Brilliant … But Bouncy

I Hope You Made a Good Choice.

This morning, Dylan bounded down the stairs and said, “Don’t you just feel like jumping out of a window?”

I appreciated that he didn’t say, Don’t you feel like crawling into a hole for the next four years?

“I don’t think it would do any good,” I said. “And it’s raining outside.”

Dylan started talking about moving to Canada. After all, since it never occurred to me that Donald Trump would actually win this election, I said we could move to Canada if Trump became President.

But what good would that do? We’d still be Americans. We’d still be humiliated in the face of the world. We’d still be the laughing stock of the planet. And we’d still find out about every absurd syllable that Trump utters, no matter how senseless.

It astounds me, as a human being with a brain, that so many millions of people could vote for someone whose entire campaign is based on bitterness, lies and fear. Millions of people believed his empty promises backed by no solid plan. Millions of people voted to have a buffoon be in charge of our country.

Millions of people based their decisions on fear. They’re worried about terrorism (thanks to the media) so they vote for someone who says, “Keep everybody out!” They’re worried about losing their jobs (thanks to the media) so they vote for someone who says, “We’ll force all the companies to stay in this country!” They’re worried about the country falling apart (thanks to the media) so they vote for someone who says, “I don’t know anything about politics so I will make it better!”

They’re worried (thanks to the media) about the national debt, so they vote for someone who doesn’t even pay the people who work for him. They’re worried (thanks to the media) about their families growing up in a safe place, so they vote for someone who is angry and unkind.

In fact, thanks to fear (and the media), every single vote for Trump was a vote against the Golden Rule.

But no one really cares about the Golden Rule anymore.

And as a mom of two very bright kids, I have to explain this to my children, who have followed the campaign for a year. My kids know the difference between right and wrong so they have been very concerned since Trump was nominated.

Dylan’s friend voted yesterday and texted about it. Dylan carefully said, “I hope you made a good choice.”

“Of course I did,” said his friend. “I’m not a stupid, racist pig. I voted for Hillary.”

We all breathed a little sigh of relief.

But the world has stopped turning for me today.

I am stunned at the number of votes for ignorance, racism, sexism and intolerance. I am stunned that so many people simply decided that someone so obscene should be “in charge.” I am stunned that so many people can support a man with no plan for the foreseeable future except to tear down everything we’ve built over the last 200 years.

I’m not saying the world is perfect. I’m just saying that Trump’s methods are guaranteed to make it worse. We are facing a Very. Long. Four. Years.

MORE votes were actually cast for Hillary, which means a majority of people actually voted against the idiocy.

This gives me only a smidgeon of hope.

“So why didn’t she win?” Shane asked. He’s already learned about electoral voting in school.

I had to explain the sad truth: “Because that’s just the way it works, Son.”

That’s What an Election is All About.

As a substitute for a first grade class this week, one of my assignments was to read, Duck for President.

Perhaps it’s not been all that noticeable, but this year is a Presidential election.

So my assignment was to talk a little about the upcoming election – without asserting any opinions – and then read the book, and talk about the things Duck did when he was running for President.

Duck for President is a very simplistic view of what happens. There’s some campaigning, but no mention of what that means, and Duck rides in some parades and kisses some babies. Otherwise, Duck doesn’t do much – although he still gets elected. At the end, he quits because it’s too much work, and goes back to the farm from whence he came.

So I pulled out the book and sat on my rocker in front of 18 first graders, who were seated on the carpet in front of me.

“Raise your hand,” I said, “if you have ever heard the name, ‘Hillary Clinton.'”

Every hand in the room went up.

“She’s running for President!” one girl blurted.

“She is indeed,” I said. “Okay, now raise your hand,” I said. “if you have ever heard the name, ‘Donald Trump.'”

Again, every hand went up. But this time, the room exploded. There was an uproar of little voices.

“He’s going to be President,” a boy said.

“Nuh-uh,” said another one. “He’s a jerk!”

“He’s not a jerk!”

“Uh-huh he is, because I saw him. He said some bad stuff and he’s really a jerk!”

“He doesn’t like people with black skin,” whispered a girl.

“Who has black skin?” said another one.

“You do!” the first girl said. “And me too!” Both girls had dark hair, but their skin wasn’t very dark.

