All the Magic I Have Known

There always seems to be something new; something super-exciting just around the bend. It’s exhausting to try to keep up with.

I am apparently, however, naturally inclined to keep up – to document the world around me. I no longer appreciate the idea of anyone being able to stumble upon my life, and I think that’s why I have trouble blogging/Facebooking/being socially knvolved on the internet. So I’m making some changes.. specifically, I’m taking this blog down and starting over again. Changing to grow, one more time.

I have re-typed this four times. My thoughts on education are so wide and varied at this point in my life, I don’t even know where to begin. It’s the primary reason I’ve stopped chronicling our lives – education is all-consuming lately, and I have no idea where to begin.

The State of the Schools Address this week has sent me into a tailspin, and I can’t put my finger on the reason for it. It doesn’t apply to us anymore. I suppose that’s the great thing about homeschooling?

I read the address.

I had questions. I know the problems we had over the last two years – I have my own opinions as to what caused them, how they could have been avoided, and how to move on, as I’m sure everyone does. What I haven’t heard a lot about are the successes. There are a lot of “success stories” that come from the KCMSD, as there are in any urban district. Students overcome their circumstances to invent the cure for cancer, etc. This doesn’t mean that KCMSD is a successful district.

I read closely the superintendent’s list of accomplishments. Some definitely warranted a big pat on the back to the superintendent – specifically, the fact that the district is operating with a balanced budget for the first time in over a decade is commendable. I would have taken this as the sole accomplishment had it been presented in that manner – “get over it, it was hard and we messed some stuff up, but we cut almost $100 million from our operating budget, so THERE.” There were a lot of financial wins, including the establishment of an “A” credit rating for the district, reduction of legal fees, reduction in vendors and a lot of money saved from the nutrition program. Hooray for fiscal responsibility!

Also cool – pardon the pun – is the installment of air conditioning in all schools/classrooms.

Again, I am thrilled with the financial successes the district had achieved under the leadership of Dr. Covington. Our superintendent, though, sought accolades for many things that I consider to be simply a part of his job. Just as I wouldn’t be congratulated for answering the phone at work, I believe that he’s padded his list of accomplishments considerably. The implementation of an annual employee evaluation system, for instance, will not receive applause from me. I have received annual reviews at every job I’ve ever had. If KCMSD hasn’t done this, shame on previous superintendents; it is still, however, the superintendent’s job to align the district with standard industry procedures, and it doesn’t necessarily warrant special congratulations.

The same goes for professional development, curriculum development, and special record-keeping procedures for teachers. You are an education administrator; this comes with the territory, and unless something innovative and game-changing came out of this, it’s not an accomplishment. It’s doing your job.

I am sorely disappointed in the rest of this address. The programs being implemented sound fascinating; a “paradigm shift” is a much-needed event in KCMSD. But we’ve heard all of this before. I distinctly recall a speech where he insisted that technology must be a part of the classroom experience – that students’ use of social networking and personal electronic devices should be embraced, both by teachers and the district. I believed what he said in that speech. I believed that I would see changes in the district that supported this vision and many others; instead, I now realize this is rhetoric. It’s something we hear frequently from him, alongside statements like, “our diplomas aren’t worth the paper they’re printed on,” and “it’s criminal that the education of these students has been neglected for so long,” and “it’s like pulling off a bandaid.”

I understand that many of his initial projects and ideas are time-consuming and financially difficult – regardless of his promises, we knew it wasn’t possible to implement all of these things in two years. But Twitter? This is a free service that Dr. Covington should have implemented when he arrived in Kansas City. If his communications team didn’t tell him that, they shouldn’t be employed as a communications team. The concept of a Parent University has been in play in KCMSD for years, with parents receiving free child care and even being paid for attendance – this isn’t a new program. I could go on with many other projects mentioned in the address, but it’s irrelevant.

For two years, this superintendent has made promises that he has not fulfilled. He has made serious missteps that have resulted in irreparable damage to our schools, their staff, and most importantly, our students. We teach our children about integrity, expecting them to accept responsibility for their actions, learn from their mistakes, and make choices that result in better outcomes. Why do we not hold our superintendent, who is also responsible for educating our children, to the same standards?

