Month: October 2012

Memoir, Pop Culture, Princess, Rants, Suburban

I was a pregnant angel: Why Halloween is still my least favorite holiday

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This is what I “might” have looked like if I hadn’t been forced to wear my winter coat under my costume.

Trick or treating was banned in the village where I grew up. It was sort of like that Kevin Bacon movie, “Footloose” where the town council bans dancing after some kids are killed returning home from a dance. Rumour had it that one year a little girl in our neighbourhood had been hit by a car and killed while she was out trick or treating. The community leaders met and decided that letting children go door to door to beg for candy was too dangerous and was henceforth outlawed.

Instead, all of the parents (read: moms) gathered together the week before Halloween, with their assigned treats, and stuffed large paper bags with all sorts of Halloween goodies – chips, chocolate bars, cans of pops, even the yucky stuff like candy kisses made into those bags. They filled enough bags so that every kid in the village would get one.

Then, on Halloween night, all of the kids would get dressed up in their Halloween finest and go to Rec Centre for a two-hour ‘party’. The party was the same every year. March in, sit down, listen to a speech about how much fun we were going to have. Then the musical chairs portion of the evening would be begin. We all got in small circles and marched around to the music, while the judges fluttered in and out of our groups. If they tapped you on the shoulder, it meant you had to sit down because your costume was lame and you weren’t going to win the costume contest. By the end, there was only one boy and one girl left standing – the winners of the Costume Contest! Hooray for them! Then we would play some spooky games until it was time to get our treat bags. Once we got our bags we were put out of our misery and allowed to watch a movie, while we ate as much candy as we could shove in our faces.  For some reason, the movie was always, Ed, The Talking Horse, a rather bizarre Halloween choice I always thought.

One year, in a fit of Halloween frenzy, my mother made me an angel costume. I had long blonde hair then and when my mother put the halo on my head, I felt like I WAS an angel. Unfortunately, that was also the year the community decided to combine the annual Halloween party with an outdoor skating party. Halloween night arrived and it was about -20 degrees outside.

My father insisted I wear my winter coat.

“But it will cover up my costume!” I protested.

“Well, just put your coat on under your costume.”

I figured this was better than hiding my beautiful costume, so I put my puffy coat on first and then had my mother wriggle the dress over my head. She adjusted the halo and stepped back.

“Does it look OK?” I asked.

“Now you look like a pregnant angel,” my father said, starting to laugh.

This set my younger brother off and soon they were both howling at the 10-year-old pregnant angel.

My mother fussed with my outfit and whispered, “Ignore them. You look lovely.”

I did not look lovely. I looked like an albino penguin and skated like one, too. Thanks to my brother, all of the other kids called me “the pregnant angel” within minutes of my arrival. And I didn’t win the costume contest. I think the judges thought there was something unseemly about a pregnant angel.

Eventually the ban on trick-or-treating was lifted but by then, I was too old and ‘mature’ to go door to door. It left a bad taste in my mouth…one that I have tried to get rid of for years by eating numerous tiny chocolate bars and small, air-filled bags of chips. But I still do my civic duty and hand out treats to the youngsters when they come to my door. And when I see a little girl who looks miserable because she’s been forced to cover up her costume with her coat or even worse, jam it on underneath her costume, I give her a little extra treat. Eat up honey…it takes away the bad taste.

Pop Culture, Princess, Rants, Raves, Suburban, Teacher

Sticks and Stones…Why words can hurt us

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There are a lot of things I don’t understand, like people’s love of scotch (it tastes like cleaning oil), physics, and the public fascination with US uber-conservative and lawyer, Ann Coulter. This woman is a nasty piece of work. I can only imagine that she must have suffered some terrible pain in her lifetime that has made her dead inside to the feelings of others. Recently , Ms. Coulter tweated that she approved of Governor Romney’s decision to be kind and gentle to the “retard” during the third presidential debate. Seriously?!

Despite on-line condemnation from everyone everywhere, including Special Olympian John Franklin Stephens, Ms. Coulter defended her choice of words a week later on the Piers Morgan show. She said she wasn’t insulting people with mental challenges; she was insulting the president. She said she chose the word “because it’s a synonym for ‘loser.’” Seriously…again?! That doesn’t make it better!!!

