend time.

He had all the time in the world for every person.

No rushing.

Nothing but complete care and acceptance of the moment.

Every person was someone sacred.

Every moment mattered.

I know this man is called His Holiness by all sorts of people and I wonder:

is it a chicken or the egg kind of thing?

If you call someone holy do they rise to the occasion?

What would happen if we started thinking of ourselves as holy?

Would we pursue mindfulness and meditation and compassion so zealously that it would become real?

I wanna try that experiment on myself.

I'll keep you posted. :)

My second take away was the way he spoke about his mother.

He is the youngest child in his family. He felt his mom gave him nothing but affection.

He talked about how she would put him up on her shoulders and work in the fields and just enjoy his presence.  

He mentioned that there are seven billion people in the world and that all of them need this level of a mother's affection. 

His quote: "We need a special effort to build the feeling of affection for people who do not have it so therefore warm-heartedness or affection is very very important and an obligation."

 He wondered what our world would look like if everyone was given this affection.

It's a good question.

And also a good reminder.  

We all need affection and compassion, every day, all the time.  

No one earns it.

His biggest message was that compassion and kindness must be taught.

We must start with the littlest children and very carefully and intentionally teach this and then gradually move to the older children and keep at it...demonstrating kindess and compassion daily.

He maintains that the more compassionate mind = the more calm mind -- which creates more self-confidence, inner strength and less stress.

He reminded us of something that we intuitively know but never consciously think about:

self-centered = more stress

"Compassion brings inner peace and mental comfort."

Finally, he spent the last few minutes almost talking to himself.

He told each of us that we needed to go inward and know our conviction for ourselves.

We need our faith to be part of our life and part of our decision making.  It is only with this inner conviction that we can withstand the changing forces of our life and the confusing moral ambiguities of our time. He pounded his heart several times very forcefully, making his point...go inward and know yourself, your convictions, your priorities. 

In a nutshell: live an authentic life.

His giggle is what will linger in my mind the most.

All of the adversity he has faced...all of his own life lessons and at 78 he has a lot...have led him to be full of joy and ready to giggle.

His energy is contagious.

The event had a group of young children singing...their angelic voices filled the arena.

Their school's mission statement:

practice kindness, choose happiness

That's enough.

Let's do it.

My Hero

"Heroes don't look like they used to, they look like you."

--Nothing More by Alternate Routes

One of my heroes is Sue Buckley.

You probably have never heard of her.

She's an older woman, slight in stature, well-spoken and honest.

Gut level, clear and sometimes brazen.

She's also British.  

So whatever she has to say, no matter how hard to swallow, feels like it has a spoonful of sugar to help it go down.

Her intelligence, her drive and her careful research

 have reformed education for people with disabilities across the UK.

Yes, folks, that entire country places their students with disabilities in regular ordinary classrooms first.

Support is given.  Intention and careful planning go into it. 

Students succeed.

If I had to distill Sue's message into a soundbite it would be this:

People with disabilities deserve an ordinary life.

Life with their family.  

Life with a significant other when they grow up.  

Life with a good education so that you can have the means to have an ordinary job.

A full, ordinary life.

That's all she wants --

and yet, it's revolutionary in so many places.

This week-end I had the privilege of hearing Sue speak

and advocate

and share her vision.

She was stern.

Indicting all parents who let their child with special needs have poor behavior.

She was funny.

Sharing stories and attempts at searching for this ordinary life for her own daughter.

She was incredibly articulate.

Reminding all of us of how important it is to strive for inclusion and why it matters.

She was bold.

Creating educational models that can be replicated easily and aren't costly, basing it all in research.

****

There, among the crowds of people yesterday, were new parents.  They were holding their tiny babies with Down Syndrome and being washed in acceptance.

It must have felt like a baptism for them.

There were educators who have dedicated their entire lives to the vision of full inclusion...renewing their vows, so to speak, redoubling their efforts, reaffirming just how important this work is.

There were parents who hold close Sue's vision too.

Clinging to her every word.

Spontaneously clapping.

Crying silent tears in agreement and urgency.

There is no time to waste.

And then there was my crew...

mothers of children with Down Syndrome who know in their souls and hearts that the efforts to fully include children with disabilities in Catholic schools is a sacred mission divinely guided.