“Donald Trump doesn’t like people with black skin and he doesn’t like people who speak Spanish,” said another girl.

At least eight of the kids in the room spoke Spanish.

There was a collective gasp.

This all happened in the course of twelve seconds. As a teacher, I had to say nothing about either candidate, remain impartial, and let the kids know the really good news.

“Who knows how old you have to be to vote?” I yelled above the din.

The class hushed. One lone boy raised his hand practically to the ceiling. “18!” he almost screamed.

“That’s right,” I said. “And the Presidential election happens every four years, so you will be able to vote in just three more elections!”

The class was very excited. “We can?” one girl squealed, while a boy yelled, “We can vote when we are 18!”

They took a moment to stop arguing, and to recognize their personal power.

Because really, that’s what an election is all about.

“And this,” I said, waving the book, “is a story about a duck who wants to be President.” And I started reading.

But as I read, the words of a classroom full of six-year-olds echoed in my ears.

They sounded just like all the adults in the country.

Everyone Wants Those Teachers.

Recently, there’s been some controversy on a local email list about an article that appeared in The Washington Post.

The article discusses the impact that teacher absences and long-term substitutes have on students’ education. The headline reads: 1 in 4 U.S. teachers are chronically absent, missing more than 10 days of school.

While I decided to steer clear of jumping into the middle of the online discussion, I have been thinking about what’s been said.

Teachers, who already have little-to-no life outside of work, are upset because parents assume that they are all taking off of work to party. As a substitute teacher myself, I know that there are very few teachers who leave the classroom for reasons other than work-related issues – meetings and trainings and the like.

I know a lot of teachers. Maybe there are slackers in the bunch, but for the most part, our teachers are the hardest working people I have ever met. (Spend ONE DAY substitute teaching and see if you can decide anything else.)

However, I also found one teacher who disappeared for a week-long vacation without leaving so much as a lesson plan for her substitutes – and instead claimed that she was “sick” for a week.

That is probably who the article is about.

Still, the parents have good points: substitute teachers are not really substitutes for permanent teachers. They are stand-ins, for the most part, who can do their very best to keep the class on task and covering curriculum. But parents are concerned that the substitutes – many of whom are not even certified teachers – aren’t able to teach the curriculum, and/or aren’t able to actually educate the class.

I was watching a Dr. Phil rerun the other day. A homeschooling parent said, “Saying children are learning in school is like throwing marshmallows at their heads and saying you’re feeding them.”

I like it.

I don’t agree – but I understand. Teaching isn’t something that can be done by just anyone. Really teaching needs to have strong, personal investment by an adult who is willing to really teach.

Many teachers lecture, discipline, babysit and distribute worksheets – then grade those worksheets and call it “teaching.” That kind of teaching is, indeed, like throwing marshmallows at their heads. There’s far, far too much of this kind of behavior in the public schools.

But there are many teachers who give their heart and soul to the job, and create a learning environment where kids can actually thrive. These are the teachers who spend days planning their assignments, perfecting their lessons based on what happens in class, talking to kids every day about their needs, talking to parents and other staff, and figuring out how to make sure every student in the class can succeed.

Those are the teachers everyone loves.

Those are also the teachers who never take off any time for themselves, who barely take a moment to notice their own birthdays, and who love their students almost as much as they love their own kids.

Everyone wants those teachers.

I won’t go on a rant about how and why so few of those teachers exist. I just want to note that those teachers do exist. And they deserve way more credit than anyone will ever give them.

Meanwhile, I’m just happy that sometimes they go to meetings and allow me the privilege of seeing what a good classroom is all about. As a substitute, I benefit enormously from those teachers.

And I strive to be like those teachers, so that, even as a substitute, I can be the best kind of teacher, too.

There Was No Movement in His Room.

Dylan’s job (scaring people) runs late. It runs later on weekends, but it still runs late on weeknights.

Dylan has said, many times, that he can work late and still get up on school days. And for the first few weeks, he did it – quite nicely, in fact.

But one Monday morning, after four solid nights of work, there was no movement in his room.

I went downstairs and made his breakfast anyway. I still heard nothing from upstairs. Then I heard Shane’s alarm. I heard Shane getting ready for school.

I still heard nothing from Dylan’s room. Normally, Dylan is expected downstairs by 6:45. It was 6:50 and the bus arrives at 7:00.

