Sunday, December 11, 2011

Rejoice: Christmas Bells are Ringing








Rejoice: Christmas Bells Are Ringing

Christmas is a special time of year and unlike Ramadan, Eid and Easter whose dates are determined by a complex formula based on lunar phases, Christmas is so soothingly predictable, falling on December 25th each year. As the season of merriment and family love approaches, for me, there are just eight things that raise the anticipation of the coming Christmas holiday: snowfall, with the big soft wet flakes, halogen Christmas lights, Andrei Boucelli singing most anything, Handel’s Messiah, Halloween because that’s when the Christmas displays first appear in stores everywhere, CBC’s Vinyl Cafe, putting on snow tires and road side police checks. A unique and magnificent time of year to be sure.

Putting up Christmas lights is mood altering especially if done in inclement weather at low temperatures while standing on a shaky aluminum ladder on uneven ground trying to reach that one last inch to attach the brittle light cord just so under the eavestrough.  People who put lights up in October during favourable weather conditions, or who even worse, leave their lights up all year, are wimps. 

I have put up lights in gale force winds, at minus 30 conditions, and have fallen off of ladders while my daughter, safely inside the warm cozy house, by a fire place, with yule logs and stockings hung with care can from her perspective, behind the key board of the family piano, while playing ‘Silent Night’ watched her father glide vertically across her line of sight and bury himself in a snowbank, stunned, but full of Christmas spirit.

I especially enjoy the spirit imbued in those who decorate their yards with inflatable Santas, herds of feral reindeer, sleighs, coloured, brightly lit candy canes along their driveway, silvery icicles from the roof line, flashing lights in bushes and trees and any number of electronic devices and moving decorative paraphernalia all sucking up mega kilowatts of electricity. ‘Tis the season to be jolly in brown out conditions leaving an every so tiny carbon footprint like a little Christmas kitchen mouse.

Nothing matches the true meaning of Christmas, the “Ode to Joy,” while rushing to and enjoying the immense crush of frantic days before Christmas crowds in urban shopping malls around the planet.  Truly Christmas is that one and only glorious time which brings the Christian world together when asked the magical seasonal phrase, “Will that be cash or charge?”  

Malls are a magical place which showcase the best in human accomplishment, good will and consumer friendly exchange policies on Boxing Day.  Where else can a person go to absorb the subtle nuances and celebratory charm than at a Western style shopping mall, revved up for maximum sales with a universal multiplier effect on the entire economy. 

What could be more joyful and fulfilling than listening to Bing Crosby sing 'White Christmas' relaxing the involuntary muscle system controlling the purse strings while the Salvation Army volunteer gently rings a brass Christmas hand bell seeking a generous donation for the downcast, than being in a mall at Christmas. It warms my soul.

Thursday, December 8, 2011

Gourmet by Increments






Gourmet by Increments
I have observed that the more prestigious the restaurant, the more famous the name, the ones in the better parts of town, with the gourmet chefs and the five star ratings, that their portions, although artistically arranged, as its all about presentation on large white plates with swirls of sauce, bestowed with garnishes, become tinier and costlier with names less recognizable with ingredients more exotic until one day we will be served air while wearing the emperors new clothes and leaving a generous tip to the friendly waitress then crossing the street and ordering a slice of pizza  “To Go.”

Friday, December 2, 2011

Bad Day





Bad Day

I forgot my bank card
at the ATM on Tuesday,
but that's okay because
there's no money left
in the account.

My left tire was flat
when I left the bank,
but that's okay because
the bank is repossessing
my car on Thursday

I was off on a sick day today
but that's okay because it was
really a mental health day because
my son told me his mother is
having an affair and thought
I should know.

I got an e-mail from my
eighteen year old daughter
Who was characteristically mean
and told me never to contact
her again, but that's okay
the bank took my car and
it's only Thursday.

Litigating Time

Litigating Time

We had our private terms of endearment
Like sunshine and buttercup blossom
so corny and so real.
We floated in each other's eyes during
Romantic walks,  making love in
Every room in the house until gradually
What was most endearing
Became somewhat annoying
And we made love in only the bedroom.
I wasn't far enough in my career to be a success.
She started to travel more with hers and
Wore black lace negligee
But not for me.
Our arguments grew more frequent
The silences longer.
We hung in for the kids.
Until finally one day we were litigating over
The bedroom clock.

Thursday, November 24, 2011

Sally Ann




Sally Ann
The shelves were sparse, the Christmas decorations
used and worn, he trudged the aisles in search
of a bargain,
his long white hair in curls under a dirty gray baseball cap,
in his cart a plastic angel with chipped paint and a lighted
sign
 “ Rejoice.”

