...this is just the way it goes...

I'm out on the porch swing, listening to the frogs and the crickets compete for the airwaves. I feel a voice welling up inside of me that's been muffled for so many years. It's the voice I used when Michael taught me to scream. It's the voice I used to tell countless assholes to please fuck off. It's the voice I used at 4 years old to say "NO!" to my preschool oppressors. It is my inner riotgrrrl, my androgynous and angry voice crying for justice and an end to rampant stupidity. It is a voice that finds me every once in a while and knocks me completely off balance. And this time it was catalyzed by one more blow to my heart. It wants to just shout "Fuck it all!" but now it knows better. You see, we've grown up, this voice and me. This altar ego which shares my soul.

And now I'm dreaming in complete psycho symbolism. I'm reaching out to establish the reality of what is happening within me. I am seeing that there's a distinct difference between the expectations I have been living on and that which this voice cries out for desperately. He was my last hold on that ever longing hope for bliss. Can I still find it though? Can I put this puzzle back together now that I have been knocked to my ass?

The landscape has changed. Here in my suburban surreality I am flapping my wings within this cage. Looking for the key to take flight without losing all that I see as heaven. The pure love in the innocent eyes of my children holds me willingly and urges me to flight, simultaneously. Which sharp rocky path do my scarred and bloody bare feet wish to trod upon now? And how will I carry them with me? They are no longer babies, easily hoisted to my hips. They are growing into beings with expectations and hopes of their own, yet I am still their trusted gatekeeper. A heavy responsibility I bear without regret.

Willpower is such a tricky game, saving my Self from ridiculous desperation and repeated ridicule. Instead I redefine my boundaries, my desires, my goals and hope to keep my vulnerability from becoming my own Death.

"Would you prefer the easy way? No. Well ok then, don't cry."

Why Yes, Global Warming Is Real

Ice Mass Snaps Free From Canada's Arctic:
news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20061...c_ice_break

The Baltic Sea Is Out of Ice:
news.yahoo.com/s/afp/2006...61229132839

The northern hemisphere is growing noticeably warmer. If this is on Yahoo news, what do we not know? Even scientists believed that global warming would take place at a slower rate than this. Should we worry? Should we panic? Should we go on living as we have been and pretend it isn't happening? Should we change our greedy human ways because of this? Or will the planet take care of herself, perhaps sacrificing us along the way, but surviving on her own nonetheless?

My partner believes that the Earth will take care of herself even if it means losing human life as we know it. I feel inclined to believe him, yet hold a guilt for all humankind that compells me to want to do something to fix it. I'm a mother, a nurturer, and I feel a pull to nurture Mother Earth and try to fix what our species has done to harm her. Stop looking away and pacifying yourself... global warming is real.

Educating for Anarchy

Autumn leaves plastered to the wet ground like a patchwork quilt, I step quietly over them thankful for the rain, thankful for their beauty and for the seasons. I long for a more in tune existance. I long for a change...

I spent the semester getting my hopes up only to be ultimately let down quite hard. I'm sorry, folks, but there's no hope in the public schools. Teachers are being trained to turn your children into warm blooded computers who can fill in multiple choice bubbles and recite American values from memory. There isn't enough time in the days spent there for nurturing or creativity or love. They are using enormous quantities of paper and a whole lot of time to keep your children busy while you are working or whatever you do between 8am and 2pm every day. But learning is minimal, controlled, and even suppressed. Don't be fooled by the smiling faces that greet you on Back-to-School Night.

I'm ready for something different. I'm ready for homeschool, child-led learning, love and creativity, encouraging children to use their imaginations, less paper to just throw away. I'm ready for singing songs and painting pictures and gardening and knitting. I'm ready for the learning that happens when children are loved and engaged in life and their own education. I'm ready for a new approach.

I don't trust anything that is government mandated.

