The state administers mandated standardized testing to all students during a given window of opportunity. Based upon the results of that testing, schools are “graded,” performance is rated, and success/failure assigned. We’ve just completed our mandated testing, and I can’t wait to see the results.
Kids are clever, especially when they either don’t want or don’t care about what is being done. There is no one on the face of the Earth who can make a student do what he or she is committed not to do, the same way that there is no one on the face of the Earth who can stop a student from doing what he or she is determined to do.
As I walked the aisles every 5 minutes, I kept check on progress through the multiple choice questions. At the end of the first 10 minutes of the math section, many of the students were already into the 20s, an amazing feat at best, but more honestly an indicator that they were randomly bubbling 2 questions per minute, which is pretty much standard operating practice during state testing.
I stopped at each desk, cautioned the bubbling student to take the test seriously, to stop the random bubbling, but all that did was encourage more creative bubbling.
I watched as the kids stroked their chins, twirled their hair, fidgeted with the pencil, made amorphous drawings on the scratch paper, in an effort to show determined concentration. Then, when they thought the coast was clear, they would bubble in 3-4-5 consecutive answers. As I made the next tour through the sea of seats and again stopped to gently chide them about speedy responses, they would fiercely whisper, “You’ve watched me work the problems.”
English may have been better, but it’s hard to tell, because I taught my students how to read the questions and find the correct answers, rather than waste time reading the myriad excerpts from obscure literature sources to which few, if any, students can connect. If it’s all about correct responses, I teach them how to determine correct responses or narrow down the options to 2.
Believe it or not, our school’s English Language Arts scores are always our best performance indicators.
We waded through science (2 tests) and social studies after plodding through the math and ELA, and then we were finished for another year. The 4-hour blocks of time set aside for test administration each day were hardly necessary: regardless of the content area, my students were done, done, done within the first 2 hours!
The results will be released from the state, and the community will be aghast at how poorly the teachers are doing their jobs. It will never dawn on the public that the teachers have nothing to do with performance on mandated testing: remember, we can lead the horses to the water, but we cannot make them drink.
Students do not take the testing seriously because it has nothing to do with them individually. If a student failed a course or graduated from high school based on the results of the testing, you bet your sweet ass they would take it seriously; however, since the only use for the testing results is to grade the school’s overall academic performance, at best an esoteric goal to which most students cannot attach themselves, the students simply do not give a damn about the outcome.
They have become automatons who get up, get dressed, go to school (or not), return home, watch videos, hang with their friends, IM until the wee hours, and then get up the next day and do it again. After four years, gimme my diploma so I can go into the real world, get a “well-paying” job, and be the success my parents always knew I would be.
What’s missing in the routine is schoolwork. The kids who tote the books, complete the assignments, come to school prepared, are, perhaps, 10% of the total school population. The rest of the kids treat school as if it were just another job. The student parrots the parents: I am on the clock between 8 am and 3 pm; the rest of the time is my personal time, and I’m not bringing my job home with me. The teacher has to learn a hard lesson: if I don’t cover it during the class, it’s not going to become part of the student’s educational experience.
The textbook is 1100 pages in length, divided into 10 sections, and we pretty much need to cover something in each of the 10 units of instruction. We can hop through it, deleting the majority of the content so we can cover all of the material during class, or we can work through it, both in class and at home, and allow the students to actually learn something.
Today’s society wants the student to complete all of the work during the 55-minute class period, and be prepared for any “well-paying” job a student decides suits him/her for the future. I have so many students who want a “carrer” as a “veteran” because they love animals. There is no more spelling list: that’s a list that is assigned Monday and tested on Friday, with lots of home practice in between. In today’s society, we will use spell check and be done with that! The discussion about different spellings for words with similar pronunciation does a fly-by because one word is as good as another, and the reader can always “figure out what I mean.”
When I can only cover what fits into 55 minutes a day, 90 days a semester, it limits the quality content required to prepare students for their futures, whatever that may be. Society needs to decide the goal: educate the kids or just go through the motions.
The state will release the test results and, once again, the public will be appalled at how poorly the schools are doing, the blame will be heaped onto the shoulders of The Broken Teacher, and life will continue. It has truly come to pass that “We Don’t Need No Education.”
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Eating Disorder
“Well, Mia, what do you have to say for yourself?”She stared at me, not blinking, waiting for me to continue the inquisition. She knew exactly what she had done because this was not the first time she had gone on a binge that involved polishing off something she should not eat. Last week, it was a bag of chips, the flat pretzel chips I discovered at Sam’s Club and cannot find anywhere else. I love those chips, but Mia does too.
We share pretty much everything, but most especially chips, a rare treat that I seldom indulge.