Friday, October 21, 2011

Censorship

This article has been censored for your reading enjoyment and moral safety…
Censorship in Kuwait
I’m holding a text book in my hand entitled “World History for a Global Age:  Age of Imperialism to the Present”.  It was published in New Jersey by Pearson Education, Inc., 1993. For what it is I find it a worthy text book to use for my Special Ed grade 12 class currently studying this topic. I mention this book only as an exemplar representing just about any history text book I may pick up in the library at my school in Kuwait.  This book has been stamped on the cover page indicating that it has gone through the censorship process through the Ministry of Education.  
On page 121 I come across an opaque piece of green tape covering a few paragraphs of text.  On the next page is a large piece of red coloured paper glued on to the page in order to cover the text beneath. On the next page, with silver marker, someone has meticulously stroked out another paragraph, typical of censorship in this country. 
 My students are the ones who demonstrate that by holding the pages up to the window it is possible to read the taboo words that lie beneath.  The topic is Israel and the holocaust.  The red covered page is a picture of Jewish concentration victims. The green covers a paragraph on the death camps. As I casually page through other parts of the book I get a rainbow effect of alternative pages of red, green and silver.  Someone has been very busy.
If I go to my computer and Google those same censored topics, using the same search words buried by the censors I can quickly find whatever it is I care to know.  I begin to think that the work of a censor is never done.  It’s like the street cleaners on Kuwaiti streets. Every day there is more litter and every day they clean it up.  It is perpetual.  Everyday there will be another web site. One must pity the task of the censor…there is just too much truth to be covered.
Magazines and movies are also censored here.  Many western magazines are available here.  It seems that western publishers seem to believe that women in various stages of undress and allure sell magazines.  Works on me.  However, pick up such a magazine and any of the offending skin and/or cleavage is covered with a black magic marker.  Just imagine somewhere in this country are a group of dedicated men hired to do this daunting yet pointless task.  I would love to be a fly on the wall and hear what the censors might have to say as they work. 
 “Hey Assiz check this babe out.  I would love to have 70 just like her.” 
 Co-censor Suleiman listens, looks longingly at the picture and answers, “Why, do you think she’s a virgin?”
Assiz ponders the question as he bites his tongue while tenderly fondling the page adding just the right amount of black marker to the offending cleavage and answers, “Is Mohammad Muslim?”
Movies are also censored here.  A movie with sex will never make it to a theatre near you, while a movie with violence will barely get touched. Values? 
 The Disney version of Pocahontas has a scene in which John Smith and she kiss, but not in Kuwait.  There is a gap in the viewing as the British imperialist swine imposes his value system on the lovely, yet naïve, Pocahontas.
 My students often say they prefer to watch movies in America where they aren’t censored.  This is of course grossly unfair to the censors who have worked long hard hours in the film industry only to have travel happy Kuwaitis leave the country to watch the feature presentation in an uncut format. 
I would just hate to be a censor here as it is probably the most unappreciated job going.  It’s like working immigration and customs at the Kuwait International airport taking alcohol away from westerners.  There seems to be an infinite supply.  Although, prohibition did work well in America, just ask Al Capone.  
What I really think is XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX and XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX, but of course who would believe me!
Marty (last name withheld)

On Being a Man














On Being a Man
It is common knowledge that real men don’t eat quiche, just as it is equally understood that real women don’t pump gas.  Certain things are just not done and certain social barriers are not crossed. We are also told that men are from Mars and women are from Venus. Real Men watch action movies with chase scenes and gratuitous sex, lots of gratuitous sex, they value their stoic independence, they do not eat vegetables or fruit cake, they do not ice when injured, take directions when lost, or reveal their inner emotions  even to those closest to them, they are masters of the barbecue, an obvious carry over from our proud Neanderthal heritage.
Apparently, there are differences between the sexes.  I’m not talking about the basic anatomical differences, such as large, voluptuous, firm breasts with exciting parabolic curves, or wrap around legs that go on forever, thick hair with that wild come hither look with a Jennifer Lopez ass. Those are all superficial trappings that men don’t even think about more than once every three seconds.  I really want to say something meaningful about the male side of the equation, real men versus “Betty Crocker” men.
At first I thought real men drank lots of beer and constantly watched sports. Talked about sports.  Read sports magazines and sometimes got off the couch and played sports, or just got up to to get more beer. Some men get off the couch just because they can.  It really varies.  These observations may be unfair and a crude and an inaccurate stereotype that doesn’t apply to more than 90% of the male population.  I began to look deeper into what defines manhood.  There had to be more than these few superficial indicators.
At my place of employment there are several guys who live and breathe sports. I can rarely take part in any of the conversations.  Every since the NHL recently expanded from 6 teams I am no longer with the program or in any way in the sports loop.   These guys know the names and stats on every pro and college team in Canada and the United states in any sport.  They can talk at length, and usually do, about any combination of these teams and their players.  With this almost infinite knowledge they are able to bet and lose large sums of money each and every week end.  It is an amazing skill set, but does it encapsulate the essence of what it is to be a man or is it just an escape mechanism geared to keep women out?
