Where DID the money go?

I need to respond to the question "Where did the tax money go?"

Most people would assume Cleveland schools are suffering from district mismanagement of tax dollars.
That would be a natural assumption. It is, in fact, one I would make, given the usual inclination of most governmental agencies.
In this case, I am afraid district incompetence would be an easier problem to address than the current cause of the 100 million dollar deficit that the Cleveland Municipal Schools find themselves in.

I will try to explain it to you as I understand the situation.
Several major factors have come into play here, and something is smelling rotten, but this time it is not the administration.

First, the current method of funding local school districts in Ohio relies very heavily on tax money raised by property tax levys, followed by state tax dollars, followed by federal tax dollars.
School districts in wealthy communities will always have more money for schools than low income areas. The Supreme court has found this method of funding schools in Ohio to be unconstitutional, yet there has been no attempt to rectify the situation. It remains unchanged.
The voice of the poor is no match to the voices of the wealthy who do not wish to share.

The state of Ohio made huge cuts in the education budget this year. Apparently tax dollars were needed elsewhere. Cleveland schools took quite a blow from that budgetary axe, and are asking the home owners in the city of Cleveland to pick up the difference by voting to increase their property taxes.
Hmmmm....lets try to recall how many jobs have been lost in Cleveland recently.
Reminds me of an old saying, "You can't squeeze blood from a turnip".

Now here is the really shady part.

Charter schools.

Originally, a great idea.
These schools would be run like a private school, free from the constraints of school boards. Yet, they would receive funding from tax dollars. The per/pupil state tax money which would normally be allocated to the school district (about $4-5,000) would follow the student to the charter school.
Everything sounds good so far, right?
Here's the rub: These schools can be run as a for-profit business.
As a private business there is no required public access to records. This includes ALL records, including test scores, attendance, etc. Teachers are not required to be certified. Curriculum is private, and need not follow state or national standards.

It doesn't take a rocket scientist to see the opportunities for abusing the system here.
"But wait!" you say "Parents wouldn't send their children to a school where the education was inferior."

Or would they?

Sadly, we live in a society that enjoys getting something for nothing.

Charter schools are tuition free. They are advertised as an alternative to public schools whose problems are widely publicized, since all public school records are PUBLIC.

David Brenner, a very wealthy businessman from Akron, (and a HUGE contributor to the Republican party) saw an opportunity to make money here. He started a business called White Hat Management and began opening up charter schools in the inner-cities, as alternatives to the troubled public schools.
These are the Hope Academies, and Life Skills schools. These schools are not required to make any of their records public, and they don't.

Please take note: Has any one in a wealthy suburb seen one of these schools in their neighborhood?

At this point I am going to quote myself from a previous post which I made a few months ago.
Some of you may have missed it, and it explains a lot.

Life Skills markets their program to students who are not succeeding in high school as an alternative way to earn a high school diploma.
At Max Hayes we are beginning to see a steady trickle of students leaving our vocational program for Life Skills.
Last month, I lost two more students to the Life Skills Center on Madison Road. When I asked their friends why the girls left, I was told they had failed several classes, and would not be graduating this year.
At Max Hayes they would be required to repeat their senior year of high school.
Life Skills would allow them to graduate on time. (In two months)
I'd heard these rumors before, but chalked them up to teen exaggeration, and wishful thinking.
I had also recently overheard some of my colleagues discussing a former student, who had just graduated from Life Skills. This girl was classified as Special Education- Developmentally Handicapped at Max Hayes. (There are no special education classes at Life Skills.) Her reading ability hovered around the third grade level.
She was 18 years old, in the 10th grade, and had not passed any proficiency tests. In a matter of a few months, she had her diploma from Life Skills.
Either Life Skills has a phenomenal new method of teaching that can produce educational miracles, or there is something very wrong with the way we teach at Max Hayes.

Or something fishy is going on at Life Skills.

I began asking questions.
When I asked my classes if any of them knew someone who was going to Life Skills, every hand went go up.
Surprised, I asked them to tell me what they knew about the school.

Conventional teen-wisdom explains it this way:
Life skills is where a person goes who just wants a diploma fast.
People don't really learn anything there.
All the work is done on a computer. You simply have to show up, and complete the work that comes on the disc for that class.
Cheating is rampant and ignored.
Only a few general academic classes are required to get your diploma. Nothing like the work you have to do in a regular high school.

Several of my kids said that they were considering transferring there, maybe next year. Other kids said that they would never go there, because that was where all the losers went.
One boy said that he considered going there, but he wanted to join the Marines. His recruiter told him that they would not accept a GED, or a diploma from Life Skills. Another student told me that the Navy had the same policy.
I found those statements especially distressing.
That afternoon I called the Marines recruiting office. What they told me was essentially the same thing. They consider a Life Skills diploma to be a worthless piece of paper. They find that something is very wrong when a student is getting all 'F's in public school, transfers to a Life Skills School, subsequently gets straight 'A's, and then cannot pass the Armed Services Test.

What kind of scam is being pulled on our country's poor and uneducated? They are being tricked into thinking that this piece of paper means they have received an education that they have not worked for.

You will not find any of these schools in affluent or middle class neighborhoods. They are only being built our most disadvantaged neighborhoods whose populations are the most vulnerable to this type of scam. Society doesn't seem to care that David Brennan is getting rich by exploiting these kids and their families. They were destined to be drop-out losers anyway. These schools are popping up all over Cleveland's inner-city, and now other states (Arizona, Florida, Colorado,Washington DC), are buying into White Hat as educational savior.
Three years ago I never even heard of them.
Does anyone else hear the giant sucking sound?

Oh, and one more thing:
When a student leaves Max Hayes and goes to Life Skills in the fall, the per/pupil tax money goes with him. If after a few days, or weeks, the student decides that they are not happy with Life Skills and returns to Max Hayes, the money is NOT returned to the Cleveland school district. It stays with White Hat Management.

This is not theoretical. It has already happened.

Posted 4/15/04 by MB Matthews


Finally, I would like to discuss the President Bush's "No Child left Behind" legislation passed by the Republican congress. This act sets very high standards for public schools and teachers. If a district does not move toward or meet the standard they will lose federal funding. Accountability is stringent.
All good things...unless one looks closer.

A district that has money can easily meet and maintain the goals set by NCLB. School districts that serve the poor and disadvantaged have difficulty on two fronts: Little money for programs, and a population that is comprised of many troubled youngsters. The more money a district loses, the greater the difficulty in reaching the standards, and the greater the chance of losing even more money. With the inner-city public schools in a tailspin, the man with the White Hat moves in.
David Brennan is making money on the backs of the poor and minorities...with a nice big kick-back to the Republican party for making sure No child is Left Behind.

Yes, when money disappears it will always leave a trail. Sometimes you just have to know where to look.

PS. Why isn't the Media all over this?
After all this is an election year.

No Child Left Behind?

It's over.

I bid adieu to summer vacation Wednesday night.
Department Heads returned to school Thursday and Friday to prepare for three days of meetings with teachers before the students come back to class on Thursday the 26th.

There was a prevailing anxiety these past couple of days, as we anticipated the consequences of the staff cuts and major slashes to the operating budget.

There is no money for supplies.

Since the music program was cut, I am the only fine arts teacher in the building. That means lots more students, because the state mandates one credit of a fine art in order to graduate.
No Max Hayes student can walk across that stage in June without passing my class.

One hundred seventy eight kids in six classes is our contractual limit.
Granted, there have been other years when I had an overflow of students on my roster, but back then there was money in my departmental budget.
Not a lot mind you, I've learned to stretch a buck over the years.
When the district gives me $5 per student to purchase art supplies meant to last a whole year, I honestly feel like a miracle worker. Paper and paint take the place of loaves and fishes.
Being a Title I school, we are not supposed to charge the students or their families any fees for supplies, therefore, many teachers supplement the supply budget from our own pockets.
I try to pick up things when I see a really good sale, and over the course of the school year I typically spend between $500-600.
Most of my colleagues do the same.
This year, with $0 per student, I'm either going to end up spending much more, or I will have to figure out some kind of fund raiser,

If there are any Republicans among you, I really could use some insight here.

We have fewer teachers, no materials, no funding for professional development, and a school levy that is likely to fail. George Bush signed legislation to insure that there is "No Child Left Behind".
Maybe I'm missing something, but it seems to me that in Cleveland we have 73,000 children being left behind.

What happened?



------------------------------------Update-------Monday, August 23, 2004

Valdis Krebs asked me to post the following comment I sent him in an e-mail earlier today, as a follow-up to this entry:

Today I just learned of four more teachers in our building who were laid off.
We have no master schedule since we don't know who will be teaching.
Positions are still being eliminated as I write to you.
There are no schedules for the students who will be in school Thursday.
This is the biggest crisis I have ever seen in the district. It is sure to get worse in the winter when the levy fails.
This month will be looking like a cake walk

mb

Gratitude

The concept of "giving a person space" was a recurrent theme running around my brain today and interrupted my thinking as I busied myself with the more mundane tasks of daily life.

Although I fully understand the phrase, and the fact that we all need "room to grow", "time to sort things out", and "the space to deal with our problems"; nevertheless, I am grateful for friends who reach out to me when I am overwhelmed, take notice of a developing distance and remind me that a shared burden is easier than one shouldered alone.
They are the ones who help calm the chaos of my circumstances rather than leave me to face the turbulence of my life by myself.
They know that just because the thing that doesn't kill you can make you stronger, in reality, sometimes it will still kill you...unless someone has your back.
They can tell by my silence when I really need to talk.
They understand that giving a person space doesn't mean walking away.

