Furry Logic

Furry Logic.  This is what LAUSD uses when deciding how to spend the scarce and hard earned (well, for most of us)  money of taxpayers.  Apparently, this logic is so useful, they decided to buy all 1000 BTSA participants at this week's colloquium in Burbank a copy of this "Guide to Life's LIttle Challenges."  Yes, that is $9.95 a book times about 1000 teachers.  If you didn't see it yet, check out the link to this book.  I am sure you will be pleased to know that $9,950 was invested in this gift for our new teachers.  Now I have the answers that will make me a better teacher.  Next time a student walks into class high with blood shot eyes, eating junk food, and falling asleep, I will open the book and find the answer:  "No day is so bad that can't be fixed with a nap."  Ah.  You see how wise my students are!   I will just curl up like the mouse in the picture on the opposing page of this quote and sleep under my desk.  I am sure the students and the principal will approve as it is part of the Furry Logic I learned in BTSA.  

Our main activity for the four-hour dinner colloquium was to read this challenging and insightful book, to pick one quote that 'resonated' with us, and to 'reflect' on why we chose that quote.  I chose, " I have one nerve left and you're getting on it."   I chose that quote because BTSA was once again wasting my valuable time and energy with their condescendingly pathetic excuse for teacher support and professional development.   I got out some student work and began grading at the risk of being reprimanded for not showing the proper enthusiasm for this reflective activity.   Really.  

Assuming the other colloquium participants will receive the same or equally edifying gift, you could multiply that by two or three.  Not to mention the dinner they paid for each of us.  This is just one of many events throughout the year.  Thus, you are now all informed of the existence of BTSA:  assuring that highly qualified teachers run as quickly as possible from the mismanagement of LAUSD (or at least make us think about it several times each semester -- thank goodness many of us truly love teaching).  

Please, please, if you think this Furry Logic is a waste of our tax dollars and education budget, write or call your Board of Education representative, mayor, city council members, state representatives  -- anyone in a public office; tell them that you think this is wasteful spending and that the public deserves an accounting of the money going into this program.   At all the BTSA seminars, trainings, and conferences I have attended, I have yet to meet anyone who thinks this program has helped her/him to become a better teacher.  If I had the energy and desire to lose my job, I would attempt an expose of this on my own.  I don't have either.  But maybe someone else out there does.   

Outing Hollywood's Biggest Secret

All hikes in LA are not created equal.

Wanting to go on a quick hike, not too far from home, by my self, I
decided to venture up the hill to Runyon Canyon. When I mention
hiking in LA to folks at bars and parties, more often than not they
will refer to Runyon Canyon and express surprise that I have never
been there. Ironic since it is probably the closest park to my house
among the many hiking trails along Muholland Dr.

I throw on my homemade cotton drawstring pants, a t-shirt and my
baseball cap and head on up the trail. For the first time in a long
time in LA I felt completely overdressed. Though not overdressed as
in when I used to wear my NY togs out on the town of LA; rather
overdressed as in covering too much skin. I had clearly wandered
onto the West Hollywood pick-up trail. It was more about being seen
(and strutting undersized dogs that really should not be hiking up
such hills with such disturbingly tiny legs). Almost all the men
were topless and the women had on sports bras and short shorts that
would make Daisy Duke proud. I passed one other woman with normal
amounts of clothing on, but she had a hairless rat-dog which I guess
made her one of THEM.

Most the hike is on a paved road (I started from the top, so saved
the workout for the walk back) through what seems to be some
backyards. The scenery is bland and all the people did nothing to
compliment the minimal nature on this hike. And the further down
the hill I got, the more naked and the more unfriendly people
became. I felt myself become more and more transparent, as I often
am at Hollywood parties. Finally, heading up, I had the distraction
of the rigorous exercise to tune out the annoying people. I did take
a breather at the sign that proclaimed Runyon Canyon one of
Hollywood's best kept secrets. I glanced around at the mobs of gay
men and their girlfriends talking about their latest auditions and
realized exactly what this indicated about Hollywood's ability to
keep a secret. I am glad I never shared mine with her.

I continued on and took a detour loop to the exit, where I crossed
paths with what I assume to be a few other strays from the Valley
side of the hill. The smiled and nodded hello. I longed for the
serenity and community of Griffith Park trails and the real hikers
with whom I share that beauty. Now, when I meet 'hikers' who swear
by Runyon Canyon, I will know they are the same people who probably
refuse to drive north of Muholland Drive for fear of ruining their
reputation. Or hairdo. Who knows. I'll leave Runyon Canyon to the
miniature dog walkers and 24-fitness bodies who want to put
themselves on display 'in nature, ' that way I can have my Griffith
Park and Laurel Canyon for without the gloss of Hollywood.