In some sports related conversations I can ask certain innocuous and generic questions concerning the half time shows, a theoretical question on violence in amateur and pro hockey versus the non contact Olympic-type hockey.  I know I am actually better advised to stay out of these conversations as I usually get evil impatient looks, or, the opposite polite superficial answers to my lame questions and/or comments, which led me to question my masculinity which in turn resulted in 3 years of expensive and intensive therapy.  I don’t talk sports any more.  I began to question my own maleness.  I was at a low point in my life.  I contemplated watching the Super Bowl.
Through therapy the first thing I realized was that everybody needs it and every one can benefit from it in some way.  We are all screwed up to some degree.  My masculinity was not necessarily in question.  My “puck envy” was not really an issue.  I soon discovered that there were in fact lots of things that real men can do and talk about as long as it doesn’t have anything to do with feelings, emotions, monthly cycles of any type, budgeting, balanced diets, window treatments, matching colour schemes, food preparation and household chores.  Otherwise we as men are not confined to sports topics our conceptual world appears in techno colour with Dolby surround sound. Men can converse on just about any topic.  Let me give you an example.
Men do like to talk about their sexual exploits either real or imagined.  These stories often go back to university days if they attended, or high school days if they did not.  Most of this type of conversation can be heard in men’s locker rooms after showering and still naked. I’m talking a wide range of venues including but not limited to: private racquet clubs, various fitness and golf clubs, and the YMCA.  Men will also talk about business and investments.  As a group, men like to boast about accomplishments of a physical nature, or the parallel in the business world talk is cheap and conversations turn to hostile take over bids and other forms of accusition. We, as men,  seem to be busy preening our feathers in mating rituals and bragging quite a lot of the time, there does seems to be an abundance of pomp and circumstance.  Did the emperor actually get new clothes?
While living on my own for several years I had to develop domestic survival skills. One day I found myself in the laundry room of my apartment.  A place I have learned to hate with a passion.  Sorting laundry seems to be such a simple thing to do.  I will now sort the laundry. I will put lights here and darks here.  Although I am pleased to report that I have discovered where all the missing socks go,  I am not at liberty to tell.  In my laundry room there is a large sorting table in the geographic center of the room. In fact the whole place is very organized; all the driers along one wall and all the washer along another wall, creating the amusing situation in which one has to remove the wash from one side of the room and some how transport it to the other side of the room some 15 feet away. The room was obviously designed by a man. On a related theme all female public bathrooms were also designed by men.  I’ll go no further.
Here’s a good example demonstrating the difference between the sexes and how one seems to depend on the other in very simple ways.  While sorting my laundry even in the best of light I defy anyone to identify at least 7 times out of 10 a blue sock from a black one.  I can not do this.  However, the elderly, legally blind lady on the other side of the sorting table miraculously “seeing” my problem was able to help me with my dilemma.  I was both amazed and appreciative. I value my male independence and the varied survival skills I have acquired while still depending on a blind octogenarian woman to sort my wash.  
Fishing trips are a time and a place for men to express their maleness in it highest form.  It is a time to drink, eat food out of a can, sleep, trade stories and lewd jokes and fart in public, constantly.  I was on such a fishing trip as a rite of passage.  It was the opening of trout season in April when it was still too cold to sleep in a tent.  In fact we brought electric space heaters and plugged them and ran them on high for 24 hours a day.  Our tents were toasty warm.  Leaving a small carbon footprint is also another male trait.
 The actual alpha fishermen amongst us got up before the break of dawn.  Dawn broke for me at my convenience because I had my own tent and heater and did not fish.  I heard the other guys get up in the dark and stumble and swear as they bumped into things and each other before making their way to the river only a few hundred meters away.  At the river they baited their hooks with some miserable dew worm, who also didn’t want to wake up and really did not want to die even if it was of a Hindu disposition and may in an ironic twist come back in another life as a trout.   Either way that worm did not have a future.  The guys cast out their lines opened a bottle of beer (the sun was not up yet) and fell asleep in their sleeping bags on the ground or in lounge chairs, snoring contentedly next to their fishing gear.  It was a true vision of manly sportsmanship.  Man against nature in its highest form, as God intended.  
I eventually wandered by seeking male companionship after waking up some two and a half hours later.  I made a point of photographing everybody sleeping with their beer and later e-mailed the pictures to their wives and girl friends who found the pictures revealing and entertaining and served as a constant source of ridicule at dinner tables for months to come.  Oddly, I was not invited on the fishing trip the following trout season.
No one caught any fish that year.  It wasn’t just about the thrill of the chase, that was immaterial.  We were all about male bonding, camaraderie and sharing stories around the camp fire. Returning home, smelling of  campfire smoke and bacon fat while suffering from mild hyperthermia, but secure in our notion that while on the fringes of civilization facing great odds and limited beer stocks we had not only defined our individual male identities but also merged  and bonded as a group.  
When I got back home dirty and smelling like road kill, my dear wife asked me what we had eaten and if our meals included any vegetables.
I looked at her with bemused wonderment and said, “Dear, real men don’t eat vegetables.”
Marty Rempel
“The Wonder Years”