These are the friends who make love an action as opposed to a concept.

I am blessed to have friends who love me. They remind me of the friend I should be.

Highly Recommended

" The only institution more powerful than the U.S. government is American civil society. Hundreds of thousands of you have survived the relentless propaganda you have been subjected to, and are actively fighting your own government. In the ultra-patriotic climate that prevails in the United States, that's as brave as any Iraqi or Afghan or Palestinian fighting for his or her homeland. I hate to disagree with your president: yours is by no means a great nation. But you could be a great people."

-Arundhati Roy, An Ordinary Person's Guide to Empire.


A series of essays written by an amazing journalist living in India. The world perspective she sheds on global politics and media manipulation is eye-opening, thought-provoking, and compelling.
I bought the book and devoured it the same day.

I have only a few more days to finish my summer reading. A week from today I am back to the classroom.

Levy Issues

My involvement with public art projects in Cleveland has required me to meet with several block clubs and community development organizations. The people who attend these meetings are grassroots Clevelanders; concerned about their neighborhoods, willing to take active roles in problem solving, and very articulate.
When I am assured of the group's support for a proposal, I will turn the discussion, momentarily, to the school levy. I am discovering things in these impromptu conversations I had not considered before.

Clevelanders who own homes in the neighborhoods where gentrification is taking place, and whose property values are rising, will not vote for a school levy. They realize that the schools are in dire need of money, but unless they have children in the schools, they will vote for their wallets.

A general rule of community real estate holds forth: property values are hinged to the success of the school district. This was dramatically true of Cleveland in the 1970's, when forced busing effectively destroyed the school system and caused the value of residential real estate to plummet.
Thirty years later, Cleveland struggles to polish her tarnished image, luring developers with tax abatement.
The developers are a smart bunch. They know that in a city whose school system fails two-thirds of its students, the new housing market can only be geared toward the childless. Condominiums, town houses, and lofts are springing up in neighborhoods on both sides of the river. Gentrification has begun, and property values are beginning to rise, in spite of the deteriorating school system.
The housing market in Cleveland is no longer tied to the success of the school district.

How do you convince people without children to vote for a school levy?

In bad economic times, altruism will always take a back seat to the bank account at the polls. The challenge facing the levy campaign must be to convince voters;

a) The levy will not hurt them financially (geared toward renters)
b) The levy will be a financial benefit (geared toward home-owners)

When the success of the schools cannot be tied to the housing market, voters need to be informed of the school district's direct influence on the job market. This is a connection that is very evident to people who study regional economy, but not often brought to the attention of the general population.
In order for the school levy to pass, this connection needs to be placed in the forefront. Crowded classrooms will not sway a voters mind as effectively as the loss (or gain) of a job.

I wonder how much money the district is spending on the levy campaign?
I have not seen any evidence that the campaign organizers are even considering these issues. I certainly have not heard them being discussed in the mainstream media. I do read about teacher cuts, (most of those teachers live in the suburbs), crowded classrooms, and transportation cuts.
People without kids don't care about those things. A lot of Cleveland parents don't vote.
Which is easier, to sway the vote of the person who regularly participates in the electoral process, or to get people who never vote to the polls?

I know that Arnold Pinkney is handling this campaign. I hope he is doing his homework.

Who Was That?

I just reread my last post...arghhhh.....scared myself.

Can you tell I've been working on a paper?
Sorry about the Dry Tone and the Educationese. I promise to avoid that BS in the future.
Truth is, I usually (better make that ALWAYS) mock the 'I-am-taking-myself-way-too-seriously' scholarly, elitist attitude in others, so I will get back to storytelling, rather than pontificating.
I hate pretense and hypocrisy*; especially when I see it in me.

*clarification- I am referring to the tone of the post, not the message.

Connections

"How does one prepare our youth for careers that do not yet exist?"

About six months ago, I was asked this question and, I admit , I was stumped.
Rather than dismiss the query as rhetoric, I let it roll around in my mind for a while...a long while.
I tend to be tenacious when challenged, especially if the challenge regards an issue I am passionate about.

Over the past couple of weeks I've been involved in discussion with several varied groups of people. Those conversations have ranged from integrated curriculum, to community connectivity, to new strategies in problem solving, to creating a better future for the City of Cleveland.
Yesterday, (prepare for the cliche) I had an "Ah ha!" moment.

I do my best thinking holding on to a leash. The familiarity of the sidewalk and the pace are conducive to concentration.
I purposely won't wear headphones. I have two dogs. I get lots of thinking done when the weather is nice.
It hit me near the corner of Mayfield Rd and Yellowstone. We should be preparing our youth for future careers, careers that do not yet exist, by immersing them in connected thinking and problem solving.

Let me explain:
In order to integrate standards based curriculum, one needs to find the natural connections, or commonalities, between the the standards of two or more subject areas. For example; pattern and sequence recognition are shared learning standards for both music and mathematics. An integrated lesson about pattern and sequence recognition would include activities that incorporate music as well as math. When students are accustomed to making these natural connections, we begin to teach them to think connectively. The key to invention lies in making new connections.
Typical teaching methodology is dependent on directed, linear thinking processes, and rote learning. There is value in these processes that should not be discounted. However, our world is changing at a pace outstripping current methods of processing information. Alternative thinking and learning practices also need to be used to give our young people the tools to keep up with society's evolution.

Just as making new connections is an important factor in innovation, establishing networks is vital to supporting the process. We cannot foresee the future or know what problems lie ahead. What we can do is equip our young people with a skill set that includes problem solving strategies. Gathering information is essential to problem solving. Networks form the connections to facilitate that process.

We can only prepare our young people for an unknown future by giving them the means to deal with the vast amounts of information they will have to contend with. Since we cannot know which tools they will need, we can only hope to enable our youth by teaching them skills that will help them to create new strategies.

Let no one ever come to you without leaving better and happier. Be the living expression of God's kindness; kindnss in your face, kindness in your eyes, kindness in your smile, kindness in your warm greeting.

Mother Theresa

Collateral Damage

Yesterday, my contract finally came in the mail. Usually we sign our contracts in May, but with the crisis caused by state budget cuts, and money siphoned off by charter schools, negotiations became very complex, leaving many of us fearing a teachers strike. Thank God rational heads prevailed, and now we can begin the school year in crisis mode rather than catastrophe.

Today's Plain Dealer ran two little articles that caused me concern.

The first was an editorial that ended: "...the leader who brought stability and academic progress to the system, Barbara Byrd-Bennett, has a contract that expires in December. The agreement allows for an extension of up to two years, but it's unlikely that she will seek to stay that long. In short the system is likely to enter the superintendent hiring market sooner rather than later"

The second discusses the CPPA's efforts to get an income tax increase on the ballot to rehire police officers laid off in January. The petition was thrown out by city officials citing errors. The CPPA argues the errors were minor. Channel 19's news clip was more informative than the PD article, as it showed Cleveland Police Patrolman's Association president, Bob Beck, blasting the city for purposely trying to keep the tax issue off the ballot, since it would compete with the school levy, forcing voters to make a choice, police or schools. (Or both or neither).

This November's election will be crucial for the Cleveland Schools on two major levels.
If we lose the levy we will probably lose our Superintendent. She would be required to do the impossible task of trying to rescue a school system that has less than no money, overwhelming societal issues, and no community support. She's had many other job offers, her roots are not here, why should she stay?

We are struggling and we are broke. There are plenty of people who have written off Cleveland's children as the collateral damage of our region's economy. Classism, racism, and selfishness are major contributing factors to this attitude. There are many people who would be happy to let the public schools continue their downward spiral. Those aren't their kids, but it is their money. Their short sightedness does not allow them to see the future consequences for the region being caused by the damage done to Cleveland's kids today.

"Remember this: Some days you are the pidgeon, and other days you are the statue."

This quotation is posted in my classroom.

I have been feeling rather statuesque lately. Anybody got a hose?
Or perhaps... a cat.

Suck It Up

Football season is here.

Practice started this week for my 12 year old, and today was a muddy one. As I drove into the parking lot to retrieve my boy, I saw my friend, Terry, sitting in her Jeep. I pulled my car up next to her to say 'hey'.
It was raining, and the boys were still out in the field. The coach was talking and they had taken a knee. Terry was becoming a little nervous. "It's getting dark...Why are they making the kids kneel in the mud?...They shouldn't have to be out there in the rain."
Poor Terry. She doesn't get it ...yet. But she will.

Although she and I have sat through many basketball seasons together watching our sons, this was Brandon's first time playing football. Brian, on the other hand, has been playing since since second grade. This is his fifth season.
When I signed him up for the Peewee Football League at the age of seven, I was also a bit concerned by what seemed to be harsh treatment for such young children. But I quickly saw the positive impact football was making on my son.
I will never forget the look of pride on my little boy's face when he walked up to me after practice one evening and said, "Guess what we did today in conditioning? The "House of Pain" The coach said I was the best."
I had just witness one of the most valuable things that the game of football teaches kids. Football teaches the boys to "suck it up"
No whining, no crying, no complaining...you take a hit, you get back up...you don't get mad ...suck it up. It's raining? So what. You have teammates depending on you to do your job, so follow directions. Sometimes you can't just do your best, sometimes you have to do what is required.
What great life lessons.
But personally, my favorite part of football, is listening to somebody, besides me, yell at my kids.
Yeah, it's all good.

Drop-outs

The discussion last night took several interesting twists. Unemployment, underemployment, labor unions, job training, education, and... the drop-out rate.