Dr. Covington’s projects sound revolutionary. The Capstone project, the Truman Academy, the dual-enrollment program, LITE academy – these are all exciting programs, and I hope they result in many successes for the district.

But I do not believe him. Dr. Covington showed a blatant and complete disregard for the stakeholders in this school district, and now, in his address, he requests their unwavering support. He continues to tell us exactly what we want to hear – including the mention at the end of the address regarding the move to a portfolio district with site-based management (do we have specifics yet?). But after two years of support of his policies and his efforts, I do not believe him, and I do not trust him.

I hope I am wrong.

Also, is anyone proof-reading what he puts on the internet? Because the number of errors in that document was kind of staggering… I don’t use spell check – ever – and you could find several in this post, but I’m not the superintendent.

Zion,

Yesterday, during your parent/teacher conferences, I had a flashback. I am 18 again, sitting in front of my superintendent’s huge desk, and asking for permission to go on a once-in-a-lifetime trip to Europe. I have letters from all of my teachers expressing permission to go on this trip, reassurances that I will be allowed to make up important assignments. I have the transcript of an honor student who is taking advanced placement classes. My grandparents, who are taking me on this trip to Europe, are on either side of me explaining to the superintendent that this trip is full of educational opportunies with museum visits, castle tours, nature excursions and more. And the superintendent is glaring at me. He finally issues his verdict – I am granted permission to go to Europe, but if a single day of school is missed before or after this trip, I will not be granted a high school diploma.

He is unwavering in this – he does not care that I am an honor student with plenty of credits to graduate. He does not care that I am not a “problem student.” He does not care that this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. My job, as a student, is to be in that desk “x” number of days per year, and if I am unable to fulfill that obligation to the school, I will not be allowed to graduate.

Twelve years later, this memory infuriates me. I went to Europe. I learned more in two weeks than I learned in four years of high school – a “good” school in a “good” school district. The irony that the person in charge of my education would deny me the opportunity to learn is not lost on me, even now.

I attended school sick. I walked the halls like a zombie, unable to absorb a single piece of information through an allergy-medicated-haze. But I graduated, and the school district received funding because I was in my seat when the bell rang. This did not make me better, stronger, smarter, able to endure more. It just pissed me off and made me bitter and resentful of a school district determined – and designed – to keep me from experiencing a better education.

I have always felt that the education I received was a gigantic failure. My memories of school, from elementary through high school, are marred by ineffective teachers, standardized testing, and bureaucratic bullshit – did I mention that I was educated in a “good” school district?

I learned so much more from the time I spent with my great-grandmother reading, exploring her antique “treasures”, listening to tales of historical events she witnessed first hand, and playing games with her – games that I now know were designed to challenge my mind.

She imparted a love of knowledge and a love of learning that I will never lose. When I asked questions, she showed me how to use encyclopedias. She took me to the library each week and patiently taught me to use a card catalog. We read – oh my god, we read all the time – and by the time I was in first grade I was sailing past my peers in reading groups at school.

I hated school. I hated the structure of scheduled learning. I loathed sitting in a desk for 90% of my day. We know now that the reason for most of my problems in school came from my undiganosed Attention Deficit Disorder – I don’t appreciate structure in any form; I have problems sitting still in general; I didn’t observe normal social cues from people my age. The list goes on.

As hard as the public education system tried to suppress it, somehow my love of learning came through in tact. And while it didn’t do me much good in the school system, I still love to learn. I am afraid that the human lifespan just isn’t long enough for me to investigate everything I want to know about. I credit my great-grandmother with instilling this, and even 12 years later, I am bitter and resentful of the public school system for attemtping to eliminate it.

My greatest fear is that it will do the same to you.

I have spent the last two years trying to understand how the public school system works (and doesn’t work). I have seen good teachers burn out from beauracratic nightmares that keep them from doing their jobs. I have seen children deprived of opportunity after opportunity because no one felt like putting in the extra work. I have seen adults – who should know better – give up on children they don’t understand because they were unwilling to try a different approach.

And I have watched you. I have watched you alternately struggle and then thrive in this environment. I have watched as you were introduced to exciting, new things; watched the Montessori method in action.

And I have felt your struggle. I listened as you slayed the dragon in the living room – conveniently named after your teacher – and then listened again as you explained, “I don’t name ‘em, I just slay ‘em,” insisting that it was a coincedence that this particular dragon happened to share your teacher’s name.