We were from mostly California...

Napa, Davis, Manhattan Beach, Sacramento, Roseville, Costa Mesa.

But we had friends from Arizona.

And a mom from St. Louis, Missouri who out of desperation formed a Facebook group a year ago that has grown and ricocheted across all sorts of places and created a tidal wave of energy with it.

It was a shout into the void.

And people answered.

She jumped on a plane to be with her tribe and it was right.

Exactly right.

Thrilling.

For both nights that we ate out as a group,

a child with Down Syndrome that was unknown to us came up to our group...

two different kids

hugging us,

reminding us, 

encouraging us in our mission.

My friend, Michelle, called it a "God-cident".

It was like a sprinkle of fairy dust.

Or the slightest whisper of love.

Or the sparkling rocks that guide your way on a dark path.

Any way you describe it, those children felt heaven-sent.

As I watched Sue, 

I thought of these mothers who have no formal program, 

who have nobody funding it, 

no real guidance -- except each other --

who only have the very same desire that Sue has...

a chance for an ordinary life for their child with Down Syndrome, 

learning alongside of his/her siblings, 

making Communion and Reconciliation and Confirmation in their faith community,

singing in the Christmas pageant, 

playing kickball and basketball

just like anybody else.

On my way down Jamboree Road in Newport Beach, a song came on the radio.

I was all alone when I heard these words:

To be humble, to be kind.

It is the giving of the peace in your mind.

To a stranger, To a friend

To give in such a way that it has no end.

We are Love.

We are One.

We are how we treat each other when the day is done.

We are Peace.

We are War.

We are how we treat each other and Nothing More.

Another whisper...another arrow pointing the way.

How we treat each other and nothing more.

Let us remember the heroes,

unsung, 

humble and kind,

who show us how to treat each other

and nothing more.

For us, those heroes have names:

Patrick, Chris, Gretchen, Thomas, CJ, Raymond, John Michael and Adam.

Mia, Savannah, KC and Roberta.

They want an ordinary life.

They are full of ordinary grace.

It is our job to make it happen.

Let's do it.

Our revolution is under way.

Join us.

The Map

"There is something beautiful about all scars of whatever nature.  

A scar means the hurt is over, the wound is closed and healed -- done with."  

-- Harry Crews

I don't often see Patrick without his shirt on.  He's 14 years old and into privacy.  He takes his own shower, figures out his own clothes, always remembers his deodorant and out of my three children that can maneuver through this process on their own, he is the only one who routinely hangs his towel up.

So, it was with some surprise that I walked in on him looking at himself in the mirror, touching a rough spot on his chest, analyzing it and thinking about it.  At 14, like almost all the others, he cares about what he looks like.  He wants his hair to be cool.  

He loves to dress up with a tie and jacket.  

This stuff matters.

I could see him feeling his skin like a blind person reading Braille.  He wanted to know the story behind the scar.  

He didn't remember receiving it. But, I did.

The scar looks like a hashtag that might appear on Instagram.  It's faded but rough to the touch.

I touched it too...and like some sort of portal, I traveled back in time.

There on the center of his chest, right next to his breastbone was the entrance to what once held a Broviac. A Broviac (for the lucky people who have never needed to know that word) is a way of giving chemo directly into your body.  It also happens to be a way to take out blood as well.  Pediatric oncologists often suggest it as the best option for young children with cancer because of that blood-taking option -- fewer sticks with a needle then.  

But from my viewpoint, I'd tell anyone to go for option two...the port-a-cath.

John and I affectionately called the Broviac, the "X-files thingy" -- truly a scientific medical term if there ever was one.  The Broviac was a tube that hung out of your chest.  It required a tape over it and a netting to be worn like a vest over the entire chest so that it would not get pulled out.  It was next to impossible to bathe in.  It was hell to clean, not to mention life-threatening if we didn't clean it right.  At the end of each week, we needed to push Heparin into the Broviac and clean the area around it.  

There Patrick would sit, the most stoic three year old on the planet, letting us clean raw skin and push medicine.

All that is left of that awful, horrible time is the hashtag scar.

Tonight, I told him the story of his bravery and his poise.  I admitted that while I was afraid of it, he was not. 

He looked at me in a shy, proud way...

and he asked about the next scar.

