tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-374496102024-02-19T03:27:58.839-08:00Confessions of an OGDiane E. Main, GCT NorCal 2006http://www.blogger.com/profile/01604373649158850063noreply@blogger.comBlogger212125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37449610.post-42416730582967034392019-06-09T15:36:00.000-07:002019-06-09T22:26:55.747-07:00"You remember that?"Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) is no laughing matter. I regularly hear people joke that they have PTSD from some ordinary unpleasant experience. Or that they’re “triggered” by things they simply don’t like. I can’t remember if I’ve ever done this, but I think I’m not above such things. I just don’t do it anymore, and I call people on it, as gently as I can muster, when they do it.<br />
<br />
I have PTSD. I don’t know if the anxiety and depression I often experience are just part of that, or if they would qualify as separate diagnoses themselves. I also have fibromyalgia and chronic pain syndrome, and a degenerating disc between my C6 and C7 vertebrae, which has led to problems with my right arm and hand, especially two of my fingers. So I have pain and mobility issues, and the fibromyalgia is almost certainly the result of the PTSD, given how long it has been a part of my life.<br />
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Something happened when I was six years old. I’ll get to that in a minute, but first, it’s important for you to know that, while I kind of remembered the events all my life, I never really was conscious of them or spoke about them until I told a friend when I was 25 years old. And then I did nothing about any of it until I was in my forties and told another friend and then my husband. In October of 2015, a year after my mother died, I finally went to get help, and I was diagnosed with PTSD. I was about to turn 45, so that means almost forty years passed between the initial traumatic incident and me finally getting help. Nearly forty years of carrying and burying trauma causes anxiety and inflammation in the body. Hence, the fibromyalgia.<br />
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Now I will explain about the initial traumatic incident, sometimes referred to as an “index trauma,” that got me here.<br />
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Tommy lived down the street from us. He was always a weird kid. He was ten years older than I, the same age as my sister. When I look back on growing up where I did, Tommy was just always a neighborhood fixture. Weird, getting in trouble, later drinking and doing drugs, and much later just wandering around town in a pretty messed-up state. He always made me uncomfortable. I generally wasn’t remembering what he did, just that he was an unsafe person.<br />
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For a long time, I could only remember sketchy details. But they were always SO specific, and SO real, that I knew they were true, even if I couldn’t completely string them together into a coherent memory. It was almost as if I had watched a movie, but kept falling asleep and waking up at different places and only seeing the occasional scene. I could picture this little clubhouse type structure, in the driveway of their yard. I remember there being an upper level of some sort. I remember pages from pornographic magazines on the walls. And I knew, though I can’t say how because I couldn’t actually see it in my mind’s eye, that people were tied up. Was I tied up? I can’t be sure. I also remember walking up the hill toward my own house. I remember the police being there at some point. I remember my father being upset and angry. I remember that my brother was there too.<br />
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I just held this information, these memories, in some part of myself that I never knew existed. Somehow, I always knew but never really remembered. I can only imagine that the sudden death of my friend Billy in November of 1995 opened something up in me. It was his widow I told about these memories, one night while we were driving around and hanging out after Billy died. I described out loud what I could remember, speaking about it for the first time. Billy’s death, and how I learned about it, was the first traumatic event of my adulthood. It would be echoed over a decade later within my own family.<br />
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Losing my father in late March of 2008 was also very traumatic for me. The way I found out was hard. Our phones had been switched off and charging overnight. I awoke to multiple voicemails on our landline (we always kept that ringer turned off) and both our cell phones. I knew that was bad. When I finally got a hold of my mother, I remember that I was standing in the middle of our kitchen, on my husband’s cell phone because mine was still booting up or something, and I just started screaming and crying. I remember it well because I had flashbacks for months afterward. Dozens of times a day at first, then several times a day, then a few times a week. It gradually tapered off, and I remember thinking -- and even saying to some close friends -- that it was almost like what I imagine PTSD to be like. But PTSD was for veterans and others who had experienced war, right?<br />
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My mother’s illness and passing in 2014 was a different experience. We learned in early June that she had terminal cancer, and we had no idea how long she had. She died in early October. Four months from diagnosis to death. And it was grueling to watch. And most of that I did from the other side of the continent. Grieving opens up old wounds. A year later, in October of 2015, I found myself recounting every bad thing that had ever happened to me, including some other stuff from childhood and adulthood, to a psychologist. He diagnosed me with PTSD and prescribed trauma education group classes, which I attended weekly for probably six to eight months before moving into a smaller cognitive processing therapy (CPT) group made up of people I had gotten to know in trauma ed.<br />
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When my brother came to visit for my son’s baptism in May of 2004, I had tried to ask him about what had happened to us. He shot me down, saying “that was a long time ago.” So that was ten years before I got my diagnosis. In June of 2012, as I was packing and cleaning my classroom before leaving for another job, I called my mother to ask about what had happened. She simply sounded surprised when she said “you remember that?” I tried calling the police department of my hometown, but couldn’t find out anything. I asked my two oldest siblings. Neither of them knew anything about what I was talking about. When I was in CPT in 2016, I called my brother and found out what had happened. For some reason, he was ready to tell me about it then. And soon after that, I contacted the friend of his who had also been there and got a few more details confirmed. I was right. I was there. It really happened. But it didn’t happen to me. It happened to them.<br />
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I don’t know why, back in what was likely the spring of 1977, my brother (age 10) and his friend (age 11) were hanging around with this 16-year old neighborhood weird kid. But, annoying little sister that I was, I was following them around. I don’t know what all transpired. But at some point, these two boys were tied up and I ran for help. Up the street toward home. Were the police already there? Had they been trying to find out where we kids had gone? Were they called after I went for help? I know that my father apparently smacked Tommy around a bit and threatened his father, that if Tommy ever came near us kids again, he would kill him. (The father? Tommy? I don’t remember.) I found all this out from the two boys involved, my brother and his friend. But a part of me, somewhere deep inside, always knew.<br />
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It might not seem like a big deal. I mean, for a while, I felt better knowing it hadn’t actually happened TO me. But I learned in trauma education that we should never compare our traumas. Sometimes people are traumatized by what they’ve witnessed, and not even things that actually happened TO them. And I have learned since then that this still lives inside me. When I feel unsafe, when I am triggered, I am a frightened six year old again. I am alone and I need help and I don’t know what to do.<br />
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Fast forward to May of 2019, just a few weeks before I am sitting down to write this. I love going on my school’s senior trip. I had been twice before, when my own advisees were seniors on the verge of graduating. I volunteered to go again, despite having freshman advisees now. It’s an awesome trip. It wasn’t until we were there that I remembered the stage hypnotist show. It made me uncomfortable last year. All day that Monday, the dread within me grew. I looked forward to dinner with my colleagues at a local Belgian restaurant, but walking back to the resort meant heading back for this show. I sat at the back. When the gathered audience of kids began to stand for a better view, I didn’t arise from my chair. I didn’t even want to be there. There comes a point in his show, I recalled from the previous year, when the hypnotist has the subjects imagine themselves watching the funniest movie ever, followed by the saddest movie ever, and then the scariest movie ever. As this was unfolding, even though I couldn’t see the hypnotized students or their reactions, I became increasingly agitated. I had to go. I got up and walked out before “saddest movie” could change to “scariest movie.” I felt very removed from myself as I left. This was in an upstairs meeting room setting, and I went downstairs to sit outside. But I could still hear the reactions of the audience of kids. I had to get away. I took off for my hotel room, and parked myself on the balcony, facing the ocean and trying to let its roar comfort and calm me.<br />
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I had been crying a bit before escaping to my balcony, but now I was a mess. I hoped that the ocean would drown out the sound of me. I had duties assigned to me, but I wasn’t going to be of any use to anyone. I texted my colleague with whom I was supposed to oversee karaoke, something I had been looking forward to. I told him I wasn’t well and couldn’t be there. I waited a while. Being alone meant no one could see me in this state, but being alone is the worst for me when it’s like this. Being alone, when you’re a frightened six year old trying to find help, is terrifying. It’s isolating. It doesn’t feel safe. I texted another colleague about when a friend’s duty leading the poker game would be done, or whether it was. This colleague was kind and gentle but couldn’t really tell me anything. After a bit more isolation, I texted another colleague who I knew would be able to come to me, and who would understand without judging. (It’s not that I really think any of my colleagues would judge me; it’s just that when you’re at this place I can’t really even describe, you do a kind of high-speed risk management of “who can I trust?” that doesn’t make sense when you’re not massively triggered and reliving trauma.) I had her find my roommate and get let in to my room.<br />
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She sat with me for a while, I don’t know how long really. I told her everything. I told her the quick version of what I’ve recounted here, plus a few things I’m not including for privacy reasons. But I have another friend at work who knows everything, and whom I trust implicitly. They sent for him to come help me. <br />
<br />
I wish I could put into words what was happening to me. Even thinking back to it and trying to describe it has me close to tears in Starbucks, and that is NOT cool. There I was, wrapped up in my hoodie and under a blanket, burning through a box of tissues and crying incessantly. And I couldn’t even explain why. There is a level of being terrified that goes beyond words. It takes over your entire being. You can’t feel safe. This is why I don’t watch scary or violent movies or television shows. I can’t even handle intense suspense in entertainment media. I didn’t even have the strength to be embarrassed by my ugly crying and my feeling and acting like a child. Like a six year old.<br />
<br />
I had to have my friend stay with me until my roommate could return after checking in the kids in our assigned rooms. My friend and I both missed a chaperone meeting and the rest of our duties for the night. I ended up explaining some of it to my roommate. I could NOT be alone. She was awesome about it all. <br />
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I know I have nothing to be ashamed of, and that this happened to me because of something that wasn’t my fault, that was done over forty years ago when I was just a kid. But I am still struggling with how it feels to know that something outside yourself can trigger in you such a visceral, uncontrollable reaction, and that you have to be able to completely depend on other people just to feel safe. <br />
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I have PTSD. It causes me anxiety about things that other people don’t even notice. Even though I am trying to walk places (like walking to and from work four days a week) for exercise, it’s hard for me to walk out in public alone. When there are panels or plates or manholes in the sidewalk, I can’t step on them. Anything that is hollow underneath could collapse underneath me. It’s not safe. When someone behaves in an unstable way around me, such as one of the many homeless folks around my school and on my walk home, it puts me on heightened alert, in a way I suspect other adults don’t experience. Loud noises, such as the bang of a barista emptying a garbage can just now or a muscle car revving as it tears by, terrify me. When I travel, as I often do for professional development and a board of directors on which I serve, it’s really hard for me to be alone, especially in the hotels at night. I struggle with insomnia, at home and when I travel. I always have to have my keys and phone on me, and the doors of my home and car always have to be locked. These things had been improving in some ways over the past year, as I have gotten more exercise and been getting more help. But they’ve also been harder in some ways. Because when you work on stuff like this in therapy, which I attend weekly, it opens up a lot of hurt that you have to confront instead of burying.<br />
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I’m not sharing this to get attention for myself. I can get all the attention I want. I’m an educator, well known in my field, fairly smart and funny, and a good singer. What I want people to pay attention to is the fact that many people around them are struggling. We go to work, we shop for groceries, we plan trips, we go to the movies, but we are still struggling. We walk down the street, and that may be a struggle. We ask for help, and that may be a struggle. We try not to be a burden, and that’s definitely a struggle.<br />
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I’m sharing this because there is a stigma around mental and emotional health that is literally killing people. No one would ever think that what happened when I was six was in any way my own fault. And anyone who thought my inability to just shrug it off was a character flaw would be recognized to be a complete jerk. In 1977, working class people didn’t put their possibly-traumatized kids into any kind of treatment. They just didn’t talk about it ever again. They didn’t tell their older kids. They just got on with life and figured the memories would fade. My parents can’t be faulted for my not getting the help I needed. But it’s 2019 and we know better now.<br />
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We can teach like we know that a bunch of the kids in the room have experienced trauma. We can love like we know our friends and colleagues are carrying around some heavy stuff. We can live in this world in such a way that doesn’t trigger other people or make them feel threatened or unsafe.<br />
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Until recently, most people who know me would not have imagined that I carried around this baggage for most of my life. I present as confident, happy, successful, and effective in my life and my work. But sometimes I’m not any of those things. And now you know why.Diane E. Main, GCT NorCal 2006http://www.blogger.com/profile/01604373649158850063noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37449610.post-18734641115090572652017-08-09T19:14:00.000-07:002017-08-09T19:14:12.374-07:00Reflection on Minecraft Game Design summer school class<br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">This summer, I taught a two-week Minecraft game design class for the first time. This was an elective class as part of our school's Summer Institute. I taught two sections: one in the morning and one in the afternoon. The students were aged 10 to 13, and were incoming 6th, 7th, and 8th graders. Out of 37 students in the two classes combined, only seven of them were students who attend my school during the school year. I normally work with high school students and teachers, but I have a lot of past experience with middle schoolers. This was a refreshing opportunity to return to working with kids this age. </span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="554" data-original-width="906" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXrLeLuPdxqFBfMkfsJxV50sXkEa2uJOvuCjbzcg3xYKuODbmLxNAOWLejd3W61NZFFoY0AfBrkWr5lTqXPjoV34IXYYJOawYl9Ww7uYWl7A4yZglbn7nkumo2gxFclLkLO1H_/s400/Screen+Shot+2017-08-09+at+6.51.02+PM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This Custom NPC teleports you to Nathan's and Matthew's game.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: large; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Now, I say that I taught this class. However, </span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: large; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">it's more accurate to say that the class taught me</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: large; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. I decided early on that I would not try to be the authority on anything in this course. Compared to most kids who play Minecraft, I really don't know all that much about it. I have only dabbled with things like command blocks, Custom NPCs, and redstone. Who has the time to devote to learning how all of these things work? I'll tell you who: 10 to 13 year olds. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I also don't have all that much experience with game design. I mean, there was that one class on games and simulations in my master's program, but that was a long time ago. I happened to find a </span><a href="http://www.gamasutra.com/view/feature/132341/the_13_basic_principles_of_.php" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">really good article at GamaSutra</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> that talked about thirteen essential principles of game design. I used this article as a basis for explaining important things to consider in my students’ game design. They knew a lot about the types of games that one could create in Minecraft and the kinds of activities people like to do in Minecraft. So, of course, I let them take the lead there too. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPyLo9MziygHP0lSeVNOic_KTjvK1KpCmh81J011BYWOwrFxeUkt9-h83pvoHT46ParuwnmXsqD7i9CkMwfYAjzQkGorWuxIakGO2MIkph-v8WJfr0yXZjHeBkn-goSFP5-Dcz/s1600/Screen+Shot+2017-08-09+at+6.52.38+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="449" data-original-width="616" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPyLo9MziygHP0lSeVNOic_KTjvK1KpCmh81J011BYWOwrFxeUkt9-h83pvoHT46ParuwnmXsqD7i9CkMwfYAjzQkGorWuxIakGO2MIkph-v8WJfr0yXZjHeBkn-goSFP5-Dcz/s400/Screen+Shot+2017-08-09+at+6.52.38+PM.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Several games required that you change from creative mode to survival mode before playing.</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">We started off by playing a tutorial world together, and then changing that world’s server to survival mode. On that server, they could build their community, and learn how to work with each other, and find opportunities for collaboration. I inadvertently found out that the way they behaved on the survival server gave me a sense of how much I could trust them with on our creative server for each class. Whereas the one group of students behaved respectfully toward one another on the survival server and showed me that I could trust them with PVP, fire and TNT, and other dimensions on their creative server, the other group struggled to be respectful to one another in their survival server. They snuck into each other's houses, took each other's things, and destroyed each other's creations. So, for most of the two-week period, the latter group was not allowed to have as many privileges on their creative server. We had many discussions about how they could earn back my trust and gain those privileges; however, as a group, they struggled to come up with creative solutions to this problem. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As the students began to generate ideas for their games on the creative server, I was introduced to new terminology for me, such as </span><a href="https://minecraft.gamepedia.com/Spleef" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">spleef</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> games, and the concept of creating an escape room that players would have to solve puzzles to get out of. Although I knew their ideas came from watching YouTube videos of others’ creations, I was also delighted to see the unique spin they would put on each different game they would try to create. Most of them did not want to be seen as ”ripping off” something that everyone else had seen on YouTube. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2WkjMOfnzj6G2hGlnzQRVvvOpdA7z4ShhuXRZzJofB7U7vkb-NEBHACWzVwKe3xFO25Fk41Dl3p5R0jXpAJS92DxPaTMOZ3DkI6bwFWLFA5WxkFc5JnLBdzxp7TJyCFNNDB6g/s1600/Screen+Shot+2017-08-09+at+6.55.07+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="555" data-original-width="1077" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2WkjMOfnzj6G2hGlnzQRVvvOpdA7z4ShhuXRZzJofB7U7vkb-NEBHACWzVwKe3xFO25Fk41Dl3p5R0jXpAJS92DxPaTMOZ3DkI6bwFWLFA5WxkFc5JnLBdzxp7TJyCFNNDB6g/s400/Screen+Shot+2017-08-09+at+6.55.07+PM.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Many students used Custom NPCs in their games. This one provides the player with help.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We didn't have too many mods on our servers, but we did have Custom NPCs. We also had ComputerCraft and ComputerCraftEDU, and the students got a chance to play </span><a href="https://wiki.education.minecraft.net/wiki/Turtle_Island" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Turtle Island by Mike Harvey</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. This gave them a chance to see how Custom NPCs and command blocks and other functions were used in a game setting. This also set the students up for new problems that they wanted to solve. For example, a student wanted to be able to have a player's game mode change from creative to survival when they entered the game area, and then change back to creative at the end of the game area. This led to discussions about how to do this with command blocks, and a lot of collaboration from the students solving the problem together. I just sat back and listened. When they had come up with a solution, I described the process as I had observed it. I also pointed out to them that I did not know the solutions to their problems, but that I had confidence in their ability to come up with it themselves. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">This pattern continued throughout the remainder of the two-week period. A student wanted to create a Custom NPC that would teleport a player from our spawn area to that student’s game that he had created. Again, I was going to be no help here. I described the problem, we talked as a class about some ways to solve that problem, and I referred them to what we had seen in Turtle Island. Before long, one student had spent some time experimenting and had created the Custom NPC we needed. I was then able to direct the students’ attention to this Custom NPC, and show them how to inspect it to find out how the student had done it. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">By this point, the kids had gotten into the habit of talking to each other to find out how someone had done something. They could all see each other's creations, so they got ideas and then new questions from one another. I kept reminding them that I was not going to be very helpful, but that I wanted to learn from them as well. So I would present questions to them, asking if they knew how to solve a problem. I ended up finding out that there were several students in the class who were much better teachers than I was. </span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4_YywcfWUcVfKiJ2oJTPHczjHQa8B7TMEJZdgIW-I7vYMhbDyF0XnQrUCKr8igjYBx0NUg6btPBdytHBndu-1S7j2a_RFJF8yahmzWeoYuCiMHOC3nnNzJgGb-5CBr9bMlRBq/s1600/Screen+Shot+2017-08-09+at+6.57.32+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="557" data-original-width="979" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4_YywcfWUcVfKiJ2oJTPHczjHQa8B7TMEJZdgIW-I7vYMhbDyF0XnQrUCKr8igjYBx0NUg6btPBdytHBndu-1S7j2a_RFJF8yahmzWeoYuCiMHOC3nnNzJgGb-5CBr9bMlRBq/s400/Screen+Shot+2017-08-09+at+6.57.32+PM.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A parkour game created by one of the pairs of students</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I also talked to the students about the concept of engagement in the learning space. I informed them that I had gone around the room recording audio with my phone for short periods of time. The students had not even noticed me, as they were so focused on what they were creating. I told them how excited I was to see how engaged they were in what they were doing. I asked them to compare their experiences in this class with their everyday experiences in classes during the school year. I asked them if their traditional classroom situations were as exciting and engaging as what they were doing here. They did not want to seem to throw their regular classroom experiences under the bus, as it were. But they admitted that everyday school is not as engaging as self-directed, self-driven, project-based problem solving like they were doing for this class. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Again, I do not take credit for this. All I did was to set a problem before the students, give them a platform in which to create solutions, and get out of the way. Of course it helps that they were using Minecraft as the platform, and this was something they were already excited by. Almost all of the students had played Minecraft before, and for many of them it was their favorite game. I know this because I gave a survey on the first day of class asking about their experiences and comfort levels with various things we would be doing in the class. I also took a survey at the end of the class. In it, I asked students to rate how much new learning they had gotten on each of a number of topics. On a scale from 1 (“no new learning”) to 5 (“AMAZING amounts of new learning”), both playing Minecraft in survival mode and playing Minecraft in creative mode averaged 3.03. Other notable results were ratings of 2.81 for redstone, 3.61 for command blocks, and 3.75 for custom NPCs. I felt pleased that students, overall, felt they had learned a lot. Many students said that what they would change about the class was that it should be four weeks instead of only two. (Give me strength!)</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbf6Lb6RUgq6rKuhDeNaQf3stGea8g-7eIOLCvZ5mYF7zwbECngpPmKYIf1DPQo29SM9z7OdzpH47dwzYU9TRqHOP3ZutIwpI2pL83OuIBR-Zf67bnAU9EMRaj5w-J9UBE3bX0/s1600/Screen+Shot+2017-08-09+at+6.58.41+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="609" data-original-width="976" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbf6Lb6RUgq6rKuhDeNaQf3stGea8g-7eIOLCvZ5mYF7zwbECngpPmKYIf1DPQo29SM9z7OdzpH47dwzYU9TRqHOP3ZutIwpI2pL83OuIBR-Zf67bnAU9EMRaj5w-J9UBE3bX0/s400/Screen+Shot+2017-08-09+at+6.58.41+PM.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This team used signs to remind players to use the command blocks to change their game mode and return to the server's spawn point.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></span></div>
<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">All in all, I found it to be a very rewarding experience for my own Minecraft learning, and the kids really got a lot out of the experience. Next summer, I hope to offer the class again, but I will likely hand it off to someone else to teach, simply because I don’t really have the time to devote to it. Also rewarding for me was the positive energy I felt from the kids as they learned on their own terms. The adult in the room (I guess that’s me) didn’t try to take over or get in the way of their own discoveries or efforts. This reminded me that I want to be more like that during the school year with my older kids.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></i></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Images are all screen shots from screencast videos, made by students in the class, in which they shared the games they created.</span></i></span></div>
Diane E. Main, GCT NorCal 2006http://www.blogger.com/profile/01604373649158850063noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37449610.post-17937971007660047922017-07-08T18:33:00.000-07:002018-06-05T09:25:00.341-07:00Every Picture Tells a Story, Don’t It? (Chapter 1: June 1997)<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Last month marked twenty (20) years since I got my first tattoo. I decided I would celebrate this anniversary by telling the stories of each of my tattoos. If you talk to anyone who has ink, they can relate how each piece has its own story. There’s some person, place, or incident tied to each permanent piece of body art for most people. That’s the case with me, so here begins a series of blog posts recanting those tales. Get ready to learn a lot about my personal life.</span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-896a1125-24ee-23a4-d152-1944f165144c" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Most people have never seen this tattoo, as it is on my left hip. It’s not really something that shows in polite company, unless we are at a pool or the beach and I am partaking of swimsuit-wearing activities. There isn’t just a story behind the artwork itself, but also how it came about.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In March of 1997, I left my now ex-husband. At some point in the months leading up to that ultimate split, I had mentioned the idea that I was considering getting a tattoo. My then-husband declared, “As your husband, I FORBID you getting a tattoo.” Yeah, he forbade it. So it was sure as hell going to happen once those words were uttered aloud in my presence. This marked the turning point in my decision to leave in a lot of ways. I’m definitely more vocal and steadfast NOW in my feelings that my body is MINE to decide what to do or not do with, but I think this little interchange sparked that idea into my 26 year-old mind.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I knew I wanted a Tasmanian Devil. Now, this goes against what I fundamentally believe regarding tattoo art. Don’t get your face or neck inked. Don't get something offensive and/or that you will end up regretting. Don’t put someone’s name unless it’s your parent, maybe a sibling, or a human you created/helped create. Don’t pick something that is trendy or tied to a certain period of time in pop culture. These are my rules.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But Taz was my nickname in the co-ed fraternity I co-founded, and the Tasmanian Devil was our mascot. So I pretty much felt like that was what I wanted. Never since have I gone with such little firm idea of what I wanted permanently affixed to my epidermis. But hey, I was a baby in the body art world at the time.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So I talked my girl Smitty (my college BFF Chris) into going with me, and we looked in the phone book and stuff (hey, it was 1997, and Yelp was not yet a thing) for a tattoo place. We went to one close-by in Bound Brook, NJ, but we didn’t get a good vibe there. I can’t remember how we ended up settling on Tattoo 46 in Dover, NJ (I thought it was on Route 10, but it turns out it was this one on 46) -- given that she was in Manville and I was in Clinton, so it was quite a hike by car -- but that is where we ended up. I also can’t remember how Smitty decided she would get her navel pierced. But she did. And I didn’t like any of the Taz art they had on the wall or in the books, so we actually left and went back a couple nights later, because I realized I knew which depiction of Taz I wanted.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">You see, some years earlier, when I was in college I think, my mother had bought me these pajamas that were a t-shirt and boxer-style shorts, and the shorts were festooned with all these Tasmanian Devils, arms crossed over his chest, wearing stars-and-stripes boxers. So when we returned to the tattoo place, I had those with me.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I held the little mini-tail of hair (it was 1997, after all) at the back of my head, and I whined “ouch, ouch, ouch” the entire time the guy did the tattoo . . . until he finally said, “Shut up, Diane.” (Later tattoos didn’t hurt nearly as much. But of course, in the intervening period, I’d had a c-section and some yucky follow-up surgery related to it, so my pain threshold was in completely new territory by then.)</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So, within three months of leaving my ex, right around Flag Day of 1997, I had a new piece of body art. Smitty later had to ditch the navel piercing, as it kept getting irritated and infected when her short self would spend summers on ladders painting houses, as poor teachers like us were sometimes found to do, for, like, the foods and the rents.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Shortly after this incident, I moved out of my apartment because I had decided to move to California. My stuff went into storage, and I slept on my folks’ couch for a few nights before my parents, my aunt, and I headed to England for a trip. On my first night on the couch, Dad had already gone to bed, and Mom and I were up talking. I said to her, “Can you keep a secret?” And she eye-rolled, because she knew this meant “can I tell you something you can’t tell Dad?” and she remarked, “Do I want to know?”</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So I showed her the tattoo and she eye-rolled again, remarking that we would not be telling my father. And then, after a pause, she asked, “Is that from those pajamas I bought you?” And then I think she eye-rolled again when I told her it was. I think she felt somehow complicit in my “crime.”</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It gets better.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We went to Britain, and I showed all my friends and family members, except my Dad, one by one, my new tattoo. This involved pulling one side of my jeans down to reveal my left hip. I even showed my two aunts (Dad’s sisters), the older of whom was scandalized. That was my Auntie Reta. A proper English lady if ever there was one. My other aunt, Dad’s sister Eileen, was the opposite personality. She was bawdy and loved to laugh -- LOUDLY. She was usually saying things that left the rest of us scandalized. So, we were all having a meal at the local pub, The Old Oak in Coupe Green, Hoghton, Lancashire, when my Auntie Eileen suddenly says, “So you might as well tell your father about your tattoo, Diane.” Oh, the looks around that table just then.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So I had to take Dad outside the back door of the pub and show him my new ink. I don’t think he was happy, but he didn’t really say much. I think part of him was proud it was a patriotic image.</span></div>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And here it is, having taken up residence on my left hip for two decades now:</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglLTINX9K7RN0M02loTobjc03o_hcZR5jzDFD8mlQpwrkHp3vQObV2ZFkqN-X4FsOR3NtahVhXlGI1sXFn3J2RJYsqgYCxEBpa0zNvFRJvbFsK5KAnv2h0yvudWnZJ-DWXdqJ3/s1600/Tattoo_01_Taz_lefthip.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="274" data-original-width="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglLTINX9K7RN0M02loTobjc03o_hcZR5jzDFD8mlQpwrkHp3vQObV2ZFkqN-X4FsOR3NtahVhXlGI1sXFn3J2RJYsqgYCxEBpa0zNvFRJvbFsK5KAnv2h0yvudWnZJ-DWXdqJ3/s1600/Tattoo_01_Taz_lefthip.jpg" /></a></div>
