Saturday, February 24, 2018

Fun Control




I end a week, that sees seventeen people slaughtered, feeling optimistic for the first time in ages. It surprises me that no pundit has addressed how analogous this burgeoning of youth activism is to the movement that ultimately ended the war in Vietnam.  While I think that Emma Gonzales would be prettier if her hair grew out a bit, like “Hell no!  We won’t go!,” “We call B.S.” will resonate for the ages.
The 1994 ban on assault weapons expires in 2004.  Compared with the ten-year period before the ban, the number of gun massacres (as defined by four or more deaths) falls 37 percent and the number of deaths in mass shootings decreases by 43 percent while the ban is in force.  After the ban expires in 2004, there is a 183 percent increase in mass shootings and a 239 percent increase in deaths caused by gun massacre.  
Shamed Republicans are chewing around toughening background checks and increasing the age limit to 21 for the purchase of a gun.  However, they’re pushing to pass these measures only if coupled with a bill to guarantee concealed weapons reciprocity.  This means that the loosest, actually in many states virtually non-existent, concealed weapon regulations will have to be recognized in other states.  Aren’t these the same guys who froth at the mouth touting state’s rights?
Manufacture of guns in the U.S. increases when there’s a democrat in the White House.   5.5 million firearms are produced in 2009.  As everyone assumes Hillary will prevail in the election, 11.5 million guns are produced in 2016.
No one reading here needs an education about the incredible power that the NRA wields.  Much of their funding does come from individual memberships and contributions but there are a number of channels that the gun industry uses to infuse big bucks and further their agenda.  We know that the NRA virtually owns a number of politicians, but their intentions are even more insidious than I’d imagined.  The NRA pressures Congress to keep the Federal Bureau of Alcohol Tobacco and Firearm’s footprint as miniscule as possible.  At present, there is no Senate confirmed director.  The budget has remained flat for years.
A former ATF agent notes that the entire bureau is smaller than the Broward County Police Department, so the ATF has less manpower and fewer resources than the Miami police force. The division of the ATF that’s in charge of inspecting gun dealers, and insuring that sales are conducted legally, has about 800 employees. There are more gun stores than grocery stores in the U.S., not to mention gun shows and private sellers.
News of the CNN Gun Control Town Hall initially irks me slightly.  I watch CNN religiously.  I believe that their newsgathering is trustworthy, but reporting is definitely cherry-picked to spotlight Trump and the idiot sycophants who surround him.  I eat it up but wonder if the Gun Control special might cross a line into bias and exploitation.  The actual program however packs a wallop.  It is notable that Florida governor Rick Scott and Trump are too cowardly to attend.
Marco Rubio is berated by the father of a murdered girl. When asked bluntly, he will not agree to stop accepting campaign contributions from the NRA.  He does however address, with eloquence, the polarity in this country and also agreed that his consciousness with regard to gun control has been raised.  He is warm and articulate.  I disagree with almost everything he stands for.  If a Republican were inevitable, I would be thrilled if he replaced the current president.
I can’t imagine that anyone would not be moved by the articulate voices of Stoneman Douglas students or broken hearted to think about what they’ve endured.  A March is planned for March 24.  I pray that the turnout is larger than at the Trump inauguration.  My own children spend the lion’s share of their childhoods in Obamaland.  Bad things happen but we feel safe.  The liberal bastion of Silverlake makes some political awareness unavoidable but now, as the coming generation certainly seems to have grasped, awareness, as well as action, is imperative.
Kids are kids and perhaps for some, the fervent passion for gun-control will give way to the latest phone app.  I suspect however that teachers will help to preserve their focus. While educated people tend to be more liberal, I can’t imagine that even in deep Red places that teachers won’t encourage their students to support their own interests and keep the issue of gun control relevant to kids. 
One of the most satisfying moments at the CNN Town Hall is when history teacher, Diane Wolk Rogers asks NRA rep Dana Loesch to define the 2nd amendment’s guarantee of a well-regulated militia, and then, with supporting evidence, explain how an 18-year-old with an automatic weapon is well-regulated.
Instead of common sense gun control Trump and the State News wants to arm us.  And give us bonuses!  Despite frequent training and time at the shooting range the average accuracy of a New York City police officer is 13%. There isn’t any copy paper at our school, the roof leaks and wages haven’t increased in decades. But maybe I can take down a mass shooter with an automatic weapon.  I suspect that this idea will push even the most politically conservative teachers over the edge.
It seems like our children may save us.  While we can welcome the distraction from Snapchat and choking down Tide Pods, the specter of teens being murdered marks a tragic end of innocence.  Kids from Stoneman Douglas have noted that they’d rather be shopping for prom-wear than defending their lives.   They ask why we’ve failed them so pathetically that they feel the need to take to the streets.  How awful that they have to take this on.  How filled with hope I am that they are.