This one was a three inch horizontal line about three inches down from his left hand collarbone.

That was where the Port-a-cath was placed.

After the x-files thingy came out...which was a Defcon 10 on my fear list, they casually replaced it with this.  This beautiful invention goes under the skin.  It's about the size of a fifty cent piece, circular, and attaches to a vein.  It has a sponge-y center where the medicine goes in.  You numb the area and then push the meds/chemo when needed.  But since it is under the skin and nothing needs cleaning, once the meds are done, you're done.  Free to go and live your life.  Go swimming -- no problem.  Take a bath -- a breeze.  Play in a water slide -- fine by me!  It was a miraculous transformation.  Patrick was four when he got the port-a-cath placed and we were a new family.

They "accessed the port" (don't we sound like we're in Star Wars?) whenever he had a chemo treatment, which was about once a month.  

Patrick was so zen and unafraid about the accessing that other children who were fearful would watch Patrick and see how easy it could be. 

He was fearless at four.

Pretty stunning way to live.

That scar tells that story and Patrick heard it tonight.

He asked if he had any other scars and I pointed out the tiny one on his neck.  It was part of the Broviac nightmare and truly I blocked it out.  I just embellished the other Broviac story and told him he was ready for his shower now...

except then I had to take my index finger and smooth his open heart surgery scar that runs right down the middle of his chest a good eight inches long and thick.  Like I had a bubble of glue under a paper craft, I smoothed that skin, petted that scar and reminded him of that amazing badge of courage.

That scar is hard to miss.  He knows that story so I mostly skimmed over it, like a favorite fairy tale.  

I could give the Cliff Note version.

He asked to see my scars.

I have only two.

One from a hernia operation when I was two -- a whisker thin three inch scar way down low on my tummy -- and one on my finger -- a Girl Scout camping accident with a sharp tin can.  

My stories show no bravery.  No zen-like calm.  No resilience.  No grace.

Like ports of call on a map, Patrick heard his story.  

The hero stood down a foe.  He maintained his cool.  

He bounced back from mortal adversaries and held his own.  

Mostly, he did it with effortless grace, good humor and kindness, fearlessly.

What's a little hashtag scar or two when you've done all that?

You're made of powerful stuff my boy.

I'm glad you finally heard it all out loud.

After all that horror, fear and dizzying sadness all that's left are the scars...and the stories.

They're both pretty beautiful now.

Our Goddess: Bev

That's no witch...it's our fairy godmother in disguise!

"Hard work spotlights the character of people: some turn up their sleeves, some turn up their noses and some don't turn up at all."
--Sam Ewing

Every school has someone like this...well let's put it this way, every well-functioning school has someone like this.  She's our school secretary, welcome wagon, school nurse, keeper of all secrets, and the Yoda of our school -- heck she is the Force.

If Bev doesn't know where it is...it's lost.

If Bev can't help you...you're outta luck.

Bev is who we go to...who we ALL go to.  We ask our questions about Picture Day, Field Day, school uniforms, school lunches, the bulletin, registration, and on and on it goes.

She gets the kids who are ready to throw up, the kids with a nasty scrape, the kids who just broke their glasses, the ones who have a loose tooth or sore throat.  Naturally, these children are escorted by caring friends or at the very least a couple of kids who need to take a walk.  Bev knows how to soothe any ill. She knows when to call home and when to play it tough.
She's seen it all.

One day, I want to sit Bev down with a margarita in her hand and just hear the stories.  There have got to be some doozies.  Heck the Foraker family alone has given her some...
How about the phone call to young teacher Beth at work when Jack was in kindergarten.  It seems young Jack went down the slide head first and at the precise moment when physics was at its greatest managed to suck a piece of pea gravel up his nose. There's no way to make that call without at least a small chuckle. But Bev did no such thing.  She called with care and concern in her voice and thought I might like to come over and help Jack out.  The pea gravel made its way out without any medical intervention and Jack's nose survives today.

Or there was the time when Mary Kate was running in first grade full force, head down and ran into a basketball pole.  I was at home that time. Got the caring call from Bev, ran right over and found my darling girl with a knot the size of a golf ball on her forehead and a sudden burst of tears...the bravery could only last so long.

