Waiting for Superman: Failed Public Education in America

It's pretty easy to be a teacher. To be a good teacher, it's really, really hard.

The responsibility of educating the next generation is difficult enough, period. On top of that, teachers have the realities of unacceptable behavior in the classroom, home situations that are less than encouraging of a learning focus, and state testing requirements that have proven to be meaningless roadblocks to the kind of teaching that changes lives for the better.

It's no secret that our education system in America is failing our students. And it's no secret that the problem is extraordinarily complex.

In my community, there are some amazing teachers that are doing their best to succeed (and are succeeding), despite all the odds of the system in which they're forced to operate.

I can also say from experience, that there are some very lousy teachers who are holding onto their years at school doing absolutely nothing to help lives of our kids because they're tenured. They're just sucking up a paycheck and my son's life while they're waiting for retirement. This shouldn't be allowed to happen.

I would highly recommend a trip to the movies this week to see Waiting for Superman, a documentary about the public education system in America.  It was fair in its attack of both failed liberal and conservative attempts to fix education in America. It was hopeful in its coverage of some systems that are working, created by forward-thinking education reformers. And it was bold in its questioning of why the heck we're sitting around playing with a lottery system for students who can fill the very few spaces in decent charter schools.

The film challenges the long-standing belief of many that bad neighborhoods are why "drop out factories" (low-achieving schools) are prevalent and suggests that research points the other way around:  over time, these failing schools have contributed largely to the decline of the neighborhoods around them.

I know it's controversial, but the National Teachers' Union was challenged severely in the film as being a body that treats all teachers as one instead of distinguishing between the high-performing teachers and those who continually fail our students.

I loved the film. I did have two criticisms: one fair and one maybe not so much. The 5 students chronicled as part of the film all had strong parent-advocates. So the notion that not all parents are strong participants in their child's education didn't enter in the picture at all. That wasn't fair. When a teacher is struggling because parents at home could care less, that obviously plays a huge factor. It has to be a partnership. And many parents don't fulfill their part of the bargain.

The other criticism--and yes, there's only so much you can do in 2 hours--is that the issue was oversimplified. Severe lack of funding, the proliferation of non-English speaking students in schools (which isn't a judgment, it's a fact), and societal changes are huge strains on the education system. To fully understand what's going on, you have to take those things into account.

It's so complicated, but if we want to remain the America we think we are, we better do something about public education, and fast. Go see Waiting for Superman.

A Strange and Unpleasant Morning at School

I awoke in the middle of the night really, really pissed. After trying to get in touch with D-Man's science teacher through phone and e-mail for well over a week about a very pressing problem, on Tuesday morning I resorted to calling the vice principal. He assured me he would take care of it, yet alas, as of Wednesday evening, I had heard nothing.

So during what has now become now my standard 1:00 a.m. wake up call with Flanders, I started stewing to the point that I just couldn't get back to sleep.

I showed up at the school this morning at 8:15 a.m. and vowed to wait in the office until VP arrived. And wait I did.

After over an hour (oh yes, it's been a fine week for Gropius), Husband and I were becoming increasingly agitated.  A semi-comic relief entered the office area, and it was just so bizarre at the time...but now, of course I'm feeling the terror of what she actually described. Terror for the animal that is.
 
So picture it. We're sitting there, arms crossed in frustration, watching the scene...

• Lingering students who, for whatever reason, weren't in class
• Non-English speaking parents struggling to converse with the receptionist about a bus stop at a seemingly non-existent address
• A grandmother storming in with her grandson who had been bullied on the bus
• A half dressed mother enrolling her student in school

"Middle school in 2010," I thought. "Jesus, is this a school...for real?"

Now that you have the scene in your mind, enter stage right a very overweight woman wearing a sundress and lots of bling on the fingers. She's carrying a dog that is dressed in a baby's onesie. Um okay, now we have dogs in the school? (And keep in mind, I am a dog lover, but really, at school?)  She sits down beside Larry and allows the dog to start running around the office. No one seems to care.

