My father's people said it differently.
They suggested we stop sh@tting in our own backyard.
We have to care for all of us because we are caring for ourselves.
I have to suggest that is something I think worth thinking about at the end of 2013.

Today I read a very sad article about a child that had a tonsillectomy to help sleep apnea, started bleeding, apparently could not be helped, had a heart fail, and she is now brain dead. Her family is trying to figure out what to do because for them stopping the ventilator is cruel-and I would imagine they can't believe what has happened. I don't understand, how could they?  Attached to the article were hundreds of the meanest remarks I've ever read. The child was maligned for her weight, the family for everything under the sun-including race. In the end I couldn't read all these comments to collect them into a data set around the kinds of things they were "conveying," one way I try to understand something, because it made me nauseated.

I could remember when Sylvia had her pectis surgery years ago-what if she had had some horrific event. Would I be strong enough to take her off that ventilator? I remember another family facing that at Stanford when I was there for heart tests, listening to their disbelief, as they tried to figure this out while they still saw the child seeming to breathe. Brain dead is so hard to see. When my mother died August 23 this year I had to insist on Do Not Resuscitate and reached my hand out doing that between the shock things and her chest because I knew that the Mom I knew wouldn't come back from that, but it might be sheer suffering and I took it was my job to help her suffer less. It was the hardest moments I've had. I'd heard a program by nurses in ICU's on NPR a month or so before and thought about long and hard what they said. It was cruel to put my need for Mom against what she was going through-pretty much the nurses were telling this on that program. But I have suffered a lot of nightmares, worry and it just isn't easy living with it after. Because death isn't for pussies.

But what if added to that I had to face the current court of American opinion. On an internet rife with crap. I can think of nothing worse. In my opinion we are losing it.

Look no further than the comments on pieces such as these I cited. Post a lousy, angry, spiteful one-sided comment-it's the rage, twitter is rampant with it. But what is happening for me is a deep sadness at what we are really doing to one another. Why do this? I would like the current neurosciences to explain it to me.

For one thing I keep seeing folks stating issues in biased and distorted ways, and then supporting that nonsense and pushing the other into arguing it on those distorted terms-happened to me tonight really. It seems like such a low form of behavior. Shooting fish in a barrel stuff. Weak minded. Then there is the attack on character, job, person. Plus the suggestion this is discussion or discourse. Or "dialog."
I am on a Facebook feed from the White House. I'd be on that no matter the President. To read the comments attached to a lovely holiday Presidential portrait of the President and family was just embarrassing-deeply so.  I saw a newspaper article on George Bush's painting. It happens I find his paintings charming, utterly wonderful actually,  so I just went to see this new one I could see was in the article-the comments attached to this were so incredibly vile. I see no reason for that. I can understand someone stating they feel his Presidency was a joke or whatever they need to express but this wasn't that. One person suggested painting was a way for him to regain power. Or image. It went on and on. Again I found it hard-I understand there are very emotional reasons for wanting to attack, but, is this a good thing?


One thing I do foresee is a country of hating. Of thinking that being mean, forceful, angry, cynical, is the same as "critical thinking" or "skepticism." I say that because I believe one fellow argued that with me when he attacked me personally in a way I would never do to him as a union representative for airlines, saying I could never teach his non-existent children after he took issue with my support of looking harder at testing practices in public school. It was then fair game to suggest I be fired-as he held a right wing view he felt empowered-to suggest I be offed, and added I was a bad mother, emotional, unstable. And then he stalked my blog.That's a lot of not being insightful into self, frankly.

So I took an entire year, 2013, and I said nothing unkind.
Period.
Harder was doing that on the inside. I failed sometimes inside.
I really monitored myself. A few times when I saw someone being incredibly unfair and non reflective  on-line I tried to put up a tiny mirror, but I did that very, very rarely because I am understanding that at least on-line very few folks want mirrors. Blast and run.

