The entire time I knew Brad he had a smile on his face, a twinkle in his eye, and something to say that was both wise and funny.
I needed to stop judging kids until I had a good idea of who they were, where they came from, and where they intended to go. I had to learn their story.
Must parents now worry about some creeper peeking over the stalls just because he says he’s feeling like a woman today?
According to that defender of liberalism The Huffington Post, Americans aged 18 to 29 favor letting transgender people use the restroom of their identity by a 2-to-1 ratio.
Additionally, according to The Huffington Post and the rest of the liberal media, only states inhabited by slack-jawed booger-eating morons would deny transgender Americans their God-given right to use the restroom that corresponds to their gender identity.
Tell me something: If a guy identifies as a man on Monday, does that mean he can identify as a woman on Tuesday? Or does it depend upon who he watches walk into the Ladies’ room Tuesday afternoon at Target?
Seriously, what the hell happened to common sense? You want to know why “Americans aged 18-29” are okay with guys going into girls’ bathrooms? Because they don’t have kids!
Consider this: There are far more pedophiles among the citizenry than there are people who identify as transgender. And while it’s true that parents should always accompany their small children into a public restroom, there are those in-between years when parents should and do let their elementary or upper elementary-aged children go into a restroom by themselves (especially when it’s a mom trying to shake a crying preschooler off her leg while attempting to distract her toddler from grabbing the Pez dispensers in the checkout aisle).
Must parents now worry about some creeper peeking over the stalls at their little girl because he claims he’s feeling like a woman today?
I could paint the various scenarios for you to consider, but really, folks—it doesn’t take a forensic psychology degree to figure this one out. Our children should not have to face a member of the opposite sex while they’re using a public restroom, no matter what age they are. Furthermore, children lack the maturity to process the absurdity of seeing a male in a supposedly female and private setting, or a female in a supposedly male and private setting.
And no, it’s not a “good lesson” in tolerance for our children. Like learning about the intricacies of sexuality at too young of an age, the complexities of transgenderism are hardly a topic any parent should have to deal with on the car ride home from Target.
Look, like their mother, my kids were never wimps about things like this. My husband and I taught them to be aware that there are all kinds of people in the world, which, generally, makes our world a pretty cool place to be. We didn’t shield them from delicate subjects, but neither did we expect them to handle situations or concepts that were not aligned with their level of maturity.
Furthermore, if my daughters had ever reported to me that there was a man present while they went in to use the restroom, that man better damn sure be wearing a cup.
Does this make me a homophobe? I don’t see how. This has nothing to do with homosexuality; rather, it has everything to do with the media grabbing onto the tail end of an issue and running with it because Donald Trump hasn’t said anything stupid in a few days, and what else are they going to write about?
(That’s not necessarily true, though. I had to laugh when I heard Donald Trump say he didn’t give a crap [pun intended] if transgender folks use the restroom that corresponds with their gender identity. His children most likely never had to use a public restroom without their being accompanied by armed security and a retinue of nannies.)
So put away your rainbow posters and your LGBT placards, because this isn’t what this bathroom issue is about. It’s about attaching an absurd concept—the “anything goes” restroom—to a cause that, frankly, I’m still scratching my head over. My gay and lesbian friends are great people who appear to be living the American dream, as well they should.
And if you’re among the infinitesimal number of people in the country who identify as transgender—get over it. If you have a penis, use the Men’s room. If you don’t, use the Ladies’. If you’re a “Dude (who) looks like a lady”, keep it in your panties until you’re behind a locked stall.
Using guilt to force the majority of Americans to bend to the will of a pocket-sized sampling of the population is hardly an example of doing the greatest good for the greatest number of people, no matter where or how you take care of your personal business.
I don’t know about you, but right now I have enough men in my life peeing on the seat.
Lately, many people have been asking me if I’m writing a sequel to The Gym Show. While I think a sequel would be an excellent complement to what will always be (maybe) my favorite novel, I had already begun my second novel before The Gym Show became so popular. So will I write a sequel? Yes. But first, my compulsive personality insists that I finish my second novel, The Magnificent Aschenbachs.
Would you like a peek? Thought so. Here is an excerpt from The Magnificent Aschenbachs.