Today, it was a full bag of my favorite Senseo® coffee pods, the subtly caramel French vanilla flavored coffee that I have come to crave. I bought the new bag yesterday on a shopping spree at Wal-Mart, where the Senseo® coffee is priced about $1.50 less than any other store that carries it. I buy 5 packages, totaling 90 cups of delicious, freshly-brewed coffee ready a mere minute after I decide I want a cup. Sure, it costs me a bit more to have the individual pods, about $3.50 a package, but I did the Starbuck’s math and convinced myself that I “save” more than enough from not buying Starbucks than I spend on Senseo®. It never enters the equation that I may stop at Starbucks once in a blue moon, but enjoy my daily several cups of coffee. It’s the principle, I assure myself.
Mia demolished an entire unopened bag of coffee pods! I was not happy, and she knew it, but Mia wasn’t talking. She has a way of just staring, not saying a word in her defense, all the while knowing that I’ll blink first and she can walk away unscathed. This time, however, I was committed to outlasting her as the escalating behavior is beginning to annoy me—a lot.
I bought some square canisters a month or so ago, when Mia began bingeing on anything she could get her teeth into. It didn’t matter if it was a taste she would enjoy or just a product she wanted to sample, Mia tucked into anything I left on the countertop or table. Because she can pop the lid on most storage containers, the new canisters have locking tops that don’t just fit into grooves, but include a tab that snaps down and locks the lids in place. So far, Mia hasn’t been able to breech the new layer of security for items that may tempt her into tasting them the minute I have my back turned, but I’m not quite as conscientious about what I remember to protect as I need to be to keep Mia in check.
Believe it or not, I never dreamed that I should secure coffee pods. But I thought the same thing a month ago, when I bought a fresh bag of prunes, one of my all-time weaknesses in the snack department. The physical response to Mia’s prune binge prompted the purchase of the lock-tight square canisters: it was not a pretty mess she made, either in emptying the bag of prunes or the natural physical reaction to their consumption.
“Mia, I am not going to put up with this behavior much longer. I am sick and tired of you bingeing on anything you consider fair game. The prunes, the chips, the Hershey’s kisses, the protein bars, and now the coffee pods. This has to stop, Mia. Do you hear me? This has to stop!”
She maintained her stony silence, her big brown eyes looking sorrowful, but not showing an iota of regret or remorse. She was not going to incriminate herself by admitting her guilt, nor was she going to try to talk her way out of what she knows she’s been doing. She was quite content to wait me out, sharing the couch with me, and offering a comforting pat on my arm.
After staring eyeball to eyeball for another couple of minutes without exchanging a word, I decided that it was a waste of time to make her understand that she's to leave my food alone: she has her own snacks. Besides, I'm working on another afghan and this silent stare-off was seriously cutting into my craft time. She wasn't going to budge, so I guess it was time for me to move on--again.
Mia must have agreed as she got up from the couch, stretched, and sauntered out her doggie door.
Monday, April 23, 2007
Wait 'Til Your Father Gets Home!
Oh, for crying out loud: it is NOT in my job description to explain what a “codpiece” is to a 16-year-old (young) man!
I thought, for a fleeting moment, that no one would hear the narrator for the “Knights and Armor” educational film mention the “unusual codpiece” on a particular piece of armor. Actually, it’s huge and would make any male porn star proud of his accomplishments, but I was sure not one teen would bat an eyelash as it’s a quick pan of the camera and we move on.
And then along came Willy, the guy who notices everything that is the least bit sexual—no matter how far one stretches the definition of “sexual.” The humongous, jutting “codpiece” was his cuppa tea, and he went for it.
“Wait! What the HELL was that? DID YOU SEE THAT?” he asked the students.
When he received no response from anyone, including yours truly, he became agitated. “Rewind that part! I want to see that again. I frickin’ can’t believe it! It’s a metal dick!”
Oh, dear god, here we go, I thought. “No, Willy, it’s called a codpiece,” chirped I, ever the educator.
“A COD piece? Yeah, it’s a piece all right, but I ain’t never heard it called no COD!”
It is amazing how loudly and how long a teenager can laugh about an educational film! There were two distinct layers to the laughter: the deep male-bonding bass and the embarrassed tittering of the sopranos. It was going south in a hurry, and Willy was on a roll. It’s in the job description that I head him off at the pass, so I grabbed at something, anything, anything at all to stop this before it went one word further.
“Willy, may I see you for a moment?” I headed for my quiet corner, he reluctantly following me, still stuttering on about the huge metal dick on that dude. I knew it was going to be a hard sell, but I had to turn him away from the 1/10 th of one second of the film.
“Willy, during the Elizabethan times, Shakespeare often referred to an extra layer of protection for a man’s genitalia as a codpiece” wasn’t going to answer Willy’s question or quiet his commentary. Myriad thoughts ran through my head, but no solution offered itself to me before I was backed into the corner of the room I optimistically call my office. I was either going to walk off the field of battle carrying my shield or be laughed off by the kid, but I had to try.
