November Mash Up of Awesomeness

Wanna see something awesome? Okay, so see this picture below? This is a picture of this thing that is in my classroom this year. It is a representation of this way cool gizmo that I have that integrates a camera, an overhead projection system, a computer with Internet access, a DVD player, or any other auxiliary source I might want to plug into — like an iPod or a laptop or…  an 8-track cassette. (Ha ha, that’s funny. But seriously. If I wanted to. I could do it.)

This is in my classroom!

Wanna know what else is cool? The bloggers listed below in my November Mash-Up. They are new. They are now. They are what’s goin’ on. 

From the English Department

TheGoodGreatsby is hilarious with his Take a Sip Punctuation. Because we really do need something to indicate a written paraprosdokian. Duh.

Kristen Lamb tells us how to plant the right seed and keep ourselves focused by writing a great logline.

KLamb also reminds newbie writers that a plot doesn’t have to be complicated to be good in Getting Primal and Staying Simple.

From the Sign Language Department

When TamaraOutLoud lost her voice, her family turned her silence into a game in Don’t Say Anything If...

From the Meth Department

Psyche. I said “meth” not math. EllieAnn Soderstrom delivers an awesome satire on Why Meth Dealers are the Best Boyfriends. Hilarious. And no math involved.

From the Home Economics Department

Julie C. Gardner gives validation to all writers in her piece Today Call me Half-Assed. Clearly, Julie understands that when folks are focusing on their craft, something has got to give. And sometimes that something is the house.

Kelly K from Dances with Chaos is in the kitchen And she has a Top 10 List of Things a Newbie Cook Should Know.

Galit Breen from These Little Waves has a lovely piece that rolled in about the same time as soup weather. Her post, My Kids Hate Matzo Ball Soup, comes complete with a fabulous recipe.

From the History Department

Gene Lempp weighs in with his Zoo Arcane –  Evil Little People where he explores malicious dwarves from Africa and Southeast Asia. Creepy and brilliant all rolled into one.

Piper Bayard tells us everything we never knew about Josephine Baker in She Wasn’t Really Naked: Dancer, Singer, Spy

Jami Gold explores the ongoing controversy about whether folks should consider e-publishers vs. agents

From the Physical Education Department

Annie from Six Ring Circus shows us her Slam Dunk. Thus proving, once again, mommy’s got game.

From the Art Department

Mary Mollica can turn chicken shit into chicken cordon bleu. She’s magic, I’m telling you. Check out what she does with an old table she found at the curb in How About a Game of Checkers?

Mark Kaplowitz wrote My First Grade Teacher Must Have Had Stock In Crayola — so, it is a post on unintentional art.

From the Music Department

Steve from Brown Road Chronicles wrote a romantic song for his wife to celebrate their anniversary. I want As Long As You’re With Me on my iPod. You know, so I can cry in my car.

From the Awesome Department

Do I have the best neighbor or what?

My neighbor Teri bought me this shirt. Don’t you all wish you had neighbors who did stuff like that?

Also, I was Freshly Pressed this week! Whoo Hoo! If you missed how my 12-year old son no longer wants to be called a certain name on zee bloggie, check out Monkey Has Left the Building.

Being Freshly Pressed is always a wonderful surprise, and it brings such tremendous gratitude. I would like to welcome my many new subscribers. *waves hi*  I hope you like what you see here and that you will participate in the conversation. I do my best to visit people who comment. And I always comment back.

Finally, I should also mention that it is Veterans Day today — at least in the United States of America. We, in our higher institutions of learning, do not have the day off from school — but my son does. So on behalf of all the awesome Veterans who have selflessly (and repeatedly) served our country, please know our flag is flying in your honor. I know it is difficult to come back home after being away, so I am wishing awesome things for each and every one of you.

What awesome stuff has happened to you recently?

Tweet This Twit @rasjacobson

My First Grade Teacher Must Have Had Stock In Crayola: Guest Post by Mark Kaplowitz

Mark Kaplowitz

My guest blogger today is Mark Kaplowitz. I started cyber-crushing on MarKap the minute he came onto the blogging scene. Many of his earliest pieces were nostalgic pieces that made me long for the days of metal lunchboxes (like he wrote about HERE) and action figures (like he wrote about HERE). His writing is punchy and hilarious. I can’t understand why he hasn’t been discovered and published already. I would totally buy his books. (You hear that publishers? He’s already sold one copy!) You can find Mark’s blog HERE and follow him on Twitter at @MarkKaplowitz. Thanks for sharing your teacher memory, Mark. I now understand  your fear of crayons.