Saturday, February 17, 2018

LUV


I am in my seventh month of teaching and in two weeks I’ll get a third group of new students and begin a new trimester.  I’ve been chilly to the other teacher who teaches the same level that I do.  I email her during my first week of teaching for a little advice and get no response.  When we pass, I do the eyebrow raised ever so slightly, the most minimal gesture I can summon to acknowledge her presence.  Just because I hate the current testing protocol and make my own hours I manage, with a partner, to author a project-based evaluation system that’s coupled with a digital test.  My co-creator is a seasoned ESL teacher, and his experience, combined with my instincts, produces a nice little battery.  I learn, after the fact, that the district is shifting to a more portfolio-based instrument of evaluation, so our foresight makes us look pretty good. 

There is a meeting for ESL teachers to collaborate towards designing projects for their respective levels.  My working partner is a daytime teacher and he presents our projects and digitally formatted test at the a.m. meeting.  I receive an un-refusable offer to present at the evening meeting and demonstrate to the other teachers how the projects are designed.  There are about fifteen teachers.  I only know about half by name.  The assistant principal is effusive about our materials and if I were one of the other teachers, my indifference towards me would morph into animus.  I make a succinct demonstration and the other teachers are teamed up by levels, ostensibly inspired by my materials, to begin designing their own projects.

The teacher who doesn’t bother to answer my e-mail is the only other teacher at my level.  We are paid for meeting time, so manacled there, despite the project plans for our level being complete.  “What are we supposed to do?” she asks.  “Words with Friends?” I posit. We compare notes.  She teaches a morning class too. This is a nightmare multi-level class with many toddler toting students.  It’s bedlam.  She goes home for a couple of hours and then returns in traffic for an evening class.  I show her a couple of things I’ve done online and tell her about our field trip to the museum.  She sighs.  “I used to do things like that but now I can barely stand up.”  Adult teachers scramble to get assignments.  Many teach split shifts, early morning and then evening, often at distant schools.  I realize that a number of the people I think are snotty, are just beaten down and tired.  More than once, I have nearly plowed down a spacey colleague while backing out of the parking lot after class.  I email some links to materials that I’ve created to my exhausted colleague.  No response.  No surprise.

I put in about two hours of preparation for every hour that I teach.  If I did not have this planning time I would have to teach straight from a dull textbook with no supplemental materials.  And truly, I have no way of knowing if this is just as, or perhaps even more, effective than my own intricate choreography. The class always gives me mixed signals about how much is being accomplished.  Sometimes they catch on remarkably quickly, other times the sheepish smiles tell me that despite having drilled something for weeks, they’ve no clue. Maybe they’re learning less than their compatriots who are taught strictly by the book, but we have fun.

Two Chinese graduate students from USC are observing my class.  They are working towards Masters Degrees in teaching English as a Second Language.  They dress expensively, have fancy backpacks and tap away on new model Macs.   One night one shows up with a boyfriend.  I have given them the same information face-to-face, and via e-mails again and again.  I have difficulty understanding them when they speak.   Perhaps they truly don’t have a sense for how bad their English really is, but a Masters degree confers a proficiency that they’re far from attaining. My morning starts with a number of annoyances and I drive to work in a bad mood.  My first task is an e-mail the grad students, cc’ing their graduate advisor.  I remind them again of the school policies that they’ve ignored, and reiterate, the limitations my class has with regard to what they’re expected to accomplish.  There is nothing untrue and it is appropriate that their supervisor understand what I am unable to make them grasp.  My tone is friendly, and I express clearly that I wish to be of assistance.  I know however that my communication will be upsetting and embarrassing to them.  I admit that this raises my spirits immeasurably.