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Diane E. Main, GCT NorCal 2006http://www.blogger.com/profile/01604373649158850063noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37449610.post-11826541084886753692017-01-22T17:41:00.000-08:002017-01-22T17:41:11.963-08:00Resistance Under the New Regime<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Friday was a hard day for me. I wore all black, from head to toe. I had planned to do so since the day after the election. Despite making the conscious effort to avoid all coverage of a certain person (whom I will not name) getting a rather highly-publicized start to a job in Washington, DC that day, I had to listen to parts of the coverage being played in a classroom near my office. That was unpleasant. I ended up spending part of my day chatting with students and a counselor who stopped by my office. Another colleague stopped by to check in on how I was doing. That felt good, but the day was still somber. Let me tell you why that is.</span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-46ec5947-c8fa-5029-7910-bcd2fb9cfc6f" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Almost twenty years ago, I left an abusive marriage. I then moved across the country, from New Jersey to California, to make sure I never had to bump into him anywhere. I wanted to start a new life, far removed from everything about him. I’ve kept tabs over the years, and seen more evidence to support my decision to get as far away as possible. Let me tell you about my ex.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He bankrupted himself, and me, and has since filed bankruptcy at least one more time. He has been taken to court by the government for tax evasion. He has made his money by tricking other people out of theirs, with empty promises. He was a womanizer. He cheated on me. He was emotionally and financially abusive. He overspent and was extremely irresponsible with finances, and didn’t seem to care about who would have to clean up his mess. He touts himself as a deeply religious Christian man. He forbade me to get a tattoo (I now have five.) He body-shamed me and any weight I gained, despite being more overweight than I was. He tried to cheat me out of half the proceeds of the sale of our house, because when we married, he lied about putting my name on the title of the house. There are other things that happened that are far too personal to share here. But you need to know that his facial expressions, mannerisms, and vocal patterns were hauntingly like a certain person who just moved into the White House. The sneers, the gestures, the voice raised in perpetual anger: I am all too familiar with these tactics. I know what someone like that is capable of behind closed doors.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Every time I have to see, hear, or watch the new occupant of the White House, I am forced to face my abuser all over again. I moved across a continent to get away from that, and I have been very successful in establishing my new life free from that horrible burden. I learned from that experience what I would never put up with in my life again. I started from less than nothing (thanks to that bankruptcy) and I have done very well for myself. I have a family and a great career. I overcame the effects of my abuser.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So like I said, Friday was hard.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Saturday started out quiet. I walked to the light rail station alone, wondering how the march in San Jose would go. I wondered how many other cities in America would also host marches. As I approached the station, I saw the platform full of people. My heart raced just a little. That’s a lot of people, I thought, and while I am not a fan of large crowds, I’m not phobic, so I walked on. As I got closer, I found that people were figuring out how to buy tickets, and there was a line. I’ve never seen so many people on that platform, and I’ve never seen a line so long to buy light rail tickets. Everyone was friendly. There were a bunch of pink hats and signs with lots of different messages. Everyone was helpful. I was starting to feel really good about this. A train came by. It was too full for any of us to get on. Another train went by, southbound, and it was clear that people had gotten on farther north to ride to the southern terminus (one stop beyond mine) to just be able to get on a train. Uh oh.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We were able to get on the next train, but it was tight. For the next several stops, people got on to what was already a packed, standing-room-only train. It was mostly white people. Lots of women, but quite a few men too. It occurred to me that a majority of them had never used public transit before. There was this one black man in my car, next to whom I stood for most of the ride in, who had to be feeling a little weirded out. He just looked like he wanted to get where he was going. But after a few stops, he spoke to a few of these first timers.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When we finally poured out at the Santa Clara Street station, it was clear people didn’t know where to go. But I did, so I stepped around people, some of whom were trying to find the friends they had come down with, who had gotten into different cars of our train. I thought about getting a bottle of water somewhere, but I also just wanted to get to City Hall. it was amazing. The police and volunteers were all friendly and helpful, and worked really hard to keep people safe and within the designated areas. It was PACKED, but everyone was so cool. No one got out of hand. Everyone made room for each other. We read each other’s signs and shirts, snapped pictures, smiled, high-fived total strangers. We joined in with each other’s chants. Parents tried to keep their kids from getting cranky. Friends spotted each other. Lots of people were on social media, checking in, trying to share the moment or their location or both. Instagram couldn’t handle it for a while there.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A friend from work texted me and I tried to find him, but I ended up finding another friend instead, so I walked with her and her friend, and met two of their students. No one was violent. No one was angry . . . just fired up for change. I no longer felt the somber despair of the day before. I felt hope, for the first time since November 8th. I was surrounded by tens of thousands of people who I could tell are committed to not lying down and just taking whatever the federal government tries to throw at us. We chanted “Si se puede” and “yes, we can” and “this is what democracy looks like” and “this is what a feminist looks like.” We walked along 4th and through El Paseo de San Antonio. When an ambulance needed to drive through a street we had to cross, my new friend jumped out and helped the lone traffic officer by yelling “ambulance!” and using her body, arms stretched out, to let everyone know why we had to stop for a minute. People were like, “yeah, priorities.”</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Store windows had posters in them too. Kids and parents stood along the route with signs. A few bemused folks leaving a gym were like, “okay, that’s a lot of people…” But no one was scared. No one felt threatened. I felt empowered. “America,” I said to myself, “we are going to be okay.” As long as we keep at this, of course.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We got to Plaza de Cesar Chavez amid the fitting cries of “Si se puede,” and there were speakers and poets and local politicians, sharing their vision for how we can spread this energy into action. Along the paths that only weeks before had been lined with Christmas trees and holiday decor for Christmas in the Park, there were now easy-up tents with tables full of local activism groups, sharing information and helping people find out how they can make a difference locally. I stopped by LGBTQ+ Safe Place for Youth to pick up some materials for my school’s GSA. (Gender Sexuality Alliance) There were a few food trucks. Along the route, I had met up with several colleagues from the school where I work. I briefly bounced between them and my friend I had been marching with. Later, I just wandered alone for a while, listening to the speakers, taking pictures of signs, petting a dog I met, and taking it all in.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This is not typically the way I spend a Saturday. I’ve never really been an activist before. I thought of my parents a lot throughout the day. My Dad, always a Republican, would not have been okay with how things have gone. My Mom, always a Democrat, would have wanted to march. Part of me, sadly, was glad they were not around to see the past year in this country. Part of me was sad that my Mom was not walking beside me.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I thought of my students, many of whom are the children of immigrants. Most of their parents arrived here on work visas. Some of them walked here and were undocumented. I thought of the kids I know in the GSA. It’s hard enough for them to be open about who they are. Some can’t outside of the safe spaces in our school. They must be so worried for the future, on top of their very real everyday anxiety. I thought about my Muslim students. I never know what to say to them. How much do they fear? How much support do they believe they have from the rest of us? I thought about all the students of color I know. How can they pretend they don’t know about all the terrible things a certain “politician” has said about them and their families? How much must it hurt them to acknowledge that they heard him? That they’ve read what he’s said and done, and they see all these other Americans telling them to “get over it” and “you lost.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am in a position of immense privilege, and I know it. I am a heterosexual, cisgender, Christian, white American female. I was born here. The only “strike” I have against me in the New Regime is my gender. It could be so easy to just go along with things and pretend that it won’t affect me. But the very thought of that turns my stomach. I look into the hopeful faces of our future every day when I go to work. I have to stand up. I have to march. I have to find a way to make a bigger difference than I already do. But most of all, I have to keep loving these kids, and their families, and the strangers around me every day.</span></div>
<br /><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We can’t let the evil and the falsehood win. Yesterday helped me believe that I can be a part of the resistance.</span>Diane E. Main, GCT NorCal 2006http://www.blogger.com/profile/01604373649158850063noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37449610.post-44308466995476744722016-11-08T11:34:00.001-08:002016-11-08T11:34:35.417-08:00Election Reflection<br />
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My mother and father were immigrants to this country. They didn't flee persecution, but they did come for a better life in the United States. Growing up during and after World War II in Scotland and England, things were not always easy, but they certainly had it way better than many of our nation's immigrants. My immigrant parents came to this country as white English speakers, whose accents were met with delight rather than derision. The same is true for my immigrant husband (from Scotland).<br />
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My parents were proud Americans. They loved this country. They were also proud of their British/Irish heritage. No one ever made them choose. It seemed they were the "acceptable" kind of immigrants. My parents loved America, and they VOTED. Every year, every election, no matter how big or small, how significant in other people's eyes. They voted. They believed it was their duty as citizens. I grew up visiting the polls with my mother. I was shown first-hand how important a duty, responsibility, and privilege it is, as an American, to vote.<br />
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My father passed away in March of 2008. He never got to see our nation's first African-American President take office. My mother did. But then Mom passed away two years ago. She never got to vote for the first female candidate for President (but I KNOW she would have).<br />
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Our area has permanent vote-by-mail voting. We always drop off our ballots rather then sending them in the post. In honor of my parents, I voted over a week ago. In honor of all the immigrants, perhaps especially the ones who have been made to feel unwelcome, or who have been expected to throw away their heritage, blend in, and pretend they aren't from somewhere else, I cast my vote for the candidate who cares about ALL people.<br />
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I hope you will honor all of our nation's immigrant ancestors, as well as the people who were brought here against their will in ships, and the ones who were driven off their lands, and the future Americans who will risk everything they have, including their lives, for a taste of our freedoms, and VOTE.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgolEVspYsplYAIvKynR5tWpS8VchOumBsPrYLz4bdY6fUrA0C4nAwest4gGsmgxfZ9_QH89cdEys7y_RgIcLgTevPyc0Xjv6S6ALBhl0Wn-B3uDr2OV6lHWBavHN07LiLBjcX-/s1600/Mom_and_Dad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgolEVspYsplYAIvKynR5tWpS8VchOumBsPrYLz4bdY6fUrA0C4nAwest4gGsmgxfZ9_QH89cdEys7y_RgIcLgTevPyc0Xjv6S6ALBhl0Wn-B3uDr2OV6lHWBavHN07LiLBjcX-/s200/Mom_and_Dad.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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Diane E. Main, GCT NorCal 2006http://www.blogger.com/profile/01604373649158850063noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37449610.post-70864790936929804782015-08-23T21:03:00.000-07:002015-08-23T21:03:47.141-07:00How I Use Remind to #teachsmall<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When I heard about this hashtag and idea “#teachsmall,” I wondered to myself, how do I “teach small” with my own students? What does “teach small” even mean? And then a former student, a young lady who just graduated high school after having my Digital World class in her final semester, answered the question for me.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Just like I had done for them all semester using the Remind app, this former student saw something relevant to what we had studied and used in class, and she shared it with me. Of course, I then sent it (via Remind) to all the students I had last year in both semesters’ Digital World classes. By the next morning, that message had received three stamps: two stars and a check.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So then I scrolled back through some of the messages I sent my DW students and my group of advisees over the past few months. I found myself chuckling out loud at the memories. </span></div>
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<b style="clear: left; float: left; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /><img height="178" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/ARYA9Glqyg1PZpxak1AR82TwOcfHoDXZpIdcQyVXwDGI2-cMjOiS_h2Dj3FYIOE2QAWXPM2N0_ByL78Bo7DKRYmAPKJRAKe5JIok8Vrpz9mF7I7NiU_t2TwpevgDatwJKpflNUw" style="border: none; transform: rotate(0rad);" width="400" /></b><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">For me, #teachsmall has meant sending the kids a funny meme as a way of reminding them of something coming up in class. </span></div>
<b style="clear: right; float: right; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /><img height="320" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/HZQwPT5-xmYSaJX6c2Pqca26h_WyUPCRx5qMnSyVbrAx7vzMoeX6HLgqJru088TqDXVvkBynSB6PbQzxkhigdHwfTod-YyRDf0iOHc_v1c_E_BFe1YWXuYdpAWlzP3hKqjhdi4A" style="border: none; transform: rotate(0rad);" width="247" /></b><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It has looked like a group selfie of our advisory every time we’re together, shared with them using Remind. This became especially poignant when the kids learned that one of the group would not be in our advisory next year. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">And it has meant staying in touch over summer vacation, sometimes just to tell them I miss them.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">Now, some people may balk at my communication with students. They may judge its appropriateness. I can live with that. When a former student’s eyes light up and she greets me with a smile and a high-five every time our paths cross, I know that my communication choices made a difference in forging a caring relationship with a young person. When another former student stops by my office almost daily for candy, but spends most of the time talking to me about daily life stuff, and -- that one time -- even explained to me what aspects of economics I was witnessing in a class Minecraft experiment <i>(because he had taken economics and I never did)</i> I am reminded that those connections we make with students are what sustains them. And what sustains us. What sustains me.</span></div>
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Diane E. Main, GCT NorCal 2006http://www.blogger.com/profile/01604373649158850063noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37449610.post-5623404020283839272015-06-19T12:01:00.000-07:002015-06-19T12:01:55.746-07:00The Two AmericasHere I am, sitting at LAX, one of the busiest airports in the country, and possibly the world. My one-hour flight has been delayed by about three hours, so I have some time to sit around and people-watch while I wait. Two Los Angeles Airport Police officers just walked by. One had a massive rifle. So that's a thing.<br />
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I have been on dozens flights in the past year and a half or so, and I've been to at least fifteen different airports. One thing I see in just about every airport is a class divide that is almost always along race lines. People of all races travel. But the majority in most airports are white. Not surprising, given our country's population demographics. But the majority of people doing seriously hard work, likely for low pay, are people of color. <br />
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I stopped to get a pizza and soda here today. The woman scooting by with a cart of water and soda bottles to replenish at the counter was Latina. All the cleaning workers and food service workers and various attendants here and there have skin much darker than mine. This is something we are accustomed to. Perhaps too much. Because when the caucasian gentleman sitting near me finished his beer and pizza, he got up and left his mess for someone else to pick up. He had to walk past multiple garbage cans to leave the little food court area. But his assumption, likely, is that it's someone else's job to pick up after him. (For the record, I bussed my own space, thankyouverymuch.)<br />
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I see this at supermarkets too, and it's a pet peeve of mine. People bring their shopping carts out to their cars, empty their purchases into their trunks, and leave the carts where ever they damn well please. Yes, it is someone's job to come out and get the carts. But can't you make someone's day at work a little easier and smoother by putting your cart in one of the designated places for them? It also helps keep everyone else's cars from getting dinged.<br />
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On that note (helping others have a nice day at work), what about treating people with respect, kindness, and dignity while they're doing their jobs to serve you and your needs? I smiled, made eye contact, and spoke with the woman who was carting all those beverages in to restock. I made way in the line for her cart to get through. The young lady ahead of me helped move some water bottles to their intended location in the cooler before I could reach them. Am I telling you this because I feel I deserve accolades? No. I just think it's common sense to be nice and help people.<br />
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The airline worker who checked in my bag was super helpful to me today. She woke up this morning, I am sure, being Black in an America where people are still getting shot for looking like her in the year 2015. I couldn't locate my email with my confirmation number, although I was already in the express bag check lane, and she politely took my ID and got me all set in mere moments. I thanked her twice, called her ma'am, and wished her a great day. I've seen people in my many travel experiences forget such basic manners because THEY'VE GOT PLACES TO GO, DAMMIT.<br />
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And let's not forget to dress comfortably when we travel. Don't think I haven't noticed, white teenaged girls of America, how you fly in pajama pants and a skimpy tank top, rolling your eyes, and keeping your earbuds in, when young black men are wearing chinos and a polo shirt and smiling and thanking and calling everyone sir and ma'am, maybe just so they will be shown some respect. If that ain't white privilege, I don't know what is. White youth can do pretty much anything in this country, it seems. But if a young black man sags his pants, we get national news media asking "where are the fathers?"<br />
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White people can pierce and tattoo the hell out of themselves (present company included on the tattoos), but a Mexican dude gets his baby's name on his arm and he's a banger. White guy dresses scruffy and grows an out-of-control beard, and he's a hipster. Black or brown guy does it, he gets arrested and/or assumed to be homeless.<br />
