Think before you post

I received a phone call from the kids' assistant principal yesterday regarding something First Born Son posted on his Twitter Vine account- a 20 second video berating the First Lady for new mandates about school lunches. There was an expletive or two thrown in as well. The assistant principal stumbled upon the video while patrolling his own daughter's Twitter account. He just wanted me to be aware. He spoke to my son as I would have spoken to him- reminding him of the proper way to conduct oneself through social media- and in life. While it sucks to get a phone call about your child's indiscretions and it feels awful to realize you are still so much in the dark about the way he presents himself to the world,  I am grateful that others care enough about him to help reinforce the values we try to teach at home. It was another opportunity to reiterate our expectations with him. Parenting in this technological age- in the waves of social media and cell phones- often feels like a losing battle- even when we are firm and vigilant. This was another reminder that while teenagers are smart enough to know what the right choice is to make, they are still stupid enough to make the wrong one. The following is a letter I gave to both of my sons.

Dear Children,

Chilean author Isabel Allende wrote: Write what should not be forgotten.

Freedom of speech is a precious thing. It is a privilege too often taken for granted and abused. In this age of technologic instant gratification, it’s too easy for your generation to exercise your freedom of speech. But, you do so without the social conscience of the implications of your words.  To spout off at the mouth, to type that sentence, to post that 20 second video, to share that picture without consideration for the legacy that you leave- cheapens the gift you have been given.

There is no courage in spewing words haphazardly. It takes fortitude and integrity to act with restraint, respect and reflection. It is not as easy to sit down and take your time to collect and compose your thoughts, words, arguments, sentiments with awareness. It is not so easy to offer a thoughtful solution to a problem and to work toward that change. It is not as easy to lead as it is to follow.  But the extra bit of effort and the simple act of pausing and reflecting not only on your thoughts, emotions and views but on those of others- makes you a better person, makes you a leader and helps to make you practiced in sound decision making. It helps to shape you as a human being that leaves a positive legacy.

Write what should not be forgotten. Do not litter the world with hurtful words and weak declarations.

There is no soundness in the defamation or degradation of another’s character or name. There is no integrity in the celebration of poor social behaviors and dangerous transgressions (such as the promotion of videos which highlight drug and alcohol use among your peers). There is no honor speaking without substantiation. In that moment when you are riled up, itching to share-close your mouth and open your eyes. Be receptive to the answers which will keep you on the path of uprightness.

Write what should not be forgotten. What will the words you leave behind continue to say about you long after they have been written, spoken, posted?

Your character, your trustworthiness and reliability are hinged on the impulses you have or have not chosen to temper. In the expressions of yourself that you choose to share with the world- everyday speech, pictures and videos, social media platforms, academic and personal essays and prose- be not careless with your words. Write only that which leaves a moving impression- broadening the the understanding of the human experience, compelling others to join the cause for positive change and inspiring others to think and act with courage to remain incorruptible in values and judgment. It is dangerous-the impetuous act of speaking whatever opinion you fancy in a fleeting moment or posting that sentence, that picture, that video. Those fleeting disseminations are bound to you for eternity- for others to stumble upon. Those in the position of power to grant you opportunities for higher learning, employment, and enrichment will form the wrong impression of the person you truly are. Before you post, consider Is this truly important to say? What message does this convey about my character? Would I want my family, my teachers, my future employers to read this? While moderating your words and practicing an economy of speech does not yield the immediate virtual thumbs up of your peers, the satiation of acceptance- it leaves your path clear and the palette of opportunities more full and plentiful.

Love,

Mom

love like a niagara

Princess Commando is going to embarrass me in front of our neighbors. At ten years old, she is practiced at manipulating my emotions especially the unpalatable ones I do not want to entertain on the first sun soaked, supplely bloomed day of spring. I am not going let her bring me to the brink of losing my cool. I just want to get her to where she needs to be.

“But my throat hurts so bad,” she sobs bolted to the railing on our porch in her soccer gear. Shoulders slump, a reluctant ponytail hovers over the back of her neck, salty streams lay white tracks on her cheeks.