The TESOL students send apologetic, referring to me throughout as “dear Layne,” e-mails and return to class. They type away but when it comes time to play the cellphone quiz game, they load the app and log on.  Their final results are in the midrange, blown out of the water by Daniel the pothead, Araceli the cashier and Katy, who cooks at Burger King—all first-year English students.

When I complete my own TESOL certificate on-line, I find that the handful of Americans enrolled in the course intend to teach abroad.  The lion’s share are foreigners who aim to be language instructors in their home countries.  I don’t know what the ethnic composition is of the USC graduate program is.  I suspect it’s primarily foreign.  While, for the most part, the actual classroom teaching is immeasurably satisfying, teaching ESL in America is a lousy job.

I know that Valentine’s Day will be light attendance-wise and I spend all day pulling short funny films from Vimeo.  I make little lessons for each one. Write down and categorize all of the foods you see in “What’s Cookin’”  Describe all of the actions in the film “Touch,” using the present progressive tense. But, as more teachers seem to be using the Wi-Fi, it’s gotten very slow.  The films take too long to buffer so I move back to the uninspiring textbook.

The student council is raising funds by selling Valentine photos taken in front of a giant cardboard heart.  Plastic beaded roses with flashing lights are $3 or 2 for $5.  Octavio brings me one. For Natalie, he brings an elaborate arrangement of roses and hydrangea.  Octavio, of the amazing smile, is in my class the previous trimester.  His test scores are low and he asks to stay with me this semester.  His technology skills are excellent, so I am not that unhappy when he remains.  I just have to point to a student who’s having difficulty and he leaps up to help.  Last semester he is glued to another handsome boy.  The students move their chairs to let them sit together.  This semester, it’s Natalie.  Before the Christmas break, Natalie shows up to the party with her four-year-old son.  Octavio brings him a big racing toy.  I am asked to keep it overnight which I don’t mind doing but it’s never clear why.  On Valentine’s they ask if they can leave the arrangement overnight.  “But it will die,” I fret.  Natalie’s mother, Octavio explains doesn’t know about them yet.  I guess that the next day will be more opportune for smuggling in secret flowers. 

“You both have children!” I note in Spanish.  Octavio has a five-year-old daughter in Guatemala.  I am very adamant that they be careful.  “You don’t need any more children!” I admonish.  I add, “Yet.”  I can’t imagine a scenario where having another child would not make their lives far more difficult. But, Octavio is extraordinarily handsome and Natalie’s beatific and winsome.  Still, neither is ready for another child, no matter how beautiful.  They are surprised when I assertively nose into  their personal lives.  But, Octavio is alone here from Guatemala and Natalie’s sneaking around her mom.  Even though they both blush, I hope that the impertinent adult advice registers.

In addition to the plastic rose from Octavio, I receive some candy, cookies, cards and a fluffy teddy bear that luvs me.  Hilda gives me an Herbalife protein bar.  It has 12g of protein and only 70 calories. I eat it in the car on my way home.  It is gritty and coats my teeth, leaving a nasty taste in my mouth.  Still, there are Christmas gifts, an elaborate celebration of my birthday and Valentine’s remembrances.  I’ve only been teaching a year and unlike most of my colleagues, teach only a single class.  It’s a luxury to have the time and energy to pour my all into being worthy of these gifts.

Saturday, February 10, 2018

Don't Call Me By My Name



It is the beginning of the end.  As I prepare for my third trimester, a sense of pattern is setting in.  I finally remember all of my students’ names and am getting to know them. We spend about 125 hours together, it ends and then I’ve another intense thirteen weeks with the next group.