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No lie, a blond girl just walked by in blue socks (no shoes) with pot leaves on them. Would a Black girl even dare?<br />
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This is what I am saying. We live in two Americas. And they happen parallel, side-by-side at the same time, everywhere you go. Sometimes they are separate. Do you think I will ever find myself in the neighborhood where many LAX food service workers live? I wonder how often they find themselves at some of the nice restaurants I got to eat in while I've been in LA this week. But more often than we realize, we find ourselves sharing the same space. Too many people who look like me just seem to breeze through airports, supermarkets, shopping malls, movie theatres, seeing right through the people who work hard to make their time there clean, pleasant, and convenient.<br />
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We have certainly come a long way in this country, but we still have so far to go. White privilege is a thing. It doesn't make white people evil. It means we've had it really good for a really long time. Usually on the backs of people with darker skin. We don't have to stop being white. We just have to stop acting like it hasn't done us any favors.Diane E. Main, GCT NorCal 2006http://www.blogger.com/profile/01604373649158850063noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37449610.post-42286890371702897152015-05-30T17:30:00.002-07:002015-05-30T17:31:56.817-07:00Recipe for Teacher Success<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sometimes, it takes a high school sophomore or two to remind you what’s important.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Earlier today, I was reading and “grading” my students’ reflections on the coding experiences I put them through this semester, and I was really blown away by some of their personal epiphanies. I really enjoyed commenting back to them, as I think I’ve now been through enough time on this planet to say I might know just a FEW of the “answers.” After I finished, I posted the following “recipe for teacher success” to my Facebook and Twitter:</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">1. give kids a hard task </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">2. have them write reflectively</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">3. read reflections (bring tissues)</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It didn’t take long for someone to respond on Twitter with a step 4: “give kids a hard task based on reflections.” Absolutely right. If we’re going at this whole education thing the correct way, that is the natural next step. Some people call it “life.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">One of my students, whom I teased about whining when the coding activities got frustrating, shared that she learned she has a tendency to give up too easily. She found herself relying on friends for help, or avoiding the task at hand, but then eventually prevailing when she just forced herself to push through it. I loved that I was able to respond with encouraging words, suggesting that now she can see this predilection on the horizon in future situations and self-talk her way through or around it. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She also quipped one of my favorite lines of student writing I’ve read in a while: </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">You know how kids don’t want to eat their broccoli at dinner? That was me with coding.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This was the perfect opener, on their last formal writing piece of the course, for me to recognize her very effective conversational yet well-crafted writing style. It reminded me of my own blogging. Which is how we find ourselves right here, right now.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Another student observed that text-based games like the Zork series seem to act like programs themselves, that require particular commands in order to be completed. (We had modified a text adventure style game in Trinket one day in class.) I had never thought of that before. Just the act of playing a computer game, which had to be programmed by someone else, consists of commands and other actions that require thinking like a programmer.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Though one of the students in the class determined that these activities, learning coding through games, solidified for her that she has no desire to pursue programming again, many of her classmates discovered that programming was more fun and accessible to them than they had ever imagined. After all, they took this course with me to avoid taking a programming class. Since one of my goals was to alter their perception about computer science and programming, and to change their ideas about whether coding is “for them.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m really sharing this reflection of my own because I feel so grateful to get to work with young people and try new things with them and witness how they respond. I feel as though if I don’t tell somebody -- everybody! -- then maybe my lack of gratitude would jinx the whole thing and I could lose it all. But also, because it seems I have discovered a kind of secret sauce that many of my amazing friends in EdTech have also found. This recipe for teacher success is a recipe for student success, for meaningful educational experiences, for happiness, for true reflective practice, for so many things we need more of in schools (and in life) but that our testing-crazed and over-committed lives frequently rob from us.</span></div>
Diane E. Main, GCT NorCal 2006http://www.blogger.com/profile/01604373649158850063noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37449610.post-20530442599830726842015-05-09T17:14:00.000-07:002015-05-09T17:14:20.473-07:00Haircut Day<br />Today, it’s a Saturday in May, and I am spending most of it grading. Deadlines, you know. But I needed a break, so I thought I would write about last Saturday. As weekend days go, it also had a singular, very focused purpose: getting my son a haircut.<br /><br />Now, you need to understand that my son is eleven and has mild autism and has been growing his hair long because he wants it that way. And my husband and I have been walking a tricky tightrope of give-and-take, since hubby isn’t super into the boy having his hair long (though he is coming around somewhat), and I feel very strongly that I want him to be able to have power of this aspect of his appearance and his life.<br /><br />First things first, though: we are all about the hygiene. Both my husband and I work with children. Other people’s children. Sometimes smelly children. I have leaned over many a pre-teen head to give guidance at a computer and had to hold back on the retch I’ve felt welling up. I have a super-sensitive olfactory gift, you see. Another aspect of hygiene is appearance. Neither my husband nor I can handle an unkempt appearance. We just can’t. Don’t try to fix us; we’re fine.<br /><br />So we have set up rules about bathing and washing hair daily, brushing hair several times a day, using deodorant, brushing (and flossing and rinsing) teeth, and so forth. It’s hard enough to have autism. Being the smelly, dirty, weird kid is especially hard to bounce back from. And we start middle school in a few months. People with Asperger’s and autism are especially prone to a condition called “not giving a damn about personal hygiene.” So we’re vigilant, to say the least.<div>
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And so we find ourselves on a lovely Saturday with a boy who doesn’t want anyone coming near his hair, and me promising we won’t do anything drastic. And then it occurred to me: this isn’t just about being eleven and wanting to exert some control over a matter of one’s personal style. Getting a haircut is a rather sensory experience on a lot of levels. A person you don’t know very well touching your head. Loudly buzzing clippers right next to your ears. Strange smells and foreign noises while you sit on a chair that spins and goes up and down under someone else’s control.<br /><br />On the drive to my hair dresser’s salon, I asked Cameron if there was more than one reason he was not happy about getting his hair cut. I told him that I understood that he wants to be old enough to decide about his own hair, which he agreed was part of what upset him. I also asked him if maybe all the sensory experiences I just described were upsetting to him.<br /><br />Yes. Also, the last time his Dad took him for a haircut, the lady cut off more than even my husband told her to. So not only does the boy have no control, even his father can’t protect him from too extreme a cut.<br /><br />We’ve done most of Cameron’s haircuts at home, with clippers. That is no longer an option or something we will consider. Scissors only. And neither hubby nor I are qualified to wield those.<br /><br />I brought Cameron to my own hairdresser, who has been doing my hair since before he was born, I think, and whom he knows and at least respects and likes. I had already texted her in detail about what was up. She was really great. She explained to him, reassured him, and was really gentle and calming the entire time.<br /><br />He still silently wept through the entire ordeal, but that wasn’t her fault. </div>
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All we did was have her trim some dead ends and do a small amount of layering to the top and sides, so it would fall more neatly when he combs or brushes it. She complimented the length he had grown it, and she told him how much she likes how the back gets curly. I couldn’t have asked for a better performance by her, emotionally and professionally. His hair does look really nice. Most people can’t even tell it was cut, just that it looks neater.<br /><br />But the build-up, the ride there, the talking him down during and after, and the therapeutic discussions and choices made for the remainder of the day were hard work and they were very draining. I negotiated my way through getting him to actually eat something when we went for lunch on the way home. I talked him into having some of my fries, and by the time we got to the front of the line to order, had even wrangled him into getting a chicken sandwich. I let him get whatever he wanted to drink (no beer, wine, or artificial sweeteners, though).<br /><br />When we got home, he was free to do whatever he wanted. I am pretty sure he played with Lego in his room and rode his scooter outside for a bit. To be honest, I was so wiped from trying to maintain emotional control, that I don’t completely remember the rest of the day. I know I took him for sushi on the Friday night as a positive start to the weekend, to sort of buffer it all.<br /><br />This is the kind of thing that can be really challenging about even the mildest of autism. People think your kid’s a little quirky but they expect him to be able to do everything a neurotypical kid can do, just the same way or at the same level or speed. I had a pretty busy and eventful week at work, but we had Haircut Saturday, followed soon after by Dentist Tuesday (with x-rays, a cleaning, and the news that we need to have two of his teeth pulled next week), and frankly, a lot of my life becomes a total blur on a semi-regular basis.<br /></div>
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I just wanted to blog about this lest ye think that it all sunshine and rainbows over here in autism family land. I tend to share pictures and blog posts about the small victories, because that is what I want to remember. But a lot of our most important lessons on this journey come out of the difficult, painful days.</div>
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Diane E. Main, GCT NorCal 2006http://www.blogger.com/profile/01604373649158850063noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37449610.post-4897325134932669612015-05-09T12:20:00.001-07:002015-05-09T17:14:50.105-07:00#makeschooldifferent ChallengeYesterday, I was tagged in a tweet that brought my attention to this very cool challenge. <a href="http://www.diananeebe.com/research--reading-blog/makeschooldifferent" target="_blank">Diana Neebe blogged her response</a> and tagged me in her list of five educators, all of whom I love and respect immensely, and I am very much looking forward to hearing their thoughts on this.<br />
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The origin of this challenge is <a href="http://dangerouslyirrelevant.org/2015/04/we-have-to-stop-pretending.html" target="_blank">Scott McLeod's April 13 (2015) blog post</a>.<br />
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So here goes my contribution:<br />
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When it comes to education, we have to stop pretending that . . .<br />
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1. <b>Standardized testing is ever going to give us any useful data beyond what we already KNOW about our students.</b> Testing only shows us who is good at taking tests. Actually, let me revise that statement. Poor performance on standardized tests is great for pointing out who comes to school hungry, overtired, stressed out, impoverished, neglected, or victimized by racism and classism inherent in our society's systems. We need to stop using test scores to tell us what we already know, and then ignoring their message. Rather, let's solve those societal problems and stop giving tests at all.<br />
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2. <b>"The way we've always done things" and "<a href="https://youtu.be/7Wcc89_PK-A" target="_blank">BGUTI</a> (better get used to it)" are good reasons to keep doing things that are ineffective, harmful to students, or both. </b> Students, parents, families, teachers, administrators, and everyone else involved in education deserves better. Do you still have a VCR you use daily? A record player? A rotary dial phone? In every other aspect of life, humanity has discovered, developed, or invented better ways of doing things. And that's not just with regard to technology, though that's the easiest place to find contemporary metaphors. Adults, think back to your own school days. Do you remember all the things you learned from worksheets and workbooks? How about lecture and note-taking? I know that my own strongest and most positive memories are from the times I was actively involved in creating something: music, a poster for a project, a model. Some of the memories weren't even all that positive, but they stuck. Worksheets? Not so much.<br />
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3. <b>All students learn in the same way, at the same rate.</b> If there is one thing that having a son with autism has taught me, it's that I was wrong a lot in the past in my assumptions about students who need to do things differently. One famous quote that is often misattributed to Albert Einstein is about how if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will spend its whole life believing it is stupid. While that is more about everyone having their own strengths, it also applies to how we learn and how quickly we learn. If we could make our education system truly more individualized and personalized, we could eliminate a lot of the negativity surrounding education. A potential subtitle for this point could be "<b>We have to stop pretending that homework doesn't suck.</b>" Don't even get me started on homework. Kids that need extra practice are tortured by it, and are likely practicing concepts incorrectly. Kids who "got" the concepts in class and who sail through their homework probably don't even need to be doing it. The divides we see among students are widened because kids who need extra support are often in homes where there may be no one available to provide that support during homework time. And kids who have special interests or activities outside of school, the things they love because they're good at them or successful there when they aren't in school, often have to choose between homework and what they love and can succeed in.<br />
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4. <b>Teaching is a profession anyone can do, especially when they drop out of something "better."</b> Too many people in our society view the career path of teachers as something we've settled on because we couldn't make it as anything else. And society also seems to expect that all these all-but-failures they've somehow okayed to be in the classroom can get it together to completely transform their kids, despite all the factors working against us. So teachers are given no respect, but are expected to perform miracles. And despite all they are up against, most of them do. But it's never enough. And then people wonder why we can't keep good teachers, or why no one wants to enter the profession in the first place. We need to change society's view of and value placed on teachers.<br />
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5. <b>Education is about anyone other than the students themselves. </b> There's a lot of talk in this country today about our societal ills and how if parents would just do their jobs, if teachers would just do their jobs, etc. But when people "just do their jobs," young people are often given the short shrift. By the time students are old enough to figure out that someone may not have done right by them, it's often too late to win them back to having a positive outlook about their own futures. In the meantime, while we're racing to run off copies of a quiz, or grading piles of homework, students need us to stop and get to know them. To ask why they're upset. To check in on how things went in that competition or performance they just had. To find out what they like about the book we're reading. To validate what they didn't like about a project. During August trainings, I've heard teachers (myself included) joke about how school would be so much fun if it weren't for the students showing up on the first day. And I've heard some people say it who were NOT joking. I've heard complaints about the kind of students a teacher "has been given" as if they were talking about an STD they caught by accident. I've known educators who simply do not like kids. And I've asked, sometimes out loud, "Um, WHY did you go into teaching?"<br />
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I think all of my ideas point to a bigger picture of having our lenses all out of focus when it comes to accountability. I am a professional. I have two degrees. I have over two decades of experience in the classroom. And I have a very good track record. Allow me to do my job and be accountable to my most important stakeholders: my students. Honor that as a teacher, I make great sacrifices to do right by them every day, and even on weekends and holidays.<br />
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I am also a parent. Please like my kid. Get to know my kid. Give him a chance to show you that he IS capable and that he CAN do and learn, even if he needs more time or different methods than other kids. Especially now as he enters adolescence, he is looking to everyone BUT his parents for validation that he and his very existence are not mistakes.<br />