Selling Letters to God on Ebay

Yesterday I learned that in exchange for all the blood, sweat, and tears, all the nights of very little sleep, all the overpriced mandated tests, all the agony over group projects, all the stress of working in a classroom that's not my own knowing what I know about pedagogy, all the pain and agony and stress that has come into my life this semester through the teacher ed program at San Jose State will someday be rewarded by the state of California and it's lack of sufficiently educated teachers by way of a guaranteed job and health insurance. (Perhaps I knew this already but it felt like new information yesterday...) Having just lost my Medi-Cal health coverage in the same week because my family now falls in that in between spot that so many families do where you make too much to get government assistance but not enough to actually live on and still see a doctor when you need to. I quickly calculated how long it would take for me to finish the program, taking into consideration my doctor's recommendation that I cut back because the stress is aggravating my preexisting conditions. (The random adrenal hormone rushes I get while in class make life interesting though.) I'm trying to gauge how long my thyroid can hold out before I'll need medication. I'm trying to gamble on my health. So what do I do? Do I take it easy on school, making the program take longer but knowing I might be better physically at the end? Or do I keep going full time against my doctor's advice and hope I'm still well enough to teach in a year and a half when I get the job and health insurance? I'd like to think I'll still be ok in a year and a half, you know? But life is more than just school. There's kids and relationships and family and no matter how much I enjoy having those in my life, they also count as stressors too. (Removing them is likely to cause even greater stress, so living with them is a far better option, I think.)

I've done a lot of wishing, hoping, and attempted divination lately. It's like a desperate attempt to make sure I'm making the right decisions. Lack of faith in myself. When what I need most is to trust myself. I need to trust my own instincts, especially if I'm making decisions based on them. I don't have the option of writing letters to God. I gave myself a religion that depends on me to create my own miracles. I gave myself permission to trust and believe in myself.

My Daily Zen

The reason angels can
fly is that they take
themselves so lightly.

-GK Chesterton

Uno, dos, tres...

I'm enclosed in a small stuffy room with four Hispanic 2nd grade girls. They are all around the age of 7, but it never ceases to amaze me how much more it means to be 7 now then when I was 7 years old. They are squirming and giggling and looking at me expectantly. I have brought them here to teach them to understand math, telling them I wanted them to play a game with me. But four girls, familiar by culture, background, neighborhood, have other ideas of what to do with their time and it is a struggle to not get lost in their distractions too. There's a group dynamic here I can't fight, but must learn to flow with. Soon we are discussing nicknames they have in Spanish and wether or not they deserve what their big sisters call them. We have strayed from math and I am trying to adapt on the fly. Body characteristics criticized, my inner feminist jumps to provide a lesson, soon realizing that they haven't entirely internalized these words and just my openness is enough as they resolve the situations on their own. We are now one with our Spanish nicknames and ready for math. Maybe. My counters have turned in to candy, and they are trying to decide what kind but don't know English names for things and struggle to describe every detail. "It is covered in, like, that window, but thin and crinkly"; "It is gum and there is a picture inside..." I'm lost in the language divide, trying to get into their culture just enough to be someone to listen to, respect. I try several tactics, hoping that one of these days the methods will click and I will miraculously have the tools to teach math to female, 7 year old, "second language learners" who could do well if they could just count in Spanish (which I let them do). I am reminded that numbers are just numbers whichever way you say them and don't change their meaning between these languages. I am reminded of a couple weeks ago when I sat down with one Hispanic boy to teach him the idea of estimating and ended up "gambling" with him to entice his interest in the concept. I am attempting the impossible here, trying to learn the cultural skeleton that separates these children from white-culture based curriculum. There's proof everywhere that this system fails these kids. But how do I get in to it and make it work for them without stereotyping? How do I teach math concepts to a group of girls who so easily has me listening to them gossiping about sisters and cousins, half in English & half in Spanish?

If I could, I would whisk them all away to teach them of Zapatistas, the truth about Columbus, and we would do math concepts in the Super Mercado and I would exchange my knowledge of numbers for their knowledge of language and it would be a more even dispersement of power. I would meet them on their turf if only I could. I would teach them what I know about great Hispanic people and outstanding women to build their pride in that which makes up their identity. We would go together to the library, read history books and talk about what it means to live in a white dominated society where Hispanic children outnumber all others in their low-income, socioeconomically disadvantaged and underfunded public school. I would leave myself open to criticism and allow myself to learn from them. What needs to be done to change the system for these children?

How the fuck did I grow up, nearly 30 years, living in California, taking 3 years of high school Spanish classes and not know enough to talk to these girls in their native language?

Children of War

A plethora of books about growing up in Vietnam during the war have come to my attention recently. As part of my education as a teacher I have been asked to read some of these books. One book in particular, The Little Weaver of Thai-Yen Village, had me crying my eyes out before I'd even reached the end. Another, Sweet Dried Apples, I read to my children as they snuggled next to me in silent attentiveness, gasping when the grandfather suddenly dies. I worried about it being too much, but with some of the patriotism my daughter brings home from school, I felt it was important to counteract that with the other side's story. What is it like to be a child in a country our country has declared war on? I don't think most US citizens consider this at all.