After that rather strange greeting, January’s initial reaction to Richard’s home was one of awe, but she fought the urge to appear wide-eyed and naïve, and tried desperately to appear as if it were an everyday thing to walk into a spectacularly furnished and appointed mansion like the main character in Daphne Du Maurier’s Rebecca. And, like the nameless protagonist, January felt childishly out-of-place and wished she had worn something a little less showy (Gold lame, January, really?) and a little more conservative.
Sadly, she didn’t have clothes in her wardrobe to match the splendor of the home, and she certainly was not dressed in the same manner as Richard’s mother, the formidable looking Angelika. What did Angelika say to Richard when he had introduced her? She knew it was German by the accent, but she had no idea what she said. Richard had seemed rather taken aback, and even now, he was still somewhat quiet as if Angelika’s words had generated in him some meaningful response that he was still trying to piece together in his perplexed state. January felt as if he was going through the motions of shepherding her through the house without really considering her at all. This was turning out to be one of the most awkward and uncomfortable experiences she had ever remembered and wondered if all first dates were this excruciating.
The story is set in the mid-80’s in Indianapolis, and if you’re a Booth Tarkington fan, you might recognize that the title is a play off his Pulitzer Prize winning novel, The Magnificent Ambersons. Think of my interpretation, though, as another slice of life in Indianapolis, told mainly through the eyes of a young inner-city teacher who faces daunting challenges both in her professional and her personal life.
It’s going to be spectacular, I promise! Estimated time of completion? I’ll keep you posted.
I know, let’s turn Indiana schoolchildren into prank monkeys!
While it’s true that I’ve been out of teaching for four years, and with my youngest in the second semester of his junior year in high school, I really don’t have a dog in the fight, I still can’t wrap my head around what legislators—and not just those in Indiana—are doing to children.
Before you start with the mistaken notion that I’m one of those liberal, union-loving, child-coddling, tree-hugging, GOP-hating left-wing nut jobs, let me put that to rest. I’m not. I’m a conservative Republican with Libertarian leanings who believes the federal government should not feed schoolchildren (their parents should) nor subsidize preschool (cut taxes so that one parent can stay at home). So there. Those two radical ideas might be off-putting to some of my friends, but we’re about two generations into a Great Society that has another mistaken notion that the federal government exists to take care of us. We need to get back to taking care of ourselves and get the federal government out of education.
That said, I truly do believe in public education, even though my own children were mostly educated in Catholic schools. My parents were public school teachers, and between my husband and me, we have around 45 years’ experience in public schools both in the inner city and in suburbia. Public schools should serve as the great equalizer—a level playing field—even though school funding is a complex and counterintuitive formula here in Indiana.
The takeaway? Provide a level educational playing field, yes, but hold each family accountable for how that education makes their children productive and responsible American citizens.
But back to what legislators are doing to children, because if what happens within the walls of the school are not things that are best for children, then they ought not to be happening, right? Marathon standardized testing, mandated by state and federal regulations that are tied to funding, staffing, and a school’s A-F ranking is something that happens to children, not to adults. Explain to me how making a third grader endure nine hours and 25 minutes of standardized testing is good for him. Because I’d really like to know.
In my last year of teaching, I was told that I was to “get” each of my 27 fifth graders to pass ISTEP. I laughed. Seven of my 27 young scholars spoke limited English. They might soar through the math part, but they wouldn’t even be able to read the language arts portion. In a hilarious twist of irony, these students would have the instructions read to them in Spanish, their native language, but would be forced to take the test in English.
I wonder how many state legislators could take the test in Spanish. More hilarity.
Moreover, several of my students with IEPs were not even close to reading on grade level, but they, too, were expected to pass the test. C’mon, their IEPs mandated that they would have extra time to complete the exam—all they needed was a little extra time, right?
Hell, they could still be taking that fifth grade ISTEP today as freshmen in high school and still not pass it. Time was not what they needed, fellas.
My point is this: How is standardized testing good for children? Does it make for better schools? No. Does it make teachers better? Hell no. Do teachers have any control over who walks through their classroom doors at the beginning of the school year? No! Does standardized testing eat up instructional time? Yes! Does it take away from authentic learning opportunities? Hell yes! Do I need to go on? No! Because common sense tells us that high stakes testing doesn’t do anything but create nail-biting, anxiety-ridden teachers and students, and turns school administrators into monocle-wearing, whip-bearing SS officers threatening to unleash their torrent of fury against any teacher who dares question the hours and hours of mandated test prep being forced upon them. After all, their necks are also on the line. Administrators who do not produce passing test scores shall be eliminated!
