Waterloo Catholic District School Board Five Tier System

I believe this is why the Waterloo District Catholic School Board was glad to see me retire and doesn’t answer my calls.  This bogus memo went viral in an educational loop by going to all school boards in the province.  I was eventually disciplined by the superintendent, but did receive a neutral letter from the Minister of Education, at the time, saying they (the Ministry) are striving to improve the system for the betterment of students. Ironically I was trying to do the same thing with my memo.  

The issue in my mind was that it is almost impossible for a student in an Ontario high school to fail/repeat (what is the politically correct word?) a course.  There is little accountability and the system becomes a sham due to a distinct lack of standards...

Memo:  To all staff

From:  The Education Committee

Re:  Proposed Five Tier Credit Recovery System

______________________________________________________________________

In keeping with school policy, student achievement and accountability directives, the Education Committee recognizes the pedagogical necessity of our current two tier system involving credit recovery and credit rescue.  However, our concerted efforts are now needed to systematically reduce the drop out rate by facilitating student achievement using a more functional five-tier system.

Level 1 and 2

Recovery and Rescue programs as they exist will remain intact thereby allowing marginal achievers to regain credits through minimal intrinsic motivation or self help initiatives.

Level 3

Credit Resuscitation pairs a student with a mentor/tutor in a home instructional program making it possible for students to gain potentially lost credits with minimal effort from the comfort of their own homes without the grueling necessity of tedious class-time and time on task while still enjoying and benefitting socially via face time with friends and contact with peers via cell phones.

Level 4

Credit Transplant is an exciting and innovative concept through which students may actually receive credit transfers from family members who have previously received the same or similar credit and are no longer using it.  This approach serves to minimize educational costs as no teachers or extraneous resources are actually required in the process.

Level 5

Credit Reincarnation is much like credit transplant, but with an exciting twist.  This ingenious approach permits students to resurrect, as it were, unused and otherwise wasted credits from deceased family members.  Only minimal administrative costs are involved.

In the unlikely event a student “slips through the cracks” of this impermeable five tier credit system they may then find it necessary to take a reality check and be held accountable for their own actions or lack of them within the school system.  Perhaps if students open books, come to class (on time and in uniform) and make an effort we, as teachers, can do our best to help them the first time around...

or...

Catch the credit in Summer School

My Pedagogical Creed

Previuosly published in AGENDA by the Ontario English Catholic Teachers Association (OECTA)

Pedagogical Creed: A Creationist Version

Teaching at St Mary’s High School in Kitchener I had one class of 21 with 10 of the students on IEPs.  I think that is a norm.  I wrote this prior to retirement from the public school system and many years of over seas pursuits...

This day I am teaching the physical geography of Canada, and I sense that I am losing my audience.  I know now, going into November of this school year, that there is a very real chance that again I will not finish the prescribed curriculum.

On my good days I don’t think that is not such a bad thing.  Holistically, the student, his/her abilities and needs should come before the curriculum.

The bell sounds at the end of the day, and I silently note that at these times the students are capable of evacuating the building far faster than during any fire drill.

The room quiet, my gold fish swimming in their zen aquarium by my desk seem content too.  I sit and think, doodle then scribble this poem:

Chalk dust embedded in

his corduroy pants

and worn Harris Tweed

jacket, long before

his hair turned very gray

and before there was 

WORD

and POWERPOINT

HE stopped teaching to the

curriculum.

Instead he taught his

students to observe,

question, to care and

HE saw that it was 

good and on the last day

he retired.

Salzburg, Austria Photographs

Salzburg, Austria October 2013

Art galleries in the old city...

Old city square after the tourists...

The historic and magnificent Salzburg...

...and yes the crazy Sound of Music Tour and as silly as it sounds I do recommend it and we did enjoy it for the movie, the music and the sights of city and country side...Doe a deer a female deer...

I do not understand the symbolism of this sculpture in the old city but like all mysteries in life I ponder and I google...

This symbolism is more obvious and can be found in many cities, and here in Salzburg...

Innsbruck, Austria

From the streets and windows of Innsbruck, Austria October 2013

Sidwalk cafe in the old city, Innsbruck...

The opera House at night...only the cats are out...

Artistic expression

Pedestrians and trams rule the streets

fountains by night...

Fort McMurray

Picking my daughter up from ballet class during the McMurray winter...