And then it gets weirder. She begins to tell us--along with everyone else within a 300 ft. radius who isn't consumed with the other disturbing issues going on--about how she really "don't know nothing about no dogs." ...How her former dog was "just like this one," but "I stepped on it in the middle of the night and caused trauma to its head" and "after I paid $2,000 in vet bills they had to put it to sleep anyway."

"So I just up and got a new one. $2,000 this one cost me too. Mmmm hmmm," she continued.

She got up and left, came back in with the dog 5 or 10 minutes later and left again. I have no freaking idea what she was even doing in the office. It was like a scene from Candid Camera, except no one came in to surprise us with the big joke.

I wish this had an interesting ending, but that's all she wrote for my storytelling skills tonight. I'm absolutely exhausted. And wondering if I'm still in the after 1 a.m. realm...maybe this day never happened.

Yes--I wish. But today was only a day, and there are much worse things going for others. Perspective: I try.

What a Fabulous Role Model You Are

NOT.

The sad thing is, D-Man was actually excited about Home Economics this year. He really thought it would be cool to learn how to make biscuits from scratch, sew a button, how to stay accountable, job/life skills, etc. And quite frankly, I was looking forward to it as well. The day when a button falling off doesn't herald "time for new pants!" is the dawn of a new era.

A dream deferred. It's been no such story. D-Man, you see, is not very fond of this so called teacher. And he has good reason.  Let's just call this lame woman, who is simply waiting for retirement like a sorry lump of dough, Mrs. Fescrock. Seriously, the Dough Boy himself has more personality.

This morning, we had our meeting at the school to talk about progress thus far and to plan for next year. At this meeting, all of his teachers are required to attend, along with the supervising instructor in charge of special accommodations.  Mrs. Fescrock plops herself down wearing a thick red, fugly coat as if to make sure we knew she wasn't planning to stay.

• Fescrock: "Well. I don't know how this escaped my notice. But this meeting wasn't on my calendar. And I have some deadlines. So I'm asking to be excused."
• Gropius (Silently. While laughing? Fuming? Not sure which.): "Are you SERIOUS? You're teaching my kid about accountability and job skills? WTF?  Deadlines? Let me tell you about the 25 deadlines I have waiting for me at work."
• Fescrock moved on: "Thank goodness you're involved. If you weren't, I can see the situation with your son going...spiraling out of control."
• Gropius: "That's a pretty strong statement. I'm not sure I understand what you mean."

Fescrock then moved on to tell us that "just about every day" D-Man has gum in his mouth. And as if we didn't hear it the first time, "Just about EVERY day," she repeated.

Well you know what, Mrs. Fescrock? I really couldn't give a crap about the gum. And if you care so much about it, I have a newsflash for you. It's March 8. School started in August. We haven't heard anything about this until now. I guess it's those deadlines getting you, right?

Now if Mrs. Fescrock was the science, math or language arts teacher, I might make a greater point of reaching out to the principle. Since she's Queen of Pillsbury in a Can, I could care less. (Yeah, that's right--have you ever seen a home ec teacher who teaches kids to use ready-made?) I hate it that poor D-man has wasted nearly a year putting up with her doodoo.

Thank goodness the rest of the faculty are lovely. It sure does make a difference in how much our son develops a passion for the subject. Looks like we'll still be getting new pants when we lose a button. I'd like to give Mrs. Fescrock a new pair of pants--in honor of her retirement, of course.

Don't Be an Art Chicken

Those are the famous words of my 11 grade art teacher.  Mr. B, as he was fondly called, was a huge fan of one-liners that would forever brand you in the art or social world.

He was a broadly built man of medium height with a long gray/black beard. He wore long-sleeved button down shirts that he would roll up for good paint-shirt contact prevention. On the upper shelves above the cabinets full of art supplies was Mr. B's junk collection.