The drop out rate is 62% (gasp!) of 73,000 students (gasp again!) and growing (1400 teacher layoffs this year, remember?) in the city of Cleveland.
Educated suburbanites are surprised and appalled.
"Can't innovative programs, challenging courses, and inspired teaching, keep these kids in school?", they ask.
"They can and they do" I answer, "for a few kids."
Those very positive things are all good, and do work until a couple more elements are added into the mix. Chemicals and sex.

I am certain some official numbers are kept regarding attrition factors, although the accuracy would be questionable, considering the fact that most drop-outs don't fill out an exit questionnaire. They just stop showing up for school. My information is gleaned from personal observation, and discussion with students.

The sexual component, that combination of tumultuous teenaged hormones and ignorance, resulting in adolescent parenthood, is ostensibly, the biggest factor in the drop-out rate for girls.
A secondary factor, along the same vein in female attrition, is sexual harassment in the schools. Many girls complain of physical as well a verbal harassment on a constant and daily basis.
I have done informal surveys amongst my students in regards to bullying, and in the course of those discussions discovered the subtler, more insiduous victimization that goes on in the hallways and classrooms in the form of sexual intimidation, physical as well as verbal.
Complaints are rarely made to the faculty , since the students perceive that the problem will only get worse when teachers and parents get involved. Girls will put up with the name calling, propositioning and even the occasional random hallway groping (some boys think nothing of grabbing at a girls breast, or bottom, in the close confines of a crowded stairwell) for only so long.
The feisty ones get attitude and the harassment stops. The quiet victims often just disappear.

The chemical abuse factor in the drop-out rate is one that would be impossible to prove, since illegal consumption of alcohol by minors, and the use of recreational drugs, is information that educators can only learn anecdotally. My own experience leads me to believe that drugs and alcohol are, far and away, the leading factor in male drop-outs for the Cleveland School District.
I see the young faces, burned out, and hung-over. Eyes glassy, or reddened or deadened.
I wander my classroom, antennae up, while my students work on their art, and discuss the weekend's party. I know who's using and who's selling. I know who gets what from their neighbors, parents, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles. Often I eavesdrop, more often they tell me.
My personal observations lead me to believe; not every kid who abuses quits school, but almost every kid who quits school abuses.

I often complain about short sighted, city/civic planners, who leave the city schools out of the discussions about urban renewal. The problems are huge, and the issues are societal as well as educational. But just because they are daunting, doesn't mean they are impossible. Problems don't resolve themselves when they are ignored.
And this one is cancerous. It is eating away at the core of our city. Unchecked, it will destroy our future.
Will any of our leaders even acknowledge the potential implications that this lost generation of damaged young people will have on our city?

No, that would be too painful of a reality check.

Let's talk about hotels, and convention centers and lakefront condominiums instead. Those things are so much nicer. So much fun to build! They may cost money, but they will attract all the right people to come to Cleveland.

In the meantime, cashflow is a bit slow. There need to be some cuts to balance the budget.
Now where did our inspired civic leaders make those cuts?
Let's see if we can remember....cops...schools...neighborhood programs. Brilliant.

Love and Vigilance

Today's entry will begin with a confession.
I am in love.

Not the rose-colored infatuation of a crush, nor the obsessive passion of a sexy romance. Nope, this is the come-hell-or-high-water, in it for the long haul, unconditional kind of love affair.

And now (terrible tease that I am), I shall burst the bubbles of any of you who hoped to read a steamy account of a scandalous relationship. I have finally admitted to myself that I am very much in love with... my city.

Yesterday, I found myself getting angry with Cleveland as I read the Plain Dealer Sunday Arts section articles by Carolyn Jack, on our lack of an Arts festival, and Steven Litt's column on the (lack of) development along East 9th Street.
Because I tend to analyze feelings and emotions, I noted that my anger was more of frustration than disgust. Like the anger one has with a family member who does something stupid or self defeating, as opposed to the dismissive anger that develops between business associates or seminal romances gone awry.
Unlike the thousands of people who have left this city to quietly suffer it's 'Crisis', I find myself more determined to stay and search for it's salvation.

Yesterday's frustration was incited by the quote under Carolyn Jack's 'Why Not Us?' headline in reference to the lack of a big Arts Festival in Cleveland.
"If it doesn't have an artistic vision, it won't succeed."
To lead an article about a positive proposal for our city with a statement predicting failure goes against every common sense rule of marketing. Is it any wonder that we are a city renowned for our lack of self-esteem? Who's agenda is served by proclaiming a lack of artistic vision in the city? That is a trick straight out of Marketing Psych 101. If a phrase is repeated often enough it will be perceived as fact.

Steven Litt, known for his chronic negativity, maintained his usual tone throughout his discussion of what we should do with "Rock and Roll Blvd." His complaints were typical and didn't trip my hot wire. What did bother me was the gray-box announcement headlined "Have Your Say" advertising a public forum to gather ideas on how to re-energize E 9th St.
If there is no actual money to realize a proposal, than why is such an effort being made to publicize it? Could this be a public distraction to divert our attention from a private deal? Keep listening for the sound of the door closing to the back room boys and girls.

I started my essay by proclaiming that I was in love.
I defined my love as unconditional.
I am further defining it as protective, as vigilant, and as nurturing.

There are plenty of other Clevelanders who feel the same way as I do about our city. We are not elite, we are grassroots. We may not be insiders, but we are not naive. We are here for the long haul and not for the fast buck. And we are finally beginning to realize that by combining the sincerity of our hearts with the collective energy of our creativity we can make good things happen here.

Hmmm...I can relate to this.

Just as eating against one's will is injurious to health, so study without a liking for it spoils the memory, and it retains nothing it takes in.

Leonardo daVinci


Stand firm in your refusal to remain consious during algebra. In real life, I assure you, there is no such thing as algebra.

Fran Leborwitz

Karmic Nightmare

I need a good rant.

I spent the whole week at CSU with a bunch of teachers and artists. The course itself was interesting enough, focusing on integrating the arts into the academic curriculum.
Hey, I'm all about that. In fact, it's my claim to fame.

But the people!!
Most of them taught in the suburbs, and hardly any were high school teachers.
For five long days, I looked for a soulmate in sarcasm, a cohort in contention, a partner in puerile antics. All I could find was a bevy of bobble-heads.
Hour after hour I scanned the room for the rolling eye, the sneer, the smirk. Alas, I was a misfit amongst the hand raisers and notetakers. These were the teachers pets who became teachers, and I felt like the feral cat who somehow wandered in.

Monday's lunch secured my reputation as an anomaly in this educational equivalent to Stepford. Several teachers at my table were discussing content similarities in math and music, when one woman, (thin lips, horn-rimmed glasses and hair in a bun..REALLY) shared that, as a student, she would do extra math problems, beyond her homework assignments.
My first reaction, of course, was to blurt out, "Why would you admit to such a thing in public?"
With a stare that was meant to shut me up, she snipped,
" I always loved algebra."
To which I carelessly replied,
" I've always hated algebra. Who ever came up with the lame idea of mixing up numbers and letters anyway? Leave the alphabet to the writers."
Nobody laughed.

Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. One hundred people, nodding, writing, following directions.

I took lots of bathroom breaks and wandered the halls.
Dejavu...I smiled. Some things never change. Perhaps to complete the picture this week, I should take up smoking and find a cute guy to make-out with in the stairwell.

Finally, it was Friday.

Before I continue my story I need make an important distinction.
I am a proponent of the arts. I am a visual artist.
I am NOT a musician. I am NOT a dancer. I canNOT sing. I canNOT play an instument. I have NO desire to do any of these things. These activities are NOT fun for me.

So what was our culminating group activity? We had to count off, form groups, learn a song, make up a dance (which incorporated the use of silky scarves) to go with the song, which we would then perform in the lobby of the building, after parading, and singing, down the hallway.
It was a custom karmic nightmare designed just for me. If I didn't need the credit hours I would have been outta there.
The final performance could only be described as surreal (No, I take that back...it could be described as ridiculous) There was a whole lot of very serious sashaying going on. These folks were into it.
Balding men and middle-aged women prancing, singing, and waving their scarves. I couldn't take it anymore. I started to laugh...out loud.
My levity rated me the bad-eye from about thirty different directions...then...lo...I spotted her. At last, a bad-attitude buddy!
Across the room, I saw Kristen, a visual arts teacher from Thomas Jefferson Middle School in Cleveland...in full frontal grimace, shaking her head, dropping her scarf, bungling her steps, and... laughing out loud.

Music Issues

Now don't get me wrong, I love music.
I've got a load of CD's. Play them in my car when I cruise the Shoreway, back and forth ,from my job on the westside to my house on the eastside.
Couldn't play an instrument, though. if my life depended on it. I sing in my basement when I paint or do laundry, and dance in my kitchen when I make soup or pasta. (Something about that great big pot just gets me going) I tend to keep music, especially when I participate in it's creation, a personal, private part of my life.
So it was with great discomfort that I joined two dozen other teachers and artists on stage at Cleveland State Universities Music Building to dance and move and clap and sing. It wasn't fun...I was doing it for graduate credit hours, as a part of the Summer Institute Arts Program.
My mild dyslexia screws up my coordination of right and left, so I tend to throw off any group performance with unintentional comic malfunctioning. I really don't mind providing a humorous element to a production, but I think some of the people this afternoon were taking this group dancing thing a little too seriously, as evidenced by their looks of annoyance.
Today, I will be exploring my relationship with the theater. More a lesson in creativity than an opportunity to lose inhibitions that seem to serve me just fine .