This morning I was reading in a textbook (Rethinking School Reform) for my Multicultural Education class about how the story of Columbus is taught to children when I came across this paragraph:
"Religion, curiosity, adventure - all those motives are given preference in the Columbus biographies. But each of these supposed motives pales before the Spanish empire's quest for wealth and power. In burying these more fundamental material forces, the Columbus books encourage students to misunderstand the roots of today's foreign policy exploits. Thus students are more likely to accept platitudes - 'We're involved in the Middle East for freedom and democracy' - than to look for less altruistic explanations."

Children in this country are being taught history in a way that justifies government corruption. There is no value on questioning authority. You wonder why so many people don't vote or don't see what a fuckhead W is? Not enough children are being brought up to think for themselves. We need to do something about it.

Amazon links to the children's books I've mentioned:
www.amazon.com/gp/product...313-8612637
www.amazon.com/gp/product...313-8612637

Who's Filled Your Head With This Freedom Stuff?

Three afternoons a week now I work in a 2nd grade classroom that is 75% Hispanic. The teacher exudes a subtle racism that nauseates and saddens me. The kids seem to get on her every nerve doing what kids do best: being in constant motion. I love these kids. After two weeks they have learned my name and grin and wave when I enter the classroom. They already know that I'm there to play with them (though I'm secretly teaching them how to better understand second grade math). Many of them are native-Spanish speakers still learning to get a grip on the English language. Some of them are just too entirely unable to sit still to pay attention. Others are too shy to ask for help but shine when I prod them to participate in my little games.

The American education system is failing children. Not just these children, all children. Emphasis on standardized tests, strict behavior expectations, and Euro-centric curriculum and attitudes are denying our children a real education. The kids in my classroom, at 7 years old, already know that this is a white man's world. Even in a classroom containing one solitary white boy, they know this. On my first day in this classroom I witnessed a social studies lesson in government in which at one point a child felt it necessary to point out that "the white people took over everything here." The teacher, though, has standards to teach and no time to address this child's very real world view. Little does she realize that she has lost this child's interest quite possibly for good by ignoring his comment entirely.

So how do I plan to teach in an American public classroom, on a teacher's salary, with an administration to answer to, while doing my damnedest to not leave these kids behind? How do I make my classroom a safe and supportive environment for exploring language, math, science, and social studies in every way that works for my diverse class of children? Who fucking knows, right? I'm terrified, yet I can't wait for the day I get my own classroom and my own students. Thank all and everything, I'm enrolled in a teacher education program that has the goal of reforming schools for more equitable education.

I've started on this path towards becoming a credentialed teacher in the state of California as a political act. This is a system that needs to be changed if we are to change the world for good. And how better to change the system than from within it? I have learned that I cannot shelter my children with my ideals and still expect the world to change. I cannot advocate Waldorf, homeschool and/or unschooling if I can't make it possible for all children. All children should have access to an effective and supportive education, not just my children. This is how I will change the world. This is how I will change the American Dream.

Feminism & Circumcision

At the age of 29, I am into body modification. I find it fascinating how people alter their skin and even their skeletal structure for personal satisfaction and identity (or whatever reason they've done it). I have a few piercings and tattoos, and I wear eyeglasses to alter my vision. I have given my informed consent for each of these. At the age of 6 I asked to have my ears pierced, and then added second holes at the age of 13 when I got entirely annoyed at the need for my parent's consent. This is my body and I decide what happens to it. Later there were more exotic piercings: navel, nostril, upper ear... and someday even more. I've stretched that first piercing out to 10g with a goal of 8g (almost there). My tattoos are the more recent delving into body mods, and of course I want more of them too. Like I said, this is my body and I have made these decisions for myself.

As a parent, I want to hold on to my personal beliefs and pass them on to my children. So when my daughter was born, I kept the invasions of her little baby space to a minimum. There were no shots, not even vitamin K, when she was born. We turned down the lights, respected her body, breastfed her. Only medically necessary things have been done to her or her brother. Which brings me to the topic at hand. When my son was born I knew that he would not be circumcised. Besides a firm belief in informed consent, which he could not give, I'd done my research.