Waiting by Doors

Ballet class over

the young girl

waited at the doorway.

Her long graceful neck

bent over a fantasy novel

of dragons breathing fire

on a brave knight.

Outside it was minus 25.

Her Dad arrived

late again.

She looked up with a coy smile

recognizing the dirty Cavalier

with the cracked windshield.

They talked of dance, school and fantasy

as they drove home

for dinner.

Train Flat Coins

Train Flat Coins

The joy of a penny is to see it flattened beneath the wheels of a passing freight train.  I still have a collection of minted currency that has met its end under tons of flying metal on a CPR track.  An adreneline rush standing feet from the rushing train sending vibrations from our feet to our finger tips.  Even better is the 20 ton counter weight on the lift bridge at lock one of the Welland ship canal.  Placing our coins under this semi circular slow moving weight as the bridge lifted allowing the passing of a lake freighter was a boy’s delight in physics. Flatter by far than any CN or CPR coin and that is flat.  

Today, there is a secure metal mesh barring any such childish activity preventing kids, or adults like me from flattening pennies and pennies themselves have become obsolete.  Now we have to pay fifty cents for a machine system of gears to do the coin flattenng and embossing at a tourist attraction like Niagara Falls.  It’s just not the same.  Sometimes life is too safe.  

Tendrils

Previously published in “Voices” a publication of the English Language Arts Council of the Alberta Teachers’ Association

A story of youthful betrayal

Tendrils

The sand dunes soared hundreds of feet above the canal.  For every step up I had the impression of slipping back two as the hot white sand slid through the cracks between my toes.  The quest  for the summit was always worth it.  I felt free and powerful perched above everything as I searched the lake for incoming freighters.

The “dunes,” as we called them, were large sand piles; the result of years of dredging the channel entrance to the Welland ship canal at lock number 1.  They served as our look out, allowing my older brother, Walter, and I the opportunity to examine the parade of approaching ships.  If one looked particularly inviting for whatever reason we would descend our position with dancing leaps like madmen racing for the canal.  Walter was more daring and swifter and always reached the ships before I could.

We screamed up in our tiny voices at the sailors casually leaning against the rusty metal rails on decks that towered over our heads and imaginations, “Coins...throw us your coins.”

Our over exuberant begging usually worked. Sailors from ports we could only vaguely imagine threw down on us a few coins causing us to scramble after them like marbles tossed in a school yard at recess with Walter always getting more than his share.  Some of the coins were thrown deliberately perhaps into the water causing the more foolish of my friends to dive for them in the wake of the huge throbbing propeller.  The fact that we all reached adulthood is still a miracle I marvel at as the powerful water and currents threw our bodies in wild directions, seldom retrieving the coin.

We rode our bikes up the steep incline leading to the top of the lock.  From this vantage point we were above the approaching ship as it entered the lock.  We were now able to look down on the same sailors who minutes before had parted with their coins. I could never get enough of viewing the movement of the lumbering gates pushing tons of water aside as they slowly swung wide, as if in welcome embrace, of the approaching vessel.

“Are you going to stare at the lock all day?”  My brother intruded into my thoughts.

Walter had descended the cracked cement steps and sat under the shade of a large willow.  With my long legs I took the steps two at a time to join him.

“Try one.”  He urged, while tantalizingly fondling the cigarette.

Before I had a chance to respond he took another long drag and held the smoke deep within his lungs for a long time before forcefully exhaling in one mighty breathe.  He didn’t cough.  He had graduated quickly from the hollow sticks we had smoked in the vineyards behind the school.

Walter taunted me again.  Do you want to try it?”

I hesitated for only a moment and, impressed by his manly display, took the smoldering cigarette into my small hands and inhaled quickly.  I lacked expertise and confidence.  I broke into a series of quick coughs and with a shaking hand passed the filter tip back to Walter.

“Now you can’t tell mom,” he crowed.

I coughed again not so much from the smoke this time more in disbelief.  I was stunned by the realization that Walter had set me up.  He had set a trap and I had dumbly and eagerly fallen into it.  He was right.  I couldn’t tell mom.

I could not be a traitor and if I did I was also compromised in my mother’s eyes.  Walter’s lack of trust in me temporarily threw me.

I reached for the cigarette with false bravado and slowly, awkwardly sucked on it.  I exhaled with all the calmness I could muster, trying desperately not to cough again.