HELLO my name is SATAN

As I flipped through Scene Magazine's 2004 Music Awards issue I was not surprised to see Mike Campbell's face looking out at me as I turned to the Best Hard Rock listings. Mike plays with the Sign Offs, whom Scene describes as; "Punk-damaged rockers(they) could be on the verge of major-label activity". 
Several weeks ago, Mike called to tell me they were signing a deal with Columbia records. I'm so proud of him. 
 I want to share his story here,  because I know that some of the people who read my posts are teachers.
Some of you teachers are just beginning careers, and may have a student like Michael Campbell in your classroom one day.  If you do,  fasten your seatbelts, 'cuz boys and girls,  you are in for a wild and wonderful ride. 

The first time I saw the kid with the long dark hair, intense brown eyes and wicked smile, he was creating drama.  The hallway was full of students changing classes and Mike was standing by the lockers waving a yellow intend-to-suspend notice and ranting.
" Can you believe it ?  He wants to send me home for my shirt!  This f__ing shirt!  He says it's offensive.  Does anybody think it's offensive? He's offensive!"
I glanced at his T-shirt and started to laugh.  The shirt was all black with a white printed patch on the chest that looked like a name tag and read "HELLO my name is SATAN".  I silently agreed with the young prince of darkness. The shirt was not worth a student losing class time over, (especially in a school system struggling to keep kids in classes) when the only person who was offended by it was our rather religious principal. The suspension, however, did inspire a change in dress and behavior. From that point on, Mike began to dress to impress. He discovered that clothing could create controversy.  He began to acquire quite a collection of "offensive t-shirts" and eye catching punked-out clothing. He thrived on the attention.
The administrative altercations continued. One particularity pointed fashion discussion went something like this;

" What is your problem Mike? When I was in high school nobody came to school dressed like that."
"Oh! So I should come to school dressed like you did when you were in high school?"
" Yes! That would be great. "
"Fine."

The next morning the hallways at Max Hayes High School rocked with laughter as Michael strutted along in full Saturday Night Fever attire. Platform shoes, red satin shirt, and a polyester suit that demanded disco.

Mike's quest for controversy didn't end with his dedication to dress-code violation.  Teachers, students, even total strangers were potential adversaries for a verbal spar.  Not ironically, Mikes favorite position was devil's advocate. Whatever the consensus was, he would take the opposite stand.  Race, religion, sex...Any topic that could elicit an emotional response...Mike would throw it out for class discussion. Constantly baiting his teachers, he reveled in his ability to shake things up, and get people flustered. Needless to say, being kicked out of class was a fairly common occurrence.  His resultant hallway wanderings eventually led to our friendship.

One afternoon I was addressing my general art class when I caught a glimpse of Mike staring into the room as he walked in the hallway past my classroom door.  A few moments later he stuck his head inside the room and asked in a loud voice,
 "Has anyone in here said f-ck yet?"
 Although somewhat taken aback, yet not surprised, I managed to look non-pulsed as I smiled and said,
"Well, yes...I think someone did." 
Not quite what he expected, Mike seemed lost for words, so I added
 "C'mon in. Want to see what we're doing?"
He knew a few of the other students so he came in and sat with his friends as they worked on their sculptures. The next semester he signed up for my class.

Mike loves to talk, and it didn't take long to find out all about him.  He was part of a big family of foster children who had been adopted by a wonderful older couple. Not surprisingly, he had ADHD, but didn't take medicine for it. Most importantly though, he was a musician, he loved music. He'd been playing guitar for years, but he still practiced constantly. He had an electric one with some brand new amps. I told him I would love to hear him play. A few weeks later he got his mom to bring his speakers to school. He set them up in my class at the end of the day and played an amazing concert for me and some of the kids who were still hanging around after school.  That was his senior year.
Mike was scheduled to graduate in June, and passed all of his required classes, but he couldn't receive his diploma. He had not yet passed the math portion of the Ohio proficiency test.
Many students who don't pass the test  drop out or give up. Mike wasn't one of those students. He took a proficiency preparation class, got a math proficiency tutor, and for the next couple of years took that proficiency test each time it was administered. Each time he would be only one or two points away from passing. Last year he finally passed the test, and finally earned his diploma.

He stopped by  after school one day to take me out to lunch in Lakewood so we could catch up on each others lives. He's been so busy on the road with his band touring and seeing the world.  I am extremely proud of this persistent, demanding, funny, and talented  young man. I wish him continued success.

Slacking

Whoa!
It HAS been a long time since I sat down and posted anything. 
My excuse? I decided to devote some time to mental slacking. 

July is nearly over. Next week I start picking up a few graduate semester credits, and my head will be back into the education realm. But this  week was devoted to friends and foolishness.  I did have one observation regarding learning, albeit the thought was prompted by the Tuesday night trivia game played at Scorchers,  over several glasses of Guinness. ( By the way my brother David and I kicked some intellectual ass amongst that Bainbridge bar crowd) My observation? I have learned a LOT of useless crap in my lifetime.
It amazes me;  I can remember the names of extinct sea creatures, but not where I left my car keys. I can make a chronological list of hit songs from the seventies, but I forget to call my brother on his birthday.  Why is it, I can retain all kinds of irrelevant information, but not the stuff that is important to my daily living and relationships?

Enough thinking.
I shall return to my slackitudinal position...something absolutely non-intellectual. After all this is summer vacation....Hmmm, I wonder what's on TV this early in the morning?

 

"I have generally found that persons who had studied paintings least were the best judges of it."
William Hogarth (1761)

I spent a good part of this weekend looking at art in Cleveland Heights and Tremont...
There is often a good reason for serving wine at gallery openings.

Time Stands Still

Every student is aware of the phenomenon that occurs each mid-afternoon, in every classroom, in every school.

Time slows down.

The last half hour of each school day feels like a lifetime. Young eyes follow the second hand on the wall clock, hung, as if to taunt, just above the door to freedom. It sweeps past the numbers; one, two, three…yet the minute hand seems immobile.

I smiled as I read the account of the auction held at the 100 year old Shaw High School building in East Cleveland this weekend. The building will be torn down later this month to make room for a new school in 2006. A woman described how she stared at the clocks so much during her days as a student at the school in the sixties, she came back to purchase one as memento.

Even as a teacher, the clock above the classroom door still seems to hold a link to the everlasting. Every year there will be at least one class of what I will call, for the sake of being polite, "challenging" students. The challenge is to:
1. Keep them on task
2. Keep them from fighting
3. Keep them in their seats
4. Keep them relatively quiet
5. Keep my sanity.
These are the classes that I attempt to spin in a positive direction by calling them life-extenders. Each day, that forty minute period stretches into an eternity; and I watch the second hand sweep past the numbers, in never-ending circles, as the minute hand stays put.

Patricide

Son Faces Charges in Death of Father.
The Plain Dealer headlines announced the holiday weekend murder of a man in Lorain, and the confession of his 15 year old son to the shooting. The rest of the article told little else but the neighbor's opinions that the deceased was an upstanding member of the community, and by all accounts a good father. Very religious.

Not surprisingly, the immediate family had no comment. What a nightmare for them to be going through.

Murder is a crime that can never, and will never be forgotten.
Everyone associated with the incident becomes a victim, in some way, for life.

__________________

A few years ago I took notice of a very intense young man as he walked past my classroom each day. Jimmy was tall and heavyset. Bigger than most of the other students in the building. He would hurry through the hallways, eyes cast down toward the tile floor, never a smile.
One day, shortly after the bell rang, signaling the end of the class period, he popped his head in my classroom door. He was looking for a girl named Christy. She turned to me and mouthed the words,"That's my boyfriend!" as she walked to were Jimmy was waiting. I didn't think much about the new romance until the next day at lunch, in the faculty lounge.

One of my colleagues had also noticed the schools newest couple, and mused aloud,
"I wonder if Christy's father knows about Jimmy?"

Everyone knew Christy's father. He was a tough Cleveland cop, occasionally arriving at the high school in his uniform to pick up his daughter after school. He was strict with his daughter, and had been known to bawl her out in public on report card pick up days for grades that were below his expectations.

"What about Jimmy?" I asked.
"Don't you know?" He seemed incredulous. "Jimmy killed his father...beat him to death."
"What?"
"Yeah, a couple of years ago. He did some time in the D.H., but apparently he'd been abused...It was self defense."

Oh boy! Part of me wished I hadn't heard that.
From that day on I couln't look at the young man without hearing the phrase repeating like a scratched LP

"...killed his father...beat him to death...killed his father...beat him to death..."

Whether or not Christy's dad ever found out about Jimmy and/or his past I never knew. What I did know was this, Jimmy was becoming very devoted to Christy, and he began stopping by the art studio to visit with her when she stayed after class to work. Jimmy was one of the most polite boys I ever had the pleasure of meeting. He would always go out of his way to say hello, he would hold open doors, and he would always offer to help me carry books, bags, or boxes. The two of them remained a couple until after graduation.

But...as likable as the young man was, still, the voice of accusation would continue in my mind, and I would feel guilty that I could not control the persistent refrain.

Don't try to fix the students, fix ourselves first. The good teacher makes the poor student good and the good student superior. When our students fail, we, as teachers, too, have failed.

Marva Collins

On Raising Adolescents, and Keeping Your Sanity

I received a lovely letter this weekend, via e-mail, from a woman who has accepted the daunting job of parenting a teenager as she struggles on her own to provide a home for her nephew.

Throughout the years I have been asked many times for advice on raising adolescents, but normally these questions occur during the course of face to face conferences. This letter gave me the opportunity to put my answers into writing. I am going to include some of my response in today's post, since it reflects a bit of my philosophy when it comes to dealing with teens.