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I've been absolutely blessed. Not every step of my path as an educator and parent have been easy or positive, but I have spent much of my time in both roles in relatively cushy situations. I am valued where I work. I am given the resources I need. My son is loved and appreciated and encouraged in his schools (past and present). I am well aware, however, that so many educators and parents experience the myths I've outlined above daily. And I've received my share of snide remarks about my choice of profession.<br />
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Finally, and partly in hopes of a post that is more positive to follow mine, I need to tag five educators to continue the conversation in their own spaces. Who are five people whose views I would really love to hear on this? I choose <a href="https://twitter.com/rushtonh" target="_blank">Rushton Hurley</a>, <a href="https://twitter.com/juliafallon" target="_blank">Julia Fallon</a>, <a href="https://twitter.com/johnmilleredu" target="_blank">John Miller</a>, <a href="https://twitter.com/jonsamuelson" target="_blank">Jon Samuelson</a>, and <a href="https://twitter.com/kazmckelvey" target="_blank">Karen McKelvey</a>. These are all people I've spent time with in various situations, solving the world's problems over a drink or a meal or a ride to the airport, and each of them has made me better at what I do.Diane E. Main, GCT NorCal 2006http://www.blogger.com/profile/01604373649158850063noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37449610.post-8339061453793852052015-04-30T22:34:00.000-07:002015-05-09T17:15:18.907-07:00This feels like progress.<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Yesterday, my son and I had the most productive conversation we’ve ever had, squeezed into the ten to fifteen minutes it took us to drive from school to his social skills group meeting. It started when he said to me, “You know how things take me longer to learn and I’m sensitive because I have autism?”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So I said, expectantly, “yeeesss…?”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Well, I think maybe Axel </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>(not his real name)</i></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> might have autism too.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Why is that?” I queried, naturally.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“He’s kind of slow with learning some things, and he seems pretty sensitive too. Does he have autism?”</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Well, I don’t know him or if he does. Everyone with autism is different anyway.”</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Do you think HE knows about autism?”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Well . . . let me ask you something: did you have autism when you were in third grade?”</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://farm5.staticflickr.com/4008/4385234366_570d227770.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://farm5.staticflickr.com/4008/4385234366_570d227770.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Creative Commons licensed by Chris Costes (<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/33852688@N08/4385234366/in/photolist-7Fvtp5-DUL3N-8KFbMP-8KJfJQ-8HnoS1-DULx8-gSoFH-DULw8-7Dp8KL-DUKZa-DULuA-4bw2ue-DULd7-9h4ezr-6mKBp2-5sPpEs-DUL25-DULaq-7CMATD-8D1fmT-34uLsX-i2TDMK-5cKr5-7fW28j-DUL6K-DUL5q-DULoZ-4Z276V-9iW9zv-DULg3-DULmp-DULtf-DULr9-DUKXu-47JPq2-47NRJ3-47JNCP-47NRWf-47NS7E-ee1PhS-6ezt6B-aRfYfB-DUKVr-6eztxH-81SGxD-dHFroy-6e2XVX-DULhK-6e2Ybk-6TpLHt" target="_blank">SOURCE</a>)</td></tr>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Yes. I have had autism my whole life.”</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The world went slightly blurry just then, as I pulled up in the left-turn lane. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I then went on to say that maybe Axel does have autism, or maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he does and it has not been diagnosed. Maybe he has a diagnosis but only his parents know. Or maybe he and his parents know, but they’re not telling Axel’s classmates, like what we are doing right now in our family’s case.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In that moment, I was grateful we told Cameron about his diagnosis as soon as we learned it. For us, it was absolutely the right thing to do. In this moment in the car, I also chose to tell him about someone else I know who didn’t know all throughout elementary school that he has autism. He was in sixth grade when his parents finally told him. And they had the teacher help tell the kids one day when the child in question stayed home from school.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We arrived at our destination with me realizing that my helpless little baby is now a tween with his own self-directed personality with his own objectives and goals for his life.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I picked up on this conversation a little bit today on the way home from school. We were already talking about some interpersonal stuff with my boy and his current friends at school. I asked him if he thought he might ever be comfortable telling his classmates about autism and how it affects his life. Not this year, I assured him. But maybe next year in sixth grade, or perhaps the year after that.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I don’t know. Maybe I will.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Yeah, I’ll call that progress.</span></div>
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Diane E. Main, GCT NorCal 2006http://www.blogger.com/profile/01604373649158850063noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37449610.post-71250333669366280032015-04-02T12:52:00.000-07:002015-05-09T17:14:50.109-07:00Superlative DiseaseI live in Silicon Valley. And I work in one of the most prestigious private independent schools in the country. In Silicon Valley. So I am surrounded, it seems, by a culture of fastest, smartest, youngest, first, best. You would think that in a place known for innovators who took unconventional routes to success, we wouldn’t be so wrapped up in these superlatives we keep using to define ourselves and set ourselves apart from one another. You would think we could focus more on the journey than how quickly and amazingly we reach the destination.<br /><br />My ex-husband used to say he planned to make his first million by age 30. Sad for him, I suppose, that instead he was bankrupt and divorced from an amazing woman (that would be me) before he turned 33. When we have these labels as goals, do we hurtle toward them at all costs? Do we miss the journey because we are hyper-focused on the destination? Do we forget to be human -- and to treat others humanely -- along the way?<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://cf.ltkcdn.net/stress/images/std/117607-425x282-College_Student.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://cf.ltkcdn.net/stress/images/std/117607-425x282-College_Student.jpg" height="265" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px; text-align: center;">Source: http://stress.lovetoknow.com/Statistics_on_College_Student_Stress</td></tr>
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I worry about my students, my advisees, and my son. My students took my class, for the most part, to avoid taking programming. They have already labeled themselves as being not inclined toward computer science. Is it because they feel they can’t be the “best” at it? I get one semester to dispel myths and transform mindsets. My advisees are wonderful, adorable freshpersons. They still have three more years of high school after this one. Three of them intend to take AP Chemistry as sophomores. I’ve been working on them and their parents. Is it really necessary? What edge do they think it will give them to take it next year rather than as juniors or seniors, if at all? And at what cost? The other six are, for the most part, enjoying high school as the final years of their childhoods. And I get to enjoy it with them. Don’t need no AP Mania harshing my mellow, y’all.<br /><br />I think I have decided to not allow my son to take AP courses. His passion is history, and I think he’d be frustrated and bored in a class that is basically a year (or even TWO!) of preparation for one big test. Tests are not my kid’s friend. I want him to continue to enjoy and explore and interact with history. Not to see how much of it he can cram in his head and keep there until May. As for other APs, I’d need a pretty good argument. If I thought he’d pursue art, I’d let him do those.<br /><br />And to what future doom am I cursing my child by denying him the choice of AP classes and all that stress? Gee, I don’t know . . . a life? My son will never be an amazing student. At least not as long as school is done to kids the way it currently is. But he already is and will continue to be an amazing person. And I will opt for that any day of the week. You know what his superlative is? Being the best HIM there is. I dare not do or say anything to squash that joy and wonder and, yes, sometimes struggle.<br /><br />I had a ninth grader tell me she felt school was so competitive, so she always had to keep pushing herself. Why? I asked. Says who? I exclaimed. And then I told her she doesn’t have to play that game. She told me she wishes she was already an adult. No way! I uttered. I begged her to enjoy childhood while she still could. I told her that I try to act like a kid as often as possible to see if I can still get away with it. Childhood rocks. Adulthood kinda sucks sometimes.<br /><br />But what about that spectre of competition she senses haunting her? It follows her home from school and creeps around when she’s trying to enjoy a tv show or read just for fun, I am sure. It keeps her up late studying and preparing and working. And it wakes her up early to get just a bit more studying in.<br /><br />We need to exorcise these ghosts of a made-up belief system around education and achievement in our country. We have one side saying our kids aren’t competing on the global stage, and the other side making them crazy with worry about their future. That future is going to be filled with the kinds of problems you don’t solve by studying for tests. The drought in California? The global need for new fuel sources? Future food shortages? Climate change? All the A+ test grades and 4.0-plus GPAs in the world are not going to keep our species from destroying ourselves and our planet.Diane E. Main, GCT NorCal 2006http://www.blogger.com/profile/01604373649158850063noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37449610.post-85435382962004753872015-03-04T00:21:00.002-08:002015-05-09T17:17:21.414-07:00Home is Where You Remember to Drive to After WorkIn the past month, I have made a trip to Boise, moved house, and made a trip to Portland. I’m exhausted. My lower back hurts. I’ve got a lot on my mind.<br /><br />If there is one thing that moving from a 3-bedroom house to a 2-bedroom apartment teaches you, other than the fact that downsizing is good for the soul, it’s that needing to get rid of tons of stuff will expose neuroses you didn’t know you had. Also, storage units are expensive.<br /><br />The past year has been really challenging. Just read any blog posts I’ve written in the past ten months if you need to get caught up. I also realized something else really significant during the move: the fourteen years we lived in Willow Glen cover a LOT of major life experiences. We were ten months in one house, and then thirteen years and two months in the one we just moved from. Fourteen years TO. THE. DAY. (That day being Valentine’s Day, coincidentally.)<br /><br />Standing in the echo-y empty living room of the house, it hit me. Both my parents had visited us and slept in that house. And an aunt. And all my siblings at one time or another. Plus two of their partners and all three of my sister’s daughters. It was the house where I brought my son home from the hospital. That house had seen late-night feedings, nosebleeds, vomit, diaper changes, potty training, and checking for concussions. Several of those. (Kid’s got a hard head.)<br /><br />The walls of that house witnessed me finding out my Dad had died. Coming to grips with my son’s autism diagnosis. Finding out Mom was sick. And then learning Mom was gone. Those same walls looked on as I earned my Master’s degree online. And as I taught online classes and participated in weekly video broadcasts. Song parodies and videos. Helping raise another person’s child. Taking in her boyfriend. Telling them they had to go.<br /><br />Meals with family and friends. Christmas trees and cookies for Santa. Annual school portraits. Arguments over the dumbest of things. The only home my son had ever known.<br /><br />Don’t get me wrong; I wanted to move. I suppose it would be nice to be able to come up with a down payment on a home we could own, but this is Silicon Valley, so I’ll settle for a pool I don’t have to clean and grounds I don’t have to keep. We’ve traded nearby train tracks and the 280 freeway for light rail and 17. We’re not as close to the airport. We’re a tiny bit closer to the mountains and the ocean beyond. We almost overlook the Los Gatos Creek Trail, and we hear the bells of St. Lucy’s on a regular basis. We have all our own furniture, and eventually we’ll put stuff up on the walls. I like it.<br /><br />But after the year I’ve had, it just feels like one more fork in the road of life where I’ve had to decide how to proceed . . . and be prepared to live with the consequences of my choice. I definitely wanted out of that house. But I am not used to this new home yet. It will come.Diane E. Main, GCT NorCal 2006http://www.blogger.com/profile/01604373649158850063noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37449610.post-22741826464548841382015-03-03T21:44:00.003-08:002015-05-09T17:17:21.396-07:00When NO to One Things Means YES to Another<i>(This was written January 21, 2015.)</i><br /><br />My life has gotten REALLY busy. That is part of why I haven’t blogged in a while. Another part is that, while I have plenty to say, I haven’t been able to get my head around HOW I want to say it. And I was waiting to tell some folks something in person before I shared it widely.<br /><br />And that was the worst introduction I’ve ever written. So let’s just dive in, shall we?<br /><br />I’m wrapping up my second year as Director of the MERIT program here in the Bay Area. It’s an amazing year-long professional development cohort situation for teachers, and I absolutely love it. As I wrap up my second year, I have decided to wrap up my being Director at all. We typically serve three years as Director, and that had been my plan all along. But then, life loves to throw us curve balls when we have the audacity plan that far ahead, doesn’t it?<br /><br />Many people who know me personally know that this past year has been eventful, but not necessarily in the good way. Last May, we found out that our son’s learning challenges are caused by autism. Shortly after that, we discovered that my mother had stage 4 cancer. I traveled to the East Coast (or close) seven times between April and December. There was a Spring Break trip to Boston with my son, a conference in Atlanta, and three trips to see Mom (the final one being for her funeral). I also went to Pittsburgh in August for an EdTech thing. The last of the seven trips was to spend the holidays with my family in New Jersey. Because we all really needed it.<br /><br />All those trips made my year INTENSE. My husband, as always, stepped up and did even MORE than he usually does with taking care of everything around the house and seeing to all our son’s needs during the five trips Cameron didn’t take with me. And this has meant a lot of new adjustments, given what we’ve learned this past year about how our son learns and functions. It made me start to look at things I could cut out of my professional life to make more time for my family’s needs.<br /><br />When I was in Napa in October at a conference, I found out that the dates of CUE Rock Star Lake Tahoe would conflict with the MERIT Summer Institute in the summer of 2015. My son goes with me to Truckee for this event every year, and I wanted to continue that tradition. Applying to be part of that event’s faculty would mean I would have to step down from my MERIT Directorship. I realized that after the year we’ve had, I did not have the strength to tell my son that Truckee was off because I needed to work another year for MERIT. I had to make a choice.<br /><br />I chose my son.<br /><br />It’s not that the MERIT program has caused me to have to neglect him or anything. It’s just a big commitment, and I didn’t want to start feeling resentful. I also chose to stop teaching the grad school class I teach online for San Diego State. For a few years at least. I’ve thought about starting a Doctoral program in another year and a half or so. That’s on hold in my mind until we get a handle on the transition between elementary school and middle school for my son.<br /><br />But I am the kind of person who doesn’t like to turn her back on a commitment. It’s always been hard for me to say NO. But with a full-time job that is busier than any I’ve had before, and my family’s needs changing as they have, I’ve learned that in order to say YES to my family, I need to say NO to the rest of the world sometimes.Diane E. Main, GCT NorCal 2006http://www.blogger.com/profile/01604373649158850063noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37449610.post-17133697121193848032014-11-25T09:52:00.000-08:002015-05-09T17:15:47.321-07:00If Michael Brown had been Michael White . . .<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Last night, it was really hard for me to go to bed. I was tired. I’d had a long day at work and afterward. I needed sleep. But the news was full of the aftermath of the grand jury’s decision to not even indict Darren Wilson for the killing of Michael Brown. So no trial. No hashing out of the testimonies and evidence in court. No attempt at justice for his survivors.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And all I could think about was this: if Michael Brown had been a white kid, the police officer would not have shot and killed him.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m not looking for debates and arguments. No one is going to change my belief in this. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In seven or eight years, if my blond-haired, blue-eyed son and his African-American classmate walk into a store together, they will follow the other kid around. It doesn’t matter that his Dad is a wealthy and famous professional athlete. If they walk down the street together as teens-becoming-adults, people may wonder if my kid is okay, and if this young Black man is bothering him.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And I will never have to teach my white son how to act when he gets stopped by the police, just so he doesn’t have to fear being killed.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">That is just how it is in this country. And in some places, like Ferguson, Missouri, it is a lot worse than in others. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This didn’t start in Ferguson. It didn’t start with Trayvon Martin or even Dred Scott. It began when Europeans stole people from their homelands and brought them to this continent and Europe and South America and the Caribbean against their wills. It began when white people broke up Black families and turned people into property.