Saturday, May 14, 2011

Provincial Achievement tests






 A Few Deviant Thoughts Concerning Standardized Testing
or
Achievement Testing as Misnomer...
Each year, in the province of Alberta, students in grade 3, 6 and 9 are tested across the province, and on the same day, in areas of science, math, social studies and language skills.  The reasoning seems sound. Get base line scores on schools and students as to achievement over time. Perhaps, it makes teachers more accountable and raises standrads and improves learning.  Its for the benefit of students.  For a long time I bought into much of that line of thought until last week when I observed the grade three class at my school preparing for the PAT (provincial achievement tests).
When all attend, this grade three class numbers about 23 souls, many of them are coded meaning they have more severe learning disabilities and/or behavioural problems than the rest of their peer group.  Alberta Learning (Ministry of Ed) allows for students with special needs to have certain accomodations for writing the PAT and these could include anything from more time, the use of a calculator or the use of a scribe or a reader.  There are some in this grade three class who need all of these accomodations. There are 11 who need both a scribe and a reader and two who need readers.
As I absorbed these statistics and accomodations I began to realize the absolute stupidity and futility of this test writing exercise. What could it achieve? How could it in any way benefit these fragile, below grade level native students?  Who else in the province was doing what we were that day in way of preparation?
Rhetorics aside I helped the home room teacher prepare for the fateful day in such a way as to minimize the negative impact on the students and to possibly reduce the spectre and stigma that hangs over my school as the lowest achieving school in the entire province.  The low ranking is largely determined by the out come of the PAT tests.  My students, like the school they attend, are locked into a negative vortex of achievement and no amount of testing will change that reality.  We do not need more testing.
In preparation I arranged for 13 volunteers to come to class as scribes and pharacies to assist in the interpretation of the test questions.  We split the students into two groups, one brushed with Crest and another with a non-flouride toothpaste, if only it were that simple.  Our set up with scribes, readers, and students now totalled 36 and was a spectacle to behold.  I intructed the scribes and readers not to interpret, explain, cue, hint or lead the students in any way.  
The role of the scribe or the reader is to be a neutral robotic like presence who does not alter the purity of the student thought process.  That was the theory, in reality everyone, including myself, felt such an overwhelming pity for these students that we brain stormed with them, we enhanced their vocabulary, explained, hinted, cued and all the things I told them not to do.  We did these things with a tinge of guilt and with a freshness of hope to get through these pointless test exercises.  
As the writing began those with ADHD, fetal alcohol syndrom, opposistional definace, OCD, dyslexia and other issues, and depite the host of adults in the class with benevelent intent could not stop the anxiety nor the fits and tears.  One student, literally cried out after only a few minutes of testing, “I will never be good enough to do this.”  Another girl, prone to emotional outbursts, ran from the class where I found her banging her feet on the floor and the back of her head against the wall. She would not speak and she would not stop her self abuse until I physically intervened.  Testing at its finest.
I was working with an eight year old boy who I knew suffered from FAS but was never officially diagnosed or documented. How many parents, mother’s especially want to admit to drinking while pregnant. My student is a delightful boy who greets me in the halls with hugs. He does not have a coherent thought in his head and I was trying to focus him on a story starter about a flying saucer landing next to a camp ground where a family sat before a campfire.  You know things totally relevant to his live experiences.
From the picture cue my student was required to develop the elements of character, plot, and setting in order to make a story of some relevance and interest with a beginning, middle and end.  This of course was not going to happen. In the end the story he dictated to me in rambling phrases and mumbled half thoughts sounded amazingly like the animated movie UP.  What the two had in common I had no idea.  My little guy distracted by every item in the class just wanted to run free from his task.  He eventually did.
Next week we will assembly again for the “real deal.”  I feel we will accomplish some mighty things that the Ministry does not intend.  Some of my grade three students will discover through their frustration and growing test taking anxiety yet another level of failure.  They will realize that the only way they can preform a simple task is with a classroom full of adult readers and scribes.  They will confirm that they are different and eventually intuitively know, or be told they are years behind the rest of the province. They will surely reinforce their belief in their own lack of worth.  
In addition we will provide the Fraser Institute and others with more qauntitative irrefutable data that our school is and will remain the lowest achieving school in Alberta.  Because of this rating we will be further forgotten with the hope that one day we will disappear as an embarassment.
Teachers will also learn the necessity of teaching to the test and not the curriculum, or even better, to the interests of the students.  The Ministry will have its valuable data secure in the knowledge that high levels of accountability in the province have been measured quantified and eventually extrapalated to be used in effective progressive provincial educational policies which will be then be under funded, forgotten and ignored, but I am only a single alarmist and should be ignored.  My ideas are not statistically significant.
I am not against student evaluation, but I think it has to be meaningful and work within the context of the local school and culture. I could be persuaded to support a sampling technique across the province on a random basis.  This works in opinion polls used by politicians, why not in student testing?  It has the extra bonus of saving millions of dollars, some of which could be funneled toward schools such as mine so that at such a time they are randomly selected for testing they might actually do better than they presently do. Just a thought.

Across the board, standardized tests which include outliers such as my school do more damage than good.  Our low achievement has been adequately documented, now please just provide us the resources to do something about it.  Provincial Achievement Tests, a misnomer at best, are not progressing our cause.

Wednesday, May 4, 2011

toys and technology

Our Fate




I still marvel at the wonders of technology, and it is often during that same moment of wonderment that my kids give me that “duh-whatever-are-you-new” look at my naivety. Call me simple, but when I am sitting in a truck stop in rural Alberta looking at a picture on my Blackberry taken just seconds before at my grandson’s birthday party in Waterloo, Ontario and then in turn be able to forward that very same picture wrapped in a microwave signal to a communication tower, then ricocheted off to a satellite in a geostationary orbit around Earth, shot back to the Earth’s surface and on to my sister, also in Waterloo, all in micro seconds, well, that to me is mind boggling wonderful like a hand dipped ice cream cone. Technology has its place and I love my Blackberry like my first car.

When Bill Gates went to high school, computer programming was still in its infancy. He was lucky though, according to Malcolm Gladwell author of the Outliers, Gates went to a school that had a remote computer terminal with programming capacity, a rarity at the time. Access to this terminal and the opportunities for practicing programming was one of the initial factors, along with a measure of talent, dedication and a little OCD thrown in which turned Bill into the successful billionaire that he is and may explain why he does not return my calls.

As for me, I was born five years before Bill Gates and by the time I went to university my first programming course was completed with a relatively crude programming style using Fortran on a key punch terminal. My clumsy programs would then be presented to a computer operator as a thick stack of cards bundled together with an elastic band and God help you if you ever dropped that deck because numbered cards had not been invented yet.

Now I’m not saying that had I been born a mere five years later into an upper middle class family in Seattle Washington, and had my dad been a lawyer and my mom a bank official, and if by some fortuitous chance my high school had better computer technology, maybe, just maybe, well, I’ll just leave the possibilities to you. As it is now I still struggle with technology. The gods and fates are so fickle.

I marvel at the technology that gives margarine a yellow colour and allows us to make twenty different mustard brands, and aluminum pop cans so thin you can crush them against your forehead with minimal cranial damage. I marvel at pop tarts filled with mystery chemicals, “wonder” bread that never gets stale, hybrid cars that seemingly run forever, electric razors that clean themselves and Nair, a hair removal product for women. But In my excitement, for all the good things in life, I am getting ahead of my story.

I have to admit to a certain degree of humiliation, or a strong sense of my mortality, when I tour a museum and witness on display, for the world to see, artifacts that had been created during my own life time. This occurrence surprises me because I’m not that old, really, even though I can get senior rates at most movie theatres and have for some time, I am really not that old. I guess I said that already. Items from my childhood, like metal toys built before the days of plastic, now sell on e-Bay for amazing prices. And I have seen displays of antiquated computer technology dating back as far as the early 1980’s.

I think fondly of the metal friction engine powered toy cars and trucks I had as a kid. I was the proud owner of a Rolls Royce Silver Cloud and a 1954 Cadillac. I had a blue one my brother a red one. I also owned a Rexall friction engine powered tandem transport truck. As a result I have favoured Rexall products well into adulthood, a tribute to the power of advertising.

