Jane Says...

Week 1, Day 5

2009-11-14T10:33:00.003-05:00

I am feeling better today. I had to get out of the house, so I went to see Precious, the movie based on the novel Push by Sapphire. I always thought this was a tough, painful story and the movie was no different. If you want a "pick me down", go see it. Interestingly enough there is a point in the film where Precious and her new friends/classmates are hanging out in the hospital room after she had Abdul, and they are all flirting with Nurse John, a healthy, hot medical aide who casually eats some fresh fruit. Precious asks him he goes to McDonald's which he replies no. "Why not?," an incredulous Precious asks. Nurse John looks at her and does not give a reply typical to one I would give (IE, it's the devil, processed garbage, etc.) Instead, he just says because I don't. I thought that this seemingly innocous exchange really was about the larger theme in the story: abuse. Mother to daughter, father to daughter, and finally self to self abuse. When we do not take enough care to feed nourishing foods to our body, overeat, under eat, skip vitamins, sunshine and exercise, we are in some form inflicting harm to ourselves. Let me know what you think about that one. But first, do something beneficial for yourself this weekend. Find your joy and love yourself, too.

Starches/grains: oatmeal, small popcorn (no butter), whole wheat pasta, bread crumbs
vegetables: lettuce, tomato, onions, cucumbers, tomato sauce
fruits: strawberries
protein: lean ground beef
diary: whipped cream, milk
beverages: diet coke, tea
fats/sweets: honey

Going to go back to bed now. Must get well sooner than later.

Parts 9-15

2009-07-28T16:03:00.000-04:00

9.
A panoramic view of this two-family house reveals a one-bedroom apartment where four adults battle for space and sanity. Kayley shares the converted living room with her 80 year old step grandmother, Maureen and Kayley’s mother and step-dad are next door where the spend some of their time glued to the bed watching TV. In between the two bedrooms is a hallway leading to a kitchen too small to hold a table and chairs. The place is very piggy--laundry, newspapers and magazines, dirty dishes and packed ashtrays everywhere. Saoirse stirs uncomfortably in bed alone until she finally gets up. She wears an oversized white T-shirt that covers her swollen, fat belly but exposes her pencil-thin legs. Alcoholism by many standards has multiple definitions. For teenagers, it’s the kid who drinks every weekend despite being sick every other Friday. For children of alcoholics it is a misery that prevents any notion of family normalcy. Modern medical definitions describe alcoholism as a disease and an addiction that keeps a mother and a step father in an unrelenting consumption of alcohol.
Nearly 9% of the general population is pre-disposed to alcoholism based on genetic factors. Also, some risk factors, including social environment, stress, emotional health, age, and gender have been identified. For example, those who consume alcohol at an early age, by age 16 or younger, are at a higher risk of alcohol dependence or abuse. Also, studies indicate that the proportion of men with alcohol dependence is higher than that of the proportion of women, 7% and 2.5% respectively. Although, certainly she has the genetic predisposition, it is a saving grace Kayley now 18, yet still majorly deficient in high school credits, has shunned alcohol.
Saoirse makes her way into the hallway eyeing the empty bottles of Bacardi and stuffed ashtrays. “Fuck...”Passing the second bedroom, she sees her daughter’s bed empty and her mother-in-law, Maureen, rising out of bed as soon as she sees Saoirse making her way to the kitchen. Maureen suddenly has a smoker's cough. “Ow.” Saoirse, immune to lashings of the lungs, starts the pot of tea.
“Where's Kayley?”
Maureen looks at the empty bed and shrugs her one non-affected stroke shoulder. Clearly, it being a Tuesday morning in September, Saoirse should assume or even expect Kayley to be seated in English class, but instead she is working behind the counter preparing coffee for men on their way to work. “That fucking girl.” Saoirse lights an unfinished cigarette from one of the ashtrays and goes back to kitchen to make the tea. Maureen stops coughing and steals a cigarette from Saoirse's pack.

10.
Ms. Disantino is far too cheerful for her drab looking classroom this morning. She writes the date and the objective on the board: “To write three supporting details to an opinion statement.” She knows that half the students have yet to come up with their own opinion statements let alone supporting details. She also knows by second period she is going to drop that English language, the coded “supporting details” and just say “reasons” as in “Britney, what are your reasons for this opinion.” She also anticipated the dreaded indifference to follow that compels her to write an assignment like this in the first place. It seemed to her and laughable to her too that the students who wanted to be lawyers when they got out of school where the students who never read, never wrote, and never spoke up in class during discussions. Just like the kids who wanted to be professional ball players never played on the school teams. She and the young men and women just out of college in classrooms next door did business with a generation of apathy. Caused by low self-esteem, poor parent involvement? Dana was not sure, but these were her students, her case studies, and she was their model. So today, despite an assignment doomed to fail, she was enthusiastic, upbeat, and positive—at least until 3rd period.

11.
Kayley hands some change to her customer at the deli and then nods to the next on line, a middle-aged man with a toothy grin. “What can I get you?”
“Yeah, let me get a toasted bagel. With an eagle spread.” Kayley doesn’t even stop in her tracks. She has seen a share of perverts in her life: her uncle, her mother’s boyfriends, a variety of men on the streets of Newark, but for some reason what always perplexed Kayley most was Donal, her mom’s newest husband. He never made a pass or an inappropriate gesture to her. She never knew whether to be relieved or offended.
“Sorry, the pedophilia special ended yesterday. It's full price now, and it'll cost you. An arm, a leg, and a dick.” Buddy, the owner of the deli, approaches from the back of the store in full “here I come to save the day” bravado. “Can I help you sir?”
“Just the bagel and coffee.”
“Yeah, that is all you will get and I don’t want you coming back here again. You got that?”
Kayley brown paper bags the items while Buddy reaches behind the counter. The customer leaves without another word.
“Second time this month, Kayley. I just don’t know this neighborhood anymore.”
“I have to go, Buddy.”
“Yeah it's almost 10. That's four hours.””No, plus, the two I covered last night.”
“Okay, 6 hours. I got it. Right here. You better get to school. You’ve missed 1st period three times this week.” Buddy opens his wallet and hands her cash.It is not much. It is not even one hundred dollars, but it is her money, her earned money. Quickly, she changes her T-shirt in the deli bathroom. She scrubs her hands with a lot of soap and water. Then, she sprays body mist all over her neck and arms. It is still hot, for October anyway so Kayley doesn’t need a jacket although she prayed for winter to hurry its together. Wearing an oversized winter coat kept the leering eyes on the street at bay. It is just a fifteen minute walk to the school and in twenty minutes, Kayley would be in her seat in Ms. Disantino’s class listening as Ms. D reads aloud a Shakespeare sonnet and pretending to understand a word of it and the mysteries of iambic pentameter. There are almost 20 students in the classroom. Some are listening, some are outright talking to their table partners, some play on their sidekicks. One is listening to his Ipod. There are enough empty seats for 15 more students. Those numbers have dropped off in the six weeks since the first day back from summer and the remaining 20 will continue to drop so that by the end of the semester in January maybe 12 or 13 students will come on a regular basis. That is just normal for this school. Ms. Disantino stands outside her door during the changing of periods. The hallway is crowded with slow-moving teenagers. Shouts and hollering abound. Girls flirt with boys by either smacking them on their arms or by sashaying past them. Boys share an ear bud to listen to an Ipod, all knowing every lyric proudly and loudly blasting beats. The late bell rings yet no one moves into a classroom. Ms. Disantino literally has to pull her students into her classroom, some even into their seats. “Let’s go! That was the late bell! Clear the hallway!”
This is 3rd period. Ms. Disantino is repeating the same lesson to a new, much smaller group. She gets interrupted when Principal Morelli enters the room. He takes note of the empty chairs and the students present.One of them is Kayley.
“Is this it?”
“Yes. Sometimes there are as many as 17 or 18, but you should see my 7th period class. Most days after lunch there are only 6 or 7 who return.”
Mr. Morelli spots one student, Dante, texting under the desk. “Dante, put that phone away or I will take it away.”
Ms. Disantino confers, “I asked him three times already to stop texting.”
“Ms. Disantino, I need you to write up a cut list and call home each of the student that cut. You have a parent log?” “Oh, yeah. And I make calls home every day.”
Mr. Morelli nods then exits to the hallway. Ms. Disantino slides back to her projector. She knows he does not have the answers. If he did, he would not be working at McKinney. He would not be principal either, here or anywhere. She could be discouraged but she sees Kayley, who hadn’t been in class for over a week raise her hand, so she puts on a soldiering smile. “I did good today, right? I’m doing real good in English this year.”
Ms. Disantino’s smiles deflates.