“You’re right, I gasped.  “I can’t tell mom.”

I paused for maximum dramatic effect, focusing on the rising tendrils of grey smoke.

“And neither can you.”

Fort McMurray, Alberta

Life in Fort McMurray, Alberta

Ravens

Gliding in groups above

wheezing garbage trucks,

like derelict seagulls winging over

a seaward ferry,

the ravens perch on

street lights

at sub-zero temperatures.

They cackle and caw their

midnight melodies

and defy the elements

as northern lights

splendidly ply

the night sky.

Arab Space Program

Random Thoughts of Global Significance while Driving to Work through Hawally, Kuwait

During my drive to work this morning Cheryl and I were talking about, among other things, the pivotal battles that have changed world history.  I think most couples at some stage in their marriage have these discussions.  Anyway, I mentioned the Battle of Salamis after which the Greek world developed following  the Athenian model and in turn influenced the Romans, who  then influenced Europe,  who colonized us; the Turkish defeat at Vienna and the subsequent invention of the croissant and Cappuccino; the Moorish defeat in Spain leading to the inhumane Catholic Inquisition and then I just speculated further:  if Hitler hadn’t invaded Russia and just been content with capturing and retaining Europe,  how would he have dealt with the Arab world? The Cold War would have played out differently with us versus them  actually being us (Western World) and Germany.  Where would Mennonites be positioned in such world? 

Finally, as traffic mounted and my thoughts went back to reality,  after mentioning the Iran/Iraq eight year war  of carnage and stupidity, why is there no Arab space program?  They have the money.  Answer:  “It takes rocket science.”

Have a nice day,

Marlboro Man

Virgin Sacrifice and the Marlboro Man

Sacrificing virgins to the Sun God is not precisely part of the Anabaptist/Mennonite tradition, but it should be.  It’s lots of fun providing you don’t happen to be the virgin. Having recently lived in the Middle East I now have some  understanding of the relationship between traditional Islamic theology and virginity.  However, on the economic side of the scale I can understand the function of demand, but I am still a bit vague on the supply side of the equation.  Where do all of these virgins come from, certainly not Eastern European countries or the Middle East itself.  I do however understand the motivational qualities of offering virgins for incentive.  Although given a choice between 72 virgins, which seems to be the standard rate for martyrdom for acts rendered against infidels, and say a dozen quality pole dancers; I would tend toward the pole dancers just in terms of experience over inexperience. However, when it comes to religion nothing is really logical.  Its all about faith.

My childhood experience with virgin sacrifice really has to do with innocent role playing and the co-operation of my sisters and some of her girl friends.  I have black and white photographs attached to black pages with photo corners in a very old album documenting some of our backyard butchery, and sacrificial rituals.  Our role playing included a range of games including: “Cannibals and Missionaries”, ”Cowboys and Indians”, Cops and Robbers”, “Imperialists and Neo-Colonials”, and the ever popular  “Anabaptists and Catholics”.  Each game really followed a template or theme in which forces of good were pitied against forces of evil.  Just like photography the world in the 1950’s was a much simpler place and social issues could literally be viewed in terms off black and white.  It was not until the invention of colour photography that the world become a much more complicated place.

TV Westerns were all the rage when I was growing up.  I was weaned on multiple seasons of Gun Smoke, Bonanza, Rawhide and the Lone Ranger.  Each of the lead characters in these shows were strong individuals with a clear sense of justice frontier style.  If you really want to understand the American Psyche today one need only understand the frontier mentality of rugged individualism, personal weaponry, subduing native populations, expansionism, the Monroe Doctrine and Manifest Destiny, or just watch the steely nerves and determination Sheriff Mat Dilon or the Marlboro Man, if he hasn’t died from cancer yet.

Besides getting an electric slot car tract with remote controls, the gift I wanted most for birthdays or Christmas was a holster with a twin set of six shooters.  I got both three years apart.  I was blessed.

Cap guns as they were called were a wonderful invention. It brought an incredibly high level of realism to our role playing adventures.  Often when my friends came to play in my backyard no one wanted to play the down trodden native roles as we had already developed quite precise stereo types from the reality Western TV shows that we were bombarded with and eagerly absorbed.  Is there a connection between the medium of TV and movies when it comes to violence in society.  You bet there is and its only gotten worse over time. I would shoot anyone who disagrees with that thesis.