I mention, when class begins in November, when we are talking about birthdays, that mine is Feb. 6 and am gobsmacked when they remember and present me with a gigantic cake, flowers and a fistful of cash. There is also pizza.  When I demure, as a non-meat eater, I am told, “Teacher, it’s not meat, it’s pepperoni.” I show number one son a photo of the “Happy Birthday Teacher” cake and he asks, “Don’t they know your name?”  They probably don’t, even though I write it on the board every night.  I prefer being called “Teacher” anyway.  It’s the second favorite thing I’ve ever been called, “Mom,” being the first.

Forty-ish Hilda is perfectly coiffed.  She sports high-end highlights on her freshly blow-dried hair.  Her clothing is elegant and once she wears a silver necklace with jade beads that makes me swoon.  She sips some milky concoction conspicuously from a large silver water bottle.  An enormous “Preguntame sobre Herbalife” button adorns each fancy blazer or silk blouse.  She offers me a catalog on the first night, sensing my lack of enthusiasm, “You no like Herbalife.”  I shrug non-committedly.  Once she begins to proselytize during class.  I shake my head at her and she backs off immediately.  I wouldn’t say that she shirks classwork but it’s not a priority.  The second the bell rings for coffee break, she makes a mad dash outside.  Commerce.  She returns to the room inevitably with an arm around one of the young girl students, chatting amiably.  I want to scream “DON’T DO IT!” 

I think it would be awkward this term, but I’ll prepare a lesson that explains the economic model of multi-level marketing for future generations. I always make sure to explain about rent control.  Most of them are renters but have no idea of their rights.  They don’t understand about the cost of payday loans or buying things on time.   We practice reading food labels and learning that it’s not good to eat too much sugar or fat, as I present myself as a “this is why” example.  We look at Craigslist and talk about how to be safe when selling or buying items.  I print out the list of participants in “Free Museum Sunday.” But I have to be sparing with the useful information detours as there is grammar, reading and writing to master and be tested on.  Ad infinitum.

I am on a textbook committee.  I dislike the text we currently use but it isn’t the worst. The textbook and workbook sell for about $45.  This is expensive.  My head is nearly bitten off when I express this.  “They don’t pay for the classes.  They can afford $45.”  Most of my students work minimum wage jobs in one of the most expensive cities in the country.  A lot of them don’t have steady positions and pick up work when they’re able.  $45 seems like a lot to me. 




Even Pedro, my homeless student, can log on to the school Wi-Fi and take quizzes on his phone.  I browse the web for possible replacement textbooks.  There’s a handsome, well thought out series, created under the aegis of National Geographic, that I like.  I exchange a few notes with the publisher’s rep and discover that the only digital supplement to the textbook is for PCs.  We have IPads at school.  Apparently, the Nat Geo book will have a phone app “sometime in the spring,” which could well mean the spring of 2020.  Or never.  Most textbooks do have digital supplements, but I am unable to locate a single textbook that has a companion phone app at this time. 

At least the Nat Geo is handsome and well designed.  Most textbooks have cheeseball illustrations and dorky conversations. I do my best of liven mine up. There’s a photograph of a young couple, deciding where to eat.  Hungry Elena is holding her stomach.  The students are supposed to guess what they’re talking about.  I improvise.  “I’m pregnant.  It’s yours.”  

Now we’re talking about the weather.  It’s sunny in Tampa.  It’s raining in Dallas.  It’s cold in Green Bay.  There’s a conversation that we practice a million times.  “How’s the weather in Chicago?  It’s snowing.”  I happen to know about the weather in Chicago, having listened to Number One Son bitch about it for about an hour earlier in the day.  I Facetime him and hold the phone, so all of my students can see him and hoping that he isn’t terribly drunk or smoking a joint.  I point to the board and they say in loud unison, “How’s the weather in Chicago?”  “It’s snowing,” he answers.  I hang up.

Maybe some well-meaning high roller will take on the scourge immigrant animus and invest in creating some up-to-date, relevant teaching materials.  If there were a campaign to counter the anti-immigrant wave, the ESL student community would be a great locus for the assuagement of liberal guilt.