12.

I don’t want anyone to know that I might be the dumbest girl in my class. So I act bad in class. Maybe not the dumbest because Cheri is pretty fucking stupid. That girl one time thought Miami was Pedro’s girlfriend, his Ami. You know Pedro. The one who walks around touching every girl’s ass in the hallway? I don’t have him in my English class because he has Ms. Amico for English so that he can get rid of that fucking stupid accent of his.
I am bad sometimes, but not as bad as Britney, or that white slut, Kayley. Or even Pedro sometimes.

13.
It is 6pm, but Ms. Disantino is still at school behind her laptop open to an Excel spreadsheet listing students’ names and numbers. She picks up her cell phone.
“This is Ms. Disantino from McKinney Central High School. I am Cheri’s English teacher...I am calling about Cheri not making 7th period today. This is now the (quickly counts from the record) 12th time Cheri has cut English this semester and I am afraid that if she doesn’t start applying herself she will fail this marking period. And you know this is the second time she has taken this course already. Okay, okay, thank you for your support.” She snaps the phone shut and sighs before making a note in her “parent outreach log.” As she starts inserting grades from her grade book to her Excel spreadsheet, she ponders over Raven Johnson’s name. She recalls her favorite Raven story. “Raven stories” were her colleagues preferred pastime during Friday drinking sessions at the bar. Every one who has ever encountered Raven, whether they were her teachers or not, had at least one favorite Raven story. Ms. Disantino recalled once trying to get her advisory to settle down during assembly in the auditorium, but Pedro, the resident flirt, had Raven’s weave in his hand and was putting it on his own head while dancing around the stage. Raven had to finally climb up that stage and in front of the whole school bop him one really good in the face. She got a 5-day suspension from that one. Pedro got nothing. Ms. Disantino just shook her head and went back to her spreadsheet, entering “0”’s for some missing assignments on Raven’s row. To her dismay, the class average now dropped to 38%.
14.
So, what does one do when she is not doing what she should be doing, as in her English coursework? If you are Kayley, an 18 year old nearly two time high school dropout, you walk up the street carrying a heavy bookbag. This bag doubles as her double-identity tote. From the outside, she looks just like any other high school girl, but inside that bag paints a whole new picture. She stops in front of a two-family house and looks up at the window, where Saoirse, her mother leans out holding her coffee mug.
“Where the hell are you coming from?”
Kayley, even though has had a lifetime of embarrassment, hangs her head in shame. Later in the apartment, the barrage of questions does not stop until her mother either gets distracted by Donal or too drunk to be coherent.
“I don’t remember hearing you say you were staying at Jill’s.”
Kayley huffs as she goes into the kitchen. This is their routine. Kayley spends as little time as possible at home and when she is at home, she spends as little time as possible in the same room as Saoirse, which is quite difficult in a cramped one bedroom apartment for four people and one overweight beagle. Maureen, a living zombie who is leafing through a fashion magazine, takes up very little room as she is either sitting at the table or lying in her bed. Saoirse stares at Maureen waving a hand in front of Maureen's face. Maureen would not notice or stop two inches if Saoirse stripped naked and ran around with her hair on fire. Luckily for Maureen, Saoirse loses interest quickly, soon bothered by her quivering detoxing hands.
“Kay, see how much rum's left in the cabinet.”
Another one of Kayley’s routines, but she does not mind this either. Opening a cabinet and judging the half empty bottle of liquor usually meant a trip to the store, another excuse to get out her mother’s talons. But, of course, Kayley can’t seem too eager to leave.
“There should be enough.”
“No, don't say-there should be enough. Is there enough?”
“There's more than half the bottle-“
“You have to go and get more. I'm not hearing Donal's mouth again after last night.”
“Sorry I missed it.”
“Yeah, that’s not all you missed. Your school called. You’ve been late four times this week.”
“No. That’s not true. I go to school. Did my English teacher call. I did good today. I did well today.”
“If you are going to flunk school again then you better just go get a job. Then, you’ll know what day it is.”
“Do you know what day it is?”
“Don’t get smart with me! Go start dinner.”
“I’m not making dinner! I’ll go to the store for you, but I have to be somewhere.”
“You have to be somewhere? I don’t think so. You don’t go to school. You don’t work. You don’t clean up around this house. Empty these ashtrays, and go clean the dishes, then you can go to the store.”
Useless to disobey her, Kayley huffs off to the kitchen. Saoirse looks again at Maureen, lost in the world of fashion and beauty.
“She acts like I don't do shit around here, but she ain't here all the time to know what I have to do.”
At the sink, Kayley looks like she did last night, expressionless and empty, only this time she wears no makeup and she is standing in front of a pile of dirty dishes rather than lying down naked on a dirty hotel bed.