You are quick to defend her, though, to anyone who will listen – you adore your teacher and you love your school, despite the occasional rough day. I also adore your teacher and love your school. That’s why this week has been so difficult.

We’ve been talking a lot about homeschooling. I have always wanted to homeschool you, but your father and I agreed to let you figure out what was going to be good for you. Lately I’ve had a multitude of concerns about the school district and its committment to Montessori education. With the changes happening district-wide, I think the needs of your school are being overlooked and I join many other parents in my concern for the system in place.

But it isn’t affecting you directly yet, and we kind of made a decision to experiment with homeschooling. We thought we would leave you where you are for now, play around with homeschooling curriculum over the summer, and then re-evaluate before the next school year began. It was a good plan; one that your father and I, for a change, both agreed on (your education is a hot topic in our house..).

Then came parent/teacher conference day.

Oh, Zion. Could this have been any more telling?

She talked about math. She talked about reading. She talked about writing. I asked if you were behind on anything. Her response was, “not exactly behind…” To my disbelief and horror, I heard the worst possible phrase come from her mouth:

“He’s just not meeting his full potential.”

Zion, I have lived under the cloud of this phrase my entire life. This phrase represents so many things to me – it represents the beginning of my self-conscious quest for acceptance from family, friends, teachers, supervisors. It is synonymous with the words “lazy” and “unmotivated.” It indicates that there is something innately wrong, something that will always be wrong and different, and I have always been determined that I would not allow it to shadow you.

Before I jumped to conclusions, I clarified – is he behind on anything? Has he met all of the objectives and standards required to move on to 1st grade? The answer was no, you are not behind, and yes, you have met your objectives. In fact, you’re doing exceptionally well in reading and spelling. Your objectives in math have been met, but she believed you were capable of more. It wasn’t a requirement; just that you weren’t trying as hard as she thought you should be, and you had the capacity to be advanced there too.  

So there it was. I tried not to panic, tried to be objective, tried to realize that your teacher was doing what she was supposed to be doing. She was challenging you. She knew you were “capable” of even more than what you have already accomplished…

…but she really seemed to be having a hard time acknowledging what you had accomplished. She couldn’t seem to get away from the fact that you were capable of doing more.

We moved on to the issue of absenses. A broken arm and weekly occupational therapy appointments were enough to make your attendance report look like swiss cheese, but let’s be honest here, we don’t do mornings. And Zion, I am using “we” in the sense of YOU and I. We suck at getting to school by 7:20 a.m. It’s too early for God, let alone us. When you added the tardies and the absenses, your attendance report was not good. As we listened to the numbers, your teacher informed us that you were in danger of being required to repeat kindergarten because of your absenses.

Wait. What? Let me clarify this – he has met all of the academic objectives required to begin first grade, right? In many instances, he’s actually exceeded the academic objectives required to begin first grade? He is socially and emotionally ready for first grade? And it’s entirely possible that he could be forced to repeat kindergarten because he hasn’t put in the classroom hours?

My mind was spinning. After the many conversations we’ve had with your teacher surrounding ADHD – your brain requires almost constant stimulation, repetetive tasks are a recipe for disaster, please let him move on to a new lesson as soon as he’s conquered the old one – now we’re considering forcing you to repeat kindergarten because you weren’t there every day? Your teacher, sitting in front of me, was taking on the characteristics of a certain superintendent from my past. I was having a PTSD-type flashback.

How are we not celebrating the fact that, having started a year later and attended 30% fewer classes than the majority of your classmates, you are still meeting and exceeding your age appropriate objectives?

Here is the truth of the matter. The days that you stayed home with me were spent learning. Your teacher is not aware that you are learning how to print at home, while you have learned to write in cursive at school. Your teacher does not know that we have worked very hard with shapes and patterns each day that you were absent. Your teacher doesn’t know that we analyze books and movies in the car; that we talk about history constantly, and the events that shaped our country and the world. She is not aware that we do word problems while we drive.