 I witnessed a great many things this year but my over-riding concern was  the pneumonia my Mom caught in January, her poor bouncing back, and non-recovery- our being together as much as possible until the last day in August. And then I don't really remember September or October except my class. They I do recall. But I focused on the goals I set-which were to meditate, to be present in my mother's suffering, to honor her life, to enjoy a new kitten, to be there as much as possible for my children and my class and to feel this. To try not to get bogged down in my opinions or in arguing, try not to state things to force others into corners, to seek compassion, understanding. Or simply remove myself.

I fail this at times.

But overall in 2013 I tried. Invisibility.

And frankly, as polarizing and self righteous as this may come off-I think we need to all strive for seeing ourself in others and others in ourselves. Far, far more.
We are in serious need of developing in our society far better sincerity, listening, respect, and to turn off the unkindness.
Hating is easy.
I have only me to work on in this respect.

I'm re-upping in 2014.

You too might end up awake at 2AM with this wee kitten kneading in between your chest (I started to say breasts) and wonder, how did this happen?
Last Sunday I drove over to the Petco in Ventura to get kitty litter for my 7 or so month old HUGE kitty. He was born with "shaky head" and my neurologist daughter Sylvia proclaims him "brain damaged"-so ok he's a bit of a very limited fellow. Mr. One Note. I love him. Anyway, once there,  we saw kittens for adoption by Cat's Cradle. I admit I like to peruse the cages feeling both delight and real sadness over their predicament. No harm in looking. Sometimes it kills me actually to see the cats and kittens. I grew up with cats and love them.
Apparently enough to over-ride even the most minimal of self restraint.

Yes, this is the piece on my impulsive nature.

My other daughter (in the sense the one I've cited here is another daughter than this one)  who will go unnamed because she says it hurts her to be connected to me at any job she'll ever have, my sweetheart daughter who says she might move out and crush me to nothingness in doing so, allowed me to look at the kitties. We both adored two of the kitties. It shocked me they had so MANY up for adopting. One is sitting here at present- looking at my finches at 2 AM. After a rip roaring session of play up and down my stairs, waking me here at two AM, she and my other kitty know exactly how to "have a good time."

She's really the kittycat who adopted me last Sunday.

Tonight we are trying "being out in the house" overnight-instead of in my daughter's old room-or a mini lock up.  It's going well if everyone being up past mid-night to play is the criterion for judging. I wasn't sleeping after losing Mom, now I'm desperate to sleep-a bit of reverse psychology. So far either way -no sleep. After months it's hard. With blood pressure through the roof also not especially safe.
Here's my precious-my first gift to myself since Mom died-she is named Mysty Jean because her foster Mom, who reminded me of me- named her Mysty. I also kinda call her dewdrop, little nutters and sometimes precious or Jean or whatever pops out of my mouth,  depending on how it's going. Mysty, the name spelled in that California way, is going to stick though. Her foster Mom deserves that-she did a marvelous job-sh also chose her name.  The kitten is wonderful with me.
Here is her picture:





She's VERY tiny, a bag of bones. Very wonderful bones.
Very smart bones, she had the house mapped in about an hour. The differences between my kitties thing one and thing two- is enormous. The boy kitty (Dwight, Tobbers, Kiki-I cannot "name" him) has a damaged cerebrum, among the things he can't do are-map out the house, stop himself from shaking like a leaf when if he's concentrating, solve things, keep from banging into his head if running, be confident, stop from being a rigid, inflexible kitty, be more than 5 feet away from me, so on. He loves water. He'll shower or bathe with me if I don't stop him. Having a huge full size kitty rolling around in your tub sucks, but he will jump right in if I don't stop him. Kiki's colored like a tiger, and tigers like water, so I tend to think -yep- he's my tiger. Jack stated if he magically grew to tiger size I'd be his dinner. Perhaps the lack of water fear comes from giving him a bath when I first got him. I'd killed over 90 fleas in that afternoon waiting to see the vet the next day,  and was trying to de-flea him which met with poor success. That many fleas is dangerous to a small kitty. He was just over 4 weeks, from a totally feral litter adopted by a saint,  and I thought most likely anemic and with the bobble head for sure a serious risk for an accident. Or his end. I'm pretty sure that fixed in his mind to equate baths with me (and in his mind to remind you-I'm a goddess) an association I adore. Also I'm his Momma and occasional altar.