We joked about a Sanford & Son connection, but knew that we would pay the price when he pulled a huge conglomeration of it into the center of the room for us to paint. "Oh great, another still life." Each still life seemed to grow in size--another added vase, bicycle wheel, double-duty boots, industrial strength something, etc.

When Mr. B belted out with "don't be an art chicken" right after he explained a new project, he meant "be bold, experiment and don't be safe with your art."  Accordingly, one day I went where no (wo)man had gone before by mistaking a can of gold spray paint for a can of clear fixative--the kind that would immortalize my most recent creation, a chalk rendering of a nuclear winter man. (Don't ask me what the hell that means, but I was a pretty damn good art student.) 

When the resulting guilded catastrophe was revealed, Mr. B. laughed a big booming throaty laugh, snatched the piece and held it up to the entire class. "This is what happens when you don't use your ability to read," he said.

After he got a week's worth of entertainment from that moment, he sat down with me to lay out a strategy for the repairs. All I can say is that I was NEVER accused of being an art chicken.

Mr. B is now retired, living happily ever after with my 10th grade art teacher (with whom I still keep in touch). They own a daylily farm in NC.

Please don't let this reflect my mothering skills.

Can I just say that I'm a fabulous mother? It was freeeeezing here this morning, but I knew D-Man could take it for a little while at the bus stop.

With his new phone that's attached to his thumbs, he texted me at 7:54 a.m. to say, "I love you. Have a good day."

How sweet.

My response from work: "Thank you; you too. You better not have that phone at school."

"Don't worry, I don't." (Um, will someone explain the mechanics of this?)

Shortly after that I received a call from Husb. "Can you look online at the Manatee County school calendar? The neighbor says there's no school?"

Apparently, that neighbor would be absolutely right. So glad we sent him off to the bus stop.

I'll chalk it up to post-holiday depression. The only thing I can think right now is "For the love of Pete, it will be a whole year before people are chilled out, jovial and giving..all at the same time. Knowing this is a suckfest."

Now the Teacher Thinks I'm a Freak

We're really excited about D-Man's world geography class this year--it's actually a bit more like a current world events course. His teacher uses unconventional teaching methods and really gets the students charged up about important issues shaping the people and places in this not so unconnected world of ours.

So of course we're eager to do what ever we can to show Teach how, at home, we encourage knowledge and awareness of things far beyond the back doors in America.

Today Teach was discussing the Everglades, and when she asked the class to name the unique flora and fauna there, D-Man raised his hand to contribute an answer that will forever frame me unfavorably in the first impressions of Teach. The first part of his answer was: "The Skunk Ape."

HE THEN proceeded to tell the class about how "my mother [that's me] once made a trip to the Everglades just to visit this place all about the skunk ape that also teaches people about it."

Unfortunately, that story is true. And it was a total joke of a trip--I REPEAT, it was a fun trip. AND, although I would never admit this in certain company, yes, I know the skunk ape does not exist. I really do. I have never thought for one moment it exists. (But Big Foot, it could be a different story...)

Um. I'm pretty embarrassed. And it's one of those things that I would only make worse with that little phone call I considered:

• "Ahhh, Teach, this is D-Man's mother. I just wanted to call and...well anyway, about that Skunk Ape thing my son mentioned...I just didn't want you to think...I mean, I'm really not crazy...It was more like a joke..."

Yeah. That might make things slightly worse.

Back to School Night: The Nightmare Returns

Tomorrow is back to school night, when parents are once again put through the nightmare of junior high--or "middle school" as they now call it.

We're corralled through the periods, moving from classroom to classroom, traveling through the schedule of the full day our little innocent tweens will experience. Yeah, innocent. Walking through crowded hallways of kids who glance at each other with that snide look meaning you're either too short, too fat, too thin, too ugly, too much like your older brother, too dressed like your mother, too scholarly, or too boring, it reminds one of how judgemental this age is...and how, sweet mother, I am sure as hell glad not to be a young teenager. (That was the clean version of the "too" list, by the way.)

