We went to Math Night at the school last night. It was the school's way of trying to teach the parent's the "Everyday Math" support curriculum through games. As a non-fan of the Everyday Math curriculum, my attendance was to support my daughter. At home we are (or will be) teaching standard math, that well-worn program we all grew up with: long division, addition and subtraction tables, etc. So I take all their "pitches" with an in-one-ear-and-out-the-other approach...
When my daughter's teacher said they were teaching Kindergarteners and elementary school kids to use calculators last Monday, I inquired more deeply. Why in the world would anyone teach a child to use a calculator to do the work of her brain? The answer I got assuaged my fears temporarily (I decided to take a "let me see exactly what you're doing" approach). The teacher told me that I could be present for the 2 calculator lessons and that I would be told when those lessons were. Pooh came home Monday and said they'd had a lesson in calculators that day... I had not been told that the lesson
would be on Monday, as I was told I would be. Note: I had also been told that the lesson would be nothing more than further work learning numbers; not really a matter of doing their math work on a calculator (e.g., adding on it). Again, my daughter told me that they spent the lesson doing all their addition and subtraction problems on a calculator. After going through the roof, I decided I'm going to have to approach the matter more directly. I had also been told the curriculum had been adopted district wide for "consistency", yet just found out a school at the north end of town uses a standard math curriculum (Saxon), and not surprisingly, very successfully. That school has seen a nice rise in test scores among its students over the scores of the previous modern math taught students. This, too, requires more investigation: why can this school do something outside the district's policy?
Alas, the best part of last night's math night was that Pooh was too sick with her cold to concentrate or finish the math games. We left after the first round. She didn't want to, but her little eyes were so droopy and her breathing so drippy and stuffy. We came home, did some math tables (ha!) and went to bed.
It continues to blow my mind that administrative educators can tell us that standard math left too many children behind so they have to use the new math curricula, when the proof of failing test scores shows the new curricula are leaving ALL children behind. And when they say that standard math didn't teach us mathematical thinking, I look in the mirror and ask, "well, you who took umpteen higher and advanced math, science, and logic classes and did well in them, how in the world did you do it with all that standard math not teaching you to think?" PLEASE! Didn't it every occur to these administrators that perhaps it wasn't the curriculum but the approach to teaching it that left some kids behind? Maybe there was prejudice, economic disparity, cultural differences, and other factors that led to the disparity? Are the children of those children who didn't understand standard math being helped any more by the new curricula? Are these issues too touchy, incomprehensible, difficult, or improbable to remedy? And will math reform or any true education reform every come about without these (and their partner issues) being dealt with?
And perhaps someone will tell me why it matters more that our districts curriculum supervisor be able to walk into any school in Seattle and see the same lesson being taught on the same day (her words) than that the teachers be able to teach the students in front of them the way she or he sees those children need to be taught so that they can learn?
Aaaaa. It makes me crazy.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Monday, January 21, 2008
The Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Day
My daughter and I joined the throng of marchers at Franklin High School in Seattle today for the annual Martin Luther King Day march and rally. The temperature settled a little above freezing, so we bundled up and walked amid the sea of easy-going, happy spirits.
Picture a face representing nearly every national-origin, racial, gender, age, economic, and ethnic make-up in Seattle, and you would have our group. Some bore signs denouncing the war; others signs calling for Peace. We read signs for immigration reform, socialism, organized labor, women's rights, presidential candidates, civic and social groups, an end to racism/poverty/ injustice, for freeing prisoners and fewer prisons. We heard chants of "Si, se puede", "What do we want? Peace! When do we want it? Now!", and the singing of freedom march songs. We heard three men discuss being pass around the California penal system. We heard a young white man trying to get the interest of three young African-American women who were not interested. We saw all sorts of families. We were helped by the afore-mentioned group of three young African-American women when my daughter stumbled getting off my shoulders to walk a bit. We got to say "thanks" and joke around a little. We heard a middle-aged African American woman lecture several young African-American men to get involved, to continue the fight. We heard a man named Muhammed give the invocation at the start of the march.