But she’s right. The term ‘retard’ is most often used as an insult and it’s used because it implies that the person being insulted is not smart and a loser. But the part that Ms. Coulter seems to have missed is that’s why it’s not used by polite, caring society anymore. That’s why newscasters and reporters are referring to it as the ‘r-word’; because, it dehumanizes people with mental disabilities, therefore making it OK to abuse them.

And that’s the problem with words – they can be used to dehumanize others so that we can abuse them without any fear of guilt. On a global scale, it’s what the Nazis did when they rounded up the Jews. They dehumanized them making it OK for their soldiers to torture and kill them. On a smaller scale, this is also what happens with bullying. Call a girl a “slut” and it’s a lot easier to make fun of her and victimize her. Call a boy a “gay loser” and it’s a lot easier to beat him up and say hateful things about him. These people become “things” and not human beings anymore.

This thinking goes beyond hatred and moves into contempt. It means that you consider someone worthless or inferior to you. Once you don’t care about something, you are free to be as cruel as you want without fear of guilt, empathy, compassion or sympathy. In her book, Just because it’s not wrong, doesn’t make it right, Barbara Coloroso quotes Lieutenant-General Romeo Dallaire on how the world was able to ignore the genocide in Rwanda. He said that with silent indifference, the international community endorsed, “the ethical and moral mistake of ranking some humans as more human as others.”

So, Ms. Coulter, when you use the ‘r-word’ and say that you only did so because, in your mind, it’s a synonym for loser, I believe you. But if your end goal was to dehumanize the president so that we would all join you in your campaign of contempt, I think you missed the boat there. The only person dehumanized by this exchange was you.

The only conclusion I can reach is that we are in desperate need of a transfusion of humanity. If we believe that all humans are human, then how are we going to prove it? We can only prove it through our actions. Lieutenant-General Romeo Dallaire, Shake Hands with the Devil: The Failure of Humanity in Rwanda.

Memoir, Pop Culture, Princess, Teacher

“OMG – What are those things?!” – Why teachers should always preview the class movie.

suburbanprincessteacher

I popped the DVD in the machine and turned out the lights.

“Is everybody ready?” I asked.

The kids had moved all of the desks to the back of the room and pulled their chairs to the front. Some were less than a foot away from the big screen TV I had managed to snag from the AV room.

“Move out of the way, Josh. I can’t see!” one of the girls yelled.

“Move your own chair,” Josh said. “What? You got a piano tied to your butt?”

Josh’s friends laughed.

“OK, enough,” I said. “Remember. I can turn this off anytime. I need you to cooperate with me. I have to finish these reading assessments by the end of the day and the only way I’m going to do that is if you all watch the movie and eat your snack and be quiet. Got it?”

“Yeah, yeah,” they all grumbled.

‘This movie is called Babies. It’s about one year in the life four babies. One is from Mongolia, one is from Namibia, one is from San Francisco and the other one is from Tokyo. You can see how babies are raised in ways that are very different from here.”

“Have you seen it, Mrs. H?” one boy asked.

My heart stopped a little bit. No, I hadn’t. I had meant to preview it during the week but other things kept bumping it off my to-do list.  I figured: it’s an award winning documentary, rated G…what could possibly go wrong? It’s rated G, for heavens sake. Most of these kids had already seen movies that I still couldn’t watch for fear of nightmares.

“No, I haven’t but it has won a ton of awards and I think it will be great. You will learn about babies for health class and about different countries for social studies. Two birds with one stone! Hooray! Now, when I call your name, I need you to join me in the hall for your reading assessment. It will only take a few minutes and then you’ll be right back at the movie. OK?”

“Yes. We promise,” said the one girl who might have actually been listening to me. The rest of them were trading snacks, whispering to the friends, and moving their chairs to get a better view.

I hit play and called the first name on my alphabetical list.

“Ryan, my friend. You are first.”

Two chairs were set up in the hall perfectly so that I could see the class (but not the movie) and they could see me but not the reader. It was a delicate balance of supervision and assessment and doing these two things at once was challenging, to say the least. It would be a wonder if I didn’t have a split personality by the end of the day.