Going for broke, I told him that the antiquated term codpiece referred to a protective covering of a man’s private parts, similar to the athletic cup he wears when he plays baseball. I further allowed as how a particular piece of armor in the educational film briefly showed one such metal codpiece, but we were not going to rewind and watch that part of the film again.
Trying desperately to turn him away from codpieces, I also mentioned that his outburst was inappropriate in a classroom setting, and reminded him that he needs to learn to temper his natural tendency to shout out, especially when he is making inappropriate sexual references.
No, I didn’t really think that would take him off point, but I had to try. Suddenly, a plan evolved and I explained to Willy that his natural curiosity could, however, be satisfied …
if he and his father would like to come in either before or after school. I would gladly rewind the film so he and his father could view it, and then his father could have a father/son conversation about the codpiece on the piece of armor.
Yeah, like that’s going to happen. No dad in the world would voluntarily walk into that scenario, and Willy knew it.
Willy returned to watch the rest of the film clip in silence, perhaps waiting for something else provocative to catch his eye so we could enjoy round 2. However, I have the power of the remote, so I closed down the film and wound things up just as the bell rang.
Bu there is a thought that won't go away: what the heck do I do IF DAD SHOWS UP?
I thought, for a fleeting moment, that no one would hear the narrator for the “Knights and Armor” educational film mention the “unusual codpiece” on a particular piece of armor. Actually, it’s huge and would make any male porn star proud of his accomplishments, but I was sure not one teen would bat an eyelash as it’s a quick pan of the camera and we move on.
And then along came Willy, the guy who notices everything that is the least bit sexual—no matter how far one stretches the definition of “sexual.” The humongous, jutting “codpiece” was his cuppa tea, and he went for it.
“Wait! What the HELL was that? DID YOU SEE THAT?” he asked the students.
When he received no response from anyone, including yours truly, he became agitated. “Rewind that part! I want to see that again. I frickin’ can’t believe it! It’s a metal dick!”
Oh, dear god, here we go, I thought. “No, Willy, it’s called a codpiece,” chirped I, ever the educator.
“A COD piece? Yeah, it’s a piece all right, but I ain’t never heard it called no COD!”
It is amazing how loudly and how long a teenager can laugh about an educational film! There were two distinct layers to the laughter: the deep male-bonding bass and the embarrassed tittering of the sopranos. It was going south in a hurry, and Willy was on a roll. It’s in the job description that I head him off at the pass, so I grabbed at something, anything, anything at all to stop this before it went one word further.
“Willy, may I see you for a moment?” I headed for my quiet corner, he reluctantly following me, still stuttering on about the huge metal dick on that dude. I knew it was going to be a hard sell, but I had to turn him away from the 1/10 th of one second of the film.
“Willy, during the Elizabethan times, Shakespeare often referred to an extra layer of protection for a man’s genitalia as a codpiece” wasn’t going to answer Willy’s question or quiet his commentary. Myriad thoughts ran through my head, but no solution offered itself to me before I was backed into the corner of the room I optimistically call my office. I was either going to walk off the field of battle carrying my shield or be laughed off by the kid, but I had to try.
Going for broke, I told him that the antiquated term codpiece referred to a protective covering of a man’s private parts, similar to the athletic cup he wears when he plays baseball. I further allowed as how a particular piece of armor in the educational film briefly showed one such metal codpiece, but we were not going to rewind and watch that part of the film again.
Trying desperately to turn him away from codpieces, I also mentioned that his outburst was inappropriate in a classroom setting, and reminded him that he needs to learn to temper his natural tendency to shout out, especially when he is making inappropriate sexual references.
No, I didn’t really think that would take him off point, but I had to try. Suddenly, a plan evolved and I explained to Willy that his natural curiosity could, however, be satisfied …
if he and his father would like to come in either before or after school. I would gladly rewind the film so he and his father could view it, and then his father could have a father/son conversation about the codpiece on the piece of armor.
Yeah, like that’s going to happen. No dad in the world would voluntarily walk into that scenario, and Willy knew it.
Willy returned to watch the rest of the film clip in silence, perhaps waiting for something else provocative to catch his eye so we could enjoy round 2. However, I have the power of the remote, so I closed down the film and wound things up just as the bell rang.
Bu there is a thought that won't go away: what the heck do I do IF DAD SHOWS UP?
Friday, April 20, 2007
A Castle by Any Other Name is Just Butcher Paper
I am creating a castle in my classroom. It’s all along one wall, with a crenulated top, twining vines, a passageway that opens onto a moat (the drawbridge is down), and a knight is taking shape in the opening.When I first began my project, the students jeered and laughed at me, thinking my wanting a castle in my classroom was the funniest thing they had ever heard. However, as I began to draw the stones, put in the doorway, add the flags flying atop the castle walls, and twine ivy here and there, they suddenly decided … it’s cool!
I’ve had offers of help that did not exist when I began my project, and I’ve joyfully accepted all of them. It may not turn out exactly the way I pictured it at the onset, but it will be a reflection of many willing hands and joyful hearts when it is finished.