As we walked and listened and talked with others, I had the chance to tell my daughter why we march. I got to tell her about the marches of my childhood. I got to tell her how far we've come and that we still have work to do to get farther along. She asked me why some white people a long time ago wouldn't let black people do some things. I answered. From time to time I noticed others listening to us as we listened to them. I heard her express exasperation at the ignorance and nonsense of anyone ever thinking they were better than another because of anything, especially something they couldn't control like skin color, something they were given as a gift of creation. I heard my own voice from when I was a child expressing that same exasperation to my mother when I realized that my black friend couldn't have certain things because some white people, the same color as I, had said "no."
Unlike myself as a child, though, I heard my daughter try to understand where she and her parents fit into the scheme of things: a white mother, a brown Hispanic father, and their child. What am I, Mama? What did she feel hearing that her mother was part of the race that had (and still does) hurt so many? What did she feel knowing she comes from this race, too, and from one of those that has been and still is hurt by the majority in this country? I have told her about what our family has done right and wrong, and I have told her that we all have a choice how we will act.
She asked when we will stop marching as a people, and I told her, "when we all treat each other truly as we want to be treated." She asked what we would do then, and I said, "we will live in peace, and everyone will share everything, and some of the things we think we cannot change or overcome now will be a distant memory of accomplishments." And then I told her, "on that day, sweetie, God will be all in all."
We held out for most of the march, but Little Bear got weary and hungry near the end, so we took a short cut to the rally point and then headed off for lunch.
Picture a face representing nearly every national-origin, racial, gender, age, economic, and ethnic make-up in Seattle, and you would have our group. Some bore signs denouncing the war; others signs calling for Peace. We read signs for immigration reform, socialism, organized labor, women's rights, presidential candidates, civic and social groups, an end to racism/poverty/ injustice, for freeing prisoners and fewer prisons. We heard chants of "Si, se puede", "What do we want? Peace! When do we want it? Now!", and the singing of freedom march songs. We heard three men discuss being pass around the California penal system. We heard a young white man trying to get the interest of three young African-American women who were not interested. We saw all sorts of families. We were helped by the afore-mentioned group of three young African-American women when my daughter stumbled getting off my shoulders to walk a bit. We got to say "thanks" and joke around a little. We heard a middle-aged African American woman lecture several young African-American men to get involved, to continue the fight. We heard a man named Muhammed give the invocation at the start of the march.
As we walked and listened and talked with others, I had the chance to tell my daughter why we march. I got to tell her about the marches of my childhood. I got to tell her how far we've come and that we still have work to do to get farther along. She asked me why some white people a long time ago wouldn't let black people do some things. I answered. From time to time I noticed others listening to us as we listened to them. I heard her express exasperation at the ignorance and nonsense of anyone ever thinking they were better than another because of anything, especially something they couldn't control like skin color, something they were given as a gift of creation. I heard my own voice from when I was a child expressing that same exasperation to my mother when I realized that my black friend couldn't have certain things because some white people, the same color as I, had said "no."
Unlike myself as a child, though, I heard my daughter try to understand where she and her parents fit into the scheme of things: a white mother, a brown Hispanic father, and their child. What am I, Mama? What did she feel hearing that her mother was part of the race that had (and still does) hurt so many? What did she feel knowing she comes from this race, too, and from one of those that has been and still is hurt by the majority in this country? I have told her about what our family has done right and wrong, and I have told her that we all have a choice how we will act.
She asked when we will stop marching as a people, and I told her, "when we all treat each other truly as we want to be treated." She asked what we would do then, and I said, "we will live in peace, and everyone will share everything, and some of the things we think we cannot change or overcome now will be a distant memory of accomplishments." And then I told her, "on that day, sweetie, God will be all in all."
We held out for most of the march, but Little Bear got weary and hungry near the end, so we took a short cut to the rally point and then headed off for lunch.
Friday, January 18, 2008
Resident Rabbit
People talk about the power of positive thinking. How about simply: the power of thinking. Wishing and hoping doesn't hurt, making a thorough case for your point or desire can be pretty effective. But my daughter takes the cake.