I made Dylan’s lunch anyway. I made Shane’s lunch. I left Dylan’s egg sandwich in the microwave, just in case.

At 6:57, I heard feet racing down the stairs. I assumed it was Shane.

It was Dylan.

He grabbed his lunchbox and threw on his shoes and a jacket. Meanwhile, I nuked his sandwich and threw it into a piece of foil. I handed him a water bottle and an Espresso.

“You didn’t take your vitamins!” I said.

“I have them in my backpack,” he said.

Right, I thought. But he sent me a picture of those vitamins … while he was on the bus.

Which – unbelievably – he caught, and he made it to school on time.

Tonight is Dylan’s last night to work this season.

Thank you, God.

There is No Higher Position in the Tech Booth.

Shane came home sick from school.

“I was really sick in fourth period,” he said. “But it was picture day, and I was getting my picture taken in fifth period, so I decided to stay in school.”

I felt for the guy. We kept talking about the day.

“Oh, and Mr. T says I’m going to be the director next year for the Morning Show,” he said – as casually as if he were telling me about his homework.

“WHAT?!” I squealed. “You’re going to be the director?”

The Morning Show is the televised broadcast of morning announcements. Shane has been working in the tech booth since the beginning of sixth grade. Being director means that he would be in charge of the tech booth.

“Yeah, because I’m one of only two seventh graders who will still be here next year,” he said.

Shane tends to put down his own accomplishments. When he makes a good joke, for example, he’ll tell me where he first heard it – even if his timing and re-usage was spot-on. Now he was doing the same thing with being promoted.

“Shane, that’s great!” I said.

“Yeah but really I’m just the only one who knows all the stuff,” he said.

“You know all the stuff!” I said. “That’s great! I can’t believe you’re going to be director!”

There is no higher position in the tech booth.

“Yeah,” he said.

“So tell me exactly what Mr. T said,” I said, still trying to encourage him to feel some pride.

“Well, we were all talking in the booth and Mr. T came in. And one of the kids said, ‘maybe Shane will be director next year.’ And Mr. T said, ‘yeah, he will.’ And then he just walked out.”

Hm.

This seemed rather anti-climactic.

“That’s great,” I reiterated. “You are going to be a wonderful director!”

“Well, I still need to learn one more thing,” he said. “But I’m going to learn that in a couple of weeks.”

“You have the rest of the year to learn everything,” I said. “You’re going to be a great director.”

And he will.

As long as Shane actually gets to be director, and that half-hearted “yeah he will” actually meant “yes, he will.”

There Are Only Two Weeks Left in the Quarter.

Dylan works weekends – and actually Thursdays and Sundays – during the Halloween season. He loves this job. He doesn’t get paid, except in Social Service Learning hours, so he is technically a volunteer.

As such, he can lose his job if he doesn’t keep up his grades. He has only 24 hours to “fix” any missing work that appears in the computerized gradebook. Either his teacher must change the grade, or write a note that explains that the work has been turned in.

Dylan has been coming home with notes throughout the Halloween season, and he brought his grades up – and kept them up – from a 1.7 to a 2.7. According to house rules, he is doing everything right to keep his job.

But over the weekend, on a Saturday afternoon in fact, his grade tanked in Algebra 2. Quite suddenly, he went from a low B to a low D in the class, thanks to an incomplete test and a take-home quiz that was, apparently, never turned in.

This happened on a Saturday afternoon. So Dylan couldn’t – literally could not – fix the problem. He was already at work when I discovered it, and still had a full day-and-a-half before he could go to school and take care of it.

So I emailed the teacher, asking as gently as I could, “What happened?” Then I wrote a note to Dylan, outlining the grades he had, the missing work that was, in spite of the handwritten notes, still missing.

While he still has a 2.7 GPA, even with the “missing” work that hasn’t been graded yet, I noticed that he is only one point away from dropping a full letter grade in three of his classes. If that happens, his GPA drops to a 2.3.

And there are only two weeks left in the quarter.

More importantly, there’s only one weekend left for his job at Field of Screams. And the upcoming weekend is the biggest one of the year: five full days, including Halloween night.

So I put the note in front of Dylan’s door while he was sleeping (something he hasn’t done much lately). I explained the situation, asked him to reread the outlined expectations, which give him some very specific timelines and consequences.