So little kitty on every measure has out performed him. At nine weeks!
She has also taught him a few tricks too- though retracting his claws is not happening in my lifetime. She has been sure to sleep in every favorite spot of his, use only his litter box over hers -the one that cost 35 bucks, eat in his dishes while he's trying to stop her or complain, and generally as Sophia said in one minute his entire existence was thrown upside down. Her.
However he follows her like he follows me, and purts incredibly to talk to her-riproaring with her in chases- loves when she plays chase through the house, and he has  taken this on as his personal duty to see through. In short they are doing well together. Very fine.
She simply immediately goes right up to him saying hello-and he runs for the hills kinda scared; what I enjoy is seeing her spunk. My husband-who was so furious over this adoption and truthfully did not speak until my blood pressure spiked to some ungodly number Tuesday, has called her bright, while reminding me my poor yellow kitty is "just Dumb, Sarah." Oh, what a cruel world it is. To give varying degrees of smarts-mean indeed.

What happened in the store was impulse. I've battled this all my life.

Like the double edge sword it gave me the good, bad, and lots of responsibility after the fact.
She was looking so incredibly like everything I ever wanted-and boom- I signed up. She is exactly who I thought she was-even more amazing-and here I am at two thirty AM!


It makes me reflect on my patterns-some were really quite wonderful. Some defenses that I've outgrown intellectually. But like most deeply held beliefs and systems of survival looking hard at the things I do requires a great deal of reflection. wanting love at Christmastime-that's deep seated. My father always made Christmas a difficult time because for him it was a pool to fall and wallow in. The deep poverty of his young life wounded and the holiday seemed to contain every injury he ever suffered. All Dad seems capable of at Christmas is perpetuating those hurts. That said....

When I was young we adopted two cats-one a Manx named Cally. She was a calico-truly a genius-and killed by a garbage truck apparently on purpose-two years after we got her- crushing the life out of me. She'd had her kittens one summer- given away at my Mother's insistence-dying that fall. So I never fully recovered from her loss, and how I learned of the notion of death first-hand. Cally had taken away all of my longing for love and acceptance in my home. She was able to care for me unconditionally. I'm in similar times now after losing Mom- when I can't see things being just ok and all the evidence mounts up for hard times. Cally's sister, Blackberry, gave me Peachface in her litter, and later Peaches kitten Bootsie came along. Bootsie was the Buddha, Christ, pure love on earth.. Peachface was killed by Mr. Moore speeding down our street murdering cats with his car. Forgiving him failed to wash away what he'd done. Bootsie, a long haired orange (don't strange and orange rhyme?) kitty was the closest I ever came to a child, until I had a child. Her loss tore an open hole in me. Some pets are so much more. Bootsie considered me a chair.
I raised all these kitties and a few others basically healing wounds in my family as I went.
Yes, I see that now.
Patterns.

a great argument for pets-I believe they helped me express love.

I wanted to tell the story here of being in 4th grade and coming home to find my Mom gave away Cally and Blackberry (saying nothing to me beforehand as she capitulated to my father's bitching about them-I stood outside crying for the longest saddest time that day crushed beyond speaking by yet another betrayal)-they got back in about an hour-Blackberry two days actually-from the WVUDairy Barn, a farm less than a mile away-but I find I can't tell that story. Can't bring up that day.