I dream of a textbook with a component that can be used on their phones in addition to the classroom.  There are certain things, like basic reading, writing and grammar that can be effectively taught on a digital platform.  I’d love to be freed up to focus on human things like communicating and navigating their communities.  “Immigrants are Welcome Here” is great signage.  There would be no better way to demonstrate this than supporting students in public ESL and Basic Education programs. 

I’d like to show some gratitude for the invisible folks who care for our children, clear the dry brush from steep hillsides, clean bathrooms and then drag their asses to school four nights a week.   If a student successfully completes a course, perhaps the textbook for the next course should be on the house.  Maybe a good incentive for a year of continuous study might be an IPad.  How about some buses for field trips to museums and cultural events?  Why not programs for local businesses to offer discounts to adult school students?  There is so much lip service to supporting our immigrant community, if I weren’t so exhausted by teaching my little class, I’d love to organize towards persuading some well-meaning liberals to pony up and do more to assure immigrants that they’re welcome than merely carry a sign.

But, for the next year or so, I’m on the frontlines, juggling to prepare students for the ceaseless tests and give them something that is meaningful for their lives.  Even the older folk who aren’t digital natives, love the Kahoot! quiz game.  I generate illustrated multiple-choice questions, and as the timer ticks away, they tap answers on their phones.  I spend way too much time on these because I’m fussy about illustrations and refuse to resort to tacky clip art. But, every night, about twenty minutes before the end of class, they start chanting “Kahoot!  Kahoot!” so I try to have them a couple of times a week.

Daniel, the pothead, usually aces the Kahoot!  but women usually place second or third.  Lydia, a doe eyed girl, teeth clad in what I think are intended to be invisible braces, has been sitting next to Daniel.  The other boys continue, nevertheless, to jockey for her attention. Daniel, with a football shaped head and slight acne scars, is not the most handsome boy in the room, but he’s whip smart.  And he has a motorcycle.  

We are top heavy this term with these pretty, smart girls in their early twenties.  When there’s a conversation to practice, I often have the boys read the male parts and the girls, the female.   The men inevitably go down an octave and ratchet up the volume. The room vibrates when they ask the girls, “How many eggs do we have?”  The girls soberly answer, “We have a lot.” And roll their eyes.

Since Lidia’s settled in Daniel as a deskmate, his posture is more erect. He is more likely to volunteer answers to questions.   We end class with a Kahoot!  For the first time that I can remember, Daniel’s nickname “Ganja” doesn’t even show on the leaderboard.  Two girls take second and third place and Lidia is the grand champ.  The boys groan and grumble.  Except Daniel.  He gives Lidia a high five and they walk out together.  I suspect that she’ll show up wearing his leather motorcycle jacket.

My thirteen-week slice of students’ lives will end soon.  There will be more little triumphs and dramas over the next trimester.  I do not know what this country has in store for these people, mostly undocumented.   I walk through my neighborhood in the morning.  Housekeepers and nannies trudge up the hill from the Gold Line.  Construction workers unload building supplies. Painters, on scaffolding, sand and spackle.  Gardeners blow leaves and trim lawns and haul bags of brush trimmings down the hillsides.  On my way to work, dishwashers, car washers and janitors wait for the bus.  They fill evening ESL classes.  There are always a number who are extremely intelligent. Most have arrived as young adults so even the promise of DACA being straightened out is no cause for hope.  I see how quick their minds are and am blown away by their humanity and tenacity.  Maybe the citizenry will return to reason and they’ll be another amnesty program, like there was in the 80s.  So many could be doctors or attorneys or teachers but all I can do is help them get as far as their legal and economic reality permits.   Spread the word the immigrants are rapists and terrorists and that they take our jobs away.  The truth is that if they’re legal they can’t be subjugated and exploited for cheap labor.  I can’t focus though on the tragedy of unfilled potential.  At least if they can speak a little English without freaking out and navigate the daunting city more effectively, their lives aren’t what they could be, but at least they’re a bit better.