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It continued as white people denied Black people education. As they split up enslaved people from the same African cultures so they couldn’t communicate with one another or even offer each other comfort in their imprisonment. This continues, in a different, insidious form, even today. We see it in school systems that offer less and lesser to people of color. Nowadays it comes down to socioeconomics. But . . . surprise, surprise . . . socioeconomic stratification in this country has always been on racial lines. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Why? Because of centuries of denied opportunities.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">These days, you will hear white people talk about the way Black people speak, act, dress, express themselves through music and other media, and it is almost always with derision. Everything about being Black in America descends from what white people have put in place. Oh, but NOW you don’t like it? Maybe early white Americans should have thought of that when teaching Blacks to read was punishable by death.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If your ancestors had been kidnapped, beaten, raped, abused, considered property, and KILLED simply because of their skin color, you’d be seriously pissed off too. When we look at the historical conflicts in Europe . . . let’s take the Irish and the English . . . these are viewed and discussed in academic terms. Former “terrorists” (depending on who you ask) are now leading politicians. The subjugation of one people by another is looked back upon with regret, pity, compassion, and understanding. (NOTE: as a person of English and Irish heritage, I take no sides in this one.)</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Rebellion and protest are in our nation’s DNA. In school, we study the American Revolution. Rebels are heroes. Wanton acts of violence and unrest, such as the Boston Massacre and the Boston Tea Party, are put in the spotlight as proud moments in our history. The murders of Loyalist neighbors, and their banishment to Canada or elsewhere tends to go unmentioned. But it was all good, because these were white people fighting for white freedoms.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But in the year 2014, Black people aren’t allowed to be angry when police officers kill their sons and brothers. When their people are routinely arrested and incarcerated at a hugely disproportionate rate to whites.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And I’ve seen wealthy white kids using the N-word with their friends and posting pictures of their drug paraphernalia on Facebook and Instagram. No one even bats an eye. A Black kid walks down the street, and he MUST be up to no good.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If you’ve got a problem with me and what I am saying, don’t try to change my mind or convince me it’s not about race. Unfollow me and unfriend me on social media if you want. I don’t hate cops, and I don’t condone rioting or looting. But I am also clever enough to realize that white, straight, female me has NO CLUE what it’s like to be Black in America. And I am still angry about all these dead Black kids.</span></div>
Diane E. Main, GCT NorCal 2006http://www.blogger.com/profile/01604373649158850063noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37449610.post-43874076778870555362014-11-20T20:25:00.002-08:002015-05-09T17:17:32.634-07:00"No Brainers" and My Son, the Scarecrow<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Yesterday, my son told me something that I can’t stop thinking about. We had already been discussing school and how he feels there, especially in math class. Math is his hardest subject. It just always has been. He has some special issues where math is concerned. No one denies that.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">What he told me, though, was how he felt when a teacher poses a “no brainer” and he doesn’t know what to do. That was the term he used: “no brainer.” I don’t know if he heard that from a teacher or what. His dilemma is as follows:</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“If I raise my hand and get called on, and I get it wrong, everyone will know I don’t know it. But if I don’t raise my hand and I am the only one not raising my hand, everyone will know I don’t know. They will talk about me outside of class, about how I don’t know anything.”</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He is ten years old. In case you have not read about me and my son before, it may help you to know that he has mild autism.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My son seems to believe that he is the only one who doesn’t know everything when it comes, especially, to math. Also, he can’t understand why anyone would like math when it is so hard. He thinks he is the only one like this. He’s like the Scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Scarecrow wanted, more than anything, to have a brain. By the way, can I just say that neither a scarecrow nor a tin man have a heart OR a brain? So that’s a whole thing right there. But I digress. Let us continue to suspend disbelief so I can keep using this metaphor.</span><br />
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<a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/e/e6/The_Wizard_of_Oz_Ray_Bolger_1939.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/e/e6/The_Wizard_of_Oz_Ray_Bolger_1939.jpg" height="200" width="157" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">At the end of the film (SPOILER ALERT), the Scarecrow learns that he is, in fact, smart after all. When it came time to need to solve a problem and have “smarts,” he came through. He wanted the Wizard to give him a brain, but he had it all along. Like the Scarecrow, my son wants someone to make him be good at math. He wants external validation that he is good enough academically, and that he can do things other kids can do. It just takes him longer. And he might need some additional tools.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So is my son internalizing the idea that if he can’t correctly answer a “no brainer” in class, then he doesn’t have a brain? Or that the brain he has isn’t good enough?</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We have tried to help him understand that his autism is a difference in neurology. He has a brain (and all the stuff connected to it), but his is wired differently than most other people’s. He reacts differently to things. His senses perceive more of some things, and maybe less of others, compared to his peers. What he has begun to sense a lot of, very recently, is that being different isn’t just hard for him, but it’s hard for the people who work with him. And he doesn’t understand why they might feel impatient with him (as he perceives it) or maybe not like him (again, his take on things).</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When we use glib terms like “no brainer,” and when we react to kids in ways that might increase their anxiety, we certainly don’t mean to upset them. But for a kid like mine, who is mostly trying to figure out how the world works and his place is in that world, I’d like to ask everyone to consider their word choices and their voice tones, and all those other additional meanings that can be attached to what we say. There’s a little ten year-old Scarecrow over here who wishes his brain was like everyone else’s, and doesn’t realize yet that it will never be.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: x-small; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Image source: Wikimedia Commons</i></span>Diane E. Main, GCT NorCal 2006http://www.blogger.com/profile/01604373649158850063noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37449610.post-55315791702658860272014-11-13T23:57:00.000-08:002014-11-13T23:57:55.596-08:00When Bullied Kids Become Forgiving Adults<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There’s been this article going around on the Internet recently: </span><a href="http://thoughtcatalog.com/kovie-biakolo/2014/09/17-things-former-bullied-kids-do-a-little-bit-differently-as-adults/" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">17 Things Former Bullied Kids Do A Little Bit Differently As Adults</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. It resonated with me on a number of levels. I did experience some bullying as a kid. I also experienced it in my first marriage. And yes, it has shaped who I am as an adult. In a way, it has made me a better educator and parent, because I know what to look for, what to ask, and how to empathize.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There are also some items on that list in the article that used to be a lot more true of me as a younger adult than they are now. Time heals wounds, sure. And as we age and mature and gain wiser insights from our experiences, we learn that our coping strategies and defense mechanisms are sometimes just that: masks and maneuvers we don’t always truly need. But there is another silver bullet to overcoming bullying: forgiveness.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Some time this past year -- I don’t really recall exactly when -- Facebook suggested I befriend someone I kind of knew in high school. Funny thing (not really) was that this person had bullied me during my first year of high school. I guess it was kind of short-lived, but it was scary as hell and while it went on, it was relentless. I’m not going to reveal too much about the person, and you’ll see why in a moment. But I do need to tell you a bit about what happened so you can appreciate the progress I needed to make in myself to reach a place of forgiveness.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This older student was in two of my classes. So was at least one of her friends, and I guess some other kids they knew. In gym class, she threatened me one day out of the blue. It continued here and there, and carried over into my art class. The teacher was out for an extended illness, and as we worked on our projects with a substitute there for supervision purposes, this aggressor broke apart projects of students in other class periods and threw pieces of them at me from her table partway across the room. Again, no provocation by me. I was a freshman just minding my own business.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After gym class one day, as I returned to the locker room to change, the bullying girl and a couple of friends were waiting, menacingly, just inside the locker room door. I had to detour into the teachers’ office to say, “I’m not going in there. There are these girls that are going to beat the crap out of me if I go in that locker room.” I ended up at the vice principal’s office, my Mom got called in, and it got dealt with, I guess. And knowing our vice principal, I am sure he said that if they retaliated against me for telling on them, he’d call the police. As it was, my mother threatened to have the police down there that very day if it wasn’t stopped immediately.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In the intervening years, I never knew what became of this young lady, except that I heard she had worked in a place I had once worked, with my sister I think. If you’re reading this, and you’re from where I’m from, stop trying to figure out who it was. It doesn’t matter now, as you will see in a moment.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So like I said, Facebook thought we might like to become friends. I found that . . . well, kind of amusing. Thirty years later. So I didn’t request a friend add, but I did decide to write to this woman. I sent her a private message via Facebook:</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Hi _______. Do you remember me from high school? You and some other girls were in my art and gym classes when I was in 9th grade. For some reason, you decided to harass and threaten me. As far as I can tell, I had never done anything to cause these attacks. I know that you later worked with my sister. Looking at your Facebook, it seems like you are at a happy place in your life. Having been an educator myself for over 20 years and working with many kids over the years, I guess I have to chalk up the way you treated me in high school to some stuff you were maybe going through back then. I just thought that since Facebook suggested you as a friend for me, I would get in touch and tell you that I am happy that you are happy.”</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She wrote back the very next morning and apologized. I was on the right track that she had gone through some difficult times back then and took some of it out on me. I’d be willing to bet that she never even remembered bullying me until I reminded her of it. Her apology was sincere, and I was really moved by her offer to try to make things up to me. I simply responded “all is forgiven” and I later did add her as a friend on Facebook.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And I am really glad I did. I can see that she has encountered difficulties in her life and has triumphed over them. Things I have never had to face. I am encouraged and impressed by her bravery and strength. Would I have known these things had I just snorted and clicked “ignore” at Facebook’s friend suggestion? Even more importantly, would it have just been so much easier to consider myself superior in some way, after she expressed sincere contrition, by just “moving on” and considering it in the past and behind me?</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">What kind of Christian would that make me? What kind of human being? Bullying is bad. It’s not okay. But it doesn’t just arise out of nowhere. People who bully others, whether they are children, adults, pet owners, commenters on social media, teachers, clergy, ANYONE . . . are hurting, damaged people. And since we all are potentially in that same boat, aren’t we all just one or two thoughtless comments and snide remarks away from being the perpetrators ourselves?</span></div>
<br /><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So these difficult experiences did indeed mold me into a certain kind of person. I have those reactions and feel those emotions outlined in the article. But by confronting the experiences I had, and opening them up to look inside what they truly were, I was able to give myself and another person some healing and peace. So let’s be careful when we throw around the term “bullying.” And let’s also stop blaming the Internet. It was, after all, a social network that enabled me to initiate this reconciliation with someone I would never have encountered otherwise. And let’s just be kind to each other. And forgive those who hurt us. And tell them so. For everyone’s sake.</span>Diane E. Main, GCT NorCal 2006http://www.blogger.com/profile/01604373649158850063noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37449610.post-83972668629325791542014-10-28T21:28:00.000-07:002015-05-09T17:19:29.307-07:00This movie sucks. Why can't I leave the theatre?<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It seems to be that there are two kinds of people who know about my mother’s death: those who want to know how I’m doing, and those who are just getting on with things like nothing happened. I’m a little embarrassed to admit that I often find myself falling into the latter category.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.15; white-space: pre-wrap;">To help set the scene a little, let me recap the timeline of the past year where my mother and I are concerned:</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>April 7-11, 2014</b></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> - my son and I go to Boston and New Jersey on Spring Break. I am well aware that my mother is getting older and her memory is a lot worse. Other than that though, she seems mostly fine.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>June 4-11, 2014</b></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> - after learning from my sister that my mother has cancer, I fly home for a week to help with hospital and house stuff, and to get the full info on our course of action, and (while I am in New Jersey) go with my sister to plan the prepaid funeral arrangements for whenever the inevitable comes.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>September 24 - October 1, 2014</b></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> - I go home, at my sister’s request, to just be there, help out, and say goodbye. My Mom doesn’t really understand who I am, can’t really talk, and is close to the end. I actually believe she may pass while I am in New Jersey. She doesn’t.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>October 5, 2014</b></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> - Mom dies.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>October 7-11, 2014</b></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> - I fly home again, we have the wake at the funeral home and the memorial service at Mom’s church. I get back home and return to work.</span></div>