15.
Ms. Disantino usually gets home by 5:30 unless she does not fight herself against going to the gym which then she gets home by 7. Two years after returning from Scotland and a year after he asked her for a divorce, Dana has slimmed own by 15 pounds. Yes, her new body did wonders for her self-esteem, yet it still has not altered her empty, dark house she returned to every day. She tried to make amendments to this. She didn’t want her whole life to be about those kids, but for the last year she woke up thinking of one student and went to bed musing over some incident she will have to address tomorrow. Anyone could tell her she needed a balance in her life. She usually spent Fridays atop a happy-hour bar stool enclosed by her coworkers drinking away the stresses of the week, ignoring and being ignored by any available men. She stays till 7 and then it is alone-city for the rest of the weekend. Sometimes she meets someone promising through online dating sites, but always the same old story: anyone worthy of Dana, exciting, cultured, confident, is not online. He does not need to be. But, she does not want to have to go all the way to another country again to meet the next love of her life.
Tonight, she threw the mail on the couch on her way to the kitchen where she threw some leftovers in the microwave. She could made a salad too, but the cutting up of tomatoes and cucumbers and washing of lettuce were too much of a commitment after her day. Draft one of her exhibition was due and a total of eight students out of eighty-two students turned it in on time. She was not going to be discouraged, hell, it was less work and grading for her to do. Instead, she can flick on the TV, her constant companion of late, and settle on the couch with her dinner on her lap. After the meal, she replaced the plate with her laptop and checked for any emails from potential dates. Nothing. Then, she remembered the mail nearby. A letter from the Law Offices of Edwards and Delouche catches her attention. It could only mean one thing and she was not prepared to open such a letter tonight, all alone in her dark and empty house. But the next day, during Ms. Disantino’s morning class, she found the courage she needed to face the reality of her life.
Raven is present today, next to another girl her age, Brittany, but four chairs are empty this time. The students each have an index card. On the overhead projector reads: TODAY’S AIM- HOW DO I FORM AN OPINION AND EVIDENCE TO SUPPORT IT? Raven casually glances at the aim, recognizing a few words but not making much meaning to them. She concludes, I have no mind for school. I wish I did though, but I don’t and even if I did I wouldn’t act like Brittany. I not saying I would be soft but why act tough when deep down you’re soft?
Ms. Disantino stands in front of the class. How will she grab their attention? Each student has a different controversial topic written on his or her card which took her at least an hour to prepare. Dana sees Abbie read her card and write something down.
“What do you think of it, Abbie? Is it right is it wrong?”
Without a hint of confidence, Abbie returns, “It’s wrong?”
“Okay, so there you go. That’s your opinion. Write your opinion statement on your index card. “I think the death penalty is wrong”. Good, now, can you tell me why? You need to be able to support your opinion with reasons. That’s your evidence.”
Abbie just shrugs her shoulders, but all-ears Raven perks up. “Because it is like wrong. They can’t be like oh, you bad, we gonna kill you now.”
“Well, the process is not as straight forward as that. Which topic do you have, Raven?”
“I don’t know.”
“What does your card say?”
“School tress cod”
“Oh, school dress code? Okay, so you write a sentence on your card about dress codes.”
Abbie offers her hand, “Can I get a different topic?”
Ms. Disantino anticipated her students not liking their topics as a reason for not coming up with an opinion about them. “You can’t think of why the death penalty is wrong?”
As Abbie shakes her head, Ms. Disantino continues, “Well, then maybe you think it is right. Can you think of reasons it may be right?”
At this Raven gets excited. “Miss, I want the death penalty! She can have the dress cod.”
Sometimes, effective teachers choose their battles carefully. Who was she to dissuade enthusiasm? “Okay, why don’t you two move and work together?”
No such luck with Raven, at least not on the exterior. Abbie will have to be the sport. “I’m not moving, but she can move.” Raven made enough of a public display of interest in learning without having to lower herself to actually get up and move her seat next to Abbie, a girl who has not uttered more than five words all year, but Abbie does just shrug again and then reluctantly moved her chair over to Raven.
Two down, how many more to go? Hopefully, at least one more. Brittany fumed loudly and chucked her index card on the floor long ago. “I’m not doing this shit. What is affirmative action?”
As Ms. Disantino worked one on one with Brittany, Abbie smiled shyly at Raven and then started to write on their index card. Raven tried her best to read what Abbie wrote, but mostly she focused on the curves and loops of the lettering. Raven could be sweet sometimes. “Oo, your handwriting’s nice.”
Abbie smiled again, grateful for the compliment and the possibility of much-needed friendship. Raven noticed how much they both needed to be accepted. If I could “do school” I would be like Abbie even if she does look like Miss Piggy. She comes in even though no one talks to her and she always sad and does all her work.
Abbie tries her best to coach Raven, a girl three years older than herself. “Can you think of another reason? I came up with two.”
No, Raven could not think of another reason to support any opinions about the death penalty but yet she still felt good about today. I think this year I’ll sit next to Abbie. Maybe some of that smartness will rub off on me.
The bell rang without so much of six students forming opinion statements. Brittany put her head down and did not pick up the card from the floor. In the teacher’s cafeteria, Ms. Disantino had the stack of cards and the letter with her. After a quick read and readjustment of her drooping shoulders, she knew the reality is Dana is a soon to be divorced high school English teacher whose life depends on one teaching moment to the next and lately there has been very little life in her.

The Pink Motorcycle

2009-06-28T20:16:00.002-04:00

I stop
Because I see the pink motorcycle has carried me far enough
These country roads corrupt
Yet still beckons
The shrill thrills
This pink motorcycle has taken me too far
Away from me
Became a jaded me.
It is easy to get aboard and ride.
The boom boom beats will make you forget Sunday’s emptiness.
But, maybe I want to go home again?
So, I stop. Stop and hop off

Parts 7 & 8

2009-04-06T18:24:00.002-04:00

7.

Every girl past her 30th birthday knows there are two types of guys: those who call and those who don’t. Dana was no different. When she first met her husband on a Scottish holiday during February winter break, she couldn’t believe her luck. Not only was she not looking for love but she was also not aware that she soon would embark on a life-long wish-fulfillment for something she had never known why she yearned. Her mother’s enchanted country of origin—a place she had idealized from carefree two-week summer vacations as a child—tugged at her soul, called her name in any Brit pop song she heard, and assured her a better quality of life. There, all her dreams of love, writing, spirited-fun could be realized.
And he was a manifestation of those promises. He was…he was Bob Geldof, Bono, Jarvis Cocker. But he was more than a rock star…he was a poet, too. And a comedian. But, above the complementing, the whirlwind needy desperation, the offering of love and companionship, the open and transparent honesty, he called her. He called Dana everyday from Edinburgh to New Jersey everyday for four months until she made the bold decision to quit her life in America for a fairy tale life in Scotland.
Those four months were fun. He was fun, and just what she needed. He would leave her phone messages such as “Jist 'ere watchin' Steve Martin in de Jerk. Ye use 'at ward a lot. We don’t 'ere really so Ah don’t nu really whit it means but anyway ‘ere’s me favorite part. Ah tart ye shud ‘av a listen.”
And then he put the phone up to the television so that Dana sitting three thousand miles away on an air-conditioned bus could listen into her voice mail the famous beach scene where Bernadette Peters plays the kazoo and Steve Martin sings I know, I know you belong to somebody new…but tonight to belong to me. And Dana laughs and laughs despite the day where two girls torn out each other’s weaves over some boy who used to beat one and fuck the other and the news that she was not entitled to the Teachers’ Loan forgiveness program where she could have received $5,000 because despite working in a high-need school she does not teach a high need subject area (English). After that day, kazoo became Scottish boy and Dana’s secret word.
Only now, Scottish boy really did belong to somebody new. After a two year separation he met a mate’s wee sister only now she was all grown up and lonely and gentle even for his sensibilities. The divorce was a definite now. So Dana planned to put all her energy and heart break into her work.
Dana Disantino’s class is as clean and bright as Ms. Disantino could provide. Her well-intended, cheery disposition however does not compensate for the drab reality of the room. There is a sink, but only brown, rusty water shoots out the one tap. Only one outlet works, which means inconveniently placed extension-cords create an unwanted obstacle course for her and the students. But she is no stranger to the struggles of city public schools, this being her 7th year. Being single in the city, Dana wasn’t a stranger to all sorts of struggles, and by her 5th year of teaching, she had had enough of it all. So she left home and moved to Scotland, but now she was back and about to start a whole new school year.
“I like to start every school year with a little introduction by you. I’ve asked you to start by writing your goals for the school year on an index card. Now why don’t we hear from some of you?”
Most of the kids are quiet. No one volunteers. This was very typical, first week behavior, the honeymoon period. Ms. Disantino wondered how long this would last before the kids starting yelling, cursing, laughing, working, defying and all the other teen behaviors she had become accustomed to as she gestures to Abbie, a quiet and shy girl of 15 who had been very successful her freshman year but then for some reason Dana never got full details on stopped coming to school altogether and now has to repeat English.
“Abbie. What is your goal for this class?”
“To do my work and get good grades?”
Raven looks at her card which reads “to do good and get good grads. Get out of high skool.” in pretty, bubbly handwriting. She looks around her and then puts her head down on the table. Raven thinks I’m not going to read my card. Miss D made us to this last year. She know what I want.
Later, in a different class, Ms. Disantino tries again, “I like to start every school year by asking you to give me a little introduction. I’ve asked you to start by writing your goals for the school year on an index card. Who would like to share?”
Kassina, an eighteen year, bright and cheerful girl, raises her hand.
“I am going to pass all my classes so that I can get out of school so that I can get away from my mother.”
Ms. Disantino smiles awkwardly.“ Thank you, Kassina.”
Like men, there are two types of students, those who say nothing and those who say awkwardly too much.

8.