When your teacher talks about your potential not being met, I believe she assumes that she is the only instructor in your life. She doesn’t know that you were the only 3-year-old in preschool who could explain the purpose behind Barack Obama’s inauguration speech. You, unlike the vast majority of your fellow students, are aware that your school is named for the man who created the legislation which legalized interracial marriage in the state of Missouri, and you understand why this is so important. You are capable of discussing the catastrophe in Haiti and the political unrest in Egypt in an intelligent and compassionate manner.

I don’t believe that your lack of interest in counting by hundreds means that you are not living up to your potential. If long division was interesting to you, I am positive that you would be working those numbers. It apparently doesn’t interest you, and so we discuss the political unrest in Egypt. We watch National Geographic specials, and then we find books and do our own “research” about the jungle ruins or the gladiator games or the bank robbers of the wild west. I see your thirst for knowledge when we do things like this, and it is amazing how much you absorb. If you were a typical six-year-old who was uninterested in anything but video games, I would worry about you meeting your full potential in school.

But you’re doing fine. You’re learning constantly, and it’s obvious. You spell things – oh my god, you spell everything – and you read non-stop. Why, then, would I push you to do more than what is required of you in an area that is uninteresting to you, when you are so willing to jump in to the other academic areas that are?

You are adamant about remaining in school. When the subject of homeschool is broached, you put up a hand and say, “Don’t even say the word, we’re not doing it! I’m staying right where I am, in school.” You ask about your friends – when would you get to see them? What about your lessons – who would teach them? You don’t seem to believe that I am capable of taking charge of your education, and I can’t say that I don’t agree with you. It terrifies me.

But I am more terrified by the prospect of what will happen to you in the public school system. I am overreacting. I do this with great frequency. But it’s a real fear, and a real concern, and one that even your father – the biggest proponent of public school for you – is starting to agree with.

You’re going to hate me if I do this to you. You’re going to resent me, and I suppose that’s your job. We all resent our parents for making the choices they made. But it’s my job to make the choices, and it’s my job to make the best choice I can.

So this is my official apology. If you’re 30 and you’re reading this, and my choice to pull you out of the public school system has ruined your entire life, I am sorry. Like my dad used to tell me, there’s no manual for things like this. We’re winging it out here. Let’s just hope you don’t screw up your kids as badly as I’m about to.

Little man. Or big man, I guess I should call you.

You turned 6. There was very little fanfare. There has been very little fanfare about anything, lately.. we’re moving from thing-to-thing at warp speed, but we haven’t stopped to notice much, have we? I have this thing with peer pressure, and it’s kind of eating me alive.

Here’s the thing: your mother is not capable of leaving well enough alone. Ever. I’m sure you know this by now. For the last three months, we have eaten, slept, breathed and bled your school. And you know what? We’ve accomplished some pretty awesome things. But for every thing we accomplish, there are ten more things that are falling apart, and this week I needed to step back from the things that were falling apart and be grateful for the supreme awesomeness that is you. And your dad. The dogs. Our house. A few cats.

And hopefully, tomorrow or the next day, some sewing supplies.

And Christmas decorations.

Because, in the words of the fabulous Miss Jackie, “This is your SEASON, Sara!”

And she’s almost right – because mostly, it’s our season. This is the Sara-and-Zion-go-a-Christmas-ing-season. Breakfast with Santa, gingerbread houses, decorating, more decorating, decorating until Daddy says, NO. MORE. DECORATIONS. PERIOD. YOU’RE FINISHED NOW. and then Christmas light gazing and sparkles and cookies – I know it’s cliche, dude, but it really is the most wonderful time of the year.

So we’re taking a break for a minute, ok? Taking a break from meetings and dinners and activities and planning and committees and networking and all that other stuff that we’ve been doing since June, and we’re going to have ourselves some Christmas.

You know why? Because you turned 6. You turned 6, and the other day you said to me, “Does Santa live forever?” and I glanced over at you and without even thinking about the answer I said, “As long as children believe in him, he does…” except that my voice broke on the “children” part of that sentence and my breath caught in my chest and I couldn’t finish the sentence for a minute. And when I did finish it, you looked up at me and said, “Why are you crying, Mom?”

And the only response I could give was, “You turned 6, dude.”

I’m usually pretty good about admitting when I am directly responsible for the mess my life has become.

Like the other day when my friend texted me and said, “What are you doing?” and my response was, “Watching Gossip Girl and working on PTA stuff. I’m having a hard time with this, because I used to wear flannel and listen to Nirvana. WTF, right?”