Or we have the many special moments with Patrick...far too many to count.  Some highlights include sliding into mud, barfing after running the mile, a bathroom mishap, and the wrong uniform on.  Let's not even count the sheer number of tardies we've made Bev write on Patrick's behalf...she should have writer's cramp and yet, she faithfully writes them out with a zen-like calmness.

Happily Caroline hasn't had too many Bev moments, although I do remember getting a call about having to remove some nail polish...but she's only in first grade.  Give her a little time.

Bev must have some sort of trick because she never gets flustered, frantic or frenzied.  She is calm, always.  She's orderly and organized.  She is the engine of our school and it hums along like a fine-tuned roadster thanks to her.

Maybe her trick is that she has seen it all: broken bones, ambulance calls, frightened upset parents, sick, crabby kids.  She knows how to administer what we all need: TLC.  She offers it freely and kindly.  She's like the best referee/mom combo.  She knows when to call you out and when to comfort you.

Bev is at all events.  She is setting up and taking down.  She's in the parents' club closet and in the school kitchen.  She knows the trick of the trash cans, the ice machine, the pitchers, the tables and chairs and special table cloths.  She doesn't just know where everything goes, she knows how every machine runs and every tool works.  Not to mention maintaining our school calendar.

Truly, she is our school's Google.  We should just start using her name as a verb...have you Bev'd it? If you haven't, you're lost.

Today I saw her during Conference Week.  She schedules every single one of our school's conferences...how does she do it??? I smiled knowing that the orchestra she conducts is full of so many instruments and yet it always is on key.

She must have a little Bibbity Bobbity Boo in there somewhere. She's magic!

I've been part of our school for fifteen years.  Bev has been there probably twice as long.  Day in, day out. Week in, week out.  School year after school year Bev brings the sparkle to our gem of a school. She has a ready smile and sleeves rolled up.  She's amazing and truly a gift to so many.

Today, I am grateful to Bev...the keeper of the keys and so much more. She holds the heart of our school. Thanks is not enough for this special lady but here it goes:
Bev, you ROCK!

I've Bev'd it and I know. :)

Our Olympic Moment

"The most important thing in the Olympic Games is not to win but to take part, just as the most important thing in life is not the triumph but the struggle. The essential thing is not to have conquered but to have fought well."  — Olympic creed.

Four years ago, out of complete and utter desperation I did something crazy: my non-swimming almost ten year old joined a swim team.  Gratefully, the founders of the team, a husband and wife dynamic duo named Pete and Koren Motekaitis, didn't just allow Patrick to join, they welcomed him with open arms.  To add to the irony, Patrick would practice at an olympic-sized pool on our local university's campus.  It was thirteen feet deep.  

Patrick had tried traditional swim lessons; he had tried just enjoying the pool of friends and family; he had private lessons, official Red Cross lessons, and even lessons at a fantastic private pool with the most patient and loving of swim teachers...all with little to show for it.  He could get his head wet and he could (kind of) float and he always had his secret weapon: his good-natured ability to just keep trying something that was easier for so many others.  But, no matter how he sliced it, he couldn't swim.

So, my good friend Michele kept nudging me toward the Aquamonsters and finally I made the emails and paid the money and we showed up.

That first year, his teacher was a college student who swam for an Ivy-league school during the school year.  She was the one who coaxed Patrick into the pool and agreed to hold the board for him if he would kick across the pool.  She would swim backward, holding the kick board, talking to Patrick and distracting him from the amazing, crazy thing he was doing. For about 8 weeks, Patrick and Emily did the kick board tango and I never will forget the random day in August when Patrick felt strong enough or confident enough to kick the board all on his own.  Emily was there, kicking her own board right next to him and they spent the last week of summer kick, kick, kicking side by side lap by lap.

The following summer Patrick was graced with an enthusiastic coach who was a top diver for the UC Davis men's team.  Jason insisted on "dry land" work before swimming.  So there Patrick was with a crew of younger kids holding his weight doing the plank and assorted other yoga moves designed to strengthen his core on the hot cement deck and then swimming.  All summer, he used the kick board.  Jason, Matt and many other coaches tried to talk Patrick away from the board without success.  However, like someone learning a new language, once in a while we would see a broken bit of fluency and be rewarded with a leap of growth.  By the end of another solid eight weeks of swimming, Patrick floated, glided and used his arms and legs enough to call it swimming.  Of course, I wasn't there to see it...but I got the call from Patrick afterwards and heard in John's shaky voice that a miracle had occurred.  As John relayed the shouts on the deck and the sheer victory that the coaches felt when Patrick swam for the first time, I was more than touched.  Here are these high level athletes hugely invested in Patrick's success with swimming -- it was a testament to the vision for Pete and Koren's Aquamonsters and the ability to live and breathe the motto

 "Every monster matters."