Free Appropriate Public Education -- Adolescent imprisonment? Group Therapy?

Our laws in the U.S. guarantee that all children have access to Free
Appropriate Public Education (know as FAPE in educational jargon).
FAPE is the basis for all special education programs, but also could
be seen as reflecting the role of education in this country in
general. Questions could be raised about what Free and Appropriate
look like in reality. To a family in poverty, is it free if it
takes away an able-bodied person in your household from working full-
time? Is education appropriate if it either teaches to goals
outside your realm of experience (university level work if you are
only interested in a trade) or if it waters down curriculum based on
stereotypes and discrimination based on class, race, or gender?

However, the greater question is does access to Free Appropriate
Public Education have to mean mandatory education. Charter and
private schools have the option of expelling students who do not
participate in the education process and who do not keep up the
academic standards of the school. Public schools must accept all
students, even those who do not desire even the minimum of what
education has to offer. The popular response to this is to blame
teachers for not being engaging enough. However, what if the
student is not willing to be engaged? How would our classrooms be
different if students chose to be there? Do we devalue education by
making it mandatory for twelve years?

One example is the issue of academic ethics upheld by administrators,
whose main focus is on the numbers -- keeping students in school at
any cost, even if that means rewarding the helplessness that many
students have learned to use to manipulate teachers into passing them
despite failing to meet basic standards. And by basic, I mean having
the discipline to participate in class and to turn in work such as
writing a simple book review or even writing a paragraph that
sustains a thought until the end. My first year teaching, several
seniors in my class plagiarized their final papers, resulting in a
final failing grade and not being able to graduate. Obviously, these
students did not have strong grades to begin with. The
administration did not heartily back me up in giving the grades I
gave, seemingly afraid to take a stand against the parents of these
disadvantaged students. This week, a colleague returned the first
piece of work a student turned in for the year because it was
plagiarized. Rather than praising her for upholding academic
standards, one of the assistant principals told her she should at
least give some credit for the effort the student made in turning in
an assignment. What effort? Cutting and pasting from and online
review? This has little to do with engaging students and more to do
with the student's choice to continual resist the educational process.

Thus, for this student, and, moreover, for the other students who
must share the classroom with him, is this free appropriate public
education? Free implies choice, an option. Appropriate implies
meaningful. As long as students who have made it their sole purpose
to undermine education are allowed in the classroom, public education
will not be free or appropriate for many students in the U.S. With
over a hundred students to see a day, and with a wall of bureaucracy
to meaningful information about students, teachers cannot
realistically be expected to be social workers for every student.
Classrooms should not be used as group therapy. Teachers are trained
to guide student learning in a specific subject area or for a
specific grade level. This is nearly impossible to do if students
are allowed and enabled in undermining the educational community by
being required to be in school even if they consistently fail to
perform over several years. If education through grade twelve
remains mandatory, then administrators need to work to uphold
academic ethics and integrity throughout the school rather than
encouraging teachers to engage and to reward students for efforts
that are too little too late.

Perhaps this is extremist, but free and appropriate, from the
perspective in front of the classroom, often seems to contradict
mandatory education. Which bring us to the real problem: since our
economy cannot support even the work force we have now, we must keep
adolescents/young adults in school as long as possible, not matter
the cost.

I suspect I might contradict my own argument hear in the near future,
but I will leave it to you to do that in your comments . . . go now,
don't be like my silent students . . .. discuss and debate . . .

Plum Martinis, Mai Tais, Sushi and bikini dresses

I went with the red dress. That was pretty much the highlight of the
evening -- walking around in my red dress. Running late, the make-
up and hair were not up to prom par, but I'm just a teacher and just
going to gawk at the the students. However, meeting the other
teachers, I was early so made small talk with colleague number 1.
This is a different group of teachers than I normally hang with
(cause us teachers just hang and kick it, too, in our own little
posses). Anyway, I am the only non-Latina and only one not in a
small learning community. Shiftless and indefinable, the story of my
life. It was just like high school.

We drove around downtown Burbank for a bit looking for parking, at
which point the driver dropped us at the Japanese restaurant to get a
table. We were criminally overdressed fro pretty much any place in
LA, but most definitely for Burbank, other than the senior prom.
Everyone was all in formal black, except for me. So even among us, I
stood out, like, well, a sore red thumb. We ate well and enjoyed
plum martinis. So, myth number one: teachers don't get to drink on
prom night. We needed it.