But I tend to get myself into these messes, and I’m ok owning up to that.

So today Zion’s friend Nicholas was hanging out with us while his mom was at work. Nicholas hates animals.

{I know – what’s he doing visiting us? But he and Zion were excited, so I went with it.}

We just happen to have this visiting us this week:

I KNOW. How can you not fall completely and utterly in love with a face like that? On a sidenote:

Right. And when you consider that the whole reason we have him is because two massively huge dogs got together and attacked him, and the little four-pound disaster of a dog held his own and survived – well, it’s just hard to hold a grudge. Or say no. Or not get attached.

Mike fell instantly in love when he realized that he does tricks. Seriously – what kind of rescue puppy does tricks? Uh, this one, thanksforasking. He was a little worried when he tried to climb into bed with me and Mr. Four-Pounds-of-Ferocious tried toremove his face, but they made up. He expressed concern when “Puffy” {this was a huge compromise – I wanted to name him “Poof” and Mike wanted to name him “Puff Daddy”} snarled and chomped a chunk of his arm after he tried to retrieve his car keys from their comfy spot underneath the dog.

But he’s not ours, and I’m ok with that – totally content to just hang out and love on him until he’s feeling better.

So you can imagine the uproar it caused when I realized, at 11:00 this morning, that the two boys had somehow managed to let all the dogs out the front door and never bothered mentioning it to me.

Uproar is actually not a good descriptive term. There was screaming, yelling, crying – all of it came from me – and really confused looks from two five-year-old little boys.

“WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO IF THIS DOG DIES, ZION?!?” I wailed from the driver’s seat as we searched the neighborhood, hysterically weaving in and out of children riding their bicycles. “WHAT IF WE NEVER FIND HIM?!?” I pictured in my mind all 526 of the Terrible Things That Can Happen to a Dog of Only Four Pounds. I wrote the screenplay for the conversation I would have with my mother when I explained that I was only doing the dishes, and these irresponsible five year olds refused to maintain accountability for their actions.

And then I heard myself telling my husband that his cute little Puff Daddy was gone..

…when I saw him sniffing a bush on the next corner. I stopped the car, hopped out, said, “Hey Puffy, come here!” and he snarled, growled and snapped at me. I have never been happier in my life.

So you can imagine the uproar that his sudden disappearance at 2:00 caused.

Did I say uproar again? I need to find better words.

I threatened to disown my son. I cried. I screamed. I panicked. I called the mailman. I talked to the drug dealers down the street. I begged the guy with the Coolio hair and the pitt bulls to please pick him up and hold him if he saw him, and promised to come back by. I recruited one of the local 6th graders to keep an eye out, and as I drove away from him heard his friend say, “Who was that?” I couldn’t even manage a grin when his response was, “You know, that crazy white lady on the boulevard over there…”

I asked a 326-year-old black man if he had seen a poofy little tan-colored dog running around, and I was really concerned that I would have to perform CPR after he went into cardiac arrest from the effort of answering my question. I abandoned all hope of ever finding this silly little dog alive.

And then, as we pulled up in front of our house, we saw one of the kids from down the street standing on the porch, little brother in tow. There at his feet on a leash was Puffy.

I threw the van into park, jumped out and yelled, “CAN I PLEASE HUG YOU?!?”

He looked so confused and said, “He came running down the street a few minutes after you drove away, so I just grabbed him.” I hugged him. And then I hugged him again. And then he looked uncomfortable, like someone had maybe already told him about the crazy white lady on the boulevard…

And then I took the silly little dog off the leash and brought him inside the house and the drama was over. For that second, anyway.

Dear Zion,

Sixty-nine days ago, I printed a list of all the things we wanted to do this summer. There were all kinds of fun things on that list, like going to the zoo, seeing the dinosaurs, playing in fountains – all kinds of fun, summery things, right? I knew there was no way we would get to all of them, but I had high hopes.

The school thing, man. I tried to keep it together. I tried not to let everything fall apart. But you know how I am, right?

That thing I said I’d never do – that crazy, soul-sucking thing – you know, the PTA. I became the president. It was the last day of school, and the person who was in charge stepped down and asked me to take over. I have this thing about saying no.. I’m not good at it. So I didn’t say it. And then the shit hit the fan.