On a recent shopping spree through e-Bay I managed to pick up an antique, vintage cast metal toy race car for $95.85. The identical one I had as a child probably cost my mother $1.47. As a footnote, do they have to use such a pejorative term, such as antique, when referencing my childhood toys? I take offence.

I also found a set of three Branchline HO scale railroad box cars, still in the original box for $58.87. I think whoever could keep a toy in a box for 56 years is a master of delayed gratification and deserves the asking price. My favourite find was a 1950 dinky toy, a scale model metal toy of a Borden’s milk delivery truck at 1:24 scale for $67.00.

The Borden milk truck for me is a trip down memory lane to a simpler age when guys in white suits delivered milk right to the house from trucks parked curb side. There were even little doors on the side of the house into which the milkman could place a range of dairy products. When I was in high school my cousin John hired me as his assistant to deliver milk house to house from a milk wagon pulled by horse. I think the horse knew the route better than we did. We would get our deliveries together in a metal basket, step from the wagon and as if on cue the horse would pull the wagon up to the next house.

Although the days of milk delivery, even during that summer in the 60’s, were drawing to a close, the dairy thought it would revitalize the market for home delivery through the nostalgic use of horse drawn vehicles. It was not to last. I had my summer fun. Today, with improved technology and in our modern ways, we drive miles to a gas station to get those same products.




My last find on e-Bay was the one closest to my heart, a Dinky matchbox 1951 Volkswagen deluxe bug for $27.27. My first car was a similar model only a few years older. I drove that car until it was destroyed in an accident along with my heart, for that VW bug was my first car and my first love. I was side swiped making an illegal left turn into a farmer’s lane and the car, but not my life, was taken from me. I still keep my VW matchbox bug on my night table to this day and gaze at it with fondness.

The sad thing to day with kids and technology is that it is now all electronic. Seldom do I see kids outside playing Cowboys and Indians, Cops and Robbers, hide-and-go-seek, frozen tag and other outdoor pursuits because more likely than not children today are on their X-box, Wii or looking at a screen of some sort playing a game in a darkened basement recreation room and playing that game alone, or worse, with a partner on another continent who they will never see or meet.

I’m not trying to imply that life “back in the day” was better because it was simpler. I just prefer to see kids playing outside with balls and skipping ropes, playing tag, baseball or touch football in the rain or sunshine and certainly there is nothing more comforting and reassuring that certain childhood traditions will live on then when watching children playing out on school yard with their skipping ropes during a warm Spring day, as in their happy sing song voices I hear them say, “Strawberry shortcake, huckleberry pie, whose going to be your lucky guy?” The enders then up the pace and rush through the alphabet until the skipper misses the rope and it is at that very letter of the alphabet when the rope and skipper stop that fate has been sealed forever in play.