Last summer was Caroline's turn and she willingly jumped in that deep pool and began swimming with the help of her coach, Paul.  It was incredible to see her just go for it day in and day out.  Her belief in herself propelled her into becoming a swimmer.  On the day that she swam across the pool on her own, she promptly jumped out of the pool and said, "Now I'm ready to race!"  She would have to wait a year to be old enough but she was ready.  Meanwhile Patrick was chug, chug, chugging along.  He was swimming but it wasn't pretty and it wasn't for very long distances.  Pete thought Patrick should consider doing a meet.  I deemed that unthinkable...maybe next year.

And so here we are...Patrick is swimming in the same group of kids with Caroline.  Together they swim, practice side breathing and actually learn other strokes from their master instructor and coach Paul.  Like a gigantic puzzle with only the final pieces left to place, we can see everything fitting together.  Patrick can get close to 3/4 of the way across an entire lap without stopping, but he still grabs the lane line as a safety net.  He can do the back stroke, very crookedly, but he can get from Point A to Point B.  Caroline works on flutter kicks and basic strokes.  She can often blend in with the crowd of swimmers using this pool and pass herself off as a legit swimmer...it's wild!  

So it only made sense that Pete would notice this too and push a little harder..."It's time for a meet, Beth.  Get out of his way."  I took his chiding seriously since Pete knows the territory of parenting a child with developmental disabilities.  His son is an adult now, but he's coached enough kids with and without special needs to know when to push and when to believe in the impossible. We agreed...it would happen July 7th.

Like some parallel Shakespearean plot, Pete would be taking his one and only swimmer that he had been personally coaching ever since the dissolution of the UC Davis Men's Swimming Team in 2010, to the Olympic Trials days before our big meet.  Scott Weltz, a breastroker and Aquamonster coach himself went to Omaha to test himself against the best.  He was an underdog and completely off the radar to those on the outside.  

Not for Pete and Scott.

  They knew what they had come there to do..."swim at night" (make the swimming finals in your event).  They tested the waters with the 100m Breaststroke.  Scott created a buzz by getting into the finals, "swimming at night" and getting in 4th place.  (The top 2 get to go to the Olympics.)  That wasn't even his event so he was primed and ready for the 200m race.  Scott raced in the prelims and easily made it to the semi-finals.  He came in first in his semi-final race and was ready to take on the former world record holder and the current American record holder along with a host of others.  Dreams do come true!  Scott didn't just swim at night.  It all came together in a 2:09.01 perfect race. He dominated the race and decidedly won -- Incredible!!! Together Scott and Pete are in London this very minute -- cheerio!!!

Only days after Scott's tremendous success and unbelievable win, Pete was on a flight back to our little town to lead a bunch of young swimmers through an ordinary, very local meet.  On this blazing day, Patrick had to swim with the 12 and unders...all swimmers who can dive into the pool to begin the race.  Patrick was allowed the benefit of starting in the water.  He also had a swim coach swimming alongside him just in case it was all too much.  The whistle blew and away he went.  He would have to swim 50 meters -- there and back -- because of his age.  As he swam the first 25, I noticed that he wasn't using his arms at all.  He paused halfway through and hung on the lane line for a breath (suprisingly, this is not an automatic disqualification).  As he got to the wall, who was sitting on the diving block waiting to coach Patrick directly...Pete.  

Pete Motekaitis.  The man who just had the biggest achievement a swim coach can have just days before at the US Olympic Trials; the man running a meet for a few hundred swimmers; that man found his way to the wall at the 25 meter mark for a swimmer who really wasn't a swimmer, leaned down and said, "Patrick, use your arms."  That tiny act of kindness that I guarantee nobody else on the pool deck took note of sent a rip tide of a message: You are important.  You are worthy.  You, who will come in last place, possibly be disqualified and need to hang on the lane line to catch your breath, yes, even you, get my time and energy and focus.  Every monster matters.