Prom looked like something between a medium budget wedding and one of
our professional development training sessions: a bland conference
room with the tables and white table clothes, left overs of water
glasses, tea, and dessert on the tables. We wandered around the
crowded hall. Dancing was just beginning and the floor was packed
within minutes. I was disappointed that only about five of my
students from my senior class showed up. We took pictures. My
students looked cute and I asked if they were having fun and they
just nodded yes. Then the teachers and I went to the fringes to gossip.

Hairdos were impressive. A lot of upsweeps and curls. The dresses
were mostly satiny numbers, sleek and very evening gownish. MOre
like the oscars than traditional prom. Greens of all shades seemed
particularly popular. There were a few occasional yellows, pinks,
and purples and several with the sleek white look. And lots of
skin. The look that most distinguished this prom than something from
my generation (from what I knew, since I never went to my prom) is
what can best be called the bikini dress. Basically, it is like a
fancy, silky, glittery version of a bikini top and sarong. Another
popular style, which I wondered how they got past mom, is the low cut
back, one that would make the pundits comment about even someone like
JLo, with the halter style top, basically just covering the breasts
and totally bare back. Nice for the oscars, but I thought a bit
tacky for high school. Particularly one tries to do the bump and
grind in it on the dance floor. Thankfully, not my students.

The boys mostly looked charming in their tuxes. However, these aren't
boring tuxes of simple black and white. i particularly liked the
patterned vests, often in a tasteful grey or black and white pattern,
but definitely something with style and umph. One of my students
was striking in a white and blue tux to match his date. His fiancee,
which surprised me since he definitely always gave the impression of
not having a girlfriend. Male students are always so much more coy
about their dating than females, who will often write about their
boyfriends in journals and such. Not so shocking, I guess.

My teacher posse hit the dance floor for a few songs, then we jetted
over to the bar in the adjacent restaurant. At this point, I was
pretty bored and would have been game for hitting a dance club, if I
knew of any. However, instead, I drank my mai tai (without even
getting a good buzz, which is surprising for me) and listened to this
group of colleagues gossip. Nothing terribly fascinating, but
interesting to hear what other groups have to say about others and to
pick up on little conflicts and tensions.

I think this is probably my last prom. I feel a bit comforted
knowing I didn't miss much, from what I saw. And now, I don't have
the red dress taunting me to be worn.

Ode To Grooveva

I clearly remember the first time I met Grooveva. It was the first meeting of my, at the time, new boyfriends friends. She had her Bukowski. The occasion was open mic night at the Big Fish in Glendale. The part of Glendale near the railroad tracks and warehouses. Real classy. Nonetheless, I was nervous as hell. Grooveva, with several drinks in hand, threw a few off hand comments my way and then became absorbed in the music and redneck scenery of the locals of the bar. I, not knowing her, took it as a personal snub. Newly in love, I was convinced she had a crush on (hm, was going to say my man but anyone who has met him would know that just is not fitting) this guy I was with. This continued on for a while, but I soon realized she was a part of this family of friends. The ex assured me there was nothing to worry about. And I knew there wasnt.

So, one day, in the after-show diner meet-up (the ex is a musician), Grooveva and I were both saying how we wanted to see About Schmidt and had afternoons off. I suggested meet up and go together. Later, I learned, this shocked everyone else at the table. Not sure why. (In retrospect, I see, that we were both the outsiders of the group, the stray dogs, so to speak, of the family, and were supposed to be eternally loyal and grateful, not go off and start our own game of fetch).

Now, I see, this is the perfect Grooveva movie: all mushy and heartwarming with a cool and nonchalant exterior.

However, the true depth of Groovevas humanity came post break-up (between my ex and I). Out of all the family, she was the one who made the effort to maintain friendships on both sides and did so not only successfully, but with grace and ease.

On the rare occasion that someone asks how we met, I am still amused by this story. Out of all of the people I met through the ex, initially, Grooveva and I seemed least likely candidates for friendship.

If our going to a movie shocked the family, I can only imagine what our pending trip to Costa Rica would register on their surprise meters. Hell, I know they probably could care less what I do with my time (really, who does care? Perhaps those bothering to read this). . . but . . . still, the beauty of the unexpected and hidden treasures in interacting with other human beings make it all worth muddling through.

So, Grooveva, thanks for keeping me in the loop of your world (and all the great show tips). Looking forward to our adventures down south.

Two Drink Minimum

Really, it isn't my fault. What else could I do? Grooveva was driving. The Dresden had a two drink minimum once we scored one of the coveted tables (though none of the male species present was man enough to sit down at the extra two chairs and buy us the second drink. Hell, I'd have taken a third -- not that I needed it). So, what else could I do but start with a black russian followed by a mai tai. Yes, I need to develop my drink repetoire a bit more, make it more consistent and sophisticated

I have been feeling a bit like crap all week and swore this weekend I would get rest and go back to treating my body well. So much for that. Despite my earlier raving about the cleansing birthday fast and hike, I think what stuck with me more was the drinking binge the next evening.