Raven sits on the front steps of her public house in the slummy neighborhood. Raven, black eye in full bloom now, turns to her grandmother, Teezy.
“He done grabbed my shirt and ripped it. So that’s when we took it outside the classroom I kept punching him.”
She is not impressed having had heard Raven’s stories and reasons for fights, suspensions, cuts, bruises, and scraps for nearly all of Raven’s life.
“The school guards came and tried to break us apart and that’s when he jumped up and punched me in the eye.”
“Who the boy?”
“Some white boy that lives in Greenhall. I told him ‘wait till I tell my cousin’.”
“You ain’t telling your cousin shit.”
Raven thinks, now I don’t want you thinking all little black girls are called, Raven, because I am more unique than that. That’s what my family call me, Raven U-neeck Johnson.
Raven leans against the fence that separates them from their neighbor’s squalid yard pressing an eye pack to her eye when a middle-school aged kid rolls up on his sister’s pink bike.
“You got beat up?”
“Fuck outta here. No!”
“I heard he’s in the 9th grade and you in the 12th!”
“No, motherfucker, he in my class!”
The boy laughs and rolls away. Teezy pushes Raven on the shoulder playfully. “I don’t like this fighting stuff. Somebody gonna get hurt. I can’t save you, U-neeck, from everything.”
Raven removes the ice pack.
“Is it swollen?”
“Yes, it swollen. You don’t keep that ice on it.”
“It hurts.”
“You fuck around with these boys and what you think will happen?”
“I wasn’t! He was messing with me!”
“Listen, I’m not gonna sit here and baby you! That your eye.”
Raven turns away towards the empty yard, I don’t expect you to listen. I hate listening, too. My teachers are always trying to get us to listen. And read, too. But I don’t get what they get about reading. My eyes move past the words, but my mind moves somewhere else. But wait! I don’t want you thinking I am stupid. I can read. I can read. But I just don’t see what the fuss is. Like you really think reading is gonna put me on some magic carpet ride to some wonderful place outta here? Just tell me what the story is about and that’s enough for me.
Like in 9th grade, I liked Romeo and Juliet because I knew what is was about. Some punk falls in love with this bitch, but they can’t be together so they kill each other. I don’t worry about the long, confusing speeches in between because in the end it doesn’t matter.
Since I don’t expect you to listen I can then tell you some things. I got hope. I gotta. Even though my family can’t get it together for a shit.
Raven continues sitting and watching the street until her grandmother TEEZY opens the front door.
“Raven, baby, your mother is on the phone.”
“She’s two hours late. Tell her I left.”“Raven U-neeck, you get on this phone now!”
Raven makes her way down the hall towards the phone. She could go a whole 3 months without talking to her mother these days. With 5 kids, and two jobs sometimes time for Raven takes about 12 weeks at a time. It’s like you holding the winning lottery ticket but your foot hurts too much to walk to the store to claim your prize. That’s my family. Fill up with excuses.

Part 6

2009-02-08T11:12:00.000-05:00

6.
So here it is, the first day back. Most of us remember that feeling. Mourning the end-days of summer vacation, and the fast arrival of the morning of the first day of school of yet another school year; yet, this dread is most different for teachers. Imagine full pay plus pure freedom for eight weeks only to come to a grinding halt when that first bell rings and young, nervous cranky young people shuffle through the hallways.
Raven was well familiar with these hallways. Mr. Cole, a first year teacher who successfully did the teacher revolver door act and unsuccessfully finished his first year, always stood in front of his during egress. Mr. Morelli said to (“Show your presence in the hallway when the kids are moving between classes”) so Mr. Cole did. Most days before 3rd period, he spent blocking a raising-hell Raven from entering his class where some other student for a myriad of possible, illogical offenses has given Raven a reason to blow. “Let me in Mister, I gotta fuck her up.”
“Raven, get back to your class!” “No! Brittany got my phone.”
If a boy is cute or if he is quiet Raven will get up and give him a good show. She loves to flaunt her bubble butt and most of the boys like it too, but they don’t take her seriously. Yet, this causes a problem with the other girls even if Raven bullies other girls to like her, they still don’t. She pretends not to care what other girls think of her, especially since she will start a fight with anyone who says remotely anything disparaging. She is always on alert for gossip. Most girls are afraid of her and why wouldn’t anyone who was not raised in the projects of Newark, where her daddy showed up once to say “she ain’t mine”, where she has four other siblings not not one of them admit to relation, even her own mother got to the point where she couldn’t handle her anymore and send Raven to live with her frail yet cankerous grandmother, Tizzy. Raven maintains that she has few friends because “theys all just jealous anyway.”
And now, Raven has more reason to feel angry. This under-staffed, high need school is putting Raven, a 17 year old in the 9th grade again.

Part 5

2008-12-29T13:51:00.000-05:00

5.
Dana Disantino is no stranger to the Ravens of McKinney Central. Every year a handful of the most unruly, apathetic, sad, and shockingly low performing boys and girls enter her classroom in such a loud, flamboyant way they might as well pass her a business card that reads: Raven U-Neeck Johnson, the bane of your life for the next 10 months of your life. Guaranteed to disrupt, curse you out and all others who upset me in the slightest, not to any homework and little classwork, and to offend your professionalism and dedication to American education. Because after all, who let me graduate 6th grade let alone middle school when I am barely a functioning 3rd grader?
There he goes again, hand rubs his visible scalp. “You know I am a strong believer in preparation. It is the backbone of effective instruction”
Ms. Disantino agrees with him. “I know that is why I am here early.”
Michael Morelli, like an unaware defense attorney making his closing argument to an already decided jury, persists, “And you will be rewarded –with increased student engagement and achievement.”
Dana is younger than Michael, but she has spent more years in the classroom than he. In your high school, your principal was a seasoned educator first because administrative degree programs required it. But again this is not your high school. This is a machine that requires the energy of the young. The turn around rate is dizzying. Most young teachers quit after two to five years thus never becoming truly experienced, and it is no bother for the higher ups since behind the door is another eager, good-doer fresh out of college ready to teach “these poor kids” and it is no bother of course too because these younglings are cheaper than the veterans. Once you managed to stay after 7 years, the cold snub and subtle push out the door awaits you. You’re a liability now especially when you are older and more experienced than your superior who only stayed in education for the prestige, easy pay, time off, solid connections, and of course that rapid catch and release 1 year Administration Academy that turns teachers (poof!) into principals. So, he better sound like he knows what he’s talking about.
“We need to move away from the days when it was OK to say, Well, I taught it, they just didn’t get it, and then move on to another topic.”
“I have been talking about focusing on mastery skills rather than effort based grading for a while now. But then of course the pass rates will really plummet.”
“No, Dana. With proper planning and differentiation, that is not necessarily true. If they can retake a mastery test until they get a certain grade say 80% then they are learning.”
“You know I am all in favor of that.”
“And I appreciate your efforts for our school. So let’s talk about your goals and objectives you identified for this year.”
No matter what bullshit had occurred the years before, or the stack of papers that soon will greet you at the door, an empty classroom in the end of August is an exciting space to walk through. Ms. Disantino’s classroom is no different. Chairs stacked together in a corner, desks scattered here and there; but despite the bare bulletin boards subsists a glimmer of hope and anticipation. Dana feels it. One day soon in his room some kid will surprise her. Some kid will say, “Oh, I get it! You’re a good teacher, miss.” A teaching moment she called it. And those moments got her through the week, through the month till the next break. She only anticipated it would one of those kids on her repeater list. Maybe Brittany, Derrick, Raven, or Kassina. Maybe, hopefully.
She puts on rubber gloves and move desks into tables. Her slovenly attire becomes apparent as she scrubs down the desks and chairs with a large sponge while her young, although not younger new boss’s goal list echos in her excited mind.
“1. Continuation of the Step-Up to Advanced Literacy course. Although now since the blocking has changed from 90 minutes to 60, you will have to cut Independent Reading time from the curriculum. 2. Differentiate instruction based on formal assessments. 3. Incorporate more direct English Language Arts instruction into mini-lessons, read alouds, and work period activities. 4. Conduct more mini-lessons on grammar, spelling and vocabulary.”
At the end of their semi-formal meeting, he stood up and thanked her for her service to the school and their students. He wished her a great year, but he never shook her hand. Later that week, the whole staff formally returned for Professional Development. Breakfast and classic classroom antics were provided. It was a good thing Dana got there early for the onion bagels and Mr. Heath’s favorite war story. This is his third year teaching history and his third year out of college. In another two years from now he will be back in school himself getting his law degree. His classroom at that time had a horseshoe layout. He had given a test; at least, they were supposed to be taking a test. Mr. Heath moved to fix a fallen map at the back of the room. Kassina had her head down and slept the whole time. Raven got up (without asking of course) to sharpen her pencil. Derrick decided to mess with her.
“Hey mister, Raven didn’t raise her hand.”
“Get off my dick!” Mr. Heath is always so funny when he imitates Raven’s voice and her class choice of words. The teachers including Ms Disantino are rolling.
“Get on mine! Derrick responds so now the whole class is laughing and Raven has to have the arena. So she does this impromptu lap dance on Derrick while Nick and Duquan spit out a hip hop beat. You’ve seen her do this before right, Dana?”
“Oh, yes I have.”
“You got to be kidding me! You are supposing to be taking a test!
I yell at them, but then Du pushes his chair back and screams ew! That smell! It’s like a cat.”
“Raven, right? I know she smells really bad sometimes. Like days without a shower.” Dana quips then second guesses her onion bagel choice.
“Raven says your mother, Du comes back with your grandmother. And before you know it we got security breaking up Raven and little Duquan. That was a crazy day. But you know, Du came back after school apologized and begged to retake the test.”
“Did he?”
“Yeah, he did. That kid wants to graduate.”
“Yeah, he’s good.”
They all had been talking so much that they failed to realize Mr. Morelli pathetically, silently wanting their attention. Eight minutes later, the room fell silent.
“I want to welcome you all back. I know I am excited as well to start my second year here. We want to begin with Ms. Miranda Gomez our social worker for the school. She is going to give you a PD on child abuse reporting.” Ms. Gomez, a motherly and portly woman with a thick Spanish, New Jersey accent, stands up.
“Thank you, Mr. Morelli. In New Jersey, any person having reasonable cause to believe that a child has been subjected to abuse or acts of abuse should immediately report this information to the State Central Registry. That means you are mandated reporters. If you suspect a child is in danger; they’ve been missing class, they look tired or hungry, of course if they have physical marks, you must make the call. In the past, teachers would come to me with their concerns, please still do that, and I would talk with the child, but now the law mandates you to. You don’t even need proof to report an allegation of child abuse and can make the report anonymously.”
As Ms. Gomez continued, Mr. Morelli steps out of the room but returned 40 minutes later as she finished taking questions. He immediately got down to business, the business of school maintenance anyway.
“I was struck by the Math Department’s presentation and specifically their action plan when it came to achieving the goals for their student’s they had articulated. Specifically, I was impressed by the combination of differentiation coupled with the implementation of spiraling within unit planning. These terms were not even in use a couple of years ago, have been paid lip service by many instructors who do not really grasp their meaning, but were presented thoughtfully and with meaningful practical applications.”
One of few remaining old timers raises her hand.”
“I have been incorporating spiraling and differentiation fifteen years ago when I taught elementary school. I feel like I have always and will continue to give careful planning.”“As a whole though, as a school, as we enter this new world of Periodic Assessments and formal Data Inquiry, I would like to remind not just you but every faculty member that for the school to embrace this, each teacher must be doing his or her part in the classroom during instructional time as well as during planning time. We can all play lip service to the ideals, but unless we ALL do the hard work our successes will only be partial. We need to carry those students who need our help the most. Then our repeater lists for the 9th and 10th grades wouldn’t be so devastating.
Dana knew like a few others, Michael Morelli was preaching to the choir.