Sunday, April 17, 2011

ADHD: A flow of consciousness, out of body action adventure story






ADHD: a flow of consciousness, out of body, action adventure story
To make a cup of coffee is a simple, easy and speedy process.  Intuitively, one removes the permanent filter from the basket, empties it in the sink and rinses it out.  Pour water into the tank behind the filter. Measure the amount of coffee in proportion to the quantity of water and to the taste of the consumer. Close the lid.  Press the botton, wait a few minutes and voila, the perfect cup of Java. Simple!
This morning while waking up the primitive part of my brain, that part dedicated to survival, fight or flight and navigating night time trips to the washroom, flashed the imperative for coffee across the neon sign that was my brain.  At these moments despite just getting out of bed I am capable, as if tingling with spider like senses, to perceive the world holistically, instantly and perfectly.  As if with psychic ability my neurons are like super information highways and my entire being of mind and soul is sending and receivng one karmic, cosmic message at the same time. “Must have coffee.”  
The distance betwen the edge of my bed and the coffee machine is exactly 19 steps.  I stand up and begin the journey.
Only, before I reach the bedroom door I pause to pick up the socks and underwear I left on the floor the night before and put them into the laundry basket by my closet, I then think about laundry for a moment, for that is all it takes, and it seems that the basket is getting ominously full with dirty wash and being that it is Saturday I should probably do the wash and if I do the wash I should probably wash my bedding at the same time; so naturally I start to strip the bed and take the pillow cases off the pillows and stuff everything into the basket and it is then that I reason, it would only make sense to put the pajamas I am wearing at the time into the wash and be far more efficient in the process after all its all about time management; so without hesitation because time is of the essence I take them off, the pajamas that is, and then quickly realize the vulnerability of my nakedness and immediately go to the closet and get a flannel shirt that makes me feel like a lumberjack when really I don’t know the first thing about how to handle a chainsaw, but put the red checkered shirt on any way as I think its all about image and comfort however, I soon realize of course that I need a sweat shirt and socks, and pants would be helpful too, but my organizational paradigm has placed those items in an adjacent room, in fact in the guest bedroom, and in another dresser; so I leave the laundry basket and the stripped down bed to get my socks and put them on while at the same instant thinking boy I could sure use a coffee, and so at that moment,  for sometimes  doesn’t it just seem that life is all in the moment and what is more gratifying than to start the day with coffee; so I head to the kitchen now partially dressed, but as I leave the guest room I again see the job I had started with the laundry and think I should finish what I started which actually was to make coffee, but I have by this time temporarily lost sight of that goal in an effort to deal with this very large burden of laundry, but of course all part of my grand master plan, my God the basket was so full; so I got the basket and walked down the hall passing the second bedroom which is now really a computer room/art studio and I saw that I had left out some dirty dishes from the night before because it was here that I watch TV on the large definition I Mac screen (not I Max) instead of the TV in the living room that does not have nearly such a good resolution; so I set the laundry down by the computer and gathered up the dishes which I placed on a tray that I use as my TV table and carried the dishes out to the sink which is right next to the coffee machine and my God does a coffee sound good right about now; so I ignore the dishes for a while and clear the sink so I can go about cleaning the filter from the last time I made coffee which was the day before and as I bang the filter down over the drain the coffee comes out and I turn on the faucet to clean the filter and it is then that the snooze alarm goes off on my Blackberry convienently located on the night stand beside my bed  a mere 19 steps from the coffee machine; I head in that direction in order to reset the alarm clock function, but at the same time I notice that the red light is flashing on the top of my cell indicating that a mesaage has come in and I just have to marvel at the technology of how such a tiny but well crafted piece of electronics can nab a signal from space and connect me to the rest of the world my God it was a miracle; so I flick the pad with my thumb to the proper icon enablying me to see that there wasn’t just one message but three and while being conscience of good time management skills I thought that I would read all of my messages over a cup of hot coffee because I find that the first cup of the day is always the best and I look forward to that moment; so I took the 19 steps back to the coffee machine to finish making the coffee, however, on my way there I walked by the second bedroom and saw a laundry basket sitting on the floor, how on earth did that get there I wondered, so realizing but ever cognisant of the fact that tidyness is next to godliness I took a quick detour picked up the laundry basket and started for the laundry room which is really the cavernous dark unfinished basement, but as I left the bedroom I glanced across to the washroom and thought it would be wise to throw the towels into the wash as well, so once I gathered those I walked into the kitchen and saw that someone had started making coffee but never finished the process; so I set the wash basket down on the kitchen floor and took the coffee filter out of the sink and placed it into the basket in the coffee machine where it belonged, as I reached for the can of coffee which I always keep close at hand for convenience  I quickly realized that it was  almost empty which caused me to walk over to the cupboard on the other side of the kitchen where I have 17 cans of Illy coffee in readyness for such an occasion which by the way we got at a great price from Cosco, and I am aware that some people are of the school of thought that purchasing in such large quantities does not really save money, rather it promotes over consumption and waste, but how silly I thought you can never have too much coffee; so I picked up a can and as I walked back to the coffee machine I rather abruptly pulled the tab that releases the pressurized seal on the can of illy coffee and with a powerful implosion of air coffee was forced out of the can over my hands and onto the basket of laundry that I noticed with some degree of irritation  someone had left in the middle of the kitchen floor, that is just too dangerous; so I placed the can of coffee down next to the coffee machine picked up the laundry basket and quickly took it downstairs to the washing machine where I used one of the dirty towels to wash the coffee of my hands from the imploded Illy can while thinking what a busy morning it had been so far and I could sure use a cup of coffee right about now, but I am focussed on the task at hand and do not like gettting distracted, a quality I admire in myself for you see I had just finished reading the book Blink by Malcolm Gladwell, who is from Elmira which by the way is very close to my home town of Waterloo and he writes about the power of thinking without thinking  and that is precisely the methodology I use when sorting the wash and through the intrinsic process of thin slicing, a term from the book, my many years of domestic experience kicked in and in moments I am quite remarkably able to sort all the darks, semi darks and grey matter into one collosal pile and everything else into another. It is a unique binary organizational model that works for me, although admitately my wife is somewhat dubious about its application because as an artist she is able to subdivide a small pile of dirty laundry into 17 distinct colour groups much like paint chips in a hardware store, however, I have learned that good decision making  has less to do with how much information we pocess than our ability to focus on a few particular details and if that does not speak to my strong suit I don’t know what does and so with my laundry sorted and ready to go I then set the dials on the Maytag, as a got an image in my mind of the underemployed Maytag repairman from advertisements I had seen in the 80’s, I chuckled at my private joke and selected the extra rinse, set the water temperature and the like and measured quickly and accurately the exact amount of liquid soap being certain to put it in while the water was running allowing it to mix well before putting the clothing in, next I put the lid down and before I headed back up the stairs I quickly threw an anti static sheet into the drier as a handy time saving gesture in anticipation of the completed wash cycle, I find little details like that make a difference when it comes to time management; when I got to the base of the stairs I saw 12 containers of bottled water, which I hate to admit that I bought from Walmart, with 10 L in each container I thought that since I was downstairs anyway I should bring one up because I know I was running low on water upstairs and besides if I was about to make coffee I could use some more water because the tap water is full of toxins and heavy metals from the petroleum industry upstream from us, but not to lose focus on my story that is a whole other topic let me tell you; but because the water container was heavy I got to the top of the stairs and set it on the floor because I couldn’t set the water on the counter where it belongs because someone had set a tray of dirty dishes there, damn it if housework is never done you just finish one job and there’s always another one waiting; so I ran water in the sink, squeezed some liquid soap into the water and noticed a fine layer of coffee over the floor and part of the counter, where the hell did that come from I said out loud in my frustration, so naturally being somewhat of a neat freak I took a cloth to clean up the coffee mess; once done I put the tray of dirty dishes into the sink and started washing the dishes and as I washed I glanced over at the coffee machine sitting there with a basket of coffee but no water in the tank; so I paused from the dish washing and got the 10 L container of water I had just brought up from the basement and placed it on the counter, I took the lid off, but the water poured out way too slowly; so I got a sharp knife from the drawer and cut some holes in the top of the water container so the water would pour out faster, something about a vacuum or air block in the plastic container, I then took the coffee carafe from the coffee machine and filled it up with water and began to pour it into the tank; but as I poured I noticed, as if for the first time that this particular coffee machine, Hamilton Beach, had a timer that would  automatically turn the machine on at a predetermined and preset time, coffee would be steaming hot and waiting when I got up, but really wouldn’t that just take the joy out of the whole process of making and savouring that first sacred cup of coffee in the morning, what a silly and redundant invention I thought.
Finally, I sat down with my cup of coffee realizing for some mysterious reason I was running a bit late that morning. As I relaxed with my coffee and read some of my text messages from earlier I thought that after I finished with the laundry and made the bed, I could do a quick once over of reorganizing and cleaning out the garage...shouldn’t take too long.