She has asked me every day for a week for a pet rabbit. When I've said "no," she's said she wants the Easter Bunny to leave one in her Easter Basket on Easter Morning, assuming this is an end-run around Mama.
We have an indoor cat. A House Rabbit sounds tenuous and possibly imprudent under the circumstances. It will take a bit of research and quizzing the experts before such a commitment. A fish with a covered tank or a caged hamster sound safer.
But back to the power of thinking.
When we came home this evening, we were greeted in the back yard by a very fat, brown, presumably wild rabbit. The three of us looked as fascinated and startled as s/he. She watched us for a few moments; then dashed under the low deck. We got some carrots and left them around the place where she disappeared and a couple of other places as well. She has since re-emerged and hopped around the yard nibbling grass and carrots.
How in the world my dear, dear child conjured a live rabbit in the back yard by wishing, I don't propose to know, but it has sprinkled our weekend with the fantastical fairy dust of possibility.
She has asked me every day for a week for a pet rabbit. When I've said "no," she's said she wants the Easter Bunny to leave one in her Easter Basket on Easter Morning, assuming this is an end-run around Mama.
We have an indoor cat. A House Rabbit sounds tenuous and possibly imprudent under the circumstances. It will take a bit of research and quizzing the experts before such a commitment. A fish with a covered tank or a caged hamster sound safer.
But back to the power of thinking.
When we came home this evening, we were greeted in the back yard by a very fat, brown, presumably wild rabbit. The three of us looked as fascinated and startled as s/he. She watched us for a few moments; then dashed under the low deck. We got some carrots and left them around the place where she disappeared and a couple of other places as well. She has since re-emerged and hopped around the yard nibbling grass and carrots.
How in the world my dear, dear child conjured a live rabbit in the back yard by wishing, I don't propose to know, but it has sprinkled our weekend with the fantastical fairy dust of possibility.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Movie Vegetarian
A couple of friends and I got together for our "Women's Night Out" yesterday. We witnessed Sweeney Todd's musical mayhem and followed it with a marathon of catching up.
Movie Review: Sweeney Todd
The movie's production values were high, the singing surprisingly adaptable, the plot demented with a slathering of humor, the blood blessedly obviously fake, but the gore and viciousness too much for me. Nausea rose a bit high. If I hadn't eliminated meat from my diet last week, I would have after last night.
There was a time I watched slasher flicks and horror movies. That time passed about 15 years ago. The brutality of them became too real and too painful. People laughing and cheering as a villain massacred a victim made me ill. Sweeney stands on a higher step than those films, in that it's point isn't the demented violence, or even the desire to manipulate an audience with fear. Sweeney points to the unspoken, polite, socially-condoned and legally enforced violence which society's can inflict. The story paints violence from oppression as the equivalent of slitting the throats of and eating a society's people. In this way a society kills and eats itself. As in the movie, societies often consume the isolated and strangers among them, and likewise, most of us never notice they're missing. There are other themes that can be drawn, but this will do for now.
As for the cockroaches, well, I'll have nightmares for a while.
Evening Review: lovely. Being in the presence of two people I relate well to, whom I trust, admire, and adore, revitalized me, even as I flopped into bed for a few hours sleep before sunrise. The feeling is something akin to hope.
Movie Review: Sweeney Todd
The movie's production values were high, the singing surprisingly adaptable, the plot demented with a slathering of humor, the blood blessedly obviously fake, but the gore and viciousness too much for me. Nausea rose a bit high. If I hadn't eliminated meat from my diet last week, I would have after last night.
There was a time I watched slasher flicks and horror movies. That time passed about 15 years ago. The brutality of them became too real and too painful. People laughing and cheering as a villain massacred a victim made me ill. Sweeney stands on a higher step than those films, in that it's point isn't the demented violence, or even the desire to manipulate an audience with fear. Sweeney points to the unspoken, polite, socially-condoned and legally enforced violence which society's can inflict. The story paints violence from oppression as the equivalent of slitting the throats of and eating a society's people. In this way a society kills and eats itself. As in the movie, societies often consume the isolated and strangers among them, and likewise, most of us never notice they're missing. There are other themes that can be drawn, but this will do for now.