Ryan read his piece smoothly and quickly, while the rest of the class was immersed in their snacks and the movie. One down, 29 to go.

“Katie!”

“Robert!”

I had six students done when the buzzing started.

“What is that?”

“What is she doing?”

“Is that a…?”

“Oh my God! That’s her boob!”

The class went crazy.

“No way!” somebody shouted.

“Yes, look at it. It’s huge! It’s bigger than that baby’s whole head.”

“Oh my god. That’s sooo gross.”

The giggling had reached a peak and could be heard in the hall and beyond.

I dropped my clipboard of reading scores and raced into the room. The student I was reading with somehow made it there ahead of me.

Sure enough, there was the Nambian mother, completely topless, feeding her baby. Her heavy breasts hung almost to the ground and two babies were simultaneously sucking on them and playing with them.

And then, as quickly as it started, it was over. The film moved back to the California baby demurely drinking formula from a bottle fed to her by her father. I paused the movie and considered my options.

“Nooo! Turn it back on!”

“Don’t stop the movie just for that, Mrs. H! It’s no big deal. It’s natural, right?”

If I stopped the movie now, there would be no way I would finish the reading assessments by the weekend. And besides, they were right. Breastfeeding is natural and there was nothing gratuitous about the scene.  Next year they would all get the “sex talk” despite the fact that some of them still played with dolls and action figures.

“Do you think you can handle this maturely, boys and girls?” I asked, pretending like I trusted them to act more mature than my husband would if he were watching the same movie.

“We promise!”

“Pinky swear!”

So, I turned the movie back on, crossed my fingers, and called the next name.

The lesson I learned that day? Well, that previewing a movie before showing it to 30 ten-year-olds is not just a “good” idea, it’s essential. I was lucky it was just a little boob on display. Amazingly, I didn’t get any flack over the movie. I don’t know if the kids just didn’t tell their parents or if the parents agreed with me that it wouldn’t hurt them but I know I lucked out. So, do yourself a favour and watch the movie first and if you see boob or hear cursing, you might want to put it aside and find yourself a new electronic babysitter. Just a tip.

 

Memoir, Pop Culture, Rants, Suburban, Teacher

Children do not fall off turnip trucks. It’s time for parents of bullies to get their heads out of their posteriors.

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Children do not fall off turnip trucks. (I mean, I suppose literally, some do, in rural Mississippi or southern Ontario, but really, those things are freak accidents.)

Children do not come to school, empty vessels, only to be filled up by what they learn from teachers and peers.  As the old saying goes, children learn what they live. Don’t get me wrong: I know that sometimes, despite everything we do as parents, our kids will go off the rails. But then it’s our responsibility to do everything we can to get them back on track again. Sticking your head in the sand and saying, “Not my kid!” only makes things worse.

The issue of bullying has once again reared its ugly head with the recent suicide of BC teen, Amanda Todd.  This poor child, already suffering from depression, was bullied on-line, in school and out. Despite desperate interventions from her parents and her school, she still felt powerless and alone and eventually took her own life.

There is no doubt that schools have an important role to play in the prevention and treatment of bullying. Teachers and administrators see kids at work in the classrooms and at play on the school ground. And here’s a little secret: most of the time, teachers already know who the bullies are. There are a few, usually the charming kids who are good are being sly and flying under the radar, who come as a surprise but most teachers can tell within the first month of school who is being mean to whom without anyone having to come tell. And teachers deal with small acts of meanness and bullying everyday. It’s a fact of life when dealing with people in groups – kindness and nastiness will occur and hopefully the kindness will outweigh the nastiness.

The problem occurs when schools attempt to deal with the bigger issue of bullying. Bullying is not a one time thing – like two friends having an argument over what to do at recess. Bullying is when a person or group of people targets an individual repeatedly over time using aggression to humiliate or hurt their victim.

Parents are always very willing do anything they need to do once they find out that their child is the victim of bullying. But the scenario changes greatly when parents are told that their child is the bully.

“No. Not my child. My child wouldn’t do that,” they say.

 “I know it’s difficult to hear, Mr. and Mrs. Smith,” the principal tells the stone-faced parents. “But the other child said that your child has been taunting him, pushing him and stealing his lunch treats for weeks now. We have witnesses who have verified this.”