The next step is the dragon: after all, what is a castle without a dragon? When my knight crosses the drawbridge, he has to have a quest; hence, the dragon. Fire-breathing dragon, that is.
My plan is to have its head above the white board, his body below it, and his tail curving back across the top, ending at the clock. We will assume that the majority of the body is hidden behind the board, which saves a lot of drawing, cutting, painting, etc. That will be the most excellent finishing touch when it appears!
So far, it’s just butcher paper, construction paper, and elbow grease, but the kids are amazed at how good it actually looks. I’m having fun, they’re coming on board, and lots of new faces are stopping by to check the progress on the castle.
I may get my whole room turned into a castle by June, one wall at a time, if the enthusiasm continues.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Day 38
If this week is not bad enough already, today we were called together for an emergency staff meeting to learn that there is a list, probably a prank, with names on it—and the date April 20.
April 20 is Hitler’s birthday; April 20 is Smoke Pot Day; April 20 is the day of the Columbine High School massacre. April 20 is 4 days following Virginia Tech.
We’ll have heightened security and a visible police presence, but the day will take a long time from start to finish, with everyone holding their breaths and praying that nothing happens. Many parents will opt to keep their children home, and many students will make that decision regardless of what their parents tell them to do.
For many of us, it’s just not worth running the risk that this time, it’s not a prank.
April 20 is Hitler’s birthday; April 20 is Smoke Pot Day; April 20 is the day of the Columbine High School massacre. April 20 is 4 days following Virginia Tech.
We’ll have heightened security and a visible police presence, but the day will take a long time from start to finish, with everyone holding their breaths and praying that nothing happens. Many parents will opt to keep their children home, and many students will make that decision regardless of what their parents tell them to do.
For many of us, it’s just not worth running the risk that this time, it’s not a prank.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
...and counting
The “Final Forty” have arrived, the final 40 days for my service to secondary education in the state of California. Sort of. I will continue to teach at the community college for at least one year while I transition from an overly full-time employee to a retiree.
There are 40 desks in my classroom, so here’s the image: each day, I will remove 1 desk; when the room is empty, I hand in my keys and drive home.
Prior to emptying the room, there are 2 quick units of instruction to finish up, as well as the state-mandated testing to slug through. We’re going to finish the STAR in 4 days, but it’s going to be an ugly 4 days! My suggestion, that we have 4 minimum days devoted solely to testing, received a laugh, so we’re going to try to fit all of our classes in and among the testing period—and survive to teach another day.
Mandated testing is only of value as it applies to the individual—but it doesn’t apply to the individual. There are never 2 consecutive days when the same student population is on campus, much less 2 consecutive years to validate the progress or lack thereof vis a vis a testing program.
If single students’ test scores were compared annually, that data may have some validity, but that doesn’t happen: we look at school trends. If that’s the way we’re going to view the data, why not just randomly pick 10% of the student population and give them the tests to see how the school is doing? Less hassle; less cost; the same or similar results: data for public consumption.
The good news is that the exit exam has finally arrived: statewide, 91.4% of the high school seniors are passing it, and at my site, that number is 98% 2 years running. Now, this is not jump up and down and yell huzzah: it’s an 8th grade test! Anyone who can NOT pass it should be ashamed to protest their failure to perform!
And thus begins Day 40.
There are 40 desks in my classroom, so here’s the image: each day, I will remove 1 desk; when the room is empty, I hand in my keys and drive home.
Prior to emptying the room, there are 2 quick units of instruction to finish up, as well as the state-mandated testing to slug through. We’re going to finish the STAR in 4 days, but it’s going to be an ugly 4 days! My suggestion, that we have 4 minimum days devoted solely to testing, received a laugh, so we’re going to try to fit all of our classes in and among the testing period—and survive to teach another day.
Mandated testing is only of value as it applies to the individual—but it doesn’t apply to the individual. There are never 2 consecutive days when the same student population is on campus, much less 2 consecutive years to validate the progress or lack thereof vis a vis a testing program.
If single students’ test scores were compared annually, that data may have some validity, but that doesn’t happen: we look at school trends. If that’s the way we’re going to view the data, why not just randomly pick 10% of the student population and give them the tests to see how the school is doing? Less hassle; less cost; the same or similar results: data for public consumption.
The good news is that the exit exam has finally arrived: statewide, 91.4% of the high school seniors are passing it, and at my site, that number is 98% 2 years running. Now, this is not jump up and down and yell huzzah: it’s an 8th grade test! Anyone who can NOT pass it should be ashamed to protest their failure to perform!