As for the cockroaches, well, I'll have nightmares for a while.
Evening Review: lovely. Being in the presence of two people I relate well to, whom I trust, admire, and adore, revitalized me, even as I flopped into bed for a few hours sleep before sunrise. The feeling is something akin to hope.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Wisdom of a Six Year Old
My daughter shared a gem of wisdom with me this morning. She said,
She spent her dressing time making up and singing a song about stopping the war. She turned six about a week ago. She goes to a school with a large immigrant population. Our priest is from Kenya and happens to be visiting in Kenya right now, helping those in need during the current turmoil. She hears and sees the results of displacement and hurt. And God has blessed her with a shrewd mind, caring heart, and gifts of music, words, and art.
How do I create a haven of peace and compassion in my heart, mind, and body, a disciplined tongue, so that the Spirit of love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control infect our immediate world and spread faster and more thoroughly than disease, poverty, dissension, confusion, chaos, lies, fear, hatred, ambivalence, isolation, and mistrust?
Today, I will ponder the wisdom of my child. I will curb my tongue, question thoughts that would rise as bile on my lips, try to see the other side of issues, to understand others, and keep my body at peace so that it does not become a weapon, nor wield one against others or myself.
One thought that flits through my head as I ponder the universal wisdom of my child is, "if life is a continual journey toward God, then why do children find it easier to see Truth and enter into God's presence than adults?" The child's simplicity and holiness awes me and leads me closer to God. It is why I still work as a catechist at our church. I sometimes think my role as catechist is as humble follower of the child. Other times I think it is to encourage them to know that they are in Truth. Perhaps it is as simple as custodian of a quiet, sacred space to nurture these beautiful beings communing with God. They don't need me to tell them they know God; they know that they know God.
And these thoughts confirm again for me that coming to God is more than magic words or moments. It is constantly reminding the self of the humbling power of Grace: we begin in God, from God, and for God.
"everything is good to use except weapons and hurtful words. A hurtful word is a weapon, and a weapon is a hurtful word."
She spent her dressing time making up and singing a song about stopping the war. She turned six about a week ago. She goes to a school with a large immigrant population. Our priest is from Kenya and happens to be visiting in Kenya right now, helping those in need during the current turmoil. She hears and sees the results of displacement and hurt. And God has blessed her with a shrewd mind, caring heart, and gifts of music, words, and art.
How do I create a haven of peace and compassion in my heart, mind, and body, a disciplined tongue, so that the Spirit of love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control infect our immediate world and spread faster and more thoroughly than disease, poverty, dissension, confusion, chaos, lies, fear, hatred, ambivalence, isolation, and mistrust?
Today, I will ponder the wisdom of my child. I will curb my tongue, question thoughts that would rise as bile on my lips, try to see the other side of issues, to understand others, and keep my body at peace so that it does not become a weapon, nor wield one against others or myself.
One thought that flits through my head as I ponder the universal wisdom of my child is, "if life is a continual journey toward God, then why do children find it easier to see Truth and enter into God's presence than adults?" The child's simplicity and holiness awes me and leads me closer to God. It is why I still work as a catechist at our church. I sometimes think my role as catechist is as humble follower of the child. Other times I think it is to encourage them to know that they are in Truth. Perhaps it is as simple as custodian of a quiet, sacred space to nurture these beautiful beings communing with God. They don't need me to tell them they know God; they know that they know God.
And these thoughts confirm again for me that coming to God is more than magic words or moments. It is constantly reminding the self of the humbling power of Grace: we begin in God, from God, and for God.
Monday, January 14, 2008
There Is Nothing Like a Date
Saturday night we celebrated a wedding. It was different from many, trading a sometimes somber seriousness for light and loving. What made it more celebratory was that is was a date, a real date, for us. We had a late lunch that day at a restaurant called "Purple". Frank's criterion: the restaurant must not have a children's menu. It didn't. The food was delicious. The wedding took place at a venue that did not allow minors.
We love our daughter, and we do so even more when we get some time away every once in a while. ;)
We love our daughter, and we do so even more when we get some time away every once in a while. ;)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