Because shortly after this happened, we realized just how upside-down things were. And then after we realized that, figured out how to take care of it, and actually took care of it… well by then, we realized just how bad things were with the school itself, and the school district. And you know me, right, because I’m your mom and all. I had to go and insert myself right in the middle of the whole mess.

And the next thing I knew, it was August.

August, child.

We hadn’t gone to the zoo. We hadn’t played in the fountains. We hadn’t seen the dinosaurs.

We left for vacation, and as we were driving to pick up Nonnie, you said, “Hey Mom, no texting on vacation, ok? No PTA, either. And no answering your phone. Also, no checking your email.”

Dude, you’re 5. You shouldn’t have to be telling your mom these things. I kinda suck, and I’m sorry.

We got home from vacation last week, I spent the weekend at work, and then Monday I had – you guessed it – more PTA stuff to do. Tuesday we hit the ground running with therapy and friends and meetings at the school.

But Wednesday…

Wednesday was so, so awesome. I woke up and laid in bed for a half hour, just until I heard a little bitty voice beside me say, “Mommy, are you awake?”

You climbed in next to me, and we cuddled and had tickle fights for another half hour. Then I said, “What’s for breakfast?” and you said, “Uhmmm.. pizza.” So we had pizza. And we watched tv. And we cleaned your room a little bit. And we talked about what it’s going to be like in a few weeks when you become A BUS RIDER. We read some books. Watched some more tv, just to veg out for a bit.

Daddy came home and we played some games – checkers, crazy eights, and go fish – and did a couple of puzzles.

That was what summer was supposed to be. Maybe if we lived in the suburbs, if we put you in one of those “good schools,” we could have had a normal summer? I wouldn’t have known what to do with that, and I don’t think you would either. You’re my kid, after all.

It lasted all of one day. Then today we got a $600 electric bill, the waterbed exploded and we found out the air conditioner has been leaking through our bedroom ceiling and into the living room. Welcome back to reality…

I promise to try to cram an entire summer’s worth of fun into the next three weeks, little man, and maybe in between scrubbing mildew, fixing the waterbed, painting two rooms and sanding floors I’ll be able to sleep once a week or so. Here’s to the new school year.

In case you were wondering, there is nothing – NOTHING – hotter than watching your husband dive into a swimming pool – fully clothed, including $120 work boots, cell phone, and wallet – to save someone else’s kid from drowning.

That’s why I married him.

Well, that and the dreds.

It’s really bad when the coffee shop calls you personally and says, “Hey Sara, what’s up? Haven’t seen you in a couple of weeks…” And not in one of those “calling-your-best-customers-to-make-more-money” kind of ways, because this particular coffee shop is located at my work. So they literally called this afternoon and were like, “Dude, where ya been?”

And I was all, “Rachel, I’m not avoiding you, but I’m going on vacation in a couple of weeks and I am literally saving my pennies to make sure we can cover all of our vacation expenses. I’ll be back after August 5th.”

And she was cool with that. But I felt guilty, still. Maybe one latte won’t hurt the vacation budget..

I am feeling low today.

Feeling as though I am spinning and spinning and spinning and never. going. anywhere.

Some days that’s a really good thing – a cool thing – a very “Sara” thing to do – putting your arms out and spinning as fast as you can go until you collapse in the grass, giggling and feeling very glad that you took the time to do that.

And then there are days that have deadlines and due dates and time clocks and it seems as though there is no end to the pressure.

This week was full of those days – the pressurized ones.

So today I have taken a moment to remind myself of some very important truths.

~ I love the silence of the night ~

~ I am not comfortable if my feet are not bare ~

~ If it is white, I will paint it ~

~ One day, I will visit Morocco ~

~ I am aware that I do not have to accomplish everything today, but I will try anyway ~

~ When I fail, I will remind myself that I do not have to accomplish everything today ~

~ I will erase the sadness of failure and frustration with pretty pictures filled with saturated color ~

~ If the pictures are white, I will paint them ~

Mike: When u txt me it plays My Chick’s Bad

Sara: That’s cuz I’m a down-ass chick.

Mike: Westside.

Sara: We live on the eastside. I learned that from the KC Star.

Mike: I get all my ghetto info from the Star, too.