He fixes it on Monday, all of it, or he doesn’t work on Halloween weekend.

I am holding my breath.

I Felt Like I Had Failed Him.

Shane signed up for “A Day of Writing with the Authors” at a local college.

The sign-up process was benign – paperwork and processing as always – except for one thing: students chose their favorite genres, and ordered their choices from 1 (favorite) to 3 (least favorite). Students chose three classes for both morning and afternoon – so they would be spending the day, technically, with two authors.

The registration form – which we completed more than a month in advance – said that, due to class size limitations, “students may not receive first choice.” Once a class was full, students were put into their second choice class.

Shane chose Science Fiction and Fantasy Writing in the morning, and Playwriting in the afternoon.

When Shane showed up for the workshop five weeks later, he got one of his first choices – Playwriting. But he was a bit heartbroken about losing the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writing class. He really enjoys writing fantasy, and he ended up in a Science and Nature Writing class.

As a parent, I felt like I had failed him. Registering five weeks early wasn’t quite early enough to get him what he wanted. And as always, I wanted him to have what he wanted.

It amazes me how much needs to be done early – way, way early – to get the most out of the experience. If you ever go to Disney World, for example, it is fun. But if you plan six months in advance, make dinner reservations four-to-six months in advance, plot your rides two months in advance, and show up an hour before the park opens every day, then you can actually get what you want out of the vacation.

I am a planner. It works well with motherhood. But in this case, I hadn’t planned sufficiently. Five weeks wasn’t early enough. Perhaps six weeks would have guaranteed Shane that spot in the Fantasy class. I started to fret about it during orientation, and fretted nearly all day about it – even though there was nothing I could do.

But I also remembered the most important thing: whatever happens is what is supposed to happen. Not everything that happens is good. Not everything that happens is what we want. But sometimes, even when we do our best to do what we think is best, what is supposed to happen always prevails.

There are some things in life over which we are simply powerless.

The good news: Shane didn’t dislike his Science and Nature Writing class, and he loved Playwriting. So once again, in spite of whatever concerned me, everything worked out for the best.

“I Said ‘Dinner!'”

Dinner was ready.

I texted Dylan, who was upstairs: “Dinner. NOW.”

I added the “now” to imply that he should actually show up. Yet, he did not show up.

“Dude.” I texted again.

There was no response.

“DINNER!” I screamed upstairs, loud enough for the entire neighborhood to hear me.

Shane came barreling down the stairs immediately. There was no further sound.

I dug deep. “DIIIIIIINNNNNNNERRRRRRR!” I bellowed, hurting my throat and reminding me that I don’t know how to properly project my voice.

Still no sound from upstairs. Not even a footstep.

Dylan practices music in a relatively soundproof room. He has said, on numerous occasions, that he will always answer my texts when he is in that room. This, however, is not the case.

I went and got the giant bell, the one from my childhood that my mom used to ring for me, when I was two miles away playing in a creek somewhere.

DONG! DONG! DONG!

The entire neighborhood heard that bell. It reverberated in my hand until I finally stopped the vibrations.

I waited a minute. Then another minute.

Finally, with a heavy sigh, I started climbing the stairs. I went into the back room, where Dylan spends his waking hours. I opened the door. As usual, Dylan was sitting on the bench, not really playing the keyboards, and hunched over his cell phone.

“I SAID ‘DINNER’!” I boomed, probably too loud for the quiet room.

“I DIDN’T HEAR YOU!” he boomed back, definitely too loud for the room. (He knows how to properly project.)

“I texted you!” I said, exasperated. “Twice!”

“Well I just NOW got your text! I can’t answer it if I didn’t get it until just this second!”

“AND I have been screaming from the bottom of the stairs! I even rang the dinner bell! You seriously didn’t hear the bell?!”

“No!” he said.

“Dylan,” I said, “I am really, really sick of climbing the stairs and coming back here just to find you on the phone, five minutes after I texted you, screamed for you and then rang the bell. If you can’t come down when I call you, then you can’t stay in this room.”

“But you didn’t even try CALLING me!” Dylan said. “I would have answered the phone if you had just CALLED me!”

Eventually, Dylan and I both went down for our somewhat cold dinner.

As we reached the kitchen, Dylan veered off the path. “I have to go to the bathroom,” he said.

So as usual, the family ate dinner without Dylan.