I applaud your dedication as you guide your nephew into adulthood, and I will do my best to answer your questions.

I must admit to having quite a bit of experience dealing with teenagers. I calculate that in more than two decades of teaching high school, I have had the pleasure of working with more than four thousand students. After all these years, I'm still amazed that I am regarded as having a semblance of sanity in circles that do not include members of my own family. My own children (ages 24, 15, and 12) will often refer to me as "that crazy lady". However, I do take into consideration that their point of reference is up-close and personal, since it is usually their actions that motivate my mania.

I will share with you several guidelines that I use in my daily interactions with students. I consider them to be essential to maintaining a good relationship with any young person.


First and foremost; try to remember yourself at that age.
What were you like? What did you do for fun? What made you laugh? What were the adults in your life like? Who did you want to be like when you grew up? Try to emulate your own positive role models. Also try to recall the things that made you angry; people who were ignorant, adults who were unfair, or annoying, or petty, or mean. If you recognize any of those behaviors in yourself, make the adjustment...Get rid of them. A person who has forgotten his childhood will find it impossible to connect with children.

Next, always remember the BIG picture. Things like hair, and clothes, and music aren't nearly as important as respect, good friends, a kind attitude, developing a love of learning, and a strong work ethic.

Know that grades do not always reflect learning. In fact real learning is RARELY assessed on a grading scale. Grades are usually only an indication of how many points were earned using an arbitrary method of evaluation.

Finally, as human beings, we've developed something called a sense of humor. It is a wondrous coping mechanism. It will help us through circumstances that are distasteful or embarrassing, disturbing or frustrating. Use it often. Find the fun in situations, or at least observe the funny. Life is short, and we were meant to enjoy it.


The rest of my response was of a more personal nature, and won't be included here.

Parenting is infinitely more difficult than teaching.
Throughout my career I have encountered kids who prompted a prayer of gratitude that I only had to put up with them for 40 minutes a day, and would never have to deal with them again upon completion of the term.

As parents we will have these relationships forever.

Good Friends, Bad Boys

The new skatepark behind the Rock Hall was full of boys on boards and wheels, each one trying to be way cooler than the next kid.

My dearest friend, Susan, and I took our twelve year old sons, Brian and Sean, downtown today to check it out. (In my new Celica...see earlier post.) It was a great spot. They practiced their stunts for a couple of hours, and begged us to bring them back. While the boys busied themselves on the ramps and rails, we caught up on the events of the last few days.

The best thing about best friends is, no matter how often we see each other, we never run out of conversation. Susan and I mostly talk about people; our friends, our families, our neighbors, men, our relationships, men, our frustrations, men,...things that annoy us.

I met Susan at St Louis Elementary School in Cleveland Heights, after we both received notes from the principal concerning our boys, during the very first week of kindergarten.
Her son Sean, and my son Brian, were sent to the office for a playground incident involving a much bigger boy, pushing, shoving, much mud, and washing each others hair in the restroom. They have remained partners in crime ever since.

Parents of 'good children' can never experience the close bonds that the parents of challenging children can. While they brag to each other about the straight "A's", flawless piano recitals, and brilliant science fair projects, we share tales of the last parent teacher conference, what scary substance, which used to be food, we discovered under a bed, and whose kid got the most detentions this week.

Oddly enough, the very first time we met at a parent/teacher night, we didn't click. I thought she was stand-offish, and she thought I was a snob. Shared tribulation stripped away pretense, allowing us to recognize each other as kindred spirits.

Thank goodness for bad boys.

A child miseducated is a child lost.

John F Kennedy

Don't Those Kids Carry Guns?

The old Subaru is finally going to be put out to pasture. Living in the Rust Belt has taken it's toll on the hard-working Legacy wagon, currently nicknamed "Spot".

The loud roar of the muffler, a clicking from the right front axel, and my children's embarrassment to be seen by their friends in a "hoopdie", convinced me that it was time to let go. (That turbo-charged engine can still kick some ass on the Shoreway though.)

Shopping for cars is not at all like shopping for shoes, or clothes, where one can be impetuous or even frivolous. The car-buying process requires way too much discussion, and inevitably, the conversation turns to what I do for a living, as the salesmen size me up as a potential buyer.
Yesterday, one particularly baby-faced manager, upon hearing that I taught high school in the city, asked,
"Do you have metal detectors? Don't those kids carry guns?"
To which I replied, "Not often" and "Yes, occasionally."

As teachers, we are usually left out of that particular informational loop, unless a student is afraid someone might use the gun. I did an informal class survey once, asking the kids to give me an estimate on how many of their peers carried a gun to school on any given day. The consensus was two or three. A disturbing fact if one takes much time to ponder it, so we tend to concentrate on other things, like who has a hall pass, or who has a hat on in the building.

A number of years ago, I was teaching art at John F Kennedy High School on the city's south side. One winter morning, I walked around the classroom commenting on the progress of my students' drawings, when I noticed a heavy-set boy reach up under his flannel shirt to scratch his back. As he scratched, the shirt pulled away to reveal the black handle of a handgun poking out of the pocket of his jeans.
"What the...?" I blurted out, and without pausing to evaluate the situation, I said, "Give me that gun John."
Startled, he reached into his pocket, pulled the gun out and placed it into my outstretched hand.
"Oh great!" I fussed, "Now I have to send for security. What the heck were you thinking? I cannot believe you had the nerve to bring a gun into my classroom..."
On and on I ranted, while a student ran to get a security guard.
While my mouth was running full throttle my mind was screaming,
"MARYBETH, YOU ARE AN IDIOT!!! What if he wouldn't have handed it to you? He could have shot you!!! This is a gun in your hand!!!"

My mental self-flagellation was reiterated by security a short time later when I was in the main office filing an incident report.
"What the heck where you thinking! That kid could have shot you. You should have just quietly sent for security."
That morning my much practiced mother-tone-of-voice worked for me, another time, with a different kid...who knows?

As it turned out, John began carrying a gun to school, because he had been jumped several times at the bus stop while waiting for the RTA. It was meant to be the equalizer as he defended himself against a group of bullies. He was suspended for several weeks, returned to school briefly, and eventually dropped out.

And what lesson did I learn from the incident?

I am lucky.
Very, very, lucky.

On Friendships

A man, sir, should keep his friendship in constant repair.

Samuel Johnston



In everyone's life, at sometime, our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being. We should all be thankful for those people who rekindle the inner spirit.

Albert Schweitzer



A friend is someone who allows you distance, but is never far away.

Noah benShea

Maintaining Friendships

I am still thinking about a conversation I had this evening with my friend Tony about friendships. We talked about phases that our friendships go through over the years, how they develop, and how they are maintained.
Always curious as to how people perceive me, it was interesting to learn that I am considered rather low-maintenance, dubbed a "spontaneous" friend, ie. no planning. I am the one that will say "yes" to the phone call that asks, "Hey what are you doing now? Can you (go out for breakfast, help me with..., meet us at..., stop over?)"
Now, I understand that in the context of this conversation, spontaneity and low-maintenance were being used as compliments, but I couldn't help but wonder at the implications of that perception.
Where do the lines between low-maintenance and no-maintenance blurr and a person becomes taken for granted?
Do high-maintenance people have different types of relationships, since people have to work harder to accommodate them?
Can my spontaneity ever work against me?
This is definitely worth more thought.

People have to learn sometimes not only how much the heart, but how much the head can bear.

Maria Mitchell

dark side

My dark side took possession of my spirit today. She is the muse of the barbed wire, the mad dogs, the screaming faces, the rusted metal, and the thunder storms that appear in my paintings. Sister of Sylvia Plath, who mourns each fig that falls to the ground, every path not taken, the dreams destroyed.
Dawn struggled to pull itself out of an endless insomniac's night. Dreary, cold and wet, the morning matched my mood. In the gray were no distractions to refocus my attention from the pain of a personal life that begs a burial.

Today was a hard one...

Failure is a detour, not a dead-end street.

Anonymous

A Lesson In Humility

On my first day of kindergarten I was given the distinction of being "Best Artist in the Class", and the title has pretty much stuck with me, in one way or the other, thoughout the course of my life.
I have been blessed with that fine-motor-skill dexterity, eye/hand coordination, which enables me to render a likeness with my hands, of the things I observe with my eyes.
(Ironically I am also mildly dyslexic, constantly confusing my left and right, making it impossible for me to play a musical instrument)

I've always been pretty cocky about my skills, and so was totally unprepared for my own reaction to the sticky, crumbly, brown medium I was given to work with, in preparation for the bronze casting class I was to start the next day at the David Davis Studio.
The wax came in a flat sheet with directions to soften it in hot water, then form it into a small, three-dimensional sculpture, ready for gating. I've worked a little with wax before, but it never reacted like this. It was either too sticky, or it cracked and crumbled. The more I worked with it, the more frustrated I became.
So I cursed it out, wadded it up, stuck it in a baggy, and threw it in the car to take to class the next day.
About 15 minutes later my daughter, Maureen, pops her head in the kitchen door and yells, "Mom! Somebody threw a bag of dog crap on the front seat of your car!"

The next morning I walked into the class with my baggy, and looked around the studio. Everyone else had lovely little brown sculptures, and I had a big brown turd.
I was suddenly struck with the same feeling that I get when I'm having the dream where I go to work without my clothes on.
I'd expected everybody else to have the same problem, but it turned out, I was the sole incompetent. Making matters worse, I was the only person in the group who made my living as a visual artist...How humiliating!