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<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And here I am, just a few weeks later, VERY well aware that I have not grieved. I have not mourned. I have not faced in complete reality the truth of my mother’s passing. When it finally came, after just four short months of agonizing waiting (and sometimes wondering from afar how bad it was getting), I was not sad. I had just seen my mother, held her hand and leaned in close to her ear to tell her it was okay to let go and join Dad in Heaven, and I knew I didn’t want THAT to continue any longer. I knew I was powerless to change the effects of this illness or the fact that it had hit my family so suddenly and ruthlessly. I never raged against my lack of control. I just took it in stride.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.15; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.15; white-space: pre-wrap;">But I know that I AM sad. And that it does hurt. But who has time to just put everything aside and cry? Work is still there. My son still needs tons of oversight in all things academic. Commitments still must be met. People are still counting on me for lots of things. I feel as though I am watching a movie I don't want to watch anymore, but I cannot get up and leave the theatre.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.15; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.15; white-space: pre-wrap;">Is it that I have crafted a persona of having everything in hand and not sweating the bumps in the road, and I have to maintain that? I don’t care about image in that way. I don’t care much what people think. But I make it a policy to never let people down. I’m not even concerned about people seeing me show emotion.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.15; white-space: pre-wrap;">I just don’t have the time. I’m too busy to lose it and go through half a box of tissues and look a mess and be late for whatever’s next. Especially not over something I can’t change.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.15; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.15; white-space: pre-wrap;">I couldn’t change it when we got the diagnosis. So I compartmentalized it into a thing my family and I were going through. I couldn’t change it when Mom was never going to set foot in her own house again. When she took a turn for the worse. When it spread to her brain. When she lost the use of her right side. When she needed oxygen. When we decided to start the morphine. When I held her hand and thought “good bye” so I wouldn’t have to say it out loud. I couldn’t change it when I got on a plane to come home, knowing I’d be making a return trip very soon.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.15; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.15; white-space: pre-wrap;">Every step of the way, I couldn’t change it. I couldn’t fix it. I couldn’t make it better. So what would be the point of losing my composure? It would scare my son and make people want to comfort me. It would let cancer get the better of me when I don’t even have the disease. It could indicate a lack of faith in what happens after we die.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.15; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.15; white-space: pre-wrap;">I appreciate when people ask me how I’m doing, or when they express their sorrow for my loss. But I don’t want them to. Is that normal? Is that a thing? It was so thoughtful of people to send flowers or a card or leave a message for me in email or on Facebook. But I don’t want to be that person who had that thing happen.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.15; white-space: pre-wrap;">Should we call this denial? Or postponing the inevitable? Or am I heartless?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.15; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.15; white-space: pre-wrap;">When I can’t remember entire conversations, or even people that I have met, and I don’t know what day it is or what I was supposed to be working on, does that go with the territory? Do I claim the “my Mom died” excuse, and if so, for how long is that acceptable?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.15; white-space: pre-wrap;">Should I be concerned when I can’t stay awake so I go to bed and then can’t fall asleep? Do we chalk it up to having lost a loved one? Is it fair to do that when I act like nothing has happened?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.15; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.15; white-space: pre-wrap;">When does it stop? When does my life go back to whatever I used to consider normal? Do I need to set an appointment with myself to have a nervous breakdown? I’d really rather not.</span>Diane E. Main, GCT NorCal 2006http://www.blogger.com/profile/01604373649158850063noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37449610.post-41161681042344436422014-10-05T22:31:00.002-07:002015-05-09T17:19:29.303-07:00Eulogy for a Role Model<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My mother passed away today. I should feel really sad, but that isn’t what has overtaken me. Rather, I feel that I can go back to seeing my Mom, in my mind’s eye, as I have always known her, and not as the extremely infirm and ill person whose hand I held and who looked me in the eyes without recognition when I visited about a week ago. That was only what was left of my Mom when cancer had taken its hold.</span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-488804c6-e3ee-91f4-dc96-ecd3277e7368" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But let me tell you about the Mom that stupid cancer never knew.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I can sum up who she was with one brief story. It carries a simple yet profound message. I remember during my second year of teaching, I was talking with a rather small-for-his-age seventh grader in East Orange about getting teased and picked on by his peers. We were out in the parking lot between the school building and the playground, and he was close to tears. I told him that my mother had always told me that when people say hurtful things to you, it’s got nothing to do with YOU, and everything to do with THEM. People pick on others to deflect attention from the things they dislike in themselves. They try to make themselves feel bigger by making others feel smaller. And when you know that, then you know it doesn’t work, and you actually feel a little bad for the other person.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The thing is, I don’t think I ever really thought about the things I learned from my mother until that moment. I was not yet a parent myself, and I wasn’t all that far into my second year as a teacher. I was 22 or 23 years old, and I can promise you that despite what I may have thought of myself at the time, I did NOT have any kind of life experiences of my own to be spouting wisdom at the next generation. But what I did have was my mother’s wisdom.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My Mom’s father died when she was 3 years old. Her sister was 2 and her brother was 1. Her parents had only been married for five years and one month. And then her mother died when they were 17, 16, and 15. They lived with an uncle and aunt and cousins until they each went off into their own adulthoods. My Mom came to America just a few years after her mother passed. She met my father within her first year and she immediately fell in love with him and his parents. They saw her as another daughter, and I know she was grateful to have a new chance at having this kind of family. She called them Mom and Pop, just like my Dad did.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Just like with everything, she didn’t miss out on what this new opportunity brought her. When I started researching my family history, and I asked my parents about their ancestors, Dad would often be surprised at things Mom knew about HIS side. When he asked, “How do you know THAT? I didn’t know that!” She would respond that his Mom told her, when they spent long hours talking while he was away in Texas and Korea with the Air Force.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">That’s just how Mom always was about everything. She got involved. She did for others. She didn’t expect anything special in return. She treated people with respect and kindness, and as my Facebook wall can now attest, they remember her well for it.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My mother was humble.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When I was born, the youngest of four kids spread out over ten years, my father was working three jobs to support our family. When I started school, my mother went back to work. At Burger King. Then she worked at Roy Rogers. Then The General Store behind the counter and in the deli section. She worked for many years at Ralph’s Pizza, and she only gave that up to take care of my niece at my sister’s house. She later did a stint as the person in charge of overseeing Social Security for people in my home town. Throughout these years, she was also super involved in our local schools, through the PTA, various clubs and other efforts, and eventually served on the school board of my high school. One of my proudest moments was when my mother got to give me my high school diploma at graduation, because she was a school board member. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">You see, Mom didn’t even have the equivalent of a high school diploma. She left school, as one did in her homeland of Scotland, at age 16. It was rare for someone of her background to stay longer than that. She had grown up poor in Glasgow, and then she had to be all grown up before she was even 18. But she didn’t feel sorry for herself; she just learned to DO. And to BE. To be a really great and giving person.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">No friend ever came to our house hungry and left in the same state. We may not have had much, but we could always share. I wore clothes, played with toys, and read books that had been passed down from three siblings (and perhaps more people outside our family). Mom did not waste. Anyone who ever tried to use a pen in our house will know that it was really hard for my mother to part with anything if there was still hope for it. The cup of pens that could each only scrawl one letter is a subject of many a joke through the years in our house. To this day, I have to have my husband throw things away when I am not looking, and I can’t throw food away. My mother was the Queen of Leftovers.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Little things I remember about my mother still make me smile or even laugh out loud. The notes she always left, on the back of papers that had been notices from school or old homework, to let us know where she was (usually work or a meeting) and when she’d be back. Or to take something out to defrost. Or for us to leave our own whereabouts. That time my brother and I made a ringing noise, handed Mom a banana and told her it was for her, and she had the banana to her ear before she realized we were messing with her. Walking across town to the supermarket every Friday, where my Dad would pick us up after work and pay for our groceries with the wages he had just gotten.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My mother taught me the value of hard work, compassion, and laughing at yourself even when life gets crazy. Easygoing through everything life threw at her, as long as there was a cup of coffee -- or better yet, a cappuccino -- to be had. It was Mom who, after losing the love of her life, helped the rest of us gain perspective: “We had fifty wonderful years together, and most people never have that.” </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I think my favorite things about my Mom, though, are how much she loved us all and valued family, and how easy it was for me to make her laugh. When I think about everything she went through in life, it’s easy to see why family was so important to her. Even though four of her seven grandchildren lived thousands of miles away, she always sent a card and asked for annual school pictures, and she always had everyone’s important dates written on her calendar. She kept in touch with loads of people across the ocean each year at Christmas. And when she could travel to see us, or with us to Britain or elsewhere, there was always time for laughter. Just being alive was cause for celebration and smiles.</span></div>
<br /><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So all those things about myself that I love and treasure -- those come from my parents. My sense of humor, and my love of family and heritage. My need to do for others simply because I can. My patience and my positive outlook. I can’t take credit for any of these good qualities. I can only count myself lucky to have had amazing role models in my parents. And my gift to them, now that they are both gone, is to share their gifts with everyone I meet.</span>Diane E. Main, GCT NorCal 2006http://www.blogger.com/profile/01604373649158850063noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37449610.post-67391098031129951302014-09-25T13:12:00.000-07:002015-05-09T17:19:59.106-07:00A Lesson I Could Live Without<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When my father died, suddenly and unexpectedly, six and a half years ago, it wasn’t supposed to happen that way. He went into the hospital to have a heart valve replacement operation. That went well, but he caught pneumonia in the hospital and a few days later, he was gone. Turns out he had undiagnosed emphysema that no one knew about, so that didn’t help. But we never saw it coming, and I just kept telling myself “it wasn’t supposed to happen that way.”</span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-0b139544-ae70-83d3-573b-28b4d7708612" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Now, as I sit across the room from my mother, in a hospital bed in my sister’s dining room, on oxygen and sleeping a lot, I find myself thinking it wasn’t supposed to happen this way either. But it is happening. My mother has cancer. And until about three and a half months ago, no one had any idea.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She has never been a complainer, and with her memory getting worse, we figure she just didn’t let anyone know she was feeling sick. Or she didn’t know. Either way, she is near death now, and I am powerless to do anything more than watch.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Of course, it was bound to happen eventually. Parents die. We say it’s wrong when a parent outlives their child. Almost all adults go through the loss of their parents. But that doesn’t make it suck any less when you look at someone who has been there all your life, someone you’ve traveled with, laughed with, shared meals with, and spoken to every week or more, and that person is gone. The body is still there, but the person inside . . . you’ll never have them back again.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When I lost my Dad, I had all kinds of regrets. The last time we saw each other face-to-face, we had argued. At the airport. Over stupid stuff. We were fine later, but it doesn’t change the fact that I never got to look in his eyes again, or hug him again, after that last awkward time together. And I had been really close by on a school trip that took me to New York City just a few weeks before he died. I saw other family, but not Dad. Weather was a problem, and he wasn’t up for heading into the city in the torrential rain. No big deal. But, of course, none of us knew he’d be gone less than a month later.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I live on the other side of the continent from where I grew up, and where my family still lives (except for one brother) to this day. It has meant I have not been with family a lot of times when I would have liked to. It also means I miss out on day-to-day drama, and I am okay with that. However, it means I can’t be here to help when things get rough.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My son and I visited in April, before my mother’s condition came to light. I didn’t know when we would be back for our next visit. Then I ended up coming for a week in June and I am here for a week again in September. It seems such a paltry contribution. My sister and brother have had to do it all.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And it’s not like life and all its special demands suddenly take a hiatus while you deal with all the really unpleasant aspects of end-of-life care. Work still beckons. Other family members still need you. This has been hardest on my sister, by far.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So as my brother cleans out the house from its forty-five years worth of family life, and my sister juggles work, family, and Mom, I have been able to mainly get on with my life on the other coast. Affected by it all, yes. But not to the point of it preventing me doing all the things I do in my world. I’ve even managed to resist crying most of the time. It’s as if it hasn’t been as real for me as it has for my siblings.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But now, as I gaze across at my sleeping mother, cradled between the rhythmic cacophony of the oxygen machine on one side, and the Nat King Cole it desperately tries to drown out on the other, I can avoid reality no longer. My mother is dying.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I keep expecting it to happen right now, as I sit here. But my mother is a strong woman. She has always been a fighter when it comes down to it. Her life has not been easy at many stages. She lost both her parents before she was out of her teens. She came to this country an adult orphan with nothing left to lose, really. She met my father and got a new set of parents in the in-laws who saw her as another daughter immediately. She has since lost them, my father, and all my aunts and uncles save one. In response to each of these losses, she has always uncovered a bright side. They had a long life. She and my father had fifty wonderful years together, “and most people never get that.”</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">For Mom, though, there is no bright side. Maybe that she doesn’t appear to be in pain, and she has been largely unaware of how devastating her disease is. Or that it has happened really fast. Just a few months. Can the darkest of darkness have a bright side?</span></div>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If she wakes up while I am here today, I will walk over there, stand beside her bed, and talk to her. She will not know who I am. She doesn’t understand what’s going on. But today, in the midst of all this, I understand some things I never dreamed I could fathom.</span></div>
Diane E. Main, GCT NorCal 2006http://www.blogger.com/profile/01604373649158850063noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37449610.post-81441877662098057422014-08-11T21:54:00.001-07:002015-05-11T14:27:24.696-07:00I can stay silent no longer.<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This is a really rough week for death. Actually, it’s been over a week. Israel and Gaza are killing each other. ISIS is exterminating people in droves in the Middle East, one NASCAR driver accidentally killed another just yesterday, and then a police officer gunned down a young, unarmed black man in Ferguson, Missouri.</span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-f6216453-c88d-a55d-0ede-1aba94ba9ff2" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I was already feeling pretty sad, given that I keep seeing all this, and meanwhile, in my little corner of reality, my mother’s health is declining from cancer and Alzheimer’s, and it’s kind of a race to see if I get to say goodbye to her at Christmas or if she’ll have lost the battle by then.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And then today. Depression killed Robin Williams.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">That’s right. I’m not going to make the victim the subject of that sentence. I’m not going to accuse this actor and comedian we all love of committing murder of self. Because depression is the killer.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If people want to say that a person who commits suicide is weak, then fine. They’re weak in the same way a person in the final stages of cancer, or ALS, or multiple sclerosis is weak. If they’re selfish, fine. They’re selfish the way a person in the final stages of a torturously painful disease begs death to end the pain.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If you’ve never struggled with depression or addiction, then please: count yourself lucky and SHUT. UP. You really have no idea. If you have had to spend some part of your life battling one of these diseases (that’s right; I said it), then you know. It could have been you.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It could have been me.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Now, granted, the only thing I’ve ever been addicted to is nicotine, for that brief period of a few years when I smoked maybe half a pack a day at most. It was a rough time. I quit. It wasn’t easy, but it also wasn’t impossible for me. I guess I’m lucky that way.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But I know depression. I spent years on medication, and I was hospitalized once for a week. I know what it’s like to really believe the horrible, crazy things your brain tells you about the world, about reality, about your worth as a human being. Thank God I recovered.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Depression is a disease.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Cancer is a disease. We all know about that. Who among you has never known a person who has had cancer? Cancer attacks the body by dangerously multiplying diseased cells at a quicker rate than the body creates normal, healthy cells.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Heart disease is a well-known scourge as well. Many of us have it in our family tree somewhere, what with high cholesterol and a tendency toward heart attacks coexisting in a society in which our increasingly sedentary lifestyle (guilty as charged) is conspiring with genetics to kill us early.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Multiple sclerosis. Stroke. ALS (Lou Gehrig’s disease). Diabetes. Alzheimer’s. Parkinson’s. You know their names. We all live in fear that they will strike those we love. Or ourselves. Something happens in the body that isn’t the way it’s supposed to. Illness ensues. The sufferer has a decreased quality of life, is less able to move, and/or experiences pain.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I could be describing depression there. I typed those sentences and it wasn’t intentional that I was also describing depression. Addiction. These two diseases, often found hanging around together, happen in the brain’s chemistry.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Something happens in the body that isn’t the way it’s supposed to. Illness ensues. The sufferer has a decreased quality of life, is less able to move, and/or experiences pain.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When depression or addiction claims a life, where’s the compassion? So now we’ve somehow decided that there are acceptable diseases and shameful ones? Why do you think so many people don’t get the help they need? Why do you think they’re afraid to seek treatment?</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">No one chooses emotional illness or chemical dependency. Robin Williams didn’t start using cocaine back in the day because he thought it would be great fun to be a drug addict. He didn’t replace that with alcohol after finally cleaning up because he thought “everyone loves a drunk.” He was self-medicating. He could make you laugh, cry, love him, and idolize him. But he couldn’t make you help him. And he couldn’t make you stop him from succumbing to a disease any more than you could have cured someone of cancer.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So if you’re the person who says, “what a waste,” or “how selfish,” or “how could he do this to his kids,” then please move along. There’s nothing for you to see here. Depression, addiction, and suicide are not choices any more than cancer is a choice.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It’s been said all over the place, and I’ll say it again: Everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about. Be kind.</span></div>