I don’t doubt her. I can tell when she speaks there is dragon fire in her throat. But she has already missed so many practices and she is trying to earn a roster spot on the team she has been training with for the last 6 months. I am sympathetic to pain, but I know that this is not just about discomfort. It is about fear of failure- the anxiety of not being able to perform optimally when she is under the league's scrutiny.

“Come on. Your dad and sister are waiting in the car.” I put a tense arm around her, practically lifting her feet off the ground and forcing a smile as  neighborhood children scoot by.

“No, no, no,” she protests in moans which threaten to take a turn for the hysterical.

I nudge her into the backseat. Her pout is punctuated by a brusque stomp of a foot on the floor.

Her practice is 40 minutes away near Niagara Falls, NY. I catch a glimpse of my sullen girl in the rear view mirror. Forehead pressed against the window, a scowl creasing her face into an ugly etching. I know that when we arrive at the campus, she is not going to leave the car willingly. We are once again in a position of questioning how far to push. If we press harder could this be the time when it clicks-when she feels empowered to make a good choice? If I just work through this discomfort, I will feel so much stronger and relieved knowing I tried. As she curls up in the back seat, recoiling at the extension of her father's hand offering to help her out of the car, we know we’ve reached the threshold of coercion. There is no sense in getting angry. Princess Commando  knows what's at stake if she misses practices.  Maybe she's just not ready for this high level of competitive soccer.

Since she entered 5^th grade in September, our relationship with her has been challenging. It’s not her fault, really. It’s middle school. Middle school has a way of making tenuous the bond between parent and child. In this in- between time of giving up child’s play and longing still for the reassurances of childhood, there is so much working against them. Personalities are changing, bodies are changing,  standards and expectations are changing.

We try to reassure her that she will one day regard the afflictions of middle school with appreciation for having made her stronger, wiser and, hopefully, more compassionate. But, truly, middle school is less about a wealth of experiences and more about a series of multiple vexations that need to be endured (by both parent and child).

We’ll hold our breath- until it’s over. We’ve been through this before with the boys. It is my only consolation- knowing that there is an expiration date. 

On the way home, we decide to take a detour to Niagara Falls. The air is warm and tender, stirring our souls to stretch. We park in the shade, offering to let Princess Commando stay in the car with the windows rolled down, but she trails us on the path to the American Falls. Violet has never been there. I anticipate the sparkle in her eyes when she notices the wide veil of mist rising off the water.I have been there so many times but it never loses its wonder. 

I set my eyes on the patchwork of visitors pressed against the guardrails-the colors and textures of their skin, their clothing, the mist lighting upon their faces like millions of cool, wet kisses. The hairs on my arms stand up at the sight of their collective expression of awe. There is a tingle in the back of my knees, like being too high on a ladder, as I watch The Mr. bring Violet to guardrail at the edge of the Falls. One cannot deny the supreme power of the cataract raging before us. My maternal fear conjures a vision of my baby being swept away.

Princess Commando walks off in her soccer gear, wisps of sunlit hair- delicate dancing strands of silk- on her forehead. She looks pale and pensive as she beholds the raging water. A tour boat bobs like a child’s bath toy below the Falls.

She looks so vulnerable. She wraps her girl’s hands around the guardrail- as she also wraps her hands around so many changes, clinging to small reassurances. She does not trust herself to be strong. I feel that tingle behind my knees again. She has been swept away in the rapids of a growing year and that tenuous thread between us tugs abruptly.

In that moment, my love for her which has been tried and tested is like a Niagara flowing powerfully, freely. It rages and roars at the tribulations of growing up.  It topples the tiny twigs of doubt, discontent, and disappointment. As I wrap my arms around her, she leans into me letting it flood her. There is time for her to become the river flowing freely. But for now she is the boat and I am still the tide delivering her safely back to the shore.

why I worried that my 3 year old was learning about white supremacy in nursery school

80% of the anxiety I grapple with every day stems from the fact that I've put 4 children out into the world. When they are out of my sight, far from my reach, I worry about what has rubbed off on them, what has been imprinted, what topics of contention we will tackle before sleep settles into their bodies.

I had barely gotten Violet tucked into bed last night, when she bolted upright and chased me into my room. "Mommy, I forgot to ask you something."