There are parts of the ISTEP exam that make sense, and there are parts of it that are thoughtful and well-written. Well, at least there were in 2009, the last year I administered the test. I’m not saying, “Abandon standardized testing forever!” What I’m saying is to be reasonable. Use the test as one piece of the assessment pie. Much of what happens to children while they’re in school cannot be and should not be reflected in the results of a standardized test, no matter how well written it is. Children’s writing, their ability to communicate, solve problems, seek out answers to questions, their technological prowess, their curiosity, and their affective learning cannot be adequately measured by a standardized test. Which is more important?
To legislators, politics are more important, and schoolchildren serve the state as their pint-sized pawns. To them, a school’s poor test results means that those children’s teachers are bad, bad teachers and should be fired, their schools nothing but dens of iniquity full of leftist commie teachers who care more about their rights than the children they refuse to educate. Fire them! Fire them all—no, better yet, parade them throughout the streets of the capital city and throw rotten tomatoes at them. Make them a spectacle, an example of all that is wrong with public education. Heads on a pike! Burn them at the stake!
And then we can turn all the public schools into charter schools, because that’ll solve everything.
And all the time, those teachers were just trying to do what was best for children.
Is there a difference between perception and reality?
The story I am about to tell is true. It describes an event that took place early in my teaching career, and it is one that I will never forget.
First, some background.
I taught sixth grade at IPS School #26 beginning in November 1986. School #26 was predominantly Black. I did not have much experience working with Black students; I didn’t have much experience working with any students. I also did not have much experience working with Black teachers and para-professionals–teachers’ assistants, if you will. I had recently graduated from Penn State, hardly a bastion of diversity when it comes to Black and White.
Eventually, though, I became better at recognizing and appreciating the differences between me and my African-American students and colleagues, and an easy symbiosis evolved among us. In the spring of my third year at IPS School #26, I was on playground duty with another staff member, the venerable fifth grade teacher Mrs. Edwards. Mrs. Edwards was at least 70 years old if not older and had more seniority in the entire IPS school system than any other teacher. She was also the most beloved member of our staff, and rightly so–her students were well behaved, her classroom was immaculate and thoughtfully organized, and her bearing was formidable if not intimidating. She dressed each day for work as if she were attending church–sky-high heels and all–minus the hat. And she never, ever was seen without a Bible in her hands. She often used it to beat children who got out of line while waiting for their breakfast, intoning, “Oh, I do so hate to hit you with my good Book!” One swat with the Bible for every word in the aforementioned sentence. I loved her. And she scared the hell out of me.
Mrs. Edwards had a cloak hall in her classroom–not everyone had a cloak hall. Her cloak hall was used to store coats and boots and backpacks and naughty children. Mrs. Edwards also had a paddle–nothing special, just a paddle with her name emblazoned on the handle in perfect Palmer penmanship. If you had a student who needed paddled, Mrs. Edwards was your go-to lady. Don’t judge: This was 1989.
Back to playground duty or, rather, I should call it “parking lot” duty. Because we didn’t have a playground at IPS School #26. We had a blacktop parking lot. We had some balls–a couple of basketballs and a kickball, and in the past we had had some jump ropes, but they were lost somewhere along the way. There wasn’t much for the kids to do, and there were a lot of kids to keep busy. Three sixth grade classes, one special education classroom of fifth and sixth graders, three fifth grade classes, and another all-fifth grade special education class. Remember, it was 1989, just before Inclusion.
What did the kids do for thirty minutes of what was supposed to be recess? Some kids played with the few implements we had available for them, but most of the kids–pre-adolescents–stood around and talked, or stirred some unseen neighborhood pot they had dragged to school, full of hatred, jealousy, and vindictiveness. As you might have guessed, then, on this particular beautiful spring day, a fight was brewing. The antagonist, an African-American student named Glenn, started posturing in front of another male student, also African-American. Mrs. Edwards, heels and all, started toward her student, the one who was being confronted. I managed to get myself between that student and Glenn.
In the back of my mind, all I could think of was, “She’s wearing heels! She’s going to get shoved to the pavement and break a hip! She’s old!” I, on the other hand, was dressed in a t-shirt, jean skirt, bobby sox, and white Keds. I positioned myself in front of Glenn–a young man the same size as me–and held him by the shoulders, looked him in the eye, and said, “Not today, scooter.”