<br /><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Even after they’re gone.</span>Diane E. Main, GCT NorCal 2006http://www.blogger.com/profile/01604373649158850063noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37449610.post-60581634912466428602014-06-01T16:54:00.000-07:002015-05-09T17:16:21.475-07:00Reactions to my son's diagnosisThree weeks ago, we learned that our son has mild Asperger's, or autism spectrum disorder. We've been doing a lot of reading, talking to each other, explaining here and there to friends, and planning to meet with some folks at his school (which happens tomorrow). Most people have found out from Facebook or Twitter and read <a href="http://originalgeek.blogspot.com/2014/05/if-you-know-my-son-please-read-this.html" target="_blank">my blog post about the diagnosis</a>.<br />
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But as I've communicated with other friends directly over the past few weeks, it occurred to me that I have had to respond to a particular reaction a few times and it solidified for me what I think and believe about my son and about autism/Asperger's.<br />
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These were perfectly well-meaning folks, and their reactions didn't upset me, really, but they did give me pause to think, and I felt I needed to respond immediately with what I believed to be most helpful.<br />
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These friends apologized. They expressed that they were sorry to hear about our son's diagnosis.<br />
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I immediately responded that they didn't need to feel sorry. We are glad to have this information, and also relieved to know what causes our son's difficulties in school and with some other social situations. Now that we have understanding, we can help him feel and be more successful.<br />
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During this same few weeks, I've been reading a lot and I have come to discover that the best known Autism organization, Autism Speaks, is at the center of considerable controversy for a number of reasons I won't go into here. One area of concern is that the organization seems to consider autism a disease that needs a cure.<br />
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My son doesn't have a disease. He doesn't need a cure. What needs to be eradicated is the ignorance around autism. It's a different way the brain is wired in some people, and for a subset of that population, the effects are much more impactful than for others with the condition.<br />
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I wouldn't want my son to be changed. We, as a family, will learn together how navigate the world with autism as a part of it. People who meet my son, whether they know his diagnosis or not, fall in love with him. Who would change that?<br />
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<br />Diane E. Main, GCT NorCal 2006http://www.blogger.com/profile/01604373649158850063noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37449610.post-22770747250064700062014-06-01T16:27:00.002-07:002015-05-09T17:16:42.874-07:00Writing to my son's teachers about his diagnosis<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<i><b>Five days ago, I wrote to all of the teachers my son has had this year in his first year at a new school. I also included his counselor, the learning specialist, the division head (like a principal for grades 4 and 5), and the psychologist who performed his evaluation and gave us the diagnosis. I thought I would share in case any other parent would find it helpful as a model for explaining Asperger's.</b></i></div>
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Hello everyone,</div>
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I am writing to C's teachers from this year because I wanted to share a little bit about what we recently learned about C's learning differences. Earlier this month, C was diagnosed with mild Asperger's Syndrome. To be more accurate, since the new DSM-V does not include Asperger's as its own diagnosis, he officially has autism spectrum disorder. Again, it's very mild, but it is a definite neurological difference, compared to most of his peers, that helps explain so many of the challenges he's faced all his life.</div>
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In C's case, we see the Asperger's Syndrome most clearly in the following areas:</div>
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- low frustration tolerance (when he becomes overwhelmed, he shuts down -- his brain does; it is not a choice)</div>
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- slow processing speed (this is not an indication of intelligence, just processing)</div>
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- problems with motor coordination (especially with writing)</div>
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- deep interest in certain subjects (tsunamis, ships, World War II)</div>
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- being behind his peers in some social interaction skills (this includes not being able to pick up cues that people don't have time or are not interested in hearing about his specialized interests, and also talking like a "little professor" about the things he knows a lot about)</div>
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- emotional reactions to unexpected situations (abrupt change in routine, being caught off-guard, not feeling like he has control over choices, being embarrassed by not being able to do the same things the same way his peers do)</div>
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Please understand that autism and Asperger's are not caused by parenting mistakes or a child's choices. It's a different neurological layout of the brain's wiring.</div>
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C knows about his diagnosis, but he doesn't fully understand it yet. We've been working with him to explain when things come up that encourage conversation about his differences and how they are a part of his Asperger's, and not his or anyone else's "fault." We don't really know yet how he would feel about discussing it with anyone at school.</div>
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A friend and fellow educator recently pointed me to a video she had just shared with her sixth grade students to help them understand a classmate who has autism. I wanted to share it with you, as well as a link to a blog post I wrote the day we learned C's diagnosis.</div>
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The video is by a young man who himself has Asperger's/autism: <a href="http://youtu.be/x5m5vqrFZpc" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank" wotsearchprocessed="true">http://<wbr></wbr>youtu.be/x5m5vqrFZpc</a><br />
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(He actually has about 175 videos on his YouTube channel, so I've got summer homework.)</div>
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And here's my blog post from May 10th, the day we got the results of his evaluation: <a href="http://originalgeek.blogspot.com/2014/05/if-you-know-my-son-please-read-this.html" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank" wotsearchprocessed="true">http://<wbr></wbr>originalgeek.blogspot.com/<wbr></wbr>2014/05/if-you-know-my-son-<wbr></wbr>please-read-this.html</a><br />
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Since you've all been an important part of C's life this school year, I wanted to give you some information that, although we got it late in the school year, can help explain some of the things we didn't completely understand earlier. And you will, no doubt, meet more students like C (though Asperger's and autism present differently from one person to another), so well-informed is well-prepared.</div>
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Thank you for all you've done for our son this year.</div>
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Diane E. Main, GCT NorCal 2006http://www.blogger.com/profile/01604373649158850063noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37449610.post-80220043483380751712014-05-10T19:52:00.000-07:002015-05-09T17:18:29.814-07:00If you know my son, please read this.<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Asperger’s Syndrome. Or, more technically, Autism Spectrum Disorder, because the DSM-V has moved Asperger’s into the ASD group now. Mild. But still.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Not because my kid has been diagnosed with mild autism. Not really. I cried because of my fear of how he will be treated. Viewed. Discussed when he or his parents are not present.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’ve worked in schools for over twenty years. I know thousands of teachers. I spend almost all my waking hours interacting with, training, supporting, and listening to teachers. And I have also taught students who had diagnoses of autism or Asperger’s. I’m not proud of the fact that I have also thought things. Wondered what’s up. Not really understood.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">More than twenty years surrounded by education professionals is what gave me my initial intense gut-wrenching reaction. People will hear that my son has Asperger’s or Autism Spectrum Disorder, and they will think or even say out loud, “Oh…..” The knowing “Oh.” The “Oh . . . well . . . yes . . . . . . “</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The unspoken “I always thought so” and the slightly arrogant “so that explains it.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I hear almost daily how educators talk about kids who learn differently. If I am really friendly with them, I will sometimes point out, “That’s my kid you’re talking about too, you know.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I should be grateful that we have a name to put to it. I should be relieved that he will be eligible for services and accommodations he may not have been before. I should be enlightened and brave and self-assured. Because I’ve been in education for all these years, and I’ve read and learned so much.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But I cried. Because I am his mother. And I know how people talk and think and look at people who have autism or Asperger’s.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Some people don’t even believe it’s a thing. Some people think it’s an excuse. Some people think it’s weak.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The good news, I guess, is that for people who knew my son before, and see that he’s still the same great, funny, wonderful, amazing, charming kid, maybe they will have their eyes opened. See, even a kid like him can have autism spectrum disorder.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It’s not a death sentence. It’s not a bad thing. And I am not upset that my kid has a diagnosis. The more I reflect and read, the more I see it more clearly than I’ve ever allowed myself to before.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But I cried. And I couldn’t speak. And even later today, driving around alone, running errands, I nearly cried a bunch more times.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Because, in some ways, it feels like we just found out that we may be poised to wage a war here on any given day. We may have to fight and struggle and defend his right and ability to have the same opportunities as everyone else. Opportunities that aren’t just being allowed to do something or go somewhere. Opportunities can also be the mere act of being seen to be just fine the way you are. Or believed to be capable, despite a label of something that says you’re different in some way. Or treated as equally valuable and valid.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m not proud of the fact that I cried. I should be better than that, no?</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But when every day you have to have at least one conversation about what your kid can’t do, or what he does differently, or what takes him too long (everything) compared to his peers . . . with his school, with his teachers, with your spouse, with the child himself, with family and friends, with strangers sometimes . . . you get tired, and then when someone says, “your kid has mild Asperger’s,” you cry.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I have more to say. There’s another blog post in me. But it’s about ALL the things we learned today. First, though, I had to talk about how I reacted to what I was told.</span></div>
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Diane E. Main, GCT NorCal 2006http://www.blogger.com/profile/01604373649158850063noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37449610.post-8552849265194835202014-03-02T15:02:00.000-08:002015-05-09T17:20:42.782-07:00Minecraft homeschooling: pro and conI will start out by saying I looked at their class offerings a while back and don't feel strongly either way, but I did want to address some of what <a href="http://www.unschoolingnyc.com/2014/03/01/why-we-dont-do-minecraft-homeschool/" target="_blank">Amy Milstein of UnschoolingNYC had to say on her blog</a>.<br />
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I don't strictly love the connection between Dickens and Minecraft, partly because I've never been a great reader and never been all that into Dickens, to be honest. But I get why one thought led her to another: it's not uncommon for the schoolification of something to completely ruin it.<br />
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So that's where I want to start: why do we let school ruin stuff? It doesn't have to be that way. If something becomes sucky because we do it in school, then we need to stop suckifying stuff when we schoolify it. That alone, if we could make it happen, would change everything.<br />
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But let's look specifically at Minecraft. I counter that using Minecraft in schools could be one of the ways we eliminate The Suck and bring in The Awesome. I'll come back to this.<br />
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Clearly, Amy writes a blog about Unschooling, which I completely respect. School as we know it does not work for MANY kids. Hence the growing popularity of homeschooling and unschooling. I'm all for that. But don't the folks involved in those alternatives need some accountability to prove that they're doing their kids a favor by opting out of their local public schools? I think that is what Minecraft homeschooling is trying to provide. I won't say (because I don't have any actual experience with them) whether they do it well or not, but it seems to work for some people, so yay for them.<br />
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What got and kept my attention though, is the idea that making Minecraft a school thing would somehow ruin it. First off, you can't ruin Minecraft. It's just. so. good. But even if you could, it wouldn't really be Minecraft you'd be messing with. It would be how your kid is spending her time, what kinds of learning experiences you're encouraging, etc. You don't ruin a state park by taking kids on a field trip there. You don't ruin computer programming by giving kids a ton of different ways to experience it.<br />
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If you're homeschooling or unschooling, and you've eschewed tests and grades, then rock ON with your bad selves and don't grade the Minecrafty experiences either. Give students as much choice as possible in the videos they find and watch, in the goals they set for themselves, and so forth.<br />
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When I use MinecraftEdu in my Digital World classes, which for the record are at a private independent high school, I do provide some guidelines and requirements as well as student choice within those guidelines. We make our MinecraftEdu world an extension of our classroom, and I'd have to argue that I provide a respite of non-suck from the purely academic experiences my students are immersed in the rest of their school day.<br />
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Wouldn't these kinds of experiences, if they were spread throughout our public schools, encourage some (not all, and I am cool with that) of the current homeschoolers and unschoolers to consider coming back? People have a lot of reasons for opting out of public schooling. Whether they choose private (for religious, philosophical, or other reasons), homeschooling, or unschooling, sometimes their main reason is they don't agree with how public education is DONE to their kids. Most of the awesome stuff happening in public schools, in my opinion, is being perpetrated by those who are getting around the stupid things and seeking forgiveness later rather than permission up front. <i>(Hi <a href="http://www.twitter.com/LS_Karl" target="_blank">Karl</a>!)</i><br />
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So why not bring in fun, awesome, engaging stuff from the world where our kids are already spending a ton of their time? Just don't suckify it.Diane E. Main, GCT NorCal 2006http://www.blogger.com/profile/01604373649158850063noreply@blogger.com3