Resolutely, I got back to work on my brown sticky lump. I was starting to make a bit of progress turning it into a Celtic-style zoomorphic creature, when it cracked in half. As I attempted to weld it together, it broke in two more places. I felt like calling it quits.
My drive home had me questioning my own talent. Maybe I wasn't as good as I thought I was.

Then I remembered the rats.

Earlier this year I had a couple of wax models of rats in the back of my station wagon. They were part of a sculpture one of my students had cast. I was transporting them from an art exhibit across town, and parked my car in the school's lot. It was a hot spring day, and the interior temperature of my car with the windows closed, rose enough to melt the rats into softened blobs of their former selves.
The student didn't want the misshapen rodents back, so they remained in a box in my basement. That evening, I put the rats in a double boiler and melted them down completely. When the wax block hardened, I started to carve it. The texture was perfect. I stayed up until three o'clock in the morning completing a lovely little bust of my son Brian.

What a relief to realize that it wasn't me...it was the medium. I still had my skills.
But as I look back on my feelings of inadequacy during the class, I am thankful for the lesson in humility. Sometimes it is good to be reminded that our talents truly are gifts.

The first and great commandment is, Don't let them scare you.

Elmer Davis

Bravery

While sipping white wine and admiring the decorated ceramic dogs at Hector Vega's new cafe/gallery opening Saturday night, I was introduced to a well dressed, quietly refined and obviously cultured woman. Just the sort of woman one would expect to meet at such an event.
When she learned that I was a high school teacher in the Cleveland Schools, her face clouded momentarily, and she exclaimed "You must be very brave."
"Huh?" was my very uncultured response.
"Oh yes. You are so brave to work with those kinds of kids."
"Oh no. They're just kids. My job is great. I get paid to make fun of boys. It's my childhood fantasy come true...you see, I was raised with brothers."
She continued to insist on my heroism, which forced me to strain my memory to recall any moment in my career when I was afraid.

I can only remember one.

I was teaching an eighth grade art class at Garrett Morgan Middle School, in Ohio City, on Cleveland's near West Side. At that time, there was a school policy stating hats must not be worn inside the building. That day I noticed a black leather baseball cap perched on the bent over head of Eugene as he worked on his drawing assignment.
Eugene was a big, over-aged kid, with a surly countenance and a bad complexion. I must have asked him three or four times a week for the last four months to take his hat off in class. His usual response was to either ignore my request, or take off the hat for a few moments and then put it right back on. This time I walked up behind him to remove it from his head personally.

When I lifted off the hat, Eugene spun around and snapped angrily at me, "Give that back!"
"Pick it up after class." I retorted, as I walked to the open door of the storage closet, and tossed the hat on a shelf. The locked clicked as I shut the door behind me.
"You can't take my hat!" he bellowed, "That's my brothers cap! You can't have it!"

Eugene ran to the closet and pulled at the door. As he cursed, ranted, and raved, I noticed his eyes. They had the unmistakable glassy appearance of the chemically impaired.
"With this behavior, you can forget about getting your hat back from me after class. You'll have to pick it up from the principal's office." I said, and pulled out the pad of referral forms.

Eugene leaned across my desk, and glaring, leveled his face with mine.
"I'm gonna off your white ass!"
"Excuse me?" I asked, eyebrows raised.
"You heard me. I'm gonna off your ass!"
"Hmmm...Just wanted to be accurate." I said, and continued to write.

The bell rang, signaling the end of class. When the students got up to leave, Jannessia, a quiet girl with a head full of beaded braids, stayed behind. In a voice barely audible she whispered, "He said he's gonna kill you. That's what that means."
"Thanks Hon'. I'm not worried."
After all he was just a kid. Fifteen, maybe sixteen, tops; and it was just a hat.
This time she raised her eyebrows, and shaking her head, left the room.

I finished writing the referral, and with the baseball cap in hand, headed downstairs to the office. On my way back to the third floor, I met Bruce Edwards, a retired Army captain, who'd taken the position as our school/community liaison. He walked with me to the art room and I related the baseball cap incident, expressing my concern that drugs might be a factor in this student's overreaction to a trivial situation.
Suddenly, the captain's attention turned to the hallway.

Eugene came bounding up the stairs, his face contorted in anger. He paused for a moment at the top and growled, "I'll kill you!"
Then he lunged at me where I stood just inside the doorway.

Before he could reach me, Captain Edwards jumped onto Eugene and wrestled him towards the stairwell. The two of them were nearly matched in both height and weight. At the edge of the top step, Eugene lost his balance and tumbled down the thirteen stairs to the landing.
Upon hearing all the commotion, two security guards came running up towards the third floor. When they reached the landing, Eugene stood up, pushed past the guards and ran out of the building. Security radioed for the police.

My heart was racing as I walked over to the window and stared out over the parking lot. For the first time in my life I was truly scared.
A young man had just tried to kill me...and he was still out there. Somewhere.

I'd experienced a few close-calls with death before; accidents and near misses. This was different. Someone tried to kill me. Somebody wanted me dead.
If not for Captain Edwards, the police may have been investigating a teacher homicide rather than an assault.

The next day, Eugene was arrested on assault charges, suspended for 10 days, and removed from my class.
I would pass him in the hallway from time to time throughout the remainder of the school year, always avoiding eye contact.

Everyday teachers are assaulted in the Cleveland schools. Most of us come back to the classroom.
Are we brave?

Yes, I believe we are.

It has been my experience that people who have no vices have very few virtues

Abraham Lincoln

School's... Out... For... SUMMER

The joy of students as they race out the classroom door on the last day of school cannot hold a candle to their teachers bliss as they turn in record books and sign out on their last day.

Today was the last day of school for the 7,000 teachers in the Cleveland Municipal School District. I spent the afternoon celebrating the end of the school year with my Max Hayes colleagues at Tremont's Southside (great food, marvelous martinis, and gorgeous patio) then it was down to the flats for the Cleveland Teachers Union annual celebration. The Beachcomber was packed; wall to wall, door to deck--dancing and drinking, shouting and singing. Even the recently laid-off were there, to toast the end of classes and the start of summer vacation.

We pause for a moment to catch our breath and gather new fortitude. August will be upon us in no time. This coming year will test the schools as never before as we work to educate Cleveland's future with 1,000 fewer teachers, and vastly depleted resources.
But...I won't think about that right now...it's summer.

Education is what survives when what has been learned has been forgotten

B.F. Skinner

As an educator, I am compelled to learn.
Whether I learn from the mistakes of others, or from my own foibles, I've discovered that insight can always be gained by an examination of failure.
Of course there are also great lessons in success, especially if we backtrack to how and where the seeds were planted.

Let me toss a couple of questions out to my readers:

Through out your career as a student, from preschool to grad school, did you have any extraordinary teachers?
What made them good?
What did you learn from them?
What did they do or say that motivated you?
Do they know today how they influenced you?

Think back to the most miserable teacher(s) you ever had.
What were they like?
What did they do?
What effect did they have on your development?
Were you able to salvage anything good from the experience?

Think back on your classes.
What is it that you remember most clearly?
Was it the content?
The atmosphere?
The characters?

Your stories will help me as I plan a professional development workshop for teachers. Your comments are appreciated.
Thanks to all.

Follow the path of the unsafe, independant thinker. Expose your ideas to the dangers of controversy. Speak your mind and fear less the label of "crackpot" than the stigma of conformity. And on issues that seem important to you, stand up and be counted at any cost.

Thomas J. Watson

P.S. ...you are welcome. mb

Memorable Students, Memorable Teachers

Again, he put two fingers in his mouth and let loose a shrill blast.

It entered my right ear and seared through my brain to lodge painfully above my left temple. For a kid of twelve he certainly seemed to know most of the graduating seniors.
No...more likely he just wanted to whistle.
When the last of the sixty Max Hayes graduates received his diploma, and the senior class president reached for his tassel, the fingers once again entered the mouth.
This time nothing came out.
The boy saw me looking at him and grinned.
"I think I've used up all of my whistles."
"Really?" I asked hopefully.
He tried again. I prepared to wince...
Nothing.
I murmured a silent prayer of gratitude.

When the faculty gathered at Hornblowers later in the evening for our own celebration, we concurred that Graduation 2004 was by far the noisiest commencement in any of our memories, and lucky me was privileged to be sitting next to the loudest of the loud crowd.
One cosmopolitan later, the pain in my brain was forgotten, and the conversation turned to memorable students and memorable teachers.

Earlier in the afternoon, a young man stopped by my classroom to see me. He was a Max Hayes graduate of the Class of 2001. Now working and going to school in Florida, he was back in Cleveland for a visit. I almost didn't recognize him when he came to my door. Eric always looked young for his age when he attended Max Hayes. Now, at twenty-one, he was no longer a boy. He told me he came to visit because three years ago I wrote a note in his yearbook saying I expected him to come back to see me. He laughed, and apologized for not bringing coffee this time.
Eric was in my Art 1 class as a senior. That year, on more than several occasions, my classroom phone would ring at about 8:30, during my first period class. It would be Eric letting me know he would be late to 2nd period, and could he bring me something from McDonald's.
What a charmer.
Of course, he is studying business.

How lucky we are as teachers when our students come back to let us see how they are doing. An even greater blessing is when a former student tells you that you did something right. When something you said or did influenced a choice they made, or changed their life for the better.

A few months ago, I was being observed in my classroom by the committee from Young Audiences. When the group came into my room, I was very thankful all of my students were on task and busy with their projects. The bell rang, the group left, and the next class of students came in while I was talking to the committee. After about 10 minutes of conversation, one of the women said to me, "Wow! All of your students are working and you didn't even have to say anything to them."
At that moment, I smiled to myself and thought, "I have got to write a thank you note to Cliff McCarthy."