 “They’re lying. I asked my son and he said he didn’t do it and my kid doesn’t lie.”

 “Some of the witnesses are teachers and lunch monitors at the school. They said when they confronted your son he admitted it. He actually confessed everything to me and wrote a letter of apology when he was brought to the office.”

 The principal hands the parents a letter which they refuse to take.

 “I don’t care what that says,” the mother snips. “You forced him to write that. He said you bullied him into doing it.”

 “Mr. and Mrs. Smith, I know this is difficult,” the teacher begins. “But some of these incidents have been recorded on the school’s video cameras. We can show you those now.”

 “Those things can be faked!” the father sputters, turning red in the face. “I saw a thing on it on 20/20 about it last week. You people have had it out for my kid ever since he started at this school. All of his teachers suck and the other kids are mean to him. He doesn’t do anything. He’s the victim in all this.”

 At this point, the principal looks out the window and sees the child in question on the playground. She points this out to the parents and everyone in the meeting looks out the window.

 Young Billy is walking around the playground alone. Suddenly he walks over to another student who has his back to him and pushes him to the ground. The teacher on duty runs over and pulls him away just as he’s about to kick the other child.

 The principal gasps and shakes her head.

 “This is exactly what I’m talking about,” she says to the parents. “So what can we do about it?”

 The parents stand up and walk towards the door.

 “This is harassment,” the mother says.

 “You’ll be hearing from our lawyer,” says the father.

 They nab their son as he’s being brought into the office and tell him that he’s coming home with them.

“Wahoo! Freedom!” he shouts.

 As he’s going out the door, the kid turns around and yells, “See ya later, suckers.” And gives everyone the finger.

 Until the parents of the bullies take their heads out of their proverbial asses, the problem won’t get better. The most schools can do is implement short term suspensions. In reality, this usually means the kid gets to stay home and play video games all day, while the parents complain that once again their kid is being punished for nothing.

I used to work for an amazing woman who believed that, “everyone who is a pain, has a pain.” Kids who are happy and content with themselves don’t bully other kids. If your kid is bullying, you have a problem. Put your ego away and deal with it. Your child, and mine, is counting on it.

Memoir, Teacher

“You smell like fruit” and other compliments from my students

suburbanprincessteacher

Marshall was an odd boy, by any definition of the word. He didn’t have an official “diagnosis” but he was definitely…outside the norm. For one, he talked like a robot and two, he was little obsessed with aliens and anal probing.

I started teaching his class late that year. My mother died on the first day of school, so I was in Ontario when they all arrived. Being the conscientious teacher that I was, I gave the eulogy, packed up some of her things, gave my father a fortifying hug and was back to work within the week. (Ed. note: yes, I know. Craaaazy!)

It was a new school for me and starting late did nothing to ease my angst. My large class of grade 5’s was well known for their “specialness”.  When I arrived at the school, I was told, “Oh sorry. You have that group. Good luck.” There was something in the water the year those children’s parents got together and it’s quite possible that “thing” was alcohol. (I’m not accusing anyone but seriously ladies: put down the wine glass until after your kid is born. There’s plenty of time to drink once they’re teenagers. And trust me, you’re going to need it then.)

Anyway, that year was a hard one for me and, no doubt, for Marshall. As I said, he was odd and he didn’t have a lot of (read: any) friends. This didn’t seem to bother him though, as he spent all of his time reading. He read in language arts class, math class, science class, lunch…you get my drift. And whenever I tried to get him back on track, he would just sigh and say in his robot voice, “I’d rather not.”

Of course it was my job to push the issue, so everyday, he and I would meet to re-do the math lesson from the morning – this time, one-on-one.

“So, today we’re looking at long division, Marshall,” I flip the textbook open to the section we just covered in class while Marshall was reading about aliens.

“You smell like fruit,” he said.

“Oh,” I reply. “Um…thank you?”

“You smell like oranges.”

“Oh.”

Pause

“Do you like oranges?”

“Not particularly. But you smell like them.”

“OK-dokey then.”

Another day.

“Today we’re working on double-digit multiplication, Marshall. Do you remember what we talked about in class?”

“Are you familiar with anal probing?” he stares at me with a serious look. He’s not trying to mess with me…he’s really just curious.