Parts 1-4

2008-12-24T12:20:00.000-05:00

1.
You are in Newark, New Jersey. Well, there is a first for everything and this time you have come to see for yourself the decayed, urban America. Yes, it is a city, but you don’t work here and you certainly don’t condescend to live here. But Raven Johnson does. Raven U-neeck Johnson. That’s her in the backyard garden of her grandmother’s public house. Poverty and disrepair have come to live in this neighborhood, not you. Weeds, mud, and casually blown-in litter maybe, not definitely not you.
Raven should probably help her elderly grandmother, Teezy, hang the laundry on the laundry carousel. But, she is sore from a swollen, black eye which she ices. She sits on a lawn chair broodingly staring into the back garden of a neighbor.
2.
McKinney Central High School. You never went there because you attended a functioning, well-manicured high school with a football team that rivaled your sister town’s. But McKinney Central is typical of an urban broken-down school. Colorful bulletin boards that welcome students back from summer vacation pale next to the peeling paint on the walls. A rusted drinking fountain has a DO NOT USE sign. The building not only houses a high school but a middle school and an elementary school. It is an educational complex. A push for small schools: great in theory, but in practical, you would never have enough academically qualified students to farm a football team.
3.
Meet the principal. Mr. Morelli’s office is a mixture of welcoming and off-putting professionalism. At 40, he is pretty young and handsome despite his constant head rubbing, a nervous tick that burns a balding spot on his crown. Seated across from his desk is Ms Disantino. He has a checklist in his hands and a black pen. This would look like a formal meeting or interview except she wears dingy jeans and a tee shirt covered in dust and dirt. Her hair is pulled back and covered with a scarf. This is an informal formality, an oxymoron so prevalent like urban education itself.
“I want to start by thanking you for coming in before you are required to report back from summer break.”
“No problem. I feel overwhelmed. I always have so much to do. I need at least a week. Do you have my class lists yet?”
“We’ll get to that. I’d like to discuss your instructional goals and objectives first.”
He passes some sheets to her and continues. “You’ll see quite a few repeaters. We are going to have to really push these kids so that this does not happen every year. The city grades us based not only on test scores and graduation rates but pass rates as well. You had a 45% pass rate last year.” He frowns but does not rub his crown. He will not give away his power already.
She peruses the class lists. “Yes, Um. Yeah. Half my class list are repeaters.
“Now that I am out of the 9th grade, I know I can’t get away with my usual dumb shit to disturb the class.”
4.
This is last year. Or the year before. Sometimes it is difficult to decipher one year from the next when the classroom, like the world en grande in itself, contains its own archetypes: the sweet kid you wonder who didn’t give a shit enough to allow him/her to attend this institution of rejects, the kid who hates to read but can, the kid who can’t (and there’re plenty of them) who then fall into two more types: the sweet kid who can’t read and the rotten kid who can’t read. You can’t blame the rotten ones though for their lives are rotten. Poverty does that. Rich kids are spoiled, but poor kids are rotten. What happens to a society immersed in decay? Education is the first to go because if they knew better they would ask for better.
Raven sits at the desk alone with someone’s sidekick. The female teacher, Ms Graham, preppie and young, helps another student with an essay. Some students work independently, some in groups, but a few do nothing but chatter. One small group of ne’er-do-wells hotly engages in gossip. The teacher, not yet jaded from the students’ apathy, tries a new tactic, “I want to remind you that your thematic essay is worth 30% of your final grade. And some of you are showing me that you don’t care.”
The ne’er-do-wells are clearly some of them. They hardly pause their talking to listen. One of the girls pipes in, “Well, that what he told me. That she was all in it, and so was he. That why he kicked it with Raven.”
At the mention of her name, Raven perks up from her texting. “Raven, what?” The girl seems to have forgotten Raven was in the room or didn’t intend to be heard.
“Oh, no, I just was saying that Charlie…”
“You best not be saying anything. My name better not be coming from your mouth.”
“We can say your name whenever we want. What you gonna do?”
Raven gets up, of course she gets up. When you assert yourself here you better be ready to go all the way with it. You either stay quiet or you fight because if you say something and then back down then you are soft and nothing is better than a soft punching bag offered up on a platter for these world-weary, rotten kids.
“I’m not playing with you!” Raven insists or possibly warns. Ms. Graham is not going to gamble on the girls just “playing”. She blocks the path between Raven and the gossiping girls, a technique she was taught in one of her master’s education class Managing Emotionally Disturbed Students.
“Raven, calm down. I told you to put that sidekick away or you will have to give it to me.”
“It’s not mine, so you can’t take it!”
“You will put that away, or I will write you up. This is your warning.”
“Write me up.” A chorus of “Ooos” clang from the class.
“Shut the fuck up!”
“Everybody needs to stop. Raven, that is your second warning. Just calm down.”
Ms Graham almost diffused the tension if only one of the gossipers didn’t say that one last thing. “Raven, you a punk.”
“I’ll fuck you up!” Raven sprints forward and pummels the girl onto the floor. This is not a girl fight. This is an outlet for mutual frustration and anger, not at each other. These two girls hardly know each other and in a month’s time will go back to half ignoring and half being cool with each other. This is all about the fact that they both intrinsically know that they are failing not only Ms Graham’s history class but also most of their other academic courses and the ramifications of this failure run deep. The vicious cycle of miseducation, poverty, crime, and death enrages the subconscious.
But that was last year, or the year before. And like Raven said this time things will be different.