So, now, E, it is time for you to hold me accountable to my vow to treat myself better.

Yet, somehow, in the midst of this, I have mastered the headstand, a pose that has always been a bit touch and go for me, with more off days than on. Sadly, at this moment, seated at my computer, the room feels a bit like I am in a headstand.

Well, I hope the NSA doesn't catch wind of this and pass it on to my poor mother, who would be so disappointed in me.

"America's Top Model promotes positve self image for girls" and other lies UPN told me

Memo in my box on Friday:

Free Book Covers from UPN

I, becoming more and more removed from pop culture, actually read on not knowing what UPN was at the moment.

UPN is providing comers promoting the launch of the Americans Next Top Model . . . We hope that these covers can replace those already torn so that you can continue to protect your expensive textbooks.

Read: We hope we can get free advertising and could care less about your textbooks (much like the students).

Americas Next Top Model promotes positive self image for girls that are in the high school age range and teaches them about the challenges people endure for their dreams and careers.

Right. Like the fact that your hair wont flip the right way one day, or it is too neat to properly get that disheveled look. Like worrying that the fact that you have a butt makes you fat. Woe is the life of the top model.

I say: Keep your propaganda out of my school. I will resist and continue to collect brown paper shopping bags and pass down the ancient art of making them into textbook covers.

Desert of the Red Dress

A few weeks ago, the hope that this romantic desert I have been crossing would come to an end and that a rich rainforest was on the horizon sparked in my heart. I feel I did my work and am ready to move on to engage with men again in as healthy a manner as the average person. Maybe even a bit healthier. I admit, at this time, I am not sure exactly what I a seeking. Serious or not, I am willing to give something a try. More than willing. Longing perhaps. Though not in a desperate way (see Two Drink Minimum and its comments).

In order to keep this hope and manifest it, I splurged on a fabulous red dress and new shoes, perfect for a night of salsa dancing. I even purchased some extra goodies for . . . all to no avail.

Yet, I had the red dress. My field of dreams. If it remains in my closet, he will come. Only I cant even imagine a date where this red dress would be appropriate in were too cool to be anything but casual LA.

Until this week. It began with my students asking if I would be there. Then, I ran into a colleague who invited me along with some other faculty members. Yes, the senior prom. Ironically, I never went to my own prom. I imagine Ill make some minor small talk with the other teachers and my students. It will be interesting to see them outside of class, all dressed up. And for them to see me outside of class, all dressed up. Moreover, it will give me some sort of new credibility since I showed up at an after hours school function.

Sadly, though, my big excitement for the evening is wearing the new dress. Yet, I wonder if I should save it. Though, saving something never made the desired objective come more quickly. Usually it just results in realizing I denied myself enjoyment of what I do have. So, fuck the field of dreams. I own the dress. I shall wear it and laugh out loud in the middle of my desert.

Who are the immigrants?

Today is International Labor Day. Our nations newfound awareness of this day I dont ever remember celebrating or acknowledging this growing up marks the growing influence of what seems to be a new movement in the United States, led mostly by immigrant rights groups. My parents are immigrants, yet in the current debate, I still feel so American. I grew up around immigrants mostly from Hungary but none were illegal. Most were solidly middle class. Though never as American as the blond cheerleaders, I also never felt like an outsider (well, not based on my ethnicity). Then again, my language and my appearance did not signify my immigrant roots.

Teaching in a Latino school in Los Angeles requires me to reassess my identity as an American and as a daughter of immigrants. My awareness of my privilege of my whiteness is more apparent in comparison to the obstacles my students face. As an outsider there, my dark hair and eyes allow me to blend a bit and when I first started students would ask if I am Mexican or Latina. When they realized I wasnt, the assumption jumped to me being a rich, privileged white who lived in Beverly Hills and drove a fancy car. For this, they were determined to make me suffer the guilt of the transgressions of whites against all others. It worked at times. I often wondered, if I spoke Spanish, if I could pass as Latina, floating between the worlds of white Studio City and Latino East LA as most of us code-shift between informal and formal language as we go from home to work. However, I dont, so they must learn to deal with me, as an outsider who is also a part of their community via the school. They have begun to see me as at least an ally, someone who will allow them to speak their minds without judgment and who share my opinions honestly. Thus develops a sense of obligation to each other and seeing ourselves in new ways in light of this new connection.