Apparently, that pissed him off enough that he decided to take a swing at me–in the ensuing confrontation, he managed to relieve me of a rather sizable chunk of my hair, tore off my necklace, and ripped my t-shirt enough so that my bra was exposed. That pissed me off enough to turn him around, get his arms behind his back, kick him in the backs of his knees, and force him onto his belly. Whereby I sat on his butt, pinning his arms behind him until the paddy wagon came. I am sure I surprised him with my chutzpah.
Between the time I forced him to the ground to when the paddy wagon (IPS Security, not IMPD) arrived, I do remember telling him that he f***ed with the wrong person. Yep, I tossed the f-bomb at a sixth grader. Countless times.
After IPS Security relieved me of my duties as butt-sitter and f-bomb tosser, I found myself in the principal’s office, giving a statement to one of the officers. I did not wish to press charges, but I did want the kid suspended for the remainder of the school year.
After IPS Security left, my principal unleashed a torrent of fury against me that stunned me speechless. I had just saved Mrs. Edwards from a dangerous situation that could have hurt her, and I broke up a fight that would have most certainly disrupted the educational environment for the rest of the day if not for the rest of the school year. And here was my principal ripping me a new one for doing what any sane person would have done. Through the roar in my ears, all I could hear was him saying, “Racist, racial, race, relations.”
The rest of the day was a blur–I do remember my students’ ooh-ing and ah-ing when I returned to the classroom; I summarily I turned off the lights and read to them from Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry by Mildred Taylor. None of my colleagues came by to ask if I was okay, no one asked me if I was hurt. No staff member talked to me for the rest of the day.
The next day a fellow teacher who happened to be White pulled me aside and whispered, “You’d better be careful. The paras (teachers’ assistants–all of whom were African-American) have told everyone that you whipped Glenn with a jump rope then tied him up with it.”
Jump rope? WE DIDN’T HAVE JUMP ROPES!
It got worse. The para-professionals had spread the lie that I called Glenn a ‘n*****, that I was indeed whipping him with a jump rope, and that after I was finished whipping him, I tied him up. They knew this because they were all watching out the window while it was happening.
Another staff member, also White, pulled me aside and told me that Mrs. Edwards had stated that she was disappointed with me. When this staff member, who had also watched the entire tableau the previous afternoon, asked her why she wasn’t standing up for me since she was right there and saw everything that had happened, apparently she replied, “I will always stand with my race.”
That was my first experience with racism. Moreover, it was a lesson in perception. What those para-professionals perceived and what Mrs. Edwards perceived were one in the same–even though what Mrs. Edwards saw was what really happened. And she knew it.
I’ll never know why Mrs. Edwards’ and the para-professionals’ perception of the incident was so different from the reality I experienced that day. In my mind, the only thing I did that I should not have done was swear in front of a student. To them, though, I did everything wrong. I was the privileged White girl asserting my authority in the way that, historically, they remember White people asserting their authority over Black people.
Why tell this story today? While I don’t agree that the officer who shot Michael Brown in August 2014 was guilty of any wrongdoing, I also understand that others’ perceptions might be different. This is because my experience with Glenn at IPS School #26 located at E. 16th and Martindale on the near eastside of Indianapolis in 1989 was perceived by others as a racist act of aggression when I know in my heart that all I was trying to do was to protect Mrs. Edwards. It broke my heart that she sided with those who made up the story about the jump rope, but then again, I had not lived her life, I had not experienced her experiences, and I had never walked around in her skin, so from her vantage point, what I did was just another instance of a White person beating down a Black person.
I learned that day that you don’t have to agree. Just understand.
I can’t remember if I loved history before I had Mr. Chesko in eighth grade Pennsylvania history or if it was his unique brand of teaching that made me love history. It doesn’t matter, though. If I had walked into his classroom already loving history, I left it with an absolute passion for it.
I must admit that I was fairly intimidated by Mr. Chesko at first–well, maybe throughout my entire tenure at Linesville High School. You see, he didn’t put up with anybody’s tomfoolery, shenanigans, or monkeyshines, least of all mine. Which was good, because I was not always a very nice little girl at age 14. But I always knew where I stood with Mr. Chesko.