Saving Raven

2008-12-22T12:45:00.002-05:00

Soon-to-be divorced urban school teacher wants nothing more than to effect change in her failing school. Two of her students, both 17, one desperate to leave her monster mother, the other to get out of the 9th grade, reveal the shame of many schools in our country today—Social Promotion. Not only a satirical look at how the corporate expectations of educational success don’t always match up to the reality of urban school needs, this heartbreaking and at times sidesplitting drama reveals the crisis of public education and the cycle of poverty in America. Saving Raven is equivalent to saving the American Dream.

More to come soon…

New York Time, New York Freedom

2008-11-10T09:41:00.003-05:00

Once again, time is zooming ahead. I recall an attempt at a poem that challenges time’s mockery of my youth.

Time, thy timid, mental device,
Thou art cruel when needed;
Cold as Devil’s ice
Oh,
So slow, so endless,
Do thy ever tire?
Why when needed, thy accelerate;
Thy never retire
Double-dealing, game playing
Devious measurement,
Are thy an artifice,
Do thy charge rent?
Yet,
The most important question
Still lies, dear time;
Why when ignored,
Thy have a speedy recovery?
What must I do,
Bribe thy with dime?
“no”, answered time,
“I need not a petty loan.
I fly by because,
I prefer to fly alone…”

I wrote this at age 17 already aware of my morality. Now, at age 31, the universe says to me, “here, this is only a weekend gift.” Pungent cocktail of sweet tarts and Newports. How apropos. Halloween love. Now over.

I replay the soundtrack of the summer over and over . How I crave that freedom. Isn’t love truly the only freedom? I asked the universe then for this now (friends, career, freedom to dance and much needed revelry). Now I want then (comfort, security, predictably)

Love is a precious gift from God? Then where is my Christmas? I know though I am blessed with friends and my mom. But I am cursed with debt and scary intensity.

Tal says it best: “guys in nyc as here for a REASON. even at the start if their words/ actions don't match it, it is just because they are covering it up or momentarily caught in the moment, they are here because they are focusing on themselves and to chase a nyc dream. finding love is not that dream and that is the nature of the nyc beast- even those wall street types who are giving away giant diamond engagement rings are doing it to further their careers, etc. this is not not not the place to meet someone who is good enough or ready at this time in their life for our hearts.”

The danger with Nostalgia

2008-10-05T19:16:00.006-04:00

This last two weeks have been a chaotic rush to find time to unpack and reorganize my grown-up life into the confines of my mother's apartment. So sad what a few bad debts, months of unemployment and reckless abandon can do. As I lay dying (from the dust), I found a fancy leather red box among all the other shit in my old closet. I normally would have set it aside to be flea marketed off but this time curiosity got the best of me. Inside I found these old fabric-covered photo albums handmade by my ex-boyfriend's mother some 13 years ago. And inside those albums? A very lost and forgotten sense of Jane.

I remember this day. It was the beginning of spring my senior year in high school. So, I really was still 17. It was afterschool in Pablo's room. And those jeans. They were so tight, and so dope! I would have said that. And I would have smoked cigarettes, and bit my nails, and twirled my hair. Look at my original color. No grays! Almost a reddish hue. I would have just finally heard from NYU. In a few months, I would be moving to 10 Fifth Avenue.

I was in love! Pablo was my first love and none rivaled until I met Paul in 2004. Pablo-Paul, I know. One Spanish, one Irish, both sensitives with the soul of poets.

I want to cry for this young person. A long time ago, I had no idea what email was, how to ride the subway, how much I would learn the value of friendships over boyfriends, what a true friend Kasey would be to me, who Tal was, how to be free.

"The question is was I more alive than I am now? I have to happily disagree. I laugh more often now, I cry more often now---I am more me!"

Swimming with Agression

2008-09-18T16:24:00.000-04:00

Dear Faceless Figure Head:
After this joyless amusement ride I have dubbed January – July 2008, I have learned that I have lived my adult life completely resenting any form of authority. I wasn’t always this way. I was a dutiful daughter, a play-by-the-rules swimmer at the local pool, and of course, the most important, the model student. How could I have gone for so long with no rebel rousing, no boating rocking, no challenging the powers that be to suddenly spitting (if not literally) on the status quo? When did I become so rock and roll?
I wanted to write you this letter. Not so much as a reflection of recent decisions but also to question the very nature of conformity. Not to say that conforming to the guidelines set out by our society is wrong. Yeah, I would not have had the little success my life has gardened (NYU, noble career, great friends, er searching--yes I did say little success) if it were not for conventional living. But, why is it that once you reach 30 and you accomplish what it is you set out for yourself at 18 that life seems so unfair? And albeit, over?
So now, I am pissed and I have to scream, I have to stir, I have to completely destruct the world I have build for myself just to feel alive. I have to create controversy. I have to be this thing that is at once intolerable and indispensable. Perhaps this is the side effect of neglect and being all loveless.
I point my rage at you, o’ mighty nameless. You, who one calls “they”. You who insists we be on time, comb our hair, stick us with $10 an hour wages (hey, I don’t like being offered the same money I got 10 years ago when my rent was $525 when now it is $1028!), drive us into debt and into size 10 jeans. You have all the power yet no identity.
Perhaps you think I sound 11, not 31, but allow me some aggression regression. Allow me anything, will you? Yeah, I am diving in the shallow end! What are you going to do?

I got a job!!!

2008-07-19T11:13:00.002-04:00

With the Williamsburg Charter School! Brooklyn baby, here I come!

Urban education has been a blend of positive and negative experiences for me as a teacher. From the start, I have to say I love working with our demographic, the young people of New York City, those who have every opportunity in their diverse grasp yet remain susceptible to the adverse effects of poverty, crime and those other destructive nuggets that urban life can provide. My first impressive of the school showed me that here are those very same kids yet they are immersed in a supportive environment where high standards are king. I always knew that every child, even the most scrappy and surly, can have success academically if it is demanded of him or her. Unfortunately, my most discouraging experiences in urban schools have been the lowing of the standards to the point where the student knows he really does not have to put forth much effort “to get that credit”.

WCHS not only wants its students to get that credit but to exceed the requirements provided by the city and state. The passing score for each class is 70, not 65. The students have to take 8 credits of math, 6 credits of Foreign Language in which Latin is expected, and 4 credits of Art. In addition, seniors must pass Senior Seminar, an inter-disciplinary course designed to prepare students for the academic rigors of college. I have been hired to teach English Senior Seminar. I get Seniors!!!

The interviewing process

2008-07-09T18:07:00.003-04:00

Six months ago, on a chilly winter morning, dredging up Lexington avenue, passing smart assed teens in their oversized coats covering their oversexed bodies, I hated my life. Literally, I dreaded this existence. What was the point? I gave my youth to this profession and now they want my morals, too?

This attitude set forth in motion a string of fortunate or unfortunate events that led me to where I am now. My dilemma was whether I wanted a fight or an unsatisfactory rating and a long, drawn out grievance filed to fight it or to walk. I, so uncharacteristicly of me, decided to resign. I have since harbored such anger and resentment towards the DOE and a system that would take an educator who became an administrator only to instill a love of literacy and to facilitate change and since turned him into a number-driven, corporate whore. Will charter schools fare any better then? I have no union, no tenure, no contract. Will my attitude then fare any better then under the threat of a cannon?