And thus begins Day 40.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Slanguage: Just Say "Ho"
It occurs to me that whatever language I use to refer to myself can also be used by others to refer to me—or to themselves. Thus, if I am black and refer to myself as “nappy headed” and/or as a “ho,” if all others are truly equal with me, they, too, can use that slanguage either about themselves or about me. I will not find it offensive because it is how I describe myself, and, perhaps, others. If we are equal, there cannot be two standards of language application, one for blacks and the other for non-blacks, because that is what defines racism: terminology that is applied to a person based solely on the race of that person.
Many times I have heard Oprah talk about “nappy” hair, laughing and joking about the texture of certain kinds of hair shared by a variety of nationalities, including Afro-Americans. Never once did I assume that Oprah was making a racial statement or sexist slur, but just that she was talking about the characteristics of hair while in the process of entertaining her audience, many of whom do not have nappy hair. When Ellen, whose audience is predominantly white, middle-class women, compliments performers on being “pimped out gangstas,” she’s approving of their appearance and performance, not denigrating someone for selling sex on the streets or committing criminal acts. Jerry Springer depends on his guests coming together in a public arena and identifying each other “pimps,” “hos,” “sluts,” and “gangstas,” slanguage that seems to be an integral part of the presentation of current cultural lifestyle issues.
This slanguage has come into society via the black culture, where it is used to imbue an individual with status. Pimps, hos, and gangstas are what BET is all about, are what rap music is all about, and are what young people today use as role models for their own future. It’s no longer just a black thing, but a lifestyle and slanguage that is used by young people who want to find and fit into a certain social status. The same way that society found it hard to believe that Mark Fuhrman, a cop, never used the “n” word, I assume that there are few, if any, young people today, especially those designated as “minority,” who have not called one another—or themselves—pimps, hos, and/or gangstas because this slanguage is part of the common lexicon in today’s society.
Daily I hear both male and female high school students refer to themselves and one another as “pimps,” “hos,” and “gangstas,” often in terms of bragging about expensive possessions or clothing choices that assure them of their social status with their peers. This slanguage is not confined to African-Americans, but is used generationally by those who want to fit in to a Hip Hop or Gangsta culture, regardless of their ethnicity. Because I come from a generation that finds it derogatory to call anyone either a pimp or a whore, I don’t, but the message I have received from the media and certain cultures is that it’s okay to call men “pimps” and women “hos,” and that there is status in being called a “gangsta.”
The terms "pimps," "hos" and "gangstas" are not just socially inappropriate, but criminal designations, according to the laws of this country, so I’m not sure why anyone—regardless of race, religion, politics, or social affiliations—would choose those terms to describe themselves or others. A person who wants to earn respect from others first needs to have self-respect; people who refer to themselves as pimps, hos, and gangstas lack self-respect, and those who apply that slanguage to others lack respect for others.
As for the thinking that I can call myself a term defined as derogatory in another culture because it’s a status symbol in my culture, I don’t think so: if it’s derogatory to one person, it’s derogatory to all people, regardless of race. Conversely, if it’s acceptable to one culture of people, then it’s acceptable for all cultures of people, regardless of race. Sending mixed messages creates a situation in which no one knows either what is or what is not acceptable at any given time to any given person in any given situation. Thinking that I can use the slanguage, but you can’t because we aren’t of the same race, makes language a racial issue. If we don’t want slanguage such as “pimp,” “ho,” and “gangsta,” to be part of our culture, everyone needs to stop using it, not just the white comedians and social commentators.
As an individual, I have the power of “no,” which means I choose whether to listen or not to listen to any one at any time and in any situation. I choose not to watch BET because I am offended by the dress, the presentation of self, and the profanity-laced slanguage that is used as a means of communication. I feel that the performers on this TV station parody the culture they purport to represent, and if I were black, I would be offended by the negative stereotypes typical of BET. Men are dehumanized as sexual action figures whose sole job is to strut like a peacock adorned in ostentatious jewelry and prison tattoos, flashing gangsta signs; women are personified as cheap, scantily-clad sexual objects whose goal in life is to be sexually promiscuous.
If I were black, I would demand that these derogatory cultural caricatures be banned from the media. However, as long as that is the assumed standard for being black, no one should be surprised when the rest of America jumps on the bandwagon in an effort to establish a social or cultural bond with the black performers who seem to set the standard for their race.
If all black people do not want to be characterized by the media images, then they need to be the first to clean up the images that the rest of society sees. Black speakers long ago took to the bully pulpit to decry the negative stereotypes from the earlier days of TV, the slave mentality, the “southern nigger” syndrome, the poorly-educated ghetto populations, but it appears to me that the majority of blacks are glad that those images have been replaced with pimps, hos, and gangstas. If that’s not what black culture is, then stop presenting it to society as what you are. If that’s how you want to be seen by society, then don’t protest when that’s how society sees you.
Don Imus was doing what he’s been doing for far too long: using poor judgment to pillory people in the name of humor. I find him offensive on a good day, so I don’t listen to him, the same way that I find Joan Rivers’ sexually explicit comedy offensive, can’t stand Don Rickles’ sense of humor, and will not watch a profanity-dependent movie directed by Spike Lee. I applaud Bill Cosby for telling “his” people to get an education and become part of the culture in which they live. I am appalled at men, such as Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson, who turn their race into their religion, and then foist it on the American public as national morality.