Through Pete and Koren's example, time and time again our family has been included and accepted and  integrated into a club of amazing athletes.  This feeling of welcome and belonging is such a rare gift and so natural for these two that they don't notice the irony or the juxtaposition of swimmers.  But I do. Olympian Scott Weltz, Aquamonster Patrick Foraker...it really doesn't make a difference.  You work hard.  You practice hard.  You make your weakness your strength and you try for a personal best.  

It's all about the personal best.

So...you can bet that six Forakers are going to be rooting for a certain coach swimming in London.  Scott Weltz, Olympian, Aggie and Aquamonster coach, we know you have another personal best in you.  Go for the gold -- for all of us.

Every monster matters...Pete and Koren say it's so.

They live it...it's up to the rest of us as well.

No Child Left Behind -- Ironic Isn't It?

“We need not to be let alone. We need to be really bothered once in a while. How long is it since you were really bothered? About something important, about something real?” 

- Ray Bradbury

I'm really bothered.  There is a dirty little secret in education and it is called No Child Left Behind.  Ask any educator what they think of it and you will get an earful. It has a fantastic premise: "Setting high standards and establishing measurable goals can improve individual outcomes in education."  Who can be against such a thing?  

Nobody.

Which is why the bill passed with huge bi-partisan support in 2002 and the heavyweights of politics signed on: proposed by George W. Bush, co-authored by John Boehner (R-OH),  George Miller (D-CA), Ted Kennedy (D- MA), Judd Gregg (R- NH).  It sounded great.  It was going to reform education and make teachers accountable. It was going to make sure that every child in every school improved and made progress or else.  It was the "or else" that changed everything.  If the improvements didn't happen every single year, your school went into "Program Improvement".  Eventually your entire district would go into Program Improvement.  

After ten years of NCLB, 80% of the districts in the state of California are in Program Improvement.

Should we guess which districts these are?  The poorest and the most diverse.  No duh.

What happens when your entire district is Program Improvement?

no field trips

no art

no science

no social studies

no writing of any significance

no literature

no PE

reading and math take up most of the day -- with constant re-teaching and fill in the bubble testing

Here's where it gets really bad.  The teaching is literally taken out of the teachers' hands and a "scripted curriculum" is given.  The teacher must be on the same page, on the same day, at the same time as all of the other teachers at the same grade level in the district.  People come in and check and make notes of where you are.  Any professional respect has vanished.  Any feeling of competency is gone.  Teachers with 20-30 years of experience in the poorest, most diverse districts are treated with derision and disrespect.  Morale at these schools is at an all time low.

It used to be that if you taught in a poor, diverse district your students had a chance, a real chance to grow and learn and make progress and lift themselves out of poverty.  They had opportunities afforded them that their family life would never provide: science camp and outdoor education in 6th grade, a field trip to a farm, an observatory, a play.  As a first grade teacher in one of these districts I started out my year with a field trip to the city library by city bus.  We had them get their first library card and check out their first ever book; 75% had never been to a library and sadly, many did not even know what a library was.  Although the economic and family situations of my students were often disastrous there was always the hope and love of school.  Reading big books or fantastic stories and poems, singing songs, playing outside games, creating art projects and doing science experiments naturally ignited their curiosity and fired up their wonder.  
That is all gone now.

Today, students in Program Improvement districts are treated to heaping mounds of reading drudgery and worksheets.  There are math worksheets and the unforgiving pace of constantly moving ahead regardless of mastery and leaving behind most of the class.  The second language learners are given ever more opportunities of re-teaching and more worksheets.  It is grim.  

And yes, I'm bothered. 
Real bothered.

I keep waiting for the big wigs to shout this insanity down.  But, how can you say out loud that you are against NCLB without looking like a teaching lightweight?

Of course, I am for high expectations and equal opportunity.  Who isn't?

But, I am not for condemning an entire segment of our society to educational gruel while the haves continue to have all of the enrichment and joy of learning.  

Most of you don't know education's dirty little secret because you are part of the lucky 20%.  Your district is wealthy or perhaps your children attend private school -- either way your child's school is full to the brim with opportunity, joy and educational privilege.  You naturally thought all children were given real opportunities for learning. Well, No Child Left Behind left behind an entire chunk of our population. Check out the drop out rates. 