Going into my third month of unemployment delirium, I reasoned that I am a teacher. As I grow, I have a need to share this growth. Experiences are not worth having if not sharing—hence the whole blogging community, huh? True, also, I can not deny the fact that I enjoy a steady salary and summers off. Who could go back to a strict 9-5?

So here is the list of interviews/demo lessons completed thus far.
Bedford High School
New Rochelle High School
Williamsberg charter school
Democracy prep charter school

What I discovered about non urban public schools, or at least what I forgot since I once attended one myself. They do not like the teacher to read aloud/model proficient readers. Oh yes, because most of the students are already model readers themselves and need to be disciplined to read on their own. Geesh. Also, there is no literary canon debate. They only read works in the canon. Computers belong in the lab not the classroom, and there is a strict department hierarchy. But, the pay is better.

Charter schools? As far as they are concerned they expect you to work longer days and a longer school year FOR LESS PAY!! Unbelievable. Truly.

Building my own school? Am I that ambitious? No t yet.

I Found This Letter From Nearly 3 Years Ago! How Things Changed.

2008-06-10T12:44:00.002-04:00

October 22, 2005

Dear Marie,

Hope all is well with you and the school year is running smoothly. I am back at my old school, now Central Park East High School teaching 9th grade English. I am pleased with the new administration and the changes I see. Finally, there seems to be some consistency and consequences for the students. The hallways are no longer cluttered with students cutting class, and the results are showing fast. The kids are more on task and committed to their work.

Our entire incoming freshman scored Level 1’s and 2’s on the English Language Arts citywide exams which means they are struggling readers. Basically CPESS teaches “low ability” students in a low-income, urban community. Because of this, our school has adopted the Ramp-Up to Advanced Literacy model which I teach.

Ramp-Up’s structure consists of daily 90-minute classes 4 times a week. I teach two freshman blocks plus a 9th grade plus class (students who failed and need Freshman English credits), so it’s a manageable schedule. The first 20 minutes of class, the students read from their independent reading book. They choose books from our classroom library and are asked to read 25 books (different genres) a year as per the New York State English standards. While they read, I take the Status of the Class (quiet monitoring of what they are reading, what page they are on, etc). Then I pull one student a day and ask him/her to read to me from the independent reading book and we conference. I decide which reading skill and/or strategy to work on with that student then continue to match that student with similar needs to others during guided reading conferences. I am amazed at how well they can choose their own reading books, read with fluency and expression. Yet, when I ask them to make inferences or to visualize a scene or to make a prediction about the story, they seem to fall short. Somewhere in their education they understood reading to be an act of decoding rather than comprehension.

The next 20 minutes is the Read Aloud/Think Aloud/Talk Aloud. This is the only part of the Ramp-Up curriculum that I have problems with as the books the program offers I feel are books the students would choose on they own anyway and the RA/TA/TA is a great model for instructional text as such in the literary canon. Yet, the controversy rages on. My principal made me a deal. I must do two class novels as prescribed by Ramp-Up and the other two I can decide. I am currently instructing Lord of the Flies for a thematic unit on Society and Civilization. The gist of the RA/TA/TA is I read aloud 5-8 pages from the class novel as student read along with their copy. I plan three stops in the reading where I model one of the seven habits of procifient readers (monitor for meaning, visualizing, predicting, making connections, asking questioning, synthesizing, and making inferences). Then after the reading, we talk aloud as a class about the reading.

Then the remainder of the class is called the work period which is composed of differentiated learning. I work with one group of students during guided reading while the rest of the students chose from a Menu of work items. We end each day with a student-led Book Talk from his or her Independent Reading book.

I hope this letter shows my enthusiasm as I feel back at home again even though there is a void being separated from Paul. He is coming for Christmas, though!

In additional to being an English teacher, I am also an advisor for 14 students. Advisory is similar to Form class yet I have a bit more responsibility in that I have to call parents and monitor students’ transcripts. Advisory meets twice a week for 45 minutes in which the first 30 are committed to independent reading school wide. The remainder to chat about school news and update, generally make sure they have no problems or to solve any (academically or behaviorally). I had told my advisees about moving to Ireland and my experiences in another school. I told them how incredibility important as well as fun it would be to become pen-pals with the school where I taught. These letter exchanges can be a lesson in dispelling our perspective of another group of people, to learn cultural differences, and share our similarities. My students were eager and excited to participate.

I have enclosed 14 letters which I entrust to you. I did not want to spend a lot of time rewriting and rewriting as I wanted their writing to be authentic, honest, and real. However, I am feeling that perhaps you may want to pair up a letter with a boy with similar ability and age. Certain students come to mind from last year’s 10M1, but you make the call. I am supposing the boys would need to be in year 11 though.

I sincerely hope we can start and continue this schema this school year. My students are anxiously awaiting news from their new friend in Ireland. If you want, I can send you money to handle postage fees.

All the best to everyone!

Sincerely,

Jane Ann Gonzalez

PS The best pedagogical book you can read this year about literacy from which the Ramp-Up program developed its routines and procedures is Kaylene Beers’ When Kids Can’t Read. If you can’t get a copy, I will be happy to send you an extra one!

The Future of Public Schools?

2008-05-29T00:39:00.000-04:00

I have over 7 years experience in education working closely within a departmental team. I received a BFA in Dramatic Writing at New York University, Tisch School of the Arts (3.3); and, a MA in Secondary English Education from the City College of New York (3.5).

My academic and professional backgrounds have provided the necessary tools to motivate and inspire young adults. Most recently, I taught 9th and 10th grade English at a school in East Harlem, where I also served as an academic advisor. The curriculum I designed and presented were mainly project–based thematic units (Tolerance, Censorship, Identity, the American Dream) culminating with a major written assignment that satisfied each one of the New York ELA Regents components.

I have almost two years working with elementary school kids before I transferred to a secondary school while I worked on my Masters degree; after which I moved to Ireland and taught at all boys Catholic middle school before I moved back to New York a year later when I learned from my former colleagues and friends that our school undergone major changes including new administration. I grabbed at the change to be part of the rebuilding of a school with great potential where our main concerns (communication, discipline and consistency) would be addressed. However, in the third year, poor discipline (kids in the hallway, lateness, poor attendance, theft, disruptive behavior) which in turn resulted in poor pass rates. Administration, though, now required teachers to turn in 65% pass rates undermining a very dedicated staff who often go beyond contractual obligations to the school community. Since I was very vocal about my opposition to “social promotion”—promoting a student to the next grade despite their low achievement—as well as “dumbing down the curriculum”, I soon accepted I could no longer thrive in an environment where lowering my standards were being pushed by administration for the reward of future bonuses.

A high pass rate is not a sole predictor of a successful school or a competent teacher; however, perhaps is more akin to a system that pushes students along the continuum for fear of losing jobs and/or social standings within the administration. I believe if a child, through his own lack of attendance or effort, does not meet the criteria for a passing grade, then passing him through will only truly fail him in the end. Students who are promoted to the next grade for which they are unable to do the work, sets them up for further failure which in turn will most likely lead to dropping out. Also, it sends the message to all students that they can get by without working hard, and also importantly, it offers parents a false sense of success. My ideals and morals prevented me from inflating grades to the satisfaction of administration, thereby, losing my position for tenure in the English department, even though our department currently has the highest New York State ELA Regents exam scores than any other department in our school. My rising feeling of low morale due to lack of empathy from the students and lack of consistency from the administration compelled me to turn in my letter of recognition upon returning from Winter break. I remained another three months in order for the schedule to change so that no students were inconvenienced or left in an impasse as my four classes were regrouped into other existing sections.

My teaching philosophy is rooted in the practice of the collaborative process to support, develop and enrich students’ writing, critical and analytical thinking skills, literacy, technology, as well as social abilities. Raising the writing ability of students through emphasis on Writer’s Workshop (fashioned after the techniques for mastering the writing process of Peter Elbow, Ken Macrorie, and Jeffrey Wilheim) is my overall objective. Students find success through daily free writing, journal writing, multi-genre projects, as well as interdisciplinary writing in the classroom. Fostering self-esteem through the nurturing of voices and visions is essential to the learning process.