Don Imus lost his job, not for what he said, but for what the black community has said about what he said, which is reactive racism and has no place in our society. It is appropriate to hold Don Imus—and anyone else—to account for their public pronouncements, but an appropriate reaction to his poor judgment is his public apology, his private apology to the team of women athletes he offended, and a suspension from his radio broadcast.
It is not, however, appropriate to fire Imus for doing what is done commonly in this society by black performers: using black stereotypes and inappropriate slanguage in the media as part of a performance. If that’s why Imus was fired, then let the unemployment lines begin to form and take ALL media performers who use offensive black slanguage and stereotypes off the air!
The First Amendment to the Constitution of the United States of America guarantees the right to free speech to all its citizens, not just its black citizens. If the slanguage and the stereotypes originate within the black community, the message is sent to all citizens that it is okay to use those same images and slanguage to communicate with the black community. If that is not what the black community wants, it is up to them to clean up their own backyard, not posture in public and put the blame on the white community for a situation that the black community has not only created, but continues to promote as the model of a black lifestyle.
Many times I have heard Oprah talk about “nappy” hair, laughing and joking about the texture of certain kinds of hair shared by a variety of nationalities, including Afro-Americans. Never once did I assume that Oprah was making a racial statement or sexist slur, but just that she was talking about the characteristics of hair while in the process of entertaining her audience, many of whom do not have nappy hair. When Ellen, whose audience is predominantly white, middle-class women, compliments performers on being “pimped out gangstas,” she’s approving of their appearance and performance, not denigrating someone for selling sex on the streets or committing criminal acts. Jerry Springer depends on his guests coming together in a public arena and identifying each other “pimps,” “hos,” “sluts,” and “gangstas,” slanguage that seems to be an integral part of the presentation of current cultural lifestyle issues.
This slanguage has come into society via the black culture, where it is used to imbue an individual with status. Pimps, hos, and gangstas are what BET is all about, are what rap music is all about, and are what young people today use as role models for their own future. It’s no longer just a black thing, but a lifestyle and slanguage that is used by young people who want to find and fit into a certain social status. The same way that society found it hard to believe that Mark Fuhrman, a cop, never used the “n” word, I assume that there are few, if any, young people today, especially those designated as “minority,” who have not called one another—or themselves—pimps, hos, and/or gangstas because this slanguage is part of the common lexicon in today’s society.
Daily I hear both male and female high school students refer to themselves and one another as “pimps,” “hos,” and “gangstas,” often in terms of bragging about expensive possessions or clothing choices that assure them of their social status with their peers. This slanguage is not confined to African-Americans, but is used generationally by those who want to fit in to a Hip Hop or Gangsta culture, regardless of their ethnicity. Because I come from a generation that finds it derogatory to call anyone either a pimp or a whore, I don’t, but the message I have received from the media and certain cultures is that it’s okay to call men “pimps” and women “hos,” and that there is status in being called a “gangsta.”
The terms "pimps," "hos" and "gangstas" are not just socially inappropriate, but criminal designations, according to the laws of this country, so I’m not sure why anyone—regardless of race, religion, politics, or social affiliations—would choose those terms to describe themselves or others. A person who wants to earn respect from others first needs to have self-respect; people who refer to themselves as pimps, hos, and gangstas lack self-respect, and those who apply that slanguage to others lack respect for others.
As for the thinking that I can call myself a term defined as derogatory in another culture because it’s a status symbol in my culture, I don’t think so: if it’s derogatory to one person, it’s derogatory to all people, regardless of race. Conversely, if it’s acceptable to one culture of people, then it’s acceptable for all cultures of people, regardless of race. Sending mixed messages creates a situation in which no one knows either what is or what is not acceptable at any given time to any given person in any given situation. Thinking that I can use the slanguage, but you can’t because we aren’t of the same race, makes language a racial issue. If we don’t want slanguage such as “pimp,” “ho,” and “gangsta,” to be part of our culture, everyone needs to stop using it, not just the white comedians and social commentators.
As an individual, I have the power of “no,” which means I choose whether to listen or not to listen to any one at any time and in any situation. I choose not to watch BET because I am offended by the dress, the presentation of self, and the profanity-laced slanguage that is used as a means of communication. I feel that the performers on this TV station parody the culture they purport to represent, and if I were black, I would be offended by the negative stereotypes typical of BET. Men are dehumanized as sexual action figures whose sole job is to strut like a peacock adorned in ostentatious jewelry and prison tattoos, flashing gangsta signs; women are personified as cheap, scantily-clad sexual objects whose goal in life is to be sexually promiscuous.