• • •

My First Grade Teacher Must Have Had Stock In Crayola

Ms. Deagle seemed normal on the first day of first grade, as she stood at the front of the room and announced that she rewarded good work with scratch ‘n’ sniff stickers.  I thanked my lucky stars that I had not been assigned to the ancient Mrs. Krabcik, who, it was rumored, bit the erasers off students’ pencils to make errors impossible to hide.

There had been no stickers in Kindergarten, and I was excited that, at last, my brilliance would be properly remunerated. As Ms. Deagle handed out a purple-inked mimeograph, called a “ditto,” I prepared to impress my new teacher with my wizardry at addition or spelling.

The ditto, however, contained neither sums nor words to be completed, but an uncolored picture of children sitting in a classroom. “I thought we would start first grade with a little coloring assignment,” Ms. Deagle said, standing with her hands locked behind her back.  “I make two assumptions about all of your coloring work. One, that all of the pictures will be outlined in black. And two, that none of the colors will smudge.  Please check your work before you hand it to me, to make sure my assumptions hold true.”

Not the pack Mark used.

I outlined the ditto in black and colored it in, making the wisest selections I could from my shiny new 64-pack of Crayola crayons, with perfect points and untorn wrappers. The ditto took close to an hour to complete, and blackened the heel of my coloring hand.  I was tired but ready to proceed to more intellectually challenging material.

But the second assignment was another coloring ditto, as was the one after that. My first day of first grade was devoted entirely to coloring, and the last assignment of the day — a beach scene that made me long for the summer vacation just ended — had so many items that I had to take the ditto home with me. On the morning of the second day, we lined up before Ms. Deagle’s desk to have our work reviewed and, if acceptable, obtain a sticker for it. My stomach churned as my turn approached.

“Not bad, Mark,” Ms. Deagle said, scanning my work like a museum curator. “But I can see where you let the black outlining bleed into the ocean here. Please be more careful in the future.” I said I would, and thanked her for the sticker she pressed onto the top left corner of the ditto. As I scratched the sticker and inhaled the aroma of pepperoni pizza, I rejoiced that I had survived the coloring trial.

But the arithmetic that I’d been counting on did not come that day, either. Instead, we were given more coloring to do: an 11×17 mural of school buses lined up in front of a school, ready to cart happy children away to happy homes. I wished that I could join them. I used more care when coloring adjacent to black outline, but still the crayon bled, making my buses look muddy.

As the weeks and months passed, the coloring assignments did not abate. Coloring appeared to be the only skill that Ms. Deagle deemed worth teaching.  Once in a while we would get a math or reading assignment—a treat to be saved for last and savored—but it was a momentary and inconsequential digression from our art.

Imagine being six years old and coloring until 10 o’clock every night. A century earlier and I could have been standing before a lathe. True, I was not going to lose a hand coloring. But sometimes it sure felt like it. And not all students were as skilled as I.

Emmy, one of my classmates, was quiet and had no friends that I could see.  She was also slow in her work and had trouble following directions. She colored in defiance of the lines, saved her black crayon for tests that required a No. 2 pencil, and was so behind in her assignments that Ms. Deagle would lock her in the classroom during recess.

When that punishment did not work, Ms. Deagle locked Emmy in the closet. As we filed out the door for lunch, each of us peered through the closet window at a scared and timid Emmy looking out.  I don’t know if Emmy’s work improved after that, but mine certainly did.

By the spring, my parents had compared notes with the notes of my classmates’ parents, and decided it was time for a meeting with the principal about dear Ms. Deagle.  I remember hearing about the meeting, and that the principal had promised to do something. I also remember how nothing changed. But I survived Ms. Deagle’s first grade and moved on to second grade where, in only a few short weeks, I relearned the alphabet. Emmy was left back — with another teacher, I hope.