My neighbours did not appreciate our games because these games usually involved our occupying, at least temporarily, their yard as well as our own yard. Like the real world games mimicking acts of violence require territory.  How does one “win” without taking away land or property.  Our occupation of the neighbours yard involved running through their hedges, gardens and hiding in their window wells and garage, climbing their fences and wearing a path around their house, all reasonable collateral damage.  Does no one watch the world news any more?  For some reason the Wilson’s frequently complained to my parents.  I never understood why that was.

My Dad, who was a real handyman, built a playhouse in our backyard, perhaps to lure us away from the neighbours yard or just because he could, like one climbs a mountain. It became a focal point for neighbourhood play and probably bought me a few extra friends along the way.  It was an amazing playhouse unlike these modern day plastic versions, ours was spacious, with real glass windows that actually opened, shelves on the interior and furniture.  I grew up happy, content in my knowledge that real estate usually appreciates over time. 

My sisters used the playhouse in their silly girl simulation games involving themes of goodness, purity, and domesticity and often received the “Good House Keeping Seal of Approval” for their efforts.  Girls were handicapped and their imaginations were stifled because their TV role models hadn’t been developed yet. There was no “Desperate Housewives” or “Sex in the City”; so naturally girls in the 50’s simply didn’t know any better. Their games did not pit forces of good versus evil as in the real world, instead they seemed to play with an abundance of goodness.  What fun is that?  Girls can be so weird.  No wonder boys and girls don’t want to play with each other at that age.  Its as if men were say from a different planet like Neptune and girls were from some other planet like Saturn or Mercury or something.  I’m still working on that comparison.

The playhouse had to be shared on a rotational basis.  Once the girls were finished playing and moved on to some other silly game, the boys could take over with a real game.  My favourite game with the playhouse was called “Under Siege” and we had to defend our fort against invaders, who could alternatively be pirates, Nazis, War Lords, Indians or Communists.   

I remember vividly and with some degree of horror as myself and three defenders were under a particularly harsh and unprovoked surprise attack of our fort my a wild horde of Native Americans.  We were almost out of ammo, our food and water supplies were low, and morale was clearly starting to lag.  We were our numbered in a ratio of at least two to one. The sun was setting and we could sense a heightened level of hostilities, the proverbial calm before the storm.

We each defended a window as the invaders circled on their horses around and around the fort at dizzying speeds and with great agility, their war cries pieced the night air and we were getting scared.  In one crescendo of action my buddy, David, standing to my right took his toy cap gun by the barrel  and using the handle like a hammer smashed out the glass window on our playhouse presumably to get a better shot. 

I was in shock and I guessed a little over wrought myself from all the preceding action.  I  screamed at him,  “Holy shit David this is only a role playing activity what the hell did you break the window for?”  David was speechless.  Gently I took his gun from his clenched fist and slowly stepped back.

The whole game came to a sudden halt.  I mean some kids just can’t separate fact from fiction.  Needless to say David never again was allowed to defend the fort.  He eventually took on the role of an enemy agent.  His family moved from the neighbourhood and the last I heard he had hit rock bottom selling hedge funds.  Role playing is not for everyone.

       

Wal-Mart Jinhua, China

Living in Jinhua: Communism...Hardly...Just Wal-Mart

It was a perfect day in the neighborhood even though the temperature this morning was zero the significant factor was the absence of rain. It had stopped raining, there was no precipitation.  We could come out of our little hole and squint and marvel at the sun.  It was also scooter weather, but first coffee.  we had brought several pounds of black gold, President’s Choice coffee from far off Canada, Zehrs in fact.  Let me get ahead of myself, it is now evening and we are preparing a dinner of Mennonite smoked pork sausages from Detweiller’s.  We packed them frozen in a collapsible freezer poach inside Cheryl’s suitcase and lied to every customs official we could about not carrying any food across international borders.  “No Sir, no food, none, nothing, not a morsel.”  Off course when our tiny reserve of coffee and sausage runs out we may revert to primitive ways.  Have you ever seen that movie about the soccer team whose plane crashes in the Andes.  I’ll say no more.