So, instead  let's just say that when life was very hard on me young- I looked to my cats to keep me locked in the fully present, present.
Cats, for me, bring NOW.
And this little bundle is doing the same thing for me. At 2:30 AM. She's so much like Bootsie- who died of feline leukemia just months before the shots arrived so, thankfully,  others could be spared that horror. I wasn't spared but we were on the forefront of chemo development for several thousand- and  working then to survive, so my vet (a lovely vet) tried that chemo on Bootsie-no luck but the steroids seemed to stall the inevitable. Making minimum wage-then $3.25 I was not only responsible for a grandmum with Alzheimer's, my Mom in a breakdown- I now know was the aftermath of a stroke, a Dad paying $100 a month so he could "get free" and marry a woman my age- I had my kitty to help me until he was devastated by the disease and I paid all I had to try to save him. Looking back I think few kitties were as remarkable as that one-the human scarf -but this kitty reminds me in someways of that one-yes it's true.

I suspect missing my Mother, and equally devastated by her death, I simply re-invented something that worked once as my defense against the pain and sheer loneliness. Over the depression perhaps it'll work.
I'm trying the process of having to cuddle and take care of a love in the here and now. Lacking a person to step up I settled for my kitty.

People often hurt-but cats I can better understand-which speaks to my quirkiness. After peritonitis and cancer and invasions into body and psyche too much to name- Mom's passing has brought back a lot of tough times . Boom= process that..
So I adopted- to make a self pity session shorter. In an impulse last Sunday with my daughter at Petco. She weighs a pound.

When impulse shopping I find a good rule is-travel with a cat carrier-you just never know.

I really love their poinsettias-both red and blue.
We looked carefully at plants, but then ALSO "invented" the blue poinsetta, one that will take over markets "next year."

Today was a such a collection of moments. Perhaps unrelated, but, i wonder.
I saw this video about Abraham Maslow. I was fortunate to start really reading him at 15.
I want the book that you can learn about here.



The end of this video speaks of something I found unnameable before this. My mother was experiencing it in her last months and days this deep appreciation for experiences. The piercing joy in experiences.
I saw this.
Just to watch her eat her food. It reminded me of what life really is. Experience. It is nothing else-except perhaps the sharing of this with others in connection.The basic reason we should fight for the arts, music, doing in ed.

My students made drawings today- beautiful works for their families.Another good moment.

Mysty Jean.
I'm in a bit of trouble for adopting her today. She's so tiny.
And 9 weeks.
My little boy kitty is adjusting but trying his best!

Each year my students try to design a T-shirt for a local festival. It's important as most of their families work in the industry in some way. This year they made really thoughtful designs, and quite a few drew several and selected their best to send to the competition. I'm happy to introduce a favorite fruit!
Nice work.

I read something a bit ago. It's public on FB so here goes.

National Art Education Association

The Paradox of Creativity in Education. All humans have the potential and ability to be creative, and we do ourselves a disservice when we refer to individuals such as Mozart and Einstein as the defining examples of creativity to which we should all strive to emulate. This genius bar misrepresents the concept of creativity and distracts us from the necessary conversations on how to foster the creative mindset and why it’s so important to include in conversations around education. According to James Kaufman, a psychologist and researcher at the University of Connecticut who presented last week at the Partnership for 21st Century Skills Summit, creative people are more likely to get promoted, be satisfied with their jobs, be in better physical health and be more resilient. Those are all outcomes we hope for our children. http://ow.ly/ranEh

 "creative people are more likely to get promoted, be satisfied with their jobs, be in better physical health and be more resilient"

On November 22, 1963 I was a small blond child living in the faculty apartments in Morgantown, West Virginia with my parents. My father was pursuing a new life as a professor at West Virginia University after earning his PHD in Ag. Econ/Econ in Madison, Wisconsin. We were in optimistic times for my young parents.

Anything was possible.
And then, in a way it died.

I was a small child at home on a day that was seasonless-frozen on my inner lens-I say that because I would not yet understand seasons, not for several more years do I think in terms of seasons in my memory. This remembering is visual. I was born July 1, 1959, all of 4 at the time of this happening. But I remember the day as sunny and fairly warm. We lived on the top floor of the apartments and we had a small TV. It was black and white, and I was watching. From my spot on the linoleum floor in front of the TV I could see my mother washing the kitchen windows up on a chair, screen out, leaning way out to do a good job-windex in hand, paper towels. Dangerous really. Her eye was sort of on me. She was dressed like Laura Petrie. I watched TV a bit, and then decided this was important enough that I needed to go get her. Much like my young daughter Sophia told her of September 11 years later.
"Mommy, the President has been shot."