I picture Ms. Deagle today, retired and watching cable news programs in her den. In one segment, parents sit with their child and a lawyer, and say they are suing their child’s school because “chaining students to their desks is an unacceptable practice in the 21st Century.” And Ms. Deagle shakes her head, scratches and sniffs a nearby sticker, and calls her sister to complain about how educational standards have slipped.

What was the most lame assignment you ever had to do in school? Or what was your least favorite color in the 64-box of crayons.

 • • •

If you have writing chops and are interested in submitting a memory about a teacher you had and can explain how that person helped you (or really screwed things up for you), as well as the life lesson you took away from the interaction, I’d love to hear from you! Contact Me. Essays should be around 700-800 words.

If you write for me, I’ll put your name on my page of favorite bloggers!
 

The Compromise

image from Bob Magill Photography

We took his motorcycle and drove for two days straight never stopping to shower, only to refuel and refuel and refuel at small convenience stores in quaint little towns where even the fat counter girls looked beautiful to me. Somehow we ended up tip-toeing in the middle of some farmer’s field where the corn stretched tall and sweet to the sky and roots spread underneath our feet, and I felt safe and believed in magic when he clapped his hands once and — without even having to say abracadabra — thousands of crows lit and seeded the sky like a million dark winged moons.

As he held me, they squawked our names, and he taught me how to decipher the screechings of birds, and I was so sure that love like that could never fly away.

But it does and it has dozens of times since then.

But before the pecking and the clawing there were kisses behind a crumbling wall, flowers sent with secret messages, green turtlenecks and green chairs  and the whole fucking world was green with possibility and if I died in an hour no one would know that still I hold these memories, hoard them like chocolates I won’t share, sweet and delicious caramels oozing with my youth fluttering daily away from me on bird’s wings, and I can’t bear to part with a single one; they are all my favorites.

I need only breathe and we are there, his feathers… feathers flickering radiance.

And no one need ever know I sacrificed that kind of love, chose the warmth of a yellow comforter and a rye bagel each morning over the chill of late September rain on my shoulders, something less dangerous than a motorcycle and the uncertainty of a thousand crows screaming our passion overhead.

This week we were asked write about a relationship we knew was doomed from the start in under 400 words. Click on the button above to read other stories about love and loss.

Tell me about one of your doomed relationships: with a lover, a friend, a parent, a child, a celebrity.

The Gift of Off-Center

It was my third week at Metairie Park Country Day School, and I could barely distinguish the administration building from the science building. I didn’t know where the nearest bathroom was, who to call about the broken desk in my classroom, or how to make the copier stop jamming.

For the first two weeks I called him Jeff. By the time I got it straight, I realized that Mark Kelly was not the technology guy; neither was he the Athletic Director. He was the Middle School Principal, and he’d come to the English office to pay me a visit, to see how I was doing, if I needed anything. How nice, I thought, how friendly the folks are around these parts. Little did I know that he was out to get me. Little did I know that I’d come face to face with the meanest practical joker east of the Mississippi. I made the mistake of sounding secure.

Mark Kelly

“Everything is great,” I said, trying to sound confident.

“Have you been to the Lower School?” he asked.

“Been there.” I said, feigning a yawn.

“What about the library?”

“Pu-leeze,” I lied.

“So you know what you’re doing?” he said, raising his eyebrow. “You have it all together?”

I nodded my head, snapped my fingers two times for effect, and headed off to class. Later, after school ended and I had erased the blackboard, reorganized the desks in a circle, and collected my mail, I returned to the English office. I saw it from all the way across the room; my desk had been cleared.

Everything was gone.

Realizing the gravity of the situation, I gasped aloud: “My grade book!” It held all my students’ grades, all my attendance records. I think I vomited a little in my mouth.

Sitting behind me, looking calm, was Mark Kelly. He smiled, arms crossed over his chest.

“Where is it? What have you done with it?!” I squeaked.

“It’s around,” he said coolly.

Suffice it to say that Mr. Kelly sent me on quite a scavenger hunt. During my journey, I located the Lower School atrium, the Upper School attendance office, the library – and I met fabulous folks all along the way. In the end, it turned out that Mr. Kelly had stashed all my goods in an empty file cabinet drawer right there in the English office, about two steps away from my desk. I pulled all my belongings out of the drawer, unharmed, and set about reorganizing.