Teaching has provided me with strong sense of purpose where I shared my enthusiasm, organization, ambition, and sense of humor with a like-minded staff and community. One that considers and understands this very important plight in public education. Investing in Trade schools is a discussion that needs to be loudly advocated!

I HAVE A CONFESSION

2008-05-28T19:38:00.000-04:00

Wednesday, June 28th was the single highlight of my life. When Madonna announced tour dates last early March, there was no question that I would be in attendance. And was I ever!!!! Yeah--oww!

Her last show, two years ago was, of course, sold out and I was moving to Ireland so I couldn’t arrange it. My last hurrah with my cousins Allison and Lisa turned into a drunken craze where we last minute said “let’s scalp tix!” But score we did not.

This time we did score, and pay out our noses, we did!! Then, my coworker upon hearing I was going pouted his cuteness with a “I want to go, too.” So I scored again! On eBay: this time with an inflation, naturally. So now I was going twice, what luck, what joy!! What an expense!

So Wednesday finally came and when the lights went down my heart catapulted out of my chest. “Get Together” was the opening song and she made us wait for her. With the equestrian montages, dark blue hues, the blaring bass, filling my senses to overload, finally a six foot crystal ball rises out the catwalk, and then opens like a blooming flower. There she stood black riding cap and trousers, whip. All I remember was screaming “Oh my God!” and tear streaming down my face. Everyone was! I thought this experience merited my first blog ever. So here is my confession:

So what can I possibly say about Madonna that hasn’t already been expressed two zillion times? Nothing except, what Madonna means to me.

Madonna first hitch-kicked her way into my life with her “Lucky Star” video. Classic punky early 80’s, messy haired sexpot Boy Toy who I later learned was nothing of the sort. In fact, I think it was Madonna’s lovers who earned that title—there were men who served as playthings for her! She and Michael Jackson alone initiated that choreographed video essential with the back up dancers. In Lucky Star, we see two similarly dressed in black against a white background. Perfectly iconic!

That same year, Madonna is seen again on Music Television in an explosion of color from her neon spikes to the lovely sunset casting romantic shadows as she and onscreen hunk #1 share an embrace in the video for “Borderline”.

Then came her sophomore album and she became a mega star, yet not the idol or icon her dynastic name suggests, not yet anyway. “Material Girl” was mine and every other girlie girl favorite soundtrack for dress up, yet this is the first Madonna-as-messenger video. She may be heading towards a Marilyn Monroe status, but this is a woman who will not “be impressed by expensive gifts.” Controversy also first came with this album as thousands of little girls, my own innocent self included, sang “Like A Virgin”. Oh the hilarity!

“If I ran away, I’d never have the strength to go very far.” This line from her first ballad would be the tag to my at times very melancholic childhood. Yours too though, right? True Blue is an album that epitomizes the 80’s for me. The tape was never out of my radio in 1987. I danced to my 4th grade talent show to “La Isla Bonita”. Full of fun, theatrical tracks, this was the first time I remember arguing on behalf of Madonna with my dad. He thought she was a talentless tart who couldn’t sing and would be forgotten whenever the next pop princess came along. I responded, “ahh, Madonna inspires me to be bold as a girl and to love dance. Papa, just don’t preach!”

Then with the awkward, horrible middle school years came Like A Prayer and Madonna revealed her true importance in my life. “When you call my name it’s like a little prayer.” Perhaps, likening a pop star to the mother of Christ is blasphemous to most the Christian community of the world, but in my own symbolic, allegorical head I recognize in her a woman of strength, love, defeat, and triumph. A goddess of my generation. Just return to “Cherish” and “Oh, Father” for further insight. The message is always love, simple.

Madonna in the 90’s is summed up by three act: Blonde Ambition Tour, Ray of Light, and Baby Lola. Truth or Dare, which chronicled said tour, revealed a pop star who despite her fame, fortune, and fun lifestyle at the heart who is alone. Deceased mother, divorced yet Sean is (was?) her true love, and friends who can’t possibly relate. These trappings will serve as the life lessons a goddess learns and dispels through Ray of Light. Here’s one of those insights:

Drowned World/Substitute for Love
Words and Music by Madonna, William Orbit, Rod McKuen, Anita Kerr and David Collins

I traded fame for love

Without a second thought

It all became a silly a game

Some things cannot be bought got exactly what I asked for

Wanted it so badly

Running, rushing back for more

I suffered fools so gladly

And now I find I've changed my mind

Chorus: The face of you My substitute for love

My substitute for love

Should I wait for you

My substitute for love

I traveled round the world

Looking for a home

I found myself in crowded rooms

Feeling so alone

I had so many lovers

Who settled for the thrill

Of basking in my spotlight

I never felt so happy

(chorus) Mmmmm, ooohhh, mmmmm

Famous faces, far off places

Trinkets I can buy

No handsome stranger, heady danger

Drug that I can try

No ferris wheel, no heart to steal

No laughter in the dark

No one-night stand, no far-off land

No fire that I can spark

Mmmmm, mmmmm (chorus)

Now I find I've changed my mind

This is my religion

Â© 1998 WB MUSIC CORP., WEBO GIRL PUBLISHING, INC., DAVID COLLINS (Pub. Designee), RONDOR MUSIC (LONDON) PTY LTD., STANYAN MUSIC GROUP (ASCAP) and ANITA KERR PUBLISHING All Rights for WEBO GIRL PUBLISHING, INC. and DAVID COLLINS (Pub. Designee) Administered by WB MUSIC CORP. SPECIAL NOTICE: The song lyrics on this web page are here for the personal enjoyment of our visitors and are provided through the courtesy of the Copyright owners and Warner Bros. Publications.

In fact, during the concert, Madonna sits and talks to us. “Let me hear you! Do you love me?” They scream. I cry. She responds, “Well, that feels nice but I know that doesn’t mean anything.”
I was twenty-one years old when Ray of Light and Lourdes arrived. I was just discovering my true self, my independence, my city, and my heart. Madonna had motherhood. I danced a lot that year, alone.

And I’m still dancing to Music and her latest Confessions on the Dance Floor!! If you don’t have an electronic, disco bone in your body then you can just be a wallflower and miss the fun.

Madonna is the so-called Sacred Feminine. She embodies everything that has not come before or after her. Ultimately, Marilyn Monroe could not handle the loneliness, Streisand developed stage fright, Janet Jackson yo-yos with the fat, Mariah Carey is not a lady, Whitney is wack like her beloved crack, Cristina Aguilera doesn’t know who she is, Jessica Simpson thinks it is cute to be stupid--Yawn! Brittney is already a has-been of 23, Gwen Stefani has no message, and Pink is so angry. Who have I forgotten to even suggest a comparison??

Madonna has always been provocative: a sign of her intelligence as well her faith and love for humanity and the divine. No woman who at the same time can be sexy, girlish, beautiful, and motherly has ever made me Think at the same time. No one before Carrie Bradshaw, at least. Madonna invented Pop Culture as Art. She does all this and in her 20 years entertaining, exhilarating, enlightening, and loving me as she does all her fans has Madonna always kept it fresh and never repeated herself.

What luck to see divinity in my lifetime. And on the 7th day, Sunday, where Allison, Lisa, and I have better seats, she will bless us with her stage fire power and love before she rests.

Love life the Dancing Queen!!

The Untouched Woman --a la Langston Hughes

2008-04-17T06:51:00.000-04:00

What's to become of the woman untouched?
Does she wither away like the espoused sea sponge
Freeze from the winter wind,
Melt from the summer sun,
Does she become empty like a fallen acorn;
Does she reek of ancient scorn
Or rot from the inside out -- a sickly sweet mixture of hope and defeat?
Maybe she just hangs on
like a heavy burden.
Or does she just disappear?