"What is it?"

With wide eyes and that little smirk (a revelation that something exciting was dancing around in her brain), she asked her question, "Mommy, do you know about the Aryans?" She pointed off in a vague direction.

I must have heard her wrong, "Did you say Aryans?"

"Yep," she confirmed with a proud little shake of her three- year- old butt.

I paused- stuck on the word-my mind jumping to its negative connotations. Surely, this was not the word she meant. "Do YOU know about the Aryans?" I countered.

"Yep," she answered, spinning on the ball of her foot.

"What do you know about them?" I prodded.

She stopped spinning and pointed out the window, "They live up there in the sky."

Ah. "Do you mean aliens?"

"Yep," she nodded enthusiastically. "Aryans."

There will be nights in the not too distant future when she will come to us with heavier questions and we will need to delve into the history of words that have long held negative associations. But for this moment, I can take small comfort in the fact that the worst that has rubbed off on her in school is her penchant for poop talk and a wish to be a member of an Alien nation.

Choose to Refuse

In case you can't read the handwriting: 

To Whom It May Concern, 

I am refusing the NY State ELA, Math and Science Assessments. I believe in the quality education I am receiving at Olmsted. I believe in my teachers' abilities, knowledge and experience to help guide me along the path to college. I believe in more education and less testing. I believe that I am more than just a number or a score on a test. I believe that the value of my teachers should not be measured by the high stakes of a test. It is for these reasons that I choose to refuse to test. If you have any questions, please contact my parents.

Sincerely,

Henry

*Update at end of post

Today children in grades 3-8 across New York State embark on a grueling journey of high stakes State Assessments. With the burden of Student Learning Objectives (SLOs); with valuable learning time being stolen from students in order to prepare for the Assessments, and the State Assessments themselves, we have witnessed the swift robbery of our children’s innate love and curiosity of learning. Not only have my children become jaded by the system which is supposed to place a premium on their best interests, they have developed a suffocating anxiety due to the pressure placed upon them from the State, the district, and their school to score high in the interests of protecting their beloved teachers and their school. It has altered the culture of our school’s nurturing learning environment and has created a climate filled with tension and resentment harbored by teachers, students and parents.

This week our children will sit for three days of ELA testing and next week there will be three days of Math testing for a total of 540 minutes of testing. And to up the ante of a stressful situation, this test comes in an unfamiliar format with higher expectations and more material crammed into a tighter testing window. The test is based upon Common Core Standards which have not yet been fully unveiled and implemented into the classroom curriculum. There is an expected 30% drop in test scores this year.

With the outcome of each test bearing weight in the Annual Professional Performance Reviews (APPR) of our public school teachers and administrators, the State has placed an undue burden on our children by designating their performance on high stakes tests as the determining factor of the quality and ability of our talented, compassionate, dedicated teachers. That this has been placed on the shoulders of children is unconscionable. Through the misuse and over- use of high stakes State Assessments in our schools, our children have become pawns in this game of State VS Teachers.

That I do not support the idea that there is value in excessive testing does not mean that I do not believe in the best education for my child. I simply believe in MORE education for our children. I believe that reform in State mandated testing needs to take place and that if it does not happen soon our children will be forced to abandon the necessary critical thinking and problem solving skills that are essential to live, work and cope in the real world.  We need a fairer and more effective education system for our children and a better way to evaluate their progress, achievements and challenges. We, also, need the State Education Department and the Board of Regents to agree to perform a formal and independent study of APPR- conducted by a panel of qualified researchers who are not employed or affiliated with the State Education Department. As per the same request made by the New York State Educational Conference Board, ‘The review should include both qualitative and quantitative components. The qualitative component should address the impact of the system upon school climate and culture, including teacher-principal relationships; the availability and consistency of Network Team support and APPR implementation from region-to-region. The quantitative component should include a method to capture and measure the state-and local-level costs of APPR implementation and the impact of the system in improving student performance and college and career readiness.’