Mr. Kelly gurgled and chortled behind me.

Truth be told, I miss the way Mark Kelly batted me around the way some giant cat might play with a mouse or a bird. I miss hearing his booming laugh behind me at school plays; I miss his multi-colored Tabasco ties; I miss his wit, his charm, his teasing, and his teaching. Mark put a little bounce in my step. He taught me to stay on my toes.

Mr. Kelly taught me never to brag about being done with something early. He taught me how order in the world is artificial and how easy it is to lose control. He made me explore, go out and meet people, go into unfamiliar territory, and find answers. It is so easy to get stuck in our own little comfort zones.

I like to think that this little Grasshopper has become like her master and that I instill in my students the same thrill for exploration and the same joy at being slightly off-center.

When is the last time someone made you feel a little off-balance – in a good way? What’s the best practical joke someone ever pulled on you? Or you pulled on someone else?

An Opportunity For Dialogue

I have to confess, in my younger days, I used to attend protests. I have been jazzed up enough about certain social issues to actually put myself out there and march and shout and carry signs and what not.

But I’ve become disenchanted over time because over the years it’s been demonstrated that folks in power really don’t care what citizens want.

And I have to admit the whole Take Back Wall Street thing has me confused because I have seen so many people representing so many different gripes; I have actually lost the message of the protest. I mean, is there one unifying message?

But this guy. Well, he has found a way to do his part. YouTuber ransackedroom, a San Francisco based marketer has a plan that involves taking the business reply mail envelope that comes with most unsolicited credit card offers, and sending it back to the banks with a message inside that ransacked hopes will help open “a dialogue.”

And look, he’s not screaming when he says it. He’s logical. And civilized. For the love of Pete, the man is wearing a tie!

I adore how this guy has a simple, all-inclusive concept to “sell” Take Back Wall Street to the masses. His contribution to the movement is about creating a diversion of time. Personally, I love this. It’s perfectly passive-aggressive. And perfectly legal. It uses the big bank resources against the big banks to make a point.

And to those who participate, we get to feel like we’re recycling while protesting at the same time.

How cool is that?

And multi-taskishy.

Seriously, if everyone does what this guy asks even just once or twice, maybe it would actually stop all those awful credit card mailers. And wouldn’t that — in and of itself — be worth fighting for?

Would you consider doing this? Have you ever attended a protest? How did you feel about its overall success? What do you think about the Take Back Wall Street Movement? And can you articulate the message of its movement?

Monkey Has Left The Building

photo by Traci Bunkers @ http://www.TraciBunkers.com

“I don’t like it anymore,” my son said, right before he took an enormous bite out of an enormous apple.

“What?”

He held up one finger to indicate that his mouth was full, a gesture he learned from me.

“This Monkey business. I’ve outgrown it.”

I’ve been waiting for this moment since my son started middle school.

Last year.

But now that he is finishing his first semester of 7th grade, he has decided that Monkey is no longer a good fit for him.

Forget about the fact that he actually looks exactly like Curious George.

If Curious George had freckles.

Forget about the fact that after he gets a brush cut, his hairline looks exactly like a little baby monkey’s.

Forget about the fact that he is sproingy like a monkey.

The reality is that Monkey is done being Monkey.

“So can I just start calling you by your real name?”

“Noooooo!” my son shrieked in his high-pitched I’m-in-the-midst-of-puberty-and-my-voice-but-my-voice-hasn’t-changed-yet timbre.

“Well, get to thinking,” I told my boy. “I have to call you something.

After he completed three hours of homework — ten algebra problems, a Spanish worksheet on conjugating verbs, some science worksheet on density, mass and volume, a social studies worksheet on Chapter 2, Section 4, and an English thingy where he had to read something and write a response (note: he keeps me out of the English loop) — he went downstairs to practice piano and then returned upstairs to practice for his bar-mitzvah.

Around 6 pm, he put all his books away and wandered into the kitchen where I was making dinner.

“Tech Support?”

“What about tech support?” I asked absently as I popped a black olive in my mouth while pouring marinade over that night’s chicken.