If I were black, I would demand that these derogatory cultural caricatures be banned from the media. However, as long as that is the assumed standard for being black, no one should be surprised when the rest of America jumps on the bandwagon in an effort to establish a social or cultural bond with the black performers who seem to set the standard for their race.
If all black people do not want to be characterized by the media images, then they need to be the first to clean up the images that the rest of society sees. Black speakers long ago took to the bully pulpit to decry the negative stereotypes from the earlier days of TV, the slave mentality, the “southern nigger” syndrome, the poorly-educated ghetto populations, but it appears to me that the majority of blacks are glad that those images have been replaced with pimps, hos, and gangstas. If that’s not what black culture is, then stop presenting it to society as what you are. If that’s how you want to be seen by society, then don’t protest when that’s how society sees you.
Don Imus was doing what he’s been doing for far too long: using poor judgment to pillory people in the name of humor. I find him offensive on a good day, so I don’t listen to him, the same way that I find Joan Rivers’ sexually explicit comedy offensive, can’t stand Don Rickles’ sense of humor, and will not watch a profanity-dependent movie directed by Spike Lee. I applaud Bill Cosby for telling “his” people to get an education and become part of the culture in which they live. I am appalled at men, such as Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson, who turn their race into their religion, and then foist it on the American public as national morality.
Don Imus lost his job, not for what he said, but for what the black community has said about what he said, which is reactive racism and has no place in our society. It is appropriate to hold Don Imus—and anyone else—to account for their public pronouncements, but an appropriate reaction to his poor judgment is his public apology, his private apology to the team of women athletes he offended, and a suspension from his radio broadcast.
It is not, however, appropriate to fire Imus for doing what is done commonly in this society by black performers: using black stereotypes and inappropriate slanguage in the media as part of a performance. If that’s why Imus was fired, then let the unemployment lines begin to form and take ALL media performers who use offensive black slanguage and stereotypes off the air!
The First Amendment to the Constitution of the United States of America guarantees the right to free speech to all its citizens, not just its black citizens. If the slanguage and the stereotypes originate within the black community, the message is sent to all citizens that it is okay to use those same images and slanguage to communicate with the black community. If that is not what the black community wants, it is up to them to clean up their own backyard, not posture in public and put the blame on the white community for a situation that the black community has not only created, but continues to promote as the model of a black lifestyle.
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
Highway I.E.D.
Buzzing along I-10 at 70 mph and looking to merge right toward the off-ramp after passing a slow-moving vehicle, I was suddenly stunned when a huge explosion went off next to my car. My first thought was that someone in the car next to me had fired a shotgun at my car; however, once my heart rate calmed down, I realized that I was in no immediate danger and began to look for the cause of the explosion.
The SUV in the lane next to me, the slow-moving vehicle I needed to pass on my way to the exit ramp, was driving on the freeway on a "donut," the temporary tire designed to get the car off the freeway and into the gas station, and it blew. In my area, the "donuts" are called upon to provide long and faithful service far beyond the short trip to safety for which they are designed.
It was a relief to see the SUV swerve onto the shoulder, rather than careering across the roadway, as there were several children in the back seat, obviously in the care of the female driver, who could barely be seen above the dashboard. All too often these sudden roadway emergencies send inexperienced drivers into panicked reaction mode, which ends in tragedy.
There has been a noticeable increase in traffic fatalities recently, perhaps tied to the influx of snowbirds, but probably more attributable to reckless driving practices. Some recent examples include:
**Entering the left-turn lane at an intersection, waiting for the oncoming traffic to clear, beginning my left turn, and being unexpectedly cut-off by an idiot in a huge pick-up truck who is turning left onto the same road I am heading toward--at the same time I'm making my turn! He's using the on-coming traffic lane to cut off several of the cars in the turning lane, but he didn't manage to hit any of us--this time.
The SUV in the lane next to me, the slow-moving vehicle I needed to pass on my way to the exit ramp, was driving on the freeway on a "donut," the temporary tire designed to get the car off the freeway and into the gas station, and it blew. In my area, the "donuts" are called upon to provide long and faithful service far beyond the short trip to safety for which they are designed.
It was a relief to see the SUV swerve onto the shoulder, rather than careering across the roadway, as there were several children in the back seat, obviously in the care of the female driver, who could barely be seen above the dashboard. All too often these sudden roadway emergencies send inexperienced drivers into panicked reaction mode, which ends in tragedy.
There has been a noticeable increase in traffic fatalities recently, perhaps tied to the influx of snowbirds, but probably more attributable to reckless driving practices. Some recent examples include:
**Entering the left-turn lane at an intersection, waiting for the oncoming traffic to clear, beginning my left turn, and being unexpectedly cut-off by an idiot in a huge pick-up truck who is turning left onto the same road I am heading toward--at the same time I'm making my turn! He's using the on-coming traffic lane to cut off several of the cars in the turning lane, but he didn't manage to hit any of us--this time.