Our family (including my mother and aunt, both retired Buffalo Public School educators) has joined a rapidly growing group of Western New York parents and teachers who share our values and concerns, who are intelligent and informed and who care about the state of our children’s education. Through them we have been given the tools and support to help teach our children a lesson in civil disobedience. While there is not a provision in New York State to “opt-out” of high stakes testing, there is a loop hole in that our children can refuse the test. As per the refusal form letter parents across NY State are using to Choose to Refuse, “We are writing to respectfully inform you that our child, (child’s name), under our guardianship and advice, will be scored as a “refusal”, with a final score of “999” and a standard achieved code of 96, on all State testing including ELA, Math and Science as described in the NYS Student Information Repository System (SIRS) Manual on page 63.  Please note that a “refusal” is not the same as “absent” as they are defined differently and scored with different standard achieved codes on page 63 of the SIRS Manual.  Also note that on page 25 of the 2013 Edition School Administrator’s Manual it is explained that “The makeup dates are to be used for administering makeup tests to students who were ‘ABSENT’ during the designated administration dates.”  Our child will specifically be scored as a “refusal”, not “absent”, and therefore our child will continue to receive a free and appropriate public education in his regular classroom environment during the administration of all makeup test periods as this letter provides written verification of a “refusal” for all tests.” Unfortunately, our parental rights, our rights to choose in the best interest of our child’s education are not valued and the onus to make the ultimate decision in regards to testing falls upon our children’s shoulders. If a child does refuse the test, he/she must sit in silence for each 90 minute test session.

For our 8^th grader, Henry, who has a 504 plan with testing and classroom accommodations for ocular motor dysfunction (a visual tracking issue), these high pressure tests cause even more burden and strain on his eyes and his visual processing. It is different when he has the benefit of having his work evaluated by a teacher who knows and understands him and who can offer him an opportunity to perform an alternate activity/ project to demonstrate his understanding and mastery of the material or to decipher his unique handwriting. But these tests are corrected by teachers who do not know him, who do not know that he struggles with tracking; that while he is bright and articulate,  he can read the same passage, the same one line of text 100 times and it looks different to him each time due to missing words or lines of text. These tests are not a fair assessment of who my child is or what abilities and disabilities he has. I should also mention that in 8^th grade, Henry is taking high school Algebra and Biology. He will have Regents exams in June. While the high stakes State Assessments have no bearing on his promotion to high school (other than the vague threat of being forced into Academic Intervention Services), Regents exams do count toward high school graduation. I’d rather my son spend time preparing for the exams which are truly critical to his success on the pathway to college.

This one act of refusal is just a crumb in the rich cake of action that is being taken to make a change. While, Henry understands this, he is also worried that he is just a crumb- just one person- that this will not make a difference. We understand that standing up for what you believe in is a scary place to stand because it often feels like you are standing alone. We are only one of two families (that we are aware of) in our school who are making this choice.

Henry left for school with our letter written in support of his refusal and a letter which he crafted himself in his pocket- in the event that he decided to refuse. We sent an email to the teachers and administrators with the refusal letter- just in case. As I sit here writing this, I am holding my breath until he comes home to learn what action he took.  If Henry feels that he is not ready to sit in silent protest, we respect and honor that choice. At least we have allowed him a different lens to look through. At least he was brave enough to consider the option.  I want my children to be afforded every opportunity for academic success and growth- allowing them to reach and exceed their potential- to keep striving for answers to the questions that surround them- to keep seeking new ways to improve upon ideas, to innovate, to gain a better understanding of themselves and the world around them through the process of learning rather than process of finding ONE right answer to a question.

I have high hopes that more parents will feel empowered to put pressure on our State leaders to find a resolution which will preserve education as means to inspire a life- long love of learning and which values the knowledge and expertise of our teachers so that they may continue to guide our children along a pathway of success and opportunity.

If you are a New York State parent and you would like more information about how you can make a difference, please visit this site:

http://www.wnyforpubliced.com/

UPDATE:
It was an agonizing wait for 3:00 to roll around. But it wouldn't be 3:00 around here if there wasn't some sort of crazy.  Henry refused the test. His assistant principal- who is generally just a wonderful human being- took him to the library and allowed him to read or work on the computer. This is much more than other local schools or districts offered refusing students today. I am reading stories of superintendents and principal's intimidating students and coercing them to take the test despite their parents' written statements of refusal. I am so proud of Henry for taking a stand for something he believes in. I'm proud of our school for choosing not to demonize the students who refused. This is just the beginning. We have a long battle ahead. But we are excited to take on the challenge- to bring about reform. 

letting go sucks

I wish the final decision had not been made under the weight of a last straw. This had been going on for 12 months too long- through treatment for thyroid disorder and The Mr.’s denial that the cat’s kidneys were failing. I really hoped that he would come to this acceptance without a forceful nudge.