“Uh, yes, I’ve heard of it. But we really need to focus on math right now,” I say, trying to divert the conversation.

“Aliens use these probes to find out information about the human race,” he says. “It’s quite a popular method of information gathering among aliens.”

“Alrighty then.”

Another day.

“So, Marshall.  Today we need to find the area of this square. Do you remember how we figure out how to do that?”

“Area equals length times width,” he intones right away.

“Yes!”

I can’t believe it. He’s on track. He was listening today! I am making a difference. I am such a good teacher.

“So, can you show me how to find the answer to this question?”

“Of course,” he says.

He puts his head down, writes down the formula, fills in the blanks and comes up with the correct answer.

“Excellent,” I crow. “You did it! You are one smart cookie, Marshall. What do you think about that?”

“You smell like the soap from my campground.”

Memoir, Teacher

“Yes, Max, there IS a word worse than the F-word.”

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I knew it was too good to be true. My grade 5 students were diligently working on their writing in a manner befitting the Writers Workshop model in which I had just been trained. Each student was in a different stage of writing: some were still brainstorming, others were in the throes of getting their ideas down on paper, and some were editing and revising with a friend. The classroom had the electric buzz of learning echoing throughout.

I was working one-on-one with a student at the computer, practically spraining my shoulder patting myself on the back for coordinating such a great lesson, when suddenly, young Max piped up from the opposite side of the room. Max was (supposed to be) editing his work with his classmate, Gord.

“Mrs. H!” he stage-whispered.

I ignored him. He knew the rules. We don’t shout from across the room. Besides, I made it clear that students were to be working independently while I was conferencing with a student. Unless you are on fire, don’t bother me.

“Mrs. H!” he said, again, obviously missing my hand signals and eye daggers. “Gord says there’s a word that’s worse than the F-word.”

“Shut up, Max,” Gord said, pushing him.

Yes, Max, shut up, I thought.

“Don’t say ‘shut up’, Gord. Are you on fire, Max?” I asked, looking over at him. “No, it appears not. So, do your work, please.”

I tried to refocus. The Writers Workshop leader had said that students would work independently if you set the proper environment. She obviously didn’t have Max and Gord in her class.

Short pause.

“Gord says it starts with “k”,” he tried again, this time a little louder, obviously annoyed that I wasn’t giving his question the attention it deserved.

“Enough, Max!” I said more firmly. “Ignore, Gord and do your work.”

Gord smirked at Max and shrugged his shoulders.

The class had slowly gotten eerily quiet as this exchange had gone on. I was secretly pleased that they were all working so diligently and bent back to the student I was conferencing with.

Max tried again.

“He said it was really bad.”

I ignored him.

His voice boomed through the air, blocking out every other sound within 10-mile-radius.

“He said the word was kunt.”

The word hung in the room like smoke from a nuclear bomb.

Every set of 10-year-old eyes turned from Max to me and then back to Max, who just looked at me, pleased to finally have my attention.

Gord put his head down on his desk and shook it back and forth.

Time moved in slow motion as my brain scrolled through the possible appropriate responses to this situation. And yet I knew instinctively that this hadn’t been covered in any of my education classes. I stood up and walked to the centre of the room.

“First of all,” I began slowly. “It’s the “c-word”. That word is spelled with a “c” not a “k”.”

Deep breath.

“Second, I would have to say, that Gord….” I glared at Gord, who had just lifted his head off the desk and was trying not to laugh, “…is right. Many people would say this word is much worse than the f-word.”

“Why?”

The question came from one of the sweet girls who sat at the back of the room with her twin sister.

“Why is it worse than the “f-word?” she asked again. “What does it mean?”

She reminded me of Cindy-Lou-Who when she asks the Grinch why he’s talking their Christmas tree…why?

Sweet Jesus, Mary and Joseph.

“Well,” I began again, trying to figure out what I could say that would bring this line of questioning to a merciful end. “It refers to a woman’s private parts and it’s considered to be a very, very rude word. It’s insulting to girls and women and you really don’t want to be using it.”

There was silence.

Then the boys in the class exploded with laughter, holding their sides, some falling out of their seats. The girls, on the other hand, were indignant. They went after the boys with the fury only a gaggle of 10-year-old girls can muster.