“That’s what you should call me.”

I looked at him blankly.

“You know, for your blog?” He picked up an olive and popped it into his mouth.

“That’s actually pretty good…”

“It’s good because it’s true,” he said.

Little bastard is right. He will always be my little Monkey, but over the last year, our conversations involve my screaming for his assistance because something has happened to my Excel Spread sheet formula, and I don’t know how to fix it. So he fixes it for me. Or I want to do a Power Point presentation, but I don’t know how to set it up. So he sets it up for me. Or I want to change the banner on blog but that involves Gimp and multiple layers, and I don’t know how to do that. So he does it for me. In 6.3 minutes. For years, he has been my IT guy: my fixer, my assistant.

I am starting to think I should pay him.

While I was thinking these things, my 12-year old son said aloud (to absolutely no one): “I will detach your head from your body!”

Looking around the room, I declared, “Wow, you are the King of the non-sequitor.”

“I know,” he smiled. “And yes, I know what a non-sequitor is.”

We both popped olives in our mouths and, as I finished the dinner prep, my son moved to the pantry in search of something that would be ready to eat sooner than the chicken.

Finding nothing, he moved to the freezer.

Which is empty.

Because it has been broken for one week now.

My son stuck his head deep inside the icemaker. From the depths of the freezer, I heard my son’s voice. It was deeper than usual. Distorted from being inside the freezer, he sounded like someone else: a man.

“I really want a frozen pretzel,” this man said, “When are we going to get our freezer fixed?”

“As soon as I get some.”

“Some what?” he turned to look at me, 12-years old again.

I smiled and popped another olive in my mouth, held up my finger and made him wait.

“Tech Support.”

What nicknames did you call your children? Have they changed over the years? What little changes have signaled your child is growing up?

Damage Done: Guest Post by Leonore Rodrigues

Leonore Rodrigues

Today’s teacher story comes from guest blogger Leonore Rodrigues from As a Linguist. Leonore and I connected because of our love of language, weird words, and proper punctuation. As it turns out, we have quite a few real life things in common. 

Leonore’s a teacher and she just wrote a lovely piece called Intermission. It is exactly what I’ve been feeling recently, and she wrote it so beautifully. Please check it out after you read what she wrote here today. Also feel free to follow her on Twitter at @asalinguist. Thanks for helping me out, L.

• • •

Damage Done

I can remember the names of most of my teachers I’ve had from kindergarten until graduation from high school, which is something about me that freaks out my boyfriend just a little bit. I try to tell him that there is still plenty that I don’t remember about school, but then I go and spoil it by mentioning that I also remember most of my first-day outfits.

I don’t know why these details stick, but the truth is that I do remember not only names, but little details about most of my teachers: my second grade teacher hated when we used short pencils; my fifth grade teacher showed tons of film strips; my ninth grade English teacher used the word ‘bitch’ on the first day of class and we loved her for it; my eleventh grade trig teacher smelled like cigarettes, coffee, and chalk; and my twelfth grade Calculus teacher was sweet and flirty, but was probably just a stone’s throw from being a dirty old man instead.

These details stand out but they don’t mark the teachers as being particularly great or terrible. When I do think of my favorite teachers, different memories arise. My sixth grade Math and History teacher’s silly manner made his classes fun and interesting. My eleventh grade American History teacher taught me how to write clearly and concisely, and he took me seriously, which helped me gain more confidence in myself and my ideas. My twelfth grade English teacher – who is probably my favorite teacher of those years – built on that confidence and challenged us every day with thought-provoking lessons.

Unfortunately, not all of the memories were good.

My third grade teacher, Mrs. G. was rather stand-offish, which in and of itself wasn’t a bad thing, but it didn’t win her many supporters, either. Her lessons were straight-forward and predictable, which for me usually meant boring. I thrived when a teacher gave us unusual projects or pushed us with harder material. Even clumsy classroom manners were forgiven as long as the teacher had passion and energy to inject into the lesson. Mrs. G. gave us neither creative nor passionate lessons.

Sockcat

The moment that stands out in my mind was the day she assigned a project to make a puppet. It didn’t matter what kind of puppet it was – it could be a sock puppet or it could be a 10-string marionette for all she cared. It could be a princess, a dog, or a prison inmate. We were left to our own devices and given no examples, guidelines, or criteria.