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Public Education/residential schools/Northern Alberta





An Educational Story

Fort Chipewyan is a predominatly native community of Cree, Dene and Metis with a population of about 1000 on two reserves on either side of a municipal town site.  My school Athabasca Delta Community School is located in the town site and students bus in from the neighbouring reserves.  The school itself was built to have a trading fort frontier feel to it.  It works.

Native culture here, and likely in most native communities, values the importance of the family.  The role of the elders as a source of knowledge and wisdom is recognized and almost revered in native culture.  However, my truck driver/social worker pointed out that although these values are evident there is a significant disconnect between what is valued and what is practiced.  I was soon to learn that many families with links to residential schools are severely dysfunctional and native traditions were rapidly eroding.
Despite the fact that children are valued they are given very loose structure in their lives and little discipline. This type of scenerio often translates into students who do not know how to behave in a classroom and don’t want to be in school.  Many students rebel against the authority of the teachers.  They are openly and frequently defiant.  Students here, as in the general population, spend a disproportionate amount of time with video games.  I have grade one students telling me about the joys of playing “Grand Theft Auto.” 
I have grown to admire the public school teachers here and how they survive the ordeals of the every day classroom, their’s is not an easy job.  Sadly, some locals still regard teachers as outsiders and criticize them for coming to the community just for the money. Yet, in some cases they do not want native teachers in their classrooms as they feel they are not a qualified or as well trained. I heard one case of an Inuit teacher teaching in a Cree community causing one mother to complain.  After several months, and discovering that the Inuit teacher was quite capable, this mother had the good sense to apologize to the principal.  
I serve as the Special Education Coordinator at the only school in Fort Chipewyan and I work with most of the coded students, that is those who have been tested for learning disabilities and behavioural issues.  Of the approximately 230 students in the school I work with about forty on a regular basis. As I began working with my students it became very clear that there was very little literacy in their home life in the sense that they were usually not read to nor did they read for recreation.  They were after all ”Special Ed” students. But perhaps more significant is the fact that native culture is based on oral traditions and until Europeans gave the Cree a written language there were no written literacy skills. 
Many of my students are several grade levels behind in their literacy and numeracy skills.  I have high school students who can barely read and grade 3 students who do not know the alphabet or the sounds the letters make.  I work with a grade five student who wishes to improve his reading skills only to the point of being able to successfully take his driver’s test.  Many of these students are about to give up or already have.  Their anger and frustration quickly translates into acting out behaviour and severe discipline issues.
When a typical, if there is such a thing, middle class southern suburban child gets to school he has been read to, talked to and exposed to a wide range of vocabulary words and ideas thousands or tens of thousands of times before entering the classroom.  My impression here, in Chip, is that my Cree and Dene students arrive in school not having the advantage of the English spoken word, story times and chances at adequate vocabulary development. For many, English is a second language. My students begin the literacy race long after the green flag has gone down and too many of them never see the checkered flag.  This year our graduation class will be composed of four students.  The drop out rate is disturbing.
The Fraser Institute rates school in Western Canada based on very narrow perameters of performance and although I don’t accept their findings as difinitive, they do raise red flags.  My school is rated dead last in all of Alberta and many of the other low placed schools are also part of the Northland School Division.  
The sad thing about many of our students at all ages, but especially in the junior high grades is that they have given up on themselves. They have an unfortunate reverse or negative pride and seem to revere a lack of progress. It is just the opposite of self esteem expressed through a near total lack of achievement. Our school has no teams, or mottos and very little school spirit.
As an example, in the main foyer of our school is a fireplace with a circular sitting area.  Mid-morning, one school day while walking through I saw a senior student sleeping there.  To a guest at the school, or anybody else, the first thing they would see would be a student asleep on a bench.  I touched the student’s shoulder, big mistake, and asked him to sit up.  First I got the “don’t touch me I know my rights argument now prevalent in most schools everywhere, but after that episode I was told in strong indignant terms that he could sleep where he wanted, after all he said, “this is Chip not some southern school.”  Who was I to argue. I had already been told by some parents, whose children I had disciplined, that I don’t know the community or their kids.  Maybe they are right.
Students from “Chip” who have tried the public school system elsewhere, mainly in Fort McMurray and Edmonton, soon find themselves back at Athabasca Delta Community School because it is here that they can fail in their comfort zone.  They seem proud of their lethergy.  They take “pride” in their dysfunction.
Sometimes as teachers we get the feeling that we have been forgotten in our northern isolation. It is difficult and costly to get goods and services from the South as this is a fly in community with a winter road open for three months of the year. As a result of high transportation costs and a lack of care or resources the school and teacherages are very poorly maintained. 
Just this year alone our school has been closed due to furnace and boiler failures which resulted in frozen and burst pipes, which in turn caused massive flooding destroying my clasroom and everything in it as well as the ECS and grade one classrooms on the floor directly below my room.  Since the burst pipe had 7 hours of uninterupted flow time the water also took out the staffroom, hallways, the office and the library.  The sewers backed up and over flowed into the main floor washrooms.  The school was closed for several days only to be closed again due to, first a lack of propane pressure and no heat followed by too much propane pressure and a school overwhelmed with gas. Each event closed the school for several days.  Last year the school was closed for two months because of mold problems.  We don’t have to hope for snow days we just wait for something to break down and it always does.
I entered and won a writing contest this year promoting the merits of public education sponsored by the Alberta Teachers Association.  The contest required contestants to describe what it is that is special or unique about their school.  The contest operated under the theme of “My Alberta School.”  Naturally, I did not focus on test scores.  I entitled my piece “Continuous Small Miracles” and wrote about the small, everyday positive occurences that happpend in my school. 