Cliff McCarthy was my Art Education professor at Ohio University in Athens,Ohio, back in the late '70s. That comment in my classroom made me recall a discussion I had with him concerning student discipline...I was concerned that he never told us what we should be doing to control their behavior.
His answer to me was this; "If you have good lessons, if your students are engaged with creating art, you will have no need for discipline. Don't concentrate on discipline, concentrate on teaching art."
I have come to discover the absolute truth in his words.

A few weeks ago, I googled Cliff's name and was able to find his e-mail address. I sent him a letter to thank him for his wisdom some twenty-five years ago, to tell him how he influenced my career, and to share the story of my recent success.

Several days later, I received an envelope in my mailbox at school. It contained a beautiful card and a lovely message from Cliff's wife.
Cliff passed away several months earlier. Adele and their children were missing him very much. My e-mail came at a time when they needed to feel some contact. They were all very grateful I sent my note when I did. It reminded them, even though Cliff is no longer here, his life continues to influence others in positive and wonderful ways.

Cliff, you are still teaching me things. How important this work is. How far reaching the effects are of what we do, and how lasting.

Teaching Creativity

I have been thinking a lot this week about thinking.

In particular, about creative thinking. Can we teach creative thinking skills, or do we just work to strengthen the abilities of those who already developed that particular mass of gray matter?
I am sure there must be studies to determine weather or not creativity is genetic. I wonder how conclusive they are.

Is it nature or nurture? How much effect does a creative environment play in raising children who will become innovators, inventors and entrepreneurs? In a group of children who have always been trained to follow directions, who are the ones that decide to make their own path? Have they always danced outside of the circle? Did they suddenly revolt one day against the established rules? Or did they slowly discover their creativity while working to make things better for the group?

My experience leads me to believe it is nearly impossible to get innovative solutions or original ideas from some people. I wonder if the ability or desire to create, for these folks, has been neglected or was it squelched? Perhaps it never existed. In the case of suppression, can a resurrection be enabled?

As we look to build the next generation of Cleveland's artists and entrepreneurs, it will be helpful to understand inspiration. How can we foster higher level creative thinking skills in an educational system that is based on rote learning, directed thinking, and teaching to standardized tests?

I would like to hear from people who have been recognized as being creative, as to their own upbringing.
When did you realize your creativity? What motivates you now?

Growing up, I recall being contrary. In school, I was the student who always asked "Why?". I would argue an answer on a test, and blame the teacher for asking a bad question. I would look to solve a problem without following the directions. I still will not follow a recipe exactly as it is written. (Not surpisingly, my kids really like it when we order out)
I have been accused of being innovative and a troublemaker simultaneously. My motivation is maintaining my sanity. If I don't give myself a project to work on, a problem to solve, I start to get bored, which leads to depression. That's scary.

I know many of you who read this weblog.
You are creative people.
Comment.
Please.

Open Space and Meeting Place

George Nemeth organizes mixers, (wine, cheese, and chat meetings) for the RYZE business network, which I became a member of earlier this year. He is certainly one of the most gracious and thoughtful hosts I ever had the pleasure of knowing.

The last RYZE event George organized, incorporated an activity called Open Space discussion, and he's asked (begged and politely pleaded) for our assessment of the evening.
I hope George will forgive my tardiness, as I offer my somewhat belated response to last week's event.

The thing I liked best about the Open Space activity, was the opportunity to get to know people in the small group who I did not get a chance to meet over sushi or sandwiches. One-on-one networking involves quite a bit of discussion about what we do. This group discussion provided insight into what people think. Thought provoking topics prompted fascinating conversation amongst some very bright people. It reminded me of the late 19th century salons I studied about, where artists, writers, and creative thinkers would gather to exchange ideas.

My one and only complaint is aimed at a man who, ironically I, and no doubt millions of other folks, admire.
Frank Ghery.
That room, in the Peter B Lewis Building, has TERRIBLE acoustics. This is especially disappointing, since it was designed by one of the world's premier architects as a meeting space.
Although the building is visually amazing, way too much sound is bouncing around in there. (You would think, teaching high school, I would be used to that)

While Chris Sepher uses the 10 point evaluation scale, I prefer what is known as the fifth digit assessment method:

George Nemeth's Open Space: thumbs up
Frank Ghery's meeting space: thumbs down

Artistic Discovery

Today, while leaning against a wall in the third floor hallway at Max Hayes High School, I discovered an artist.

Some black and white digital photographs, chronicling a field trip, were posted on the wall across from the computer lab. Normally I would not have paid much attention to them, since most of the students pictured were not in my classes, but something struck me.
The compositions were wonderful.
Balance, variety, unity, all of the design principals were there. Portraits were expressive, backgrounds told a story. There was a name...Michele... credited with taking these marvelous photograghs. With a bit more investigation, I discovered that she is a 10th grader, she can write fairly well, and she can be counted on to complete her assignments. My Monday mission will be finding Michele.

Every coach knows that to have a winning team you must recruit top talent. Businesses do it to survive, and private schools and colleges recruit the brightest students, knowing that the school will be credited for fostering that brilliance, regardless of the abilities of the teaching staff.

I have found, in order to keep my edge as a teacher in my subject area, I need to have students who will challenge me. Granted, teaching disadvantaged kids in an urban district is rife with the challenges associated with poverty and emotional baggage. So many of these kids challenge us to simply help them function, to somehow reach the status quo. It is a very different challenge to take a student who already exhibits talent, who possesses natural aptitude, and to nurture that ability, to help them grow their gift.

Experience taught me that often these kids are unaware of their creative artistic abilities. Guidance counselors might not place them in my classes, so I have learned to search for them. I look on the walls of my colleagues classrooms-at the book reports that include a drawing, the science fair projects, the social studies posters, and I ask these teachers, "Who doodles? Who draws? Who's good?". I recruit.

Lately, quite a few people have asked me how I've managed to build a successful art program in a trade school. My response is; there are talented artists and creative thinkers all around us. The problem is, often they don't even recognize their own gifts. Occasionally all that is needed is for someone to point it out to them, and place these people in an evironment that will encourage them to use their creativity.
That's my gift.

What I cannot do is create talent, or nurture the nonexistant. Neither can I leave it up to chance that talented people will walk through my door. So I search for talent. When I find it, I work diligently to build a relationship that will help that student discover their own potential.

And when they do...they make me look good.

Regrets

Only 21 more days 'til school's out for summer. As much as I look forward to that first, blessed summer morning in June that I lie in bed and think about not getting up at 5 AM, I curse these last few weeks of year end reports.
Why, oh why did I cut that typing class in high school? In my youthful idiocy, I thought that particular act of rebellion would save me from a career of feminine servitude.
I didn't want to be a secretary, I wanted to have a secretary.

In college, I learned the art of negotiating trades.
With my sculptor's eye, I discovered that I was pretty good at cutting hair. I began bartering barbering for typing. All of my term papers were tapped out by poor, penniless, boys who liked short hair.

Now, I have nothing but envy for my colleagues whose fingers fly as fast as thought, for I shall be spending way too much time at my keyboard. Pity, I don't get paid by the hour.

I will try to pull myself away from my tasks to post a few thoughts here. They certainly will not be more than several words, for I will, most likely, be typed out.

"According to the theory of aerodynamics, as may be readily demonstrated through wind tunnel experiments, the bumblebee is unable to fly. This is because the size, weight, and shape of his body in relation to the total wingspread make flying impossible. But the bumblebee, being ignorant of these scientific truths, goes ahead and flies anyway--and makes a little honey every day."

Sign in a General Motors Corporation plant

Thank you

I've never liked to listen to my voice on a recording. I have always been camera shy, and video recordings make me the most squeamish.
To have to watch myself on such a large screen, in such a large theater, with such a large group of people, was akin to my own personal "Fear Factor" episode.
Having just lived through that struggle with my self-consciousness, I walked up on the stage to give a speech which I had prepared, but couldn't see without my reading glasses. For vanities sake, I didn't bring them, I was trying to avoid the school-marm look.
I amazed myself...all that adrenilen in my system must have pumped some extra blood to my brain. I didn't forget a thing.

For all of my friends and colleagues and members of the arts and the education communities who came to the Ohio Theater to congratulate and wish me well, I thank you with all my heart. Your kind words meant so much to me. I am still amazed at all the recognition I've received for doing something that is so much fun; something that I love to do.
I am so very grateful for your support. You make this job a joy.

mb.

Afraid to Go Home

I had my back to the door.

I was busy shuffling papers on my desk, and trying to recall the color of the Formica surface I was attempting to uncover. Feeling the presence of somebody behind me I spun around into the chest of a very big man.
"Hey there!" I was greeted by a deep voice and a bear hug that made me feel very little.

It was Sam Jones.
Sam was a student of mine many years ago, when I taught Art History at the Cleveland School of Science. When he was a kid, he always reminded me of a young, lanky, Magic Johnson.
I became reacquainted with Sam several years ago as I headed down a stairwell at Max Hayes High School. Sam was coming up the stairs dressed in the ochre colored leather gear and mask of a welder.

"What are you doing here?" we exclaimed in unison.

Sam was unaware that I had changed schools, and I learned that he was taking the adult welding class, just down the hall from my room on the third floor.
Although he is now a certified welder, he occasionally stops by to say hello. We catch up on each other's news, and reminisce.

Today, we talked about the old Cleveland School of Science, and we remembered the most terrible day of school, for either one of us.