First and foremost, babies feel pain. They do not give pain meds to a baby boy during this procedure, and the little boys often faint from shock. Welcome to the world my little man, expect pain and agony. Why do we insist on giving this message to boys so soon after birth? Second, accidents happen. Enough said there I think. Another thing I learned in my research is that circumcision on a penis that isn't fully grown can take off more than just foreskin, causing it to grow at strange angles and actually even be shorter than it would have been intact. In a world obsessed with size, this doesn't sound like a favorable practice. And on top of all that, removing the protection of the foreskin desensitizes the head of the penis making it more difficult to feel sexual pleasure. I think I can see how so many men become aggressive just from the research I've done on this. This is just a very quick summary, but that last point takes me to some very strange new research I've run across on this.

From personal experience, I believe that circumcision does in fact desensitize the penis and change sexual pleasure for a man. I don't find this appealling as a woman who loves men and is the mother of a boy. But in this book I've been reading "Sex, Time and Power: How Women's Sexuality Shaped Human Evolution" by Leonard Shlain, this practice is described as an asset to my sexual experience. I was shocked to find the chapter titled "Grandmothers/Circumcision" and to read what Shlain had to say about the subject. After he spends several paragraphs disproving all medical claims for the procedure, he explains the purpose of the foreskin and how the removal of which will expose the penis and cause desensitization through a life of rubbing on clothing and getting stuck in zippers, much like our sensitive fingertips eventually become calloused. Then drawing on a previous chapter on climax differences between the sexes, he ponders how one might alter one sex to match the others (assuming that most women take longer to climax than men). His theory here is that the grandmothers of matriarchal societies thought up the idea of roughing up the boys parts to make them work harder, thereby giving the women more time so that couples could reach the goal of simultaneous climax.

I read this and said "Well, that may be how it happened, but screw that!" I'll be 30 this year, and I have been sexually active almost half of my lifetime. All men and women are different in how and when they climax, as well as how they bring their partners to climax. All human beings should be allowed the opportunity to feel the maximum pleasure, as we are so unique in having this trait, this ability to engage in sex for pleasure and with consent. Why take away any of that from anyone? I am a feminist, but I am not the type of feminist that feels superior to men. I would much rather find a man who has evolved enough to think beyond his own needs, to want to give his female partner pleasure, than to chop off body parts in order to even the field. I believe that it's ony fair to expect that, and then to give the same in return.

Our bodies are born beautiful. I love women and men as they are in all their different shapes and sizes. When we make changes to these bodies, it should be of informed consent. Babies' bodies are just as sacred as adults' bodies and should be respected. Raise children who know this.

As an end note to this, please know that I will not judge anyone for alterations made to their body, consent or not. And I am not attempting to attack the parenting of anyone whose son has been genitally altered. I may not agree with what you do, but I also know that we are each entitled to our own opinions. I trust you have the best interest of your child in mind.

"My own preference, if I had the good fortune to have another son, would be to leave his little penis alone."
--Benjamin Spock, M.D.

The Day Without Coffee

6AM
A single shopping cart can be heard bumping and rolling along the cracked sidewalk, stopping to reclaim something someone else didn't need before continuing on it's way. A strangely pleasing melody backed by the incessant sounds of freeway traffic, occasionally accompanied by a single car wooshing down the street. This is my morning music as I relax with the cat, both of us taking in the morning air with a hint of uncertainty to our day. However, he always seems more content than me. An admirable trait in cats, that meditative knowingness, like little furry lamas. The gentle but rhythmic tick of the clock joins in and both cats shift positions, the one by my side closes his eyes and the other stares at me curiously from his perch before turning away. This is the morning without coffee, a galling torture I hope will result in worthwhile findings. This is test day. One more task in the endless list of tasks necessary for discovering the answer to that neverending question, "what is wrong with me?" I feel as if we've been at this for ages and have come close to giving up and just going with the flow of where my body takes me next. Perhaps it isn't something "wrong" but just something different, requiring adaptation rather than fixing. Certainly, just learning to live differently to accomodate a new twist in my ever twisting life sounds much more appealling to me than a lifetime of expensive medications. But i am not like most Americans and the quick fix drug is always more desireable here. I know that all the doctors I meet tend to think in these terms and I'm often looked at as just one more deluded American seeking a medication to cling to. No, though, that's not me. I am the woman sitting here with her cat, done with blood tests, pee tests, tests requiring large machinery, and now saliva tests too before I've even begun. Done with tests and nearly ready to just flow with it, except for curiosity. That may be what kills us most.

I wonder which will do me more harm: my curiosity or trying to survive my morning without coffee.