My examples dealt with small actions and kindnesses taking place more on a one to one nature between students and teachers. After the contest I eventually concluded that under present circumstances the climate at our school and in this community will not significantly change, nor will our provincial test results, but there will be a multitude of successes on an individual basis based on those teachers and students who despite the odds rise above.  These people are special and they are the true success stories, and on that level my school is a great success and those successes speak to the strengh of the individual, not the system.
Having taught for 35 years and much of that with special needs students I have found nothing surprising in Fort Chipewyan in terms of what I read in the pysch/ed reports or through my daily work with students.  There is a cross section of many types of issues, problems and learning disabilities including: aspergers, oppositional defiance, ADHD, OCD, CD and all the other initials we use to identify and label students.  The difference here is that I have never seen such a high concentration of educational issues in such a small student population before.
Why is this?  I’m sure Fort Chipewyan is in no way unique from most other native communities in Alberta, or elsewhere in Canada.  I was still wondering about the big disconnect between values and reality as told to me by my truck driving social worker. The community of “Chip” values children, and education yet has a school with an extremely high drop out rate, and is the lowest rated school in the province.
Residential schools were a systematic and sanctioned way of robbing the natives of their culture and whatever vistage of heritage they might have left after they were cheated of land and other rights.  I’m no expert in this, but I know enough that this was a period of shame in our history and when the residential school here closed it wasn’t long before it was also demolished.
I was told one reason for the disconnect with values had to do with residential schools.  
Because of the harsh treatment experienced by many at, Holy Angels Indian Residential School (1902-1974), the Chip residential school and others like it, is where many natives lost their connection to families and family values. 
The government’s goal was to break down the culture and the family structure, thereby developing a group of people who were institutionalized; then when one throws alcohol into the mix with the dislocation of many communities from their lands that they knew, to poorer lands it eventually creates an entrenched cycle of poverty. Some of the former students of Holy Angels, now adults and parents, attend support groups today in order to deal with their horrible experiences as children while at the residential school.
After all of the social trauma inflicted on native populations “we” blamed natives for being useless. Due to the reserve system and residential schools  linked with a combination of government and church policies, it resulted in creating a true sense of learned helplessness with little sense of connection to anything, no sense of family, no sense of trust in others, or in themselves, and no sense of trust in authority. In fact the very concept of family was destroyed, but I guess that was the point of the residential school. 
Is it no wonder that because of abuse and extreme methods of discipline students who left those schools became parents who didn’t know how to parent and were reluctant to discipline.  Soon a generation developed robbed and devoid of heritage and tradition and seemingly helpless to rectify the situation. The evil of residential schools created more than one monster.  The legacy plays on in families and schools today here in “Chip”.
The reality is that much of the parenting in native homes is done by members of the extended family and more often than not by the grandparents.  In traditional native culture there was good reason for the grandparents to handle child rearing because parents would be “out on the land” making a living and surviving.  In modern society some parents seem to rely too heavily on tradition with the continued expectation that grandparents raise the children.  As contemporary society has developed the traditional roles have not changed and possibly family life has suffered in some ways because parents excused themselves from their parenting role. 
Presently, at a point in our school’s development and history when more resources are needed, along with smaller class sizes in order to better deal with the many obvious issues, educational spending is being reduced. It was only last year that the entire Northland School Board was dismissed by the Minister of Education and an acting superintendent was appointed to turn the jurisdiction around.  An extensive study was done which highlighted numerous weaknesses within the system as a whole.  Now with the most recent provincial budget, cuts have been made and again Northland and other needy jurisdictions, especially rural ones, will go without, while still being expected to do more with less.
I begin to wonder if public education is up to the task and whether or not it can succeed against such odds in isolated northern communities, like Fort Chipewyan and other rural areas in Alberta. Any one approaching my school might be quite surprised to read at least four large signs identifying several oil companies for their gifts to the school and the community. Similar signs appear in the enterior of the school. Most everything we have in our school, that is of value, from the playground equipment to the computer lab to the community resource centre has been paid for through the generosity of oil companies.  
As a teacher I value the contributions made by oil companies for they have made my job easier and improved education and the lives of our students, but is this what public education is coming to in Alberta? Public education is a system which is provincially mandated, board directed and tax supported.  In Alberta that means it is an inclusive educational system which according to the Alberta Teachers’ Association’s definition provides, “...opportunity to develop ingenuity, creativity, critical thinking skills and a strong sense of citizenship.”
It seems there is a continous and growing gap between the needs of an over taxed school system and the ability of a government to meet the educational needs in Fort Chipewyan.  In these cases gifts and contributions from oil companies fill that gap and signage appears advertising the donations.  Although my school is the beneficiary of oil company profits it also demonstrates the failure of public education to provide the opportunities to promote, “ingenuity, creativity, critical thinking skills and a strong sense of citizenship.” In the end the solutions become political and not pedigogical. I think the students in Fort Chipewyan deserve better. 
Fort Chipewyan is a community with an unfortunate history, one in which the residential school system tragically failed them.  For many, living in a reserve system with a residential school deprived them of their pride, heritage, traditions and family values.   What I see today is a people struggling for an indentity lost somewhere between surviving from the land and free spirited kids playing video games at home during school hours, serviced by a public school system unable to meet their needs.
 I will end with one last image.  While working with Statisitcs Canada 20 years ago I flew up the Athabasca River somewhere between Fort McMurray and Fort Chipewyan. We made a smooth landing beside a Cree summer fishing camp.  My job was to complete a census report.  I saw the elders fishing and drying their catch on racks in the traditional way.  A short distance away a Honda generator hummed and provided the electricity for the children inside the crude log cabin allowing them to play video games at midday.  I thought then as I do now, what is their future?