**Coming to a T-intersection where through traffic (me) does not stop, but traffic coming off the intersecting road does. My posted speed limit is 55 mph, but no matter how close to the intersection I am in the morning or how much I slow down, several vehicles pull out in front of me, necessitating that I slam on the brakes and dive for the shoulder to avoid a collision. This morning, I held down the horn the entire time I was braking and moving out of the way of the little red Honda packed with dayworkers hoping for $10 an hour by crowding the corners at the local 7-11.
**Cruising down the main road on the way to the freeway, 5 miles an hour above the speed limit, same as all the other drivers, I was subjected to a shower of sand and desert rock from the asshole driving the big pick-up truck--on the right shoulder--around all the traffic. Everyone was honking horns and throwing the finger, but this guy was too busy off-roading to notice.
**And my favorite, the stretch of the road clearly marked "NO PASSING" that is a challenge to the gardeners and the pool workers, who are not only driving little 4-banger pick-ups, but are also loaded down with the tools of the trade. They have no acceleration, but somehow think it's important to pass all the vehicles in front of them in the "no passing" stretch. Perhaps they don't read road signs in English or don't know what the double yellow line means? Perhaps they don't realize that those two lights headed their way are at the front end of a vehicle being driven by a person who will die if/when hit head-on?
In the almost 10 years that I've been driving these same roads, I can count on one hand the number of law enforcement vehicles I've seen patrolling. They do show up when there's an accident, and more and more of the accidents are fatalities, but I'll bet that some of the deaths could be prevented by law enforcement patrolling and pulling over the egregious offenders I deal with every day I drive to work.
And while they're at it, perhaps law enforcement can check for driver's license, current registration, and insurance? An unlicensed driver behind the wheel of a piece of crap car that can't pass the smog requirements and isn't insured probably isn't too worried about causing an accident.
Sunday, April 1, 2007
... and eat it, too!
A person who is retiring should make a transition, rather than an abrupt full-time work, then nothing change of life. As I’ve been both sick for the past 10 days and grading papers, I’ve had on the TV set to provide background noise, sometimes keeping me awake and other times giving me white noise conducive to napping.
My eye has been caught by the food network, the one that has cake decorating challenges. Today, it was 10 top decorators paired with a teammate not of their own choosing, designing and completing a cake in relays. First, one member of each team had an hour, then swapped with the other team member, a rotation that took the first 6 hours of the competition. For the last 2 hours, both team members worked on the final assembling and decorating of the project.
For those who had a plan, the system worked well; for those who didn’t communicate well, it was tense, to say the least. One team did such a poor job of communicating that the next team member redid everything the previous hour had accomplished! Talk about one step forward and two steps backward. For the most part, however, it was amazing to see how the cakes were sketched, carved, stacked, and decorated in record time and with spectacular results.
And I think I’d like to do that.
As I’ve been watching the cake decorating, my mind has been wandering back to that period in my life when I did some cake decorating—and absolutely loved it. I enjoyed designing a cake and then making it come to life, but nothing I ever did was on a scale 1/10 of what the professionals are doing on the TV programs.
The pros use fondant, a taste I’ve never developed, to get the smooth outside of the cake that shows off all the detail added to it. There are layers stacked at crooked angles and all kinds of whirligigs and geegaws added to the cakes, and the results are spectacular. I doubt that I could ever achieve that level of expertise, but I wonder if I could practice and get myself to the level of decorating cakes at Von’s or Albertson’s bakeries?
It’s just a thought, but one I’m going to allow free reign for a while.
My eye has been caught by the food network, the one that has cake decorating challenges. Today, it was 10 top decorators paired with a teammate not of their own choosing, designing and completing a cake in relays. First, one member of each team had an hour, then swapped with the other team member, a rotation that took the first 6 hours of the competition. For the last 2 hours, both team members worked on the final assembling and decorating of the project.
For those who had a plan, the system worked well; for those who didn’t communicate well, it was tense, to say the least. One team did such a poor job of communicating that the next team member redid everything the previous hour had accomplished! Talk about one step forward and two steps backward. For the most part, however, it was amazing to see how the cakes were sketched, carved, stacked, and decorated in record time and with spectacular results.
And I think I’d like to do that.
As I’ve been watching the cake decorating, my mind has been wandering back to that period in my life when I did some cake decorating—and absolutely loved it. I enjoyed designing a cake and then making it come to life, but nothing I ever did was on a scale 1/10 of what the professionals are doing on the TV programs.
The pros use fondant, a taste I’ve never developed, to get the smooth outside of the cake that shows off all the detail added to it. There are layers stacked at crooked angles and all kinds of whirligigs and geegaws added to the cakes, and the results are spectacular. I doubt that I could ever achieve that level of expertise, but I wonder if I could practice and get myself to the level of decorating cakes at Von’s or Albertson’s bakeries?
It’s just a thought, but one I’m going to allow free reign for a while.
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