When he first began teaching at Linesville, I used to hear some of the kids call him “Chico”, which I guess was a play off his last name. Whereas I never called our band director anything but “Touch” (even, shamefully, to his face), I could not imagine calling Mr. Chesko anything but ‘Mr. Chesko’, and if he were sitting here beside me right now, I’d still call him ‘Mr. Chesko’. You see, he did not encourage familiarity. He was not the type of teacher you could walk up to and make ridiculous demands of–like Touch. Oh, no. You did not make demands of Mr. Chesko.
And as a veteran eighth grade teacher, I can tell you that this is exactly as it should be.
So what was so special about Mr. Chesko? For one, he didn’t sit behind his desk and assign a chapter in the book to read and the questions at the end to complete and hand in before the end of the period, even if he had a game to coach that night and a series of plays to put together beforehand. In fact, I never remember him sitting behind his desk–he was always moving, even if he was tired because he was up all night with a newborn baby. Nor did he fling down with a sanctimonious fury that Rand McNally and expect us on the first try to point to Valley Forge, even if we should have known it was somewhere near Philadelphia. Neither did he force us to memorize speeches, dates, or obscure facts about the Revolutionary War and then chide us about our lack of knowledge when we didn’t get it right. Instead, he inspired us to learn about the substance of those speeches, the significance of those dates and timelines, and the interlacing of facts–the causes and effects of history–all by painting pictures with words, maps, and whatever other media he had on hand. He taught us about the events that shaped our history–our history. He reinforced his stories by asking us questions that had us on the edges of our seats, begging him to call on us, with questions that began with, “How do you think …?” And “What do you suppose it was like …?” Or “I wonder how …” He compelled us to become curious by default.
At once, learning our history was thrilling. It was messy, it was gory, and it was fascinating.
Which brings me to the fences.
One of our assignments was to build a series of fences–fences that one would have encountered in pre-Colonial, Colonial, and post-Revolutionary Pennsylvania. Split-railed mortised, split-railed snake, log fences, stone fences–we were to build models of these fences, and we would be graded upon the historical accuracy of our creations.
I heard some kids grumbling about how fences had nothing to do with Pennsylvania history and that this was a dumb assignment. Those were the kids who didn’t have a recently retired father at home itching to build something, one who also had a penchant for cabinet making and a passion for history that surpassed even his daughter’s. But I knew that Mr. Chesko was wily enough to figure out within seconds of seeing me walk into his classroom with my arms full of fences whether or not my dad had a hand in the building, so I told my dad to chill (no, I really didn’t but it was something along those lines), and I made the fences myself. As a consolation prize, however, I let him help my friend Dede with her fences, much to Dede’s delight. My dad and Dede worked all night on her fences while I furiously flipped through encyclopedia pages to find just the right images to replicate in order to make my fences historically perfect. To do anything less would have demonstrated a deep disrespect for the unique nature of the assignment.
So what did all of this fence-making have to do with my passion for history and my reverence for Mr. Chesko? While making those fences (with my dad hovering over my shoulder giving me mortising tips), I thought about how folks during the Colonial period didn’t have power tools and had to split logs into rails with an ax. I wondered about how farmers in the Colonial period knew where their land ended and their neighbor’s began. I thought about how long it must have taken the Colonial surveyor to determine the farmer’s property lines without the benefit of modern maps. I thought about how, while the men in the community were splitting rails to divvy up their properties, their children were kept busy placing the split rails in the snake pattern formation. I wagered that, at the very least, the Colonial wives, with their aproned skirts waving in the wind, were stirring a big iron pot of something stew-like over a huge fire because their men would certainly be hungry after all that rail splitting. That got me wondering what kinds of vittles the Colonial folks ate–was it all rabbit and squirrel with the occasional deer thrown in? And how did they keep all that meat fresh without modern refrigeration? I thought, and I wondered.
And that, my dear friends, is how you teach American history by asking your students to build fences. Weird, huh?
Mr. Chesko, you taught and coached two generations of western Crawford County kids how to win and lose graciously, how to build character through sportsmanship and academics, you helped those two generations grow into productive and active members of the community, you coached a girls’ basketball team that brought home the first-ever state championship to the little town of Linesville, and best of all–for me–you taught me how to make those fences.
You are loved, you will be missed, but know that you are now, without a doubt, a dear and cherished part of Linesville’s history.