I’d seen some dolls that T, my best friend, had in her house that her mother had made. We talked about it and she said she was probably going to do a puppet similar in style to the dolls. Not having the slightest idea of what kind of puppet I could even hope to make, I asked Mrs. G if T and I could do the same sort of puppet if I couldn’t think of anything else to do.

She not only told me “no” about the puppet project, but she also quite bluntly told me that I depended too much on T, that I should be more original and not just copy my friend, and that it probably wasn’t even healthy for us to be such close friends anyway. I came away from school that day with the sense that my teacher thought I was a parasite and a fake. Not knowing any better, I thought she must be right. I felt like a girl with any real talent, intelligence, or integrity wouldn’t need to get ideas from anyone else, and so it must be true that I’m useless on my own. Nothing she did for the rest of the year ever disabused me of that notion.

At the end of the year, Mrs. G. assigned T and me to different fourth grade classes so we could break our apparent co-dependence on each other. We stayed just as close as we’d been, despite the separation. Slowly, I began to repair the damage that had been done to my self-esteem. To this day, however, I find that there’s still a tiny voice in the back of my mind that ask, “Was she right? Was I really just getting valid help with a project, or was I copying? Am I really just a hack?”

A teacher’s influence can indeed be deeply-felt for many years afterward. I wish my 9-year-old self had gotten angry and fought back, but I was lucky to have good teachers in the following years to combat the damage done. It took a long time, but at least now my 40-year-old self knows how to fight back.

Was there a teacher who really sapped your self-esteem? Did you ever get it back?

 • • •

If you have writing chops and are interested in submitting a memory about a teacher you had and can explain how that person helped you (or really screwed things up for you), as well as the life lesson you took away from the interaction, I’d love to hear from you! Contact Me. Essays should be around 700-800 words.

If you write for me, I’ll put your name on my page of favorite bloggers!

 

We’re #1… And I Feel Guilty

Newsweek posted its annual “500 Best High Schools” report.** Immediately after the list was published, my local district posted the results in its Fall 2011 Newsletter which indicated that one high school in the district ranked #73 and the other high school came in at #99.

That day, I went to the grocery store. And as I shopped, I ran into folks who were all in a tizzy. Here’s a sampling of what I heard:

How did our school drop from last year? And why is their school better/worse than the other school? And why didn’t our school make the list?

Meanwhile, I kept my head low and kept pushing my cart.

While other people griped, I was content. I mean both high schools in my district made the top 100 list in Newsweek.

Last week, my entire district was just ranked #1 in the State by this report that came out on October 27, 2011.

Awesome, right?

But I’ve been thinking about these lists.

About what they do to us.

How they make us anxious/frustrated/furious/complacent/content.

They get our attention, get us to react, get us to blame, point fingers, worry, obsess, gloat.

And even though I can now wear a t-shirt that proudly proclaims that my child attends the #1 public school district in New York State, there’s something that is making it impossible for me to ride get on my magical unicorn and fly away.

The district deemed “worst” in New York State is also right here in Rochester; The Rochester Public City School District, a District that serves over 32,000 children, came in dead last at #431.

Never has there been such disparity between the haves and the have-nots.

At my nephew’s graduation back in June, the administrators noted that the Class of 2011 was exceptional. Graduating seniors had received astronomical numbers of dollars in academic scholarships. It was surreal. Collectively, their SAT scores were redinkadonk. Sitting in that huge field-house surrounded by well-dressed, well-fed, financially secure families, I felt hopeful. I think everyone did.

In September 2011, The Wall Street Journal reported:

The results from the [2011] college-entrance exam, taken by about 1.6 million students… revealed that only 43% of students posted a score high enough to indicate they were ready to succeed in college, according to the College Board, the nonprofit that administers the exam.

When I read that report, I read its inversion: 57% of students are not prepared for college level work.

And I knew who they were talking about.

On the second day of this semester, I administered a written diagnostic to my Composition-101 class designed to determine if students could write a basic essay on-demand.

Guess what?

I don't like to fail people. But sometimes I have to.

About thirty percent of the class failed the exam.

What’s the big deal?