I am creepingly aware of how differently our 13 year old "boy" talks around his friends than he talks around us. I have to wonder--how bad is it? Are his conversations like a roll from Stand by Me? I'm completely not ready for that.

Random things I remember about middle school:

• If someone lit a match in the locker room after gym class, the entire school would almost certainly go up in flames as a result of the hair spray saturating the air.
• There really was a shop class, where all of the druggies managed to hang out all day somehow. (Husband verifies this at his school more than 500 miles away from mine.)
• Everyday Mr. Gaffney sweat so much in front of his 8th grade civic class he had to use a paper towel to wipe his head.
• There were 2 lunch periods. I lived in fear at the beginning of each semester of getting stuck in one and having all my friends in the other.
• My newspaper teacher was a crazy biotch. She publicly executed me for misspelling the world upon as opon.

True, I'm only covering all the bad stuff. But the point is, sometimes, like tomorrow, I'll feel especially grateful to be past the Member's Only, jelly bracelet, zip your jeans on the side stage. Only, this time I get to experience it again but vicariously with slightly less information, like I'm fumbling around in the dark. And seriously, I know things have gotten much worse since my days at Carmel Junior High.

Seeking Qualified Applicants

Unmotivated individual with zero personality, lack of accountability and proficiency in making excuses sought to lead school. Prefer a male with demonstrated history of squishing creative, out of the box teaching methods. Must have proven track record of unresponsiveness to concerned parents and leading by example in the field of "do nothing, be nothing." Education: B.S. required. Piss ants are encouraged to apply. Deadline: December 1. Only applications received after this deadline will be considered.


Yes, my friends, this is the employment ad that at least two Manatee school principals answered, landing them jobs overseeing the educational institutions where our kids spend their Wonder years. I'm so over it. What's up with this?

Adventures with the Manatee County School System

Oh, how I love our local school system. Actually, the little guy--who's not so little anymore--has some pretty strong teachers this year. (Except for one of them. Indication #1 was the back to school night when she spent her precious 4 minutes with the parents talking about the mystery of disappearing pencils and paper in last year's class and how annoying that was.)

So here's someone I don't like. She's supposed to be in charge of the "extra" support we need. But what she's really in charge of is excuses. And lame excuses at that. She's like the operator of a wet mop that has collected tons of crap, and instead of cleaning it with fresh hot water, she just continues to smudge the crap around on the floor making no real progress.

I called her today to set up a parent teacher conference.

Line 1 of her response:

"You know, I can't set that meeting up. You need to talk to the office manager, and you'll have to call back in the morning." Not I'll make this happen. Not thank you for being a concerned parent.

Time consumed: 1/4 of our conversation

Translation: "You are a turd for giving me more work to do."

Line 2 of her response:

"You know, ALL of the teachers will have to be at this meeting. You can't just meet with one of them. It will be everyone, all 7 teachers, aaaaall together."

Time consumed: 1/2 of our conversation

Translation: Now this line was clearly aimed at intimidation. She's thinking, "Maybe if I make this pest feel outnumbered, I won't have to be at this meeting and I'll have less work." Wrong, lady. So wrong.

Line 3 of her response, which is really starting to piss me off:

Something along the lines of "You know every teacher has 139 students. There's just no way that teachers can take care of every little detail with 139 students. 139 students is a whole lot of students."

Time consumed: The last 1/4 of this lousy conversation

Translation: This means, "In the grand scheme of things, we couldn't give one little starburst about your student. And don't you even think for one second that he matters...or that I care about the conference that you are evidently going to move forward with despite my best efforts to derail it."

Thanks for the clarity! I'm soooo glad I called. It at least confirms where I stand before the big event. I know you'll look forward to the blog about the parent teacher conference. It's all up to the office manager now.