_____

It began as a typical day at the School of Science. It was Sam's senior year. I'd been teaching visual art at the 6th-12th grade magnet school for a few years. It was lunchtime, and I recall sitting in the teachers lounge engaged in the witty banter which was commonplace amongst the most creative and intelligent faculty I've ever been privileged to work with.

We were interrupted by loud pounding on the wooden door.
"Help! Please help! A boy just jumped out of the third floor window! He's laying in the parking lot...He's not moving!"

We dashed out the door.
Several people ran through the backdoor to the parking lot. I bolted up the three flights of stairs to the wide open window on the top of the landing, and looked down.

Twelve years later the picture in my mind is as vivid as if I had just now turned away.

There, at the spot barely beyond where concrete met asphalt, lay Andre Cooper.
He was a smallish boy of about 12, short hair, and dark brown skin. Although I'd not had him in my class yet, I recognized him from the halls. I'd heard about him from other students and teachers. They told me that he had excellent drawing skills and that I should look forward to having him as an eighth grader.

On his back, his knees were bent, his eyes closed....and blood.
More blood than I had ever seen before....pooling around his head....the puddle growing larger..past his shoulders ...his waist...
Good God where was the ambulance?...Where were the sirens?
Keith Coolick and Bill Dimateo knelt at his head talking, talking, comforting.
Somebody got a blanket.
Still no ambulance.
My eyes were riveted to Andre's chest...was he breathing? I could see a little movement...barely...
He was breathing.
The puddle of blood continued to grow...Still no siren.

By this time students were crowding the windows, looking out over the parking lot.
Sam was one of those faces.
Some staring silently, some weeping openly, and then there were the others.
These were the children who were laughing. Laughing and mocking, pointing and joking. I could hear them from my post at the top of the stairs. I was horrified, and angry, they were driving me to disgust...far beyond driven. Ready to explode....
But, but, ...was that the sound of a siren?

Finally.

The paramedics were there. Andre was carried into the ambulance and whisked away to the trauma center at Metro.

Remaining on the asphalt was that puddle...more blood than I had ever seen before. I watched as the custodians came out with the hoses and washed it away.

I called my sister-in-law, Leslie, a pediatric nurse. She worked the ICU at Metro. What could she tell me?
"Brain dead" she confided. "He's not expected to recover."
Andre died shortly after.

The events of that day overwhelmed me. My son, Ben, was the same age as Andre.
I drove home in tears. When I walked in the door, I grabbed hold of my children, and held them tight.

______

What happened ?

From what we could gather the story went something like this:

Andre was no stranger to the principal's office.
He seemed to have a problem controlling his temper, and had a record that year for getting into trouble. He'd just returned to school, back from several days of suspension. While in math class that morning, he created a disturbance and was asked, by the teacher, to leave the classroom. On his way out the door, he hit the window and shattered the glass. The security guards took him to the assistant principal's office, where he was given another 10 day suspension, handed an RTA bus ticket, and told to go home.

He took the ticket, left the office, and went into the boys rest room down in the basement. A short while later, two of his classmates walked in on him. He was crying and slamming his head repeatedly against the ceramic block wall.
"I can't go home!" he wailed. " My father will kill me!" Andre lay down on the floor. "He said if I got in trouble again at school he would kill me. I'd rather kill myself!"

With that, he stood back up and headed out of the restroom, around the corner, and up three flights of stairs to the window at the landing on the third floor. He pushed open the window and was climbing onto the sill, when his classmates caught up with him and pulled him down.

"C'mon man, you don't wanna do that." They grabbed hold of each arm and led him away from the window, down the stairs, and toward the second floor.

Andre seemed to relax.
"Hey, you can let go now, I'm cool." he said, as they reached the bottom of the stairs. The two students released their grip. The three of them stood together for a moment silent, relieved...when, suddenly, Andre bolted back up the stairs, and dove head-first through the open window.

_____

Several weeks later, the detectives, the counselors and the psychologists where gone. School had resumed its routine. I was in my classroom, discussing abstract expressionism with a group of 11th and 12th grade students, when I caught a glimpse of a woman through the window of my door. I stepped into the hall, and asked if I could help.

I recognized her from the funeral. It was Andre Coopers mother.
She was alone in the hallway, crying softly.
"I came to the school to see the place where it happened." she said quietly.
"The woman in the office told me he jumped from the third floor. Which window?"
I gulped at the insensitivity of the administration, to send this woman up here, alone.

"Here, I will show you."
I put my arm around her shoulder, and led her to the window on the landing, now nailed permanently shut.

Together we looked down at the spot where the concrete meets the asphalt, and grieved for the boy who was too afraid to go home.

"We cannot always build a future for our youth, but we can build our youth for the fututre."

Franklin D Roosevelt.

Collaborations

The guitars are huge. The length of a car.

My friend Danny Carver from The Cleveland School of the Arts brought two of them to Max Hayes today. He will be working with a couple of his students from the School of the Arts here in our shops. These are the giant Guitarmania sculptures that are decorated by Cleveland artists, displayed around the city, and eventually auctioned off at a benefit.

It may sound goofy, but I do get excited when I have the opportunity to introduce new people to this school--especially artists. This place is, truly, a dream come true for a sculptor.

I love giving the "nickel tour" and showing them around.
We can do so much here. The Art studio is 3,200 square feet with 80 feet of 10 foot high windows. We can see the lake and the skyline downtown.
Across the hall from me, students are welding.
Down the hall, they are building houses inside the class room. There is one shop downstairs where they can build 2, two-story houses, side by side, indoors.
We have machine shops, where for the last three years, the students have been building robots that compete all over the country and win.
We have shops upstairs and down, where the kids are maintaining and rebuilding cars. Another shop for body work and finishing. It's always fun to see the expressions on people's faces when they notice the cars on the second floor.

One of the ideas that I've been promoting since I came to work here, has been artists in the shops.
As artists, we are trained to solve problems creatively. By exposing the trades students, who are technicians, to artists, and having them work together, we can bump those thinking skills all the way to the creative top of that blasted Bloom's Taxonomy. The artists also infuse a new type of energy, or spirit, into this hulk of a building that looks more like a factory than a school.

Danny and his students will be working here for the next couple of days. They will be using the spray booth for painting the guitars, and taking advantage of the large studio, which gives them space to work. We are talking about doing a collaborative project next year, that would have students from both of our programs working together. Of course we will have to find money to do it, but hey--we're Cleveland teachers, we're used to hustling for stuff.

I wish more people would take notice of the really cool things that are going on in the city, especially in the schools. We do a whole lot more than just babysit the thugs, or teach to the proficiency tests, or sit around complaining in the teachers lounge... while the taxpayers pay our salaries. We have been challenged to build a skilled and creative workforce, and against the odds, we are working to do just that.

"a momentary lapse of reason,
that can change a life for life"


Pink Flloyd

Lets Talk About Sex

The other day as I was strolling around the tables full of students working, and offering advice on composition and layout, I overheard two of my girls discussing birth control. I was shocked.

"My doctor suggested that I start using the patch. But if you have a patch, boys think your gonna have sex with them. I don't want to go around having sex, but my doctor said I should be ready in case I change my mind. I'm supposed to decide on something else."

Wow...that had to be the most responsible thing I've ever heard coming from the mouth of a teenaged girl. Ususally the conversations are something like this:

" Did you hear Maria (or Jennifer, or Shanay) is pregnant (again)?"

Two years ago, in the spring, fully two thirds of our eleventh grade female population was pregnant. Most of these girls drop out of school. A few will, eventually, get a GED.
Often, they come by to visit with their babies. Occasionally, they bring along the 'baby daddy'. I muster up a grin. I issue the compulsory "Ooooh, she's soooo cute." and "Ahhhh, how sweet." What I'm really thinking is, "Damn, you're so young! This is going to be really, really hard for you."

I was also a 'too-young mother". But my 'too-young' motherhood happened when I was in college as opposed to high school. Even now, as I look back, I can still recall the fear and the loneliness and the struggle of those days.

I was not allowed to return home to my parents house with the baby. I had no place to live, no job, no car, and very little money in my bank account. I had to put my little son in a foster home. I cried until the tears would literally, no longer come; my tearducts had dried. I somehow mustered up the last bit of strength I had left, to climb out of the blackness of a post-postpartum depression pit that nearly swallowed me.
Everything I ever learned about research as a college student I began to use to find help for my child and myself. ADC, WIC, Birthright, Womankind. friends. I found a house, and brought my son back to Cleveland. I found a babysitter on the Cleveland State campus, and rode the RTA with the baby until I finished my degree.

This was a part of my life that formed the person who I am today. Did it make me stronger? Probably not...I was always hard-headed.
Did it make me more compassionate? Absolutely.

But would I have done things differently if I could go back in time and make some changes?
This is a tricky question to answer, because I love my son. Ben is like an extension of my soul. We are so much alike...he understands me as no one else can. Yet, I missed the other things that would have been a part of my twenties. I didn't go to graduate school. I never went to Europe. I never had time to paint or write. I was thrust into mommyhood before I had a chance to discover the bigger world.

I hate the phrase "it's just sex"
"Just sex" can have huge consequences.

In today's Plain Dealer, Regina Brett has a third essay in a series of columns she's written this week about child support. Her remarks are honest and relevant. I will be printing out this series and passing out copies to my students.

http://www.cleveland.com/news/plaindealer/regina_brett/

I realize that the topic is not a part of my curriculum, but in teaching a studio art class I have the luxury of multitasking. One can talk and paint or draw or sculpt all at the same time. I can have a discussion with my students about any topic we choose, while we work. I try to take advantage of my bully pulpit to get them to think about important issues.

Monday's topic: Sex