I’m glad you asked!

In the last four years that I have worked at my local community college, I have learned a lot about the demographic of my students. Most of these students are not as fortunate as the children in my home district.

Many did not graduate high school. Some do not have money for breakfast or lunch and eat out of vending machines. I have had homeless students; one admitted to me that he had been hiding and sleeping in Wal-Mart right before he was caught and arrested. I have students who look down at their shoes when asked to read aloud because they can barely read. I have had students whose mothers are abusive and whose fathers are in prison.

Some students are civilian veterans; folks who have served in the United States military and are now returning to the classroom to try to focus on academics after multiple overseas deployments. Some claim some kind of disability status; and for others, English is not to primary language spoken in the home. Too many come from families whose annual median income fell below the poverty line.

So what do these lists tell us?

They tell us what we already know.

That students who come from an environment where parents encourage education will value education. They will come to school with full bellies, having slept in a bed they can call their own. They come with backpacks stuffed with all the required materials and minds that are ready to learn.

Children who grow up with some kind of interference — whether it be emotional, cultural or fiscal — will have to work harder to get where they want to go. It’s not impossible, but it’s harder.

I hate this enormous social disparity.

Pointing out the disparity in reports and newsletters doesn’t seem productive, nor does it seem to result in changes for the people who need them the most.

Here is what I can tell you:

Colleges are spending millions on remedial courses to prepare high school graduates for college-level work.

Businesses are having to invest time and money teaching employees basic skills they did not learn in school.

Well-intentioned (but misguided) initiatives like No Child Left Behind as well as our over-emphasis on standardized testing in the core subjects have sent us in the wrong direction. Instead of teaching students to think across the disciplines, administrators have chosen to “cut the fat” — programs like music and art and drama — which are considered esoteric and unnecessary.

And no matter how much I may I want to, I can’t fix students in 15 weeks: not when 12 years of school has failed them.

** Did you see the Newsweek report?

Go ahead and look at it.

You know you want to.

America’s Best High Schools: The List – Newsweek.

What do you think about these lists? Do they get you worked up? Or do they make you feel helpless?

Tweet this Twit @ rasjacobson

Sucked Into Sleazy Halloween Costumes

Back in 2009

This blog entry by Kathy English, author of “Mom Crusades” is one of the best articles I’ve read on how Halloween costumes have morphed from simple, home-made creations into an entire industry of expensive outfits.

And when it comes to girls’ (and women’s) costumes well, let’s just say the choices are sometimes downright skanky!

For those of you who don’t know me  — and for those of you who do, before I am accused of being a total hypocrite — I have to confess, I kind of like displaying my inner naughty-girl on Halloween.

Hubby and I like to throw costume parties every few years and I have been a naughty teacher (typecast?), a St. Pauli Girl, a French Maid, even a slutty pirate. Once I wore a really short toga.

A. Really. Short. Toga.

Here’s why:

On Halloween 1999, a mere two months after my son was born, hubby and I decided to go with a “family theme” — you know, because I was about 50 pounds heavier than I was accustomed to weighing.

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

My husband was a farmer – complete with red flannel shirt and overalls – our baby was a cute little heifer, and I … I was a big, fat momma cow (complete with over-sized, pink, rubber udders).

Oh. My. Gosh.

Never did I feel less attractive. I really felt like a cow. The fact that I had to go upstairs and actually pump breast milk in the middle of the evening did not help things. As I sat attached to my industrial strength Medela pump, I vowed to never again wear something on Halloween that made me feel unfeminine.

So while I philosophically agree with Kathy’s blog 100%, I am not going to be a hobo with facial hair for Halloween.

What is the best costume you ever wore for Halloween? Or what’s the least appropriate costume you’ve ever seen on an adult? Describe it in detail!

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Sexy Semi-Colon Song

A while ago, I posted an email I received from a colleague about sexing up grammar so that people will use it more. I called it “Grammar is a Hussy.”

Since then we have even gotten into interrobanging. Can you imagine?!

Well, these cool kids seem to love them some semi-colons; I think that’s fantastic.

What’s your favorite punctuation mark and why? Or, for the love of Pete, show me that you know how to use a semi-colon properly. Go on; impress me!