 We also brought over spices, dried soup mixes, over the counter drugs, oven mitts, garbage bags, protein bars and protein shakes, DVD movies and much more.  Yes, the DVD pirated movies available also across the counter in China, although of relatively good quality are mainly action adventure movies with aimless chase scenes, gratuities sex, no dialogue and lots of killing.  We are more into the “Sleepless in Seattle” theme and therefore the numerous downloads, hard drives and DVD’s in our luggage, if nothing else we watch lots of TV. 

 Okay so we had our coffee now when Matt, a teacher at CTC and his wife Van, ask us to meet them downtown in front of Walmart to go to a Japanese restaurant for lunch.  We quickly check our social calendar and see that it is blank for March and so quickly agree.  The sun is still shining and it is therefore still not raining.  This is after all a semi-tropical monsoon climate.  We bring our back pack, with reusable shopping bags, grab our yellow and orange helmets which are not CSA approved and head for the parking area below the building where our mighty SNOW brand electric scooter as been patiently waiting for the past month.

  I fire up the engine and the many highly polluting lead batteries make not a sound, even in motion the scooter is like a stealth bomber.  As a pedestrian I tend to hate scooters because they can silently come up behind you and scare the hell out of you.  As a driver I love scooters because you can silently drive up behind pedestrians and scare the hell out of them. I have written about the zen of scooting before, but my ying and yang is out of sync with the universe because I have not driven for a month, none the less I soon learn to warp and weave and flow with the motion.  I am a molecule in turbulent waters and I feel free.  Best of all we did not have to have my secretary call a taxi for us to get down town. 

 The scooter is our freedom machine in China.  Unlike the Chinese themselves I adhere to basic courtesy, random rules of the road and signal lights when in my favour.  We meet Van and Matt and they escort us over to the Japanese restaurant staffed by Chinese and full of Chinese.  We are the only Westerners for miles in any direction and people briefly look up and stare.  Van is actually Chinese and she helps us order.  I go for the picture menu with Matt, who like me does not like fish, raw fish, the smell of fish, fish bones, or the sea.  

Food is placed on an assembly line and travels the oblong counter.  Van and Cheryl dig in and have squid, sea weed, octopus, eel, prawns, dumplings made with tofu and numerous other things I could not identify.  Matt and I wanted to sneak out to Pizza Hut but  decide instead to have beef over fried rice and vegetables with onions.  

It was a great meal. Following which we went to, and I am ashamed to admit, that we shop with regularity at Wal Mart, but we do, where we bought some groceries.  Today we scored big and found cheese.  Yes, Jinhua, our city has no cheese, there are few cows in China, most of them defected or died on the long March with Mao.  We quickly phoned Mat and Van and told them to come to the dairy section to get some mild cheddar cheese as it was going fast, mainly because we were buying it all and if they didn’t come we would have it all. 

 The meat department at Wal Mart looks like a pet store mainly because everything for sale is still alive: eels, turtles, fish, frogs and other of God’s creatures that I have not as yet identified but may have originated from the Galapagos Islands.  Cheryl got some fruit and it all has to be weighed.  Sadly this is a culture that does not know how to queue.  It is basically every man for himself.  I would have thought communism would have taught certain lessons concerning the greater good, but apparently this is but another urban myth, so Cheryl taught them lessons in Q etiquette.

 One man she noted had been waiting a long time to have his produce weighed while others pushed in front.  There was a pack of people with Cheryl in the middle. Like a traffic cop with white gloves she raised both arms effectively blocking the crowd and in particular the pushy Chinese women with water chestnuts and lotus root.  Cheryl pushed her bags aside allowing the first, this lone outlier and his vegetables and then Cheryl to get her things weighed. 

 After followed a flurry of what may have been vindictive Chinese behaviour as the pack fell upon itself in a self destructive fury.  We paid for our groceries at cashier 12.  I always have to mime that I want bags and Cheryl always has to prevent them from over fillings the bags.  It takes two. It really does.  Walmart is a subterranean cavernous structure literally build underground and we take the escalator to the surface.  I often have a panic anxiety attack thinking what would ever happen to us if the escalator just stopped.  Think about it.  We got to our bike parked in an area with 400 similar looking bikes.  Here we reposition our groceries into the various compartments on the bike i.e. under the seat and the little trunk behind the passenger, there is a bag holder and some things fit on the floor between my legs. We drove off into the polluted air as the sun began to set.

Marty