Yet, as a daughter of immigrants and an educator of immigrants who tries to inspire their activism and claiming of their own voices, why did I feel so reluctant to take part in the rallies and boycotts throughout LA, the country, and the world on this May Day? I felt my not going to work would hurt me more than make a statement. In fact, it was quite a normal day at school. Almost peaceful with room to breathe with only two thirds of the students on campus. Not shopping is not really an issue I only do that about once a week anyway. Still, I did not see myself as having a role in this pageant. Students asked if I was going to the rally. As I answered that I probably would not, I felt a sense of guilt and embarrassment in my hypocrisy. When my carpooling partner said he was going to go to the rally via subway after he dropped me off, I decided to go, both for myself and for my students.

Dressed in my brown corduroy pants and black shirt, without sunglasses or a hat or any of my Hungarian paraphernalia, I could not have been less prepared for a rally. We rode a subway crowded with families and groups of friends in sparkling white shirts, made whiter next to the various shades of brown skin, jet-black silky hair, and liquid black eyes. Unfortunately, the subways in LA have the standing grip bar much higher than in NY, leaving my arm a bit cramped after the slow ride down to MacArthur Park.


The park had the air of holiday. The sun gleamed through the rather clear air as protesters lounged on the green grass surrounding the lake. Observers lined the wall along Wilshire Boulevard. Some played guitars while waiting. Many seemed as if this lounging on a day off was the extent of their protest, and, given the relaxed atmosphere, I am sure everyone would applaud that choice. Something about this reminded me of a massive version of the Hungarian club picnics. Young people held hands and darted in and out of the crowd. Older participants strolled casually or participated from the sidelines waving flags as the procession passed, chanting with the crowd where their feet could not carry them. People smiled and laughed. Si se puede crescendoed the crowd any time a camera, still or video, was within site. No one questioned the presence of my companion and I, obviously not Latinos, particularly when I asked him, who is whiter than I am, to translate some of the chants.

Though I feel strongly about some aspects of this issue and generally support finding humane and fair solutions for those who marched along with me, I did have to wonder about the efficacy of chanting in Spanish for the full rights of U.S. citizenship. At times, I could not help but question my purpose for being there and what is this crowd really saying. Perhaps this is why I do not participate in large activist events I have trouble going along with large crowds and massive sloganized political statements. Yet, I was happy to be there to at least stand up for what parts I believe in, though I know no one else would exactly what that was in the sea of people.



For a protest, the festive and positive tone pleased me. Sure, signs proclaimed disgust with the powers that be. Maid in America was worn on the back of one woman. Send us your tired and poor . . .. WE are your tired and poor captioned a sketch of the Statue of Liberty. The real criminals are in the White House, yelled a neon pink sign. The American flags outnumbered those of Mexico, Brazil, El Salvador, and other countries of origin of the millions of participants. It was patriotic. I was appreciative of all who were there and all who let us pass without incident. Even the little children waving flags and joining in the si se puede chorus that set the beat for our walking seemed to be having fun, showing no signs of weariness or reluctance. More than anger, there was joy and pride in the protesters voices and on their faces. Next to me, a woman held a baby bundled in a soft pink blanket, breastfeeding as she marched. She smiled humbly at me as I smiled back. There was something beautiful about this young mother, glowing with her child attached to her breast as she participated in a moment of unity and voice for and for the daughter she feeds. And the daughter? Perhaps something from that day will implant itself into her subconscious mind and she will be the first Latina president? I felt confident she would be more compassionate than our current president.

After walking with the protesters for about 10 blocks, the sun had heated my black shirt and my squinting eyes grew irritated. We needed to find a subway station to catch the train back home. In Koreatown, where we expected more Asian immigrants to join us but did not see any, we headed up Vermont and back to the San Fernando Valley, on another subway car backed with now sweaty and sleepy protesters.

I never made it to yoga. I cant say I feel any sense of great political efficacy by having been to this rally nor do I have a clearer understanding of the nuances of the immigration laws that are in debate. In fact, they seem a bit cloudier (besides the one that would make felons of illegal immigrants and those who show them any humanitarian aid). I do feel honored to have witnessed what I believe to be the beginning of a new movement and chapter in American social and political history (positive or destructive will remain to be seen). Moreover, I did gain of sense of connectedness to this issue, sensing, though it is not obvious, that I do have a place in this movement and in this debate. Despite what the protesters faces would leave us to conclude, I was reminded that immigrant is not equal to Mexican. Immigrant is my Hungarian parents and my companions Canadian heritage and really, even more so, anyone who has any roots outside of the Indian heritage of this land. Ive heard it said that the pilgrims are the original illegal immigrants. Nice rhetoric, but how does that inform the decisions we must make today?