“Ewwww!”

“You guys are disgusting!”

“That’s so gross!”

“You are so immature!”

As the chaos ensued, I motioned for Gord and Max to join me in the hall.

Max was white as a ghost.

“I didn’t know what it meant,” he said. “Am I in trouble?”

“You may not have known what it meant,” I said. “But you did know that it meant something that wasn’t appropriate. So I will be telling your mother about it. You and she can have a little discussion about school appropriate language. Now go back inside.”

As he walked back into the classroom, I turned to my potty-mouthed culprit, who was still trying not to laugh.

“You, my friend, ARE in trouble.”

Without a word, Gord turned and marched himself to the office. He knew what was coming but he also knew it was totally worth it.

Memoir, Pop Culture, Princess, Rants, Suburban

John Tesh says blogging about your diet will help you lose weight…thanks for the tip, Tipster.

suburbanprincessteacher

Fasting

First of all, where does that stupid word come from? Fasting…there’s nothing fast about fasting. It actually feels like time is standing still. How many more hours until I can eat? Has it really only been an hour??? When can I go to bed? Because when I go to bed, then I’ll go to sleep and when I wake up, I can eat!!!

It makes my brain hurt and my body tired…or perhaps it’s the other way around.

So, why I am doing it? Well, I signed up for this “nutritional program”. Cleanse your way to better health! Be a slimmer, healthier, happier you! Who doesn’t want that? I’m all about health. Nothing is more important to me. Well, sometimes chocolate. And definitely wine. But nope. Health. Health is #1. Of course, there is also that little matter of seeing pictures of myself in a bathing suit this summer. That was not nice. No one should have to see that. I wanted to get a t-shirt made that said, “Look away! Avert your eyes! You will turn into a pillar of salt if you gaze upon this sad spectacle!” But alas, I had no sign and no doubt scarred a few poor souls for life, through no fault of their own.

So, I signed up for this (expensive) program that promised better health, slimmer thighs and perhaps happiness for life. Supposedly there is a mountain of science behind the program basically saying that it’s been flown to us from a mystical land on the backs of unicorns. Just follow our plan, the magic fairies sing, and you too will look like Jennifer Anniston (Disclaimer: minus the hair…we can’t do anything about the hair. That’s a gift from God). This plan involves drinking 2 protein shakes a day: ideally, one in the morning and one at night. (I don’t like to say breakfast and dinner because then it just sounds sad.) At noontime, you get to eat one “healthy meal of 400-600” calories. Enjoy it because it’s the only solid food you will put in your mouth for the rest of the day. This wouldn’t be so bad if you could choose your 600 calories (let’s not be silly, here, who would pick the 400 calorie option?). A glass or two of wine, some cheese and crackers, an apple (for fibre and to keep the doctor away) and maybe a handful of veggies to keep the fanatics happy. But no. It’s all fruits and veggies and lean protein, blah, blah, blah. To make things worse (if that’s possible), wine, sugar, wheat, caffeine, and I believe possibly, air, need to be eliminated from your diet altogether. Lord save me from my own vanity.

I wonder if Jennifer Anniston eats this way? I once saw an interview with Cindy Crawford where she said she wishes she could get up in the mornings and look like Cindy Crawford, the Supermodel. Between airbrushing and personal chefs and private trainers, it’s no wonder these women look the way they do. And for us mere mortals to aspire to look like them is ridiculous if not bordering on the insane. (My husband would like to note that I crossed that border a long time ago. I hope you like sleeping on the couch, Big Fella!)

So, here I sit, at 3:30 on a Friday, with no food in my belly, other than two small powdered disks of I don’t know what (perhaps they are ground fairy dust designed to melt fat and erase wrinkles – oh please, please!).  And I wonder, WHY??? I don’t think Ms. Universe is about to come calling and Vogue hasn’t booked a visit in, like, ages. I’m can still see my own toes and don’t have Type 2 diabetes…yet. I’m already married and it’s much too expensive for my husband to divorce me now. So….WHY???? If you can tell me, please do. For now, I will sip my herbal tea and wait for tomorrow to come.

(Is 6 pm to early to go to bed?)