And where is the grace in all of this?

It is in the incredible resilient spirit of both the students and teachers in the desperate schools.  After ten solid years of this, those teachers still come to school each day with hope in their heart and faith that their students can learn and grow even with drudgery.  They work to provide a moment of lightness: skipping to recess and calling it PE, singing while they take attendance, assigning the fun stuff for homework.  

The students still come to school with bright eyes and high hopes.  Their parents, with no real knowledge of the system, still put their faith in the school. 

Those teachers are heroes.

They haven't left town, retired or put their hands up in the air and waved a flag of surrender.

They are still there, regardless of the rancor, the disrespect and the impossibility of their situation.  

They believe in the kids.

And now here is the Kryptonite of No Child Left Behind that no one wants the poor and diverse to know:  we can dismantle it.  We have the power.  All we have to do is to choose not to take the test.  If enough parents make that choice, the test becomes invalid.  Suddenly, Program Improvement has no weight. 

Trust me.  No one wants you to know this or do this as a parent.   

There will be incredible push back and repercussions but what can be worse than TEN years of drudgery??? TEN more years?  Entire generations of learners thinking this is the only way?

I'm ready for a fight.  Bring it on.

As a parent at one of those schools, I'd opt out of the test. Bring the legislators with no educational knowledge to task.  Ask them to think up some new way to have high expectations and accountability.  I'm all for it.  I'm against teaching to the test and pure drudgery.

Our poorest, most disadvantaged kids need way more than that.  

They need the wonder and joy and excitement of school.

"Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter."
-- Martin Luther King, Jr.


Today, I'm not quiet any more.

To All of the People Who Clean Up the Mess...

We are all caught up in an inescapable web of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever effects one directly effects all indirectly.

- Martin Luther King

This morning I was making the bed and Thursday's familiar sound woooshed by me outside the window.  I paused and noticed: the street sweeper swept the gutters of my block.  He always does, every Thursday.  I have an irrational fondness for our street sweeper.  For me, he harkens back to the old-fashioned guy with the broom who used to sweep the streets in the 1920's in a Dick Van Dyke kind of way.  It makes me happy that with all of the government cutbacks and things we have to scrimp on and lose that we still have somebody who takes the time to sweep our streets.  Listening to those big round brushes scrub away gives the satisfying feeling that even our streets can be clean.

Instantly, my mind flashes to the horrific disaster in Japan.  The colossal mess that the tsunami and earthquake have created make me discouraged and defeated just seeing the images.  I cannot even begin to imagine the level of depression and overwhelming impossibility that the Japanese must feel.  I am no expert in Japan but this I know: they take pride in their cleanliness and tidiness.  Their demolished towns, mounds and mounds of dirty debris and physical ruin everywhere must be a nightmare of the highest proportions for them.  

And then, seemingly out of every corner, you see them...the people who clean up the mess.  We all know the feeling of being overwhelmed by disorder and we all know the way to clean it up: one step at a time. Tackling an impossible closet, an overstuffed garage or even debris-filled streets begins the same way: with the first step and the belief it is possible.

I remember the seemingly infinite mound of steel, concrete and dust that covered lower Manhattan in late September 2001. The idea that that area would one day be clean and clear seemed impossible and yet, today if you visit, it actually seems sterile and sacred.  Those people did it, one piece of crap at a time.  Those people who stepped up and agreed to breathe in the dust, get filthy, risk personal injury to clean up the World Trade Center are heroes. They are the ones who got busy and stopped being discouraged.  

Their twins with determination and passion are rising in Japan as we speak.  They put on the haz-mat suit, wear the mask and go for it.  Many will risk their own good health for the health of their neighborhoods and country. They are the street sweepers on steroids and I feel nothing but admiration for them.  The insurmountable difficulty before them doesn't stop them.  One piece of crap at a time they will clean up their precious homeland and restore order.

I like to think of our local street sweeper as a brother to them, a friend with a common interest.  Today I'm grateful for the ordinary pleasure of seeing a street sweeper and knowing that all over the world people like him help to keep our world clean -- unsung heroes in the grandest way. Thank You!