Rather big news for a toddler to deliver.
Mom reacted, that I so remember. She got down off that chair and into that room like a lightening flash. When SHE remembered the story, years later, I'm not sure I figured in her telling quite as large as she figured in my telling. And watched as she cried and reacted. I suppose that at such a young age it was instantly understood from then on Presidents were vulnerable leaders, people were about dying, world events had enormous consequences, certainly I first glimpsed my parent's world literally crack. Both of them, and their good friends Lenore and Tony Pavlick took this in as a national, state, community, town event. They sat together, stayed together and everything STOPPED. They were in true distress, and I remember watching that TV clean through the funeral with someone in their group always connected telling us all.

At some point Dad took me outside to throw a ball, hit me in the head as he was likely to do, hurt me enough for me now to shed tears, and they took a momentary respite to rejoin their own personal concerns being parents. I remember that day as relatively balmy and sunny-as my day is today- writing this out in California 50 years later-not in a training I ought to be in to see ipad apps demonstrated for ipads I don't have for my students by someone at the school lucky enough to be selected to have them.
No way would I recall that time in terms of "near winter." So at least I know in West Virginia it was a pretty lovely day-weather-wise.

I knew that Oswald was shot as well, in my internal pictures. We watched Walter Cronkite on our couch in an apartment with about five pieces of furniture total. My parents were so poor-I never knew that, not for many, many years. I think of 1963 as the times before we knew what we lacked, but valued what we were.

Years later my mother read every book about the assassination. She clipped articles. Mom was in times pre-internet, an avid reader and scholar, and so books and newspaper articles were how she addressed the concerns of conspiracy. She read and followed the Warren Commission. She did not believe that we would ever really get to the real truth, but I can say she believed the truth was suppressed. Truly she did have an unbelievably large collection of books on the death of this President, and that led her to a great deal of research on his Presidency-on that she really had knowledge. I would hate to say her innocence died-but it did.
That day.

Did she have a favorite theory of his death in the conspiracy vein? No. She was remarkably not someone I heard say-oh this is what I think happened. She simply collected and considered, and read those who had theories. My mother concluded there were too many forces that would want him dead not to respect the seriousness of this-and her research on Oswald truly alarmed her. She had a hang up for awhile about someone at the grassy knoll but I forget what that was. I DO KNOW that in my teens and through the rest of her life Mom got Kennedy books for her birthday or holidays or when we spotted them, the way you might give a collector of spoons or pink elephants new finds. Here you go Jean.
Her favorite was a VHS of the Zapruder film.

Mom died August 23, 2013. She did not make it to the 50th Anniversary of one of our nation's saddest days. Sad days would follow, RFK, MLK, other awful things. I remember all of that as my childhood. Literally marked by crushing blows against strides into a progressive, forward looking, hopeful future.

For me the music died on the day of her death, but for Mom the song that was written and she got to hear sung in Monterey many years later-American Pie- summed up how SHE felt about that day, November 22, 1963.

When I think of this, reflect, it occurs to me that here was the way things were going, the catastrophic event and then the long, awful spewing into the future the karma of it happening -not unlike the Zapruder film showering all of us with the split second JFK exploded across the frame-killed by a gun and a person that robbed the future. Mom wanted "the truth" and "understanding" from the incomprehensible I think. She sought to make known the unknowable. You can't be born in those times and not carry the collective memory.

This was what Jung spoke of in our collective.

As I look at the anger, division, meanness, I see September 11-the date that robbed my children as I was injured.
Damage. Then reconstruction, possibly healing, but never the same.
Bye, bye.