I had just spent an hour trying to clean out the narrow broom closet which runs the length of the kitchen wall, where the cat had just pooped and peed on a pile of cast away grocery bags. The ammonia of cat urine and the foul stink of feline defecation filled our entire first floor. I had been trying to squeeze my body into the 7 inch wide space, snagging my new sweater on a nail, feeling around in the dark with a garden rake for cat poop and subsequently dropping it on my favorite shoes. This couldn't keep happening. I could not keep cleaning up and throwing things out. I couldn't fit into tight spaces. I couldn't keep getting upset with her when it was really not her fault. It was time.

I wish The Mr. had not been forced to come to terms in a moment of my frustration expressed via an angry text messaged riddled with f bombs and a stern- You need to face reality- she is 17.5 years old and not doing well. She isn’t going to get better- you need to do what is best for her. No more waiting for it to happen on its own.

She had been seeking refuge in the farthest corners of our house- from a life she had always known but was suddenly, uncharacteristically terrified of. Our noble Siamese cat, our independent, self- assured queen of the house now peed on beds. She started to whither away. Her robust round body was now just a bag of bones and disheveled fur.  

He replied: I know. It’s time. I will make the call.

And then another reply minutes later.

8:20 AM Saturday. But I have to ask you this one favor. You need to bring her in. I won’t be able to do it.

I could do that for him. He was the love of her life and she, against all odds- his allergies, his aversion to animals- carved a spot for herself in his heart. He wouldn’t be able to let her go.

I had been prepared for a long time. But on Friday night as I was lying in bed, listening to the muffled wails of my 10 year old daughter who held onto Mooshie tightly through out her last night with us,  I saw Mooshie’s life, our life flash before my eyes.

17 ½ years.

She was with us before we knew for sure there was an us. She bore witness to my transformation from a student immersed in Art History to a mother immersed in love for her child. She warmed the stretched marble of my belly as it swelled with each pregnancy. She received each infant crossing the threshold with her typical Siamese vociferousness and lent the warmth of her body to the beds where they laid their heads. She tolerated toddlers-the tail pulling and the overly exuberant need to love on the cat. 

Each milestone, each small glimmer of joy. Each disappointment and heart ache. The plans. Staggering through our marriage, parenting and simply being human. Each breath, each sigh, each sickness and recovery. The shedding of our cells, of ourselves.  A few changes of scenery. Every job we have ever had. Each scratch of the pencil to paper. Our digital dawn. Our longing and yearning. Our lost and found. She was woven so tightly into the tapestry of each memory.

Suddenly, I did not feel ready for the end of the Age of Mooshie.

That morning, Henry held her in the blanket that she had claimed months ago. I will be forever grateful that this boy who is stingy with his words, spent four on me. I’ll go with you. After all of our options had been weighed, we decided we could not stay with her. Having gone through this before, my hands still ached from the absence of  heartbeats under fur and ribs.  I am grateful for the compassionate veterinary technician who acknowledged our arrival with care and tenderness- who had seen the tears start to well and fall before I even knew they were there. She embraced our old girl and let us go without either one of us having to exhale a single word.

Letting go sucks.

I thought I would be relieved when she was gone. No more stepping in puke on the way to the bathroom in the morning. No more stripping sheets she had peed on. No more trying to hush sonorous meowing at 5:30 in the morning as I tried to sneak into the shower before the kids woke up. But, the quiet does not bring relief. Just longing. It’s funny that the thing that annoyed me the most about her is the thing I miss the most.

Even in the midst of the grayest Buffalo winter, she always found the places where thin ribbons of sunlight broke through- a warm glow tracing her body. I have to close my eyes and try remember where to find those places. She'll be there-her essence radiating with sunlight.