That is how I remember this day. Soon those of us of this day will be gone, but how long will it be that the imprint will shadow us?

I've spent a few hours today polling a few people.
Am I a white suburban Mom? 
Do I think my children are brighter than they are?
Were their schools actually lousier than I thought?

All critical questions Arne Duncan is voicing in his "conversation" on Common Core and "world class schooling." I can't say Dr. Duncan because he didn't pursue that level of education, but I can say Secretary Duncan, who did seem to choose his words with less than careful thought.
Of course I'm no stranger to that as well. Still.
Still I've been thinking about this.

Yes I am white. 

Technically I'm suburban, if Oxnard,CA is suburban-is it?

Yes, I do generally think my children are "very bright." Brighter than they "really are?" Er...
Well after attending Caltech my oldest liked to tell me that I saw her as unique in the land- when she saw herself as in the lower half of her school. So, yes, I suppose on a technicality I see the sky as the limit for their capacity. Yes, I see them as my everything. Funny thing though, I see every child I teach that way as well.

Their schools were, until college, schools in poverty areas.
I saw those schools in a positive light-I worked there.
I believe in those schools.

I refer you to this backpedaling CNN if you have no idea what I'm discussing.

I, personally, found this remark by a Secretary of Education to be-well, sorry, technically racist, insulting to women as mothers as well, and thus also clearly sexist, and finally remarkably condescending and, in fact, to smack of elitism.
First suburban mothers are white, black, brown, tan, off white, golden, peachy, all the colors skin has. To  use a pejorative like "white suburban Moms," well let's substitute "black inner city moms"-would that be appropriate? It gets me in that icky place.
Real icky.

Then there is the notion that white suburban Moms are the ones raising the little kiddoes. Also awkward and denigrating to their status as job holders, professionals and super ick to the fathers.
Like my husband who was as involved with these kids and their education as it gets.
Can he also be fooled into the great lie that they are less bright than we thought?
Are white suburban Dad's-technically Italian so he says "olive" also needing a good dose of the castor oil Common Core?

Then there are the other layers.

I think generally calling other people's children "not as bright as you thought" goes in the special all to itself league. Somewhat there with being a guest in someone's home who has children and informing them you hate kids.
Then there is the insult to their ability to judge their child AND their school. Boy just say stupid and get it over with.
Plus it sort of endorses the idea of white flight when you read the comment fully.

All in all, not the best way to "have the conversation." Awkward...shoot that's way beyond awkward.


I, for one, want to know what conversation we are having. Exactly.

 Is it the one about poverty-how testing increased white flight, is it about inequity in schools, or what poverty schools face on a routine basis-things like the expectation that scores will be the same NO MATTER WHAT the experience and situation of the child?

That conversation?

Is it the conversation about Common Core and how it was imposed, what is looks like in primary education, how it will be assessed and what it fundamentally changes? Who funded it?

That conversation?

Is this the conversation about those with children in private schools seeking to privatize public schools through undue influence and outright purchase by corporate cronies?

That conversation?

Is this the conversation about  my children? What was it I learned sending them to the public schools I worked in and seeing the detrimental effect NCLB wrought on those schools over time in test based instruction and narrowing of curriculum, de-skilling of teachers?

That conversation?

Is this the conversation about your tenure as Ed. Secretary, from denigrating Master's Degrees, that oops in Louisiana,  to the assault on teacher's professionalism, and your aligning with those that labeled us "bad" especially when we worked in deep poverty?

That conversation?

Is this the conversation about the role shame, division, school-rating, have played within the educational decisions made in America the last 12 or so years?


That conversation?

Is this the conversation about who is defining 21st Century schools? And why?


That conversation?

Is this the conversation about why such awful things as those you stated would ever slip from your lips? I think the reason is quite a bit more complex than you just had a word-smithing problem. Tell us about some of the things in back of those assumptions we just gleaned insight into.

Have THAT conversation.
 Or admit that for a really long time you've not been conversing with